Agnes Canon's War

by Deborah Lincoln

  

  How might they figure it out for themselves, Agnes later wondered as she watched the Negro girl clean the front parlor, when they’re not allowed to learn to read nor take leisure time for study? Perhaps, individual by individual, the world would someday change. Meanwhile, Agnes struggled for her own brand of freedom. Her sin, the selfishness of independence.

  6

  Sam and John, with Billy trailing behind, trudged up the muddy path from the steamboat landing in Kansas Town. Billy was full of tales of the river trip and the farm they’d found and couldn’t wait to tell Agnes. And Elizabeth, if she’d listen. He knew if Lizzy hadn’t been sick and made Tom stay behind, his pa would have left him with the women. And Jesus, that would have been boring. He wondered what the heck Tom had done the whole time they were gone, over three weeks. Lizzy wasn’t in any shape to keep him entertained. But Agnes, he knew, would have explored the town and searched out anything of interest, and he wanted to hear about it.

  But even before they got to the hotel, his pa sent him off to scout out mules and wagons for the trip north. Sam decided to buy the animals in town and go overland to Holt County. He’d need the animals on the farm, and it’d save steamboat fare. John went along with the idea, and Billy noticed that John usually agreed with Sam. Billy didn’t and all too often had to bite his tongue.

  It took three days to round up the wagons, pack their goods and head north, which gave Billy and Agnes plenty of time to catch up. They left Kansas Town and ferried across the Missouri, heading cross country toward a settlement called St. Joseph on a track through the prairie grasses. There were plenty of birds, prairie hens and wild turkey, quail and geese. Billy, walking along next to the rear wagon, kept his Kentucky rifle in one hand. He was a good shot, better than Sam even, and he brought in a brace of quail and one of the big Canada geese on the second day. That was the day they passed through fields of hemp and tobacco worked by Negroes, the first field slaves Billy had ever seen. The slaves watched the group pass with blank eyes, their movements automatic, with the mildly curious attitude of a herd of milch cows in pasture. Agnes, walking beside him along the dusty track, stared back at them until they’d passed them by.

  “Maggie O’Day said they’re born degraded,” she said, “and it’s up to them to raise themselves up, figure out freedom on their own.” She pushed her bonnet back and swiped at her sweaty forehead with a hanky. “How can people treated like cattle possibly figure it out for themselves?”

  Billy walked backwards to watch the field hands move slowly along the rows of crops. He remembered stories his ma told of Negro slaves in Maryland, where she grew up. The idea of being owned, or owning another human being, gave him a sick feeling.

  Early in the evening of the third day they pulled the wagons into a grove above a creek and set the mules and the milk cow—named “Maggie” with much giggling by the younger children—free to graze the prairie grasses. The mood of the family was hushed and reverent, feeling the vastness and emptiness of the plains. The oaks and beeches around them were of another time, ageless, impervious, dwarfing them beneath their fat limbs and imposing trunks.

  Soon as the mules were unhitched and hobbled, Billy grabbed his rifle and slipped into the high prairie grass along the creek. The grove of trees bent away from the creek and opened up, making for good turkey habitat and it wasn’t long before he heard them. He moved back to the trees, slipping from one to another until he located the sound and plotted his movements. He’d learned early on that turkeys could spot movement from a long way off, and once they did, they’d be gone.

  A big tom strutted from behind a rocky ledge and Billy froze. The tom pecked and gobbled, turned tail and wandered back behind the rock, and Billy sank slowly to the ground, his back against a big tree. He was hidden now, as well as he could be. The tom wouldn’t see his silhouette.

  He brought his gun to his knee, stock to his shoulder and sighted. And waited. The tom reappeared, his neck stretching out and pulling back. Billy counted, one, two, then the neck stretched again and he shot. Clean shot, perfect. Right through the neck. Dinner enough for the whole crew. He wished his Pa had seen that shot.

  

  Evening had faded by the time they finished their turkey feast, the fire banked to a glow that shone on the cool blackness beneath the trees. The children huddled together for warmth in makeshift beds near the wagons, Sarah and Agnes on either end of a little row of warm bodies. Billy rolled up in his blanket on bare ground away from the others, relishing the silence and the solitude of the dark. Over the fire, off through the tangled branches of the trees, a great white light rose, coloring silver and purple the scraps of cloud that hung on the eastern horizon.

  Billy dozed; imbedded rocks made for cranky sleeping. Something, a sound in the night that jarred, combined with the stiffness of limbs waked him. He sat up, trying to pierce the blackness left behind by the setting moon, now low in the western sky, its light no longer penetrating. He reached for his boots. A mule nickered behind the wagons, another responded. They moved restlessly, blowing and stamping. By the wagons, a deeper blackness moved, a stick cracked, and a figure muttered “Hell,” under his breath. John.

  “Billy’s the best shot,” he was saying. “Get him up.”

  Billy was already up, pulling his rifle from the wagon. The way the mules were acting, there was something out there.

  Agnes scrambled out of her quilt, tugging on her boots. Trust Agnes not to miss the excitement, Billy thought. Sam struck a match and lit a shaded lantern. The light caught her eyes, dancing with excitement.

  “What is it?” Her whisper, loud in the night chill, made Sam jump.

  “Quiet,” Sam said to her, low under his breath. “Stay here.” He motioned to Billy to follow and headed for the creek. Agnes ignored Sam’s order and trailed along.

  “What is it?” Billy asked, low as he could. He needed to know what he was up against. If it was one of those big cinnamon-colored bears, a grizzly, the kind that rose eight feet tall on their hind legs, they’d be in trouble.

  “It’s big,” John said. “I can hear it down by the creek. The wind’s blowing its scent up here. The mules know it’s there, but it may not have spotted them yet.”

  “It must be on the other side,” Billy said. “It doesn’t know we’re here yet.” He’d gone into hunter mode, stealthy and silent on the carpet of duff underfoot. Sam and John fell into single file behind him, and Agnes brought up the rear. The animal moved carelessly, not as if it were on the hunt, brushing against the dry leaves that covered streamside brambles. The brass fittings on Billy’s rifle glinted, the darkened lantern sending just enough light in front of his feet to keep him from stumbling.

  The animal had sensed them now, and Billy could almost feel its tenseness, its surprise. He brought the rifle to his shoulder. They knew where it was, in a thicket not two dozen yards away but they could see nothing. The brambles did not stir. It was motionless in the last of the moonlight. Then Sam drew off the lantern’s hood, and the wide circle of light swung out over the stream and through the undergrowth. A glimpse of a long tawny body frozen in a crouch, ears pricked forward, glowing eyes blinded by the strangeness of the lantern lighting up out of all its experience. Then a rowr, surprised, challenging, and a leap and a scramble through the bushes, the swish of a long and sinewy tail, and the majestic cat was gone, like an apparition, through the shadows of high prairie grass.

  They let out their breaths as one. Billy looked at them, shamefaced. “I couldn’t shoot,” he said. “Never saw anything like it before.”

  Agnes touched his arm. “I’m glad—”

  “Shoulda taken your chance,” Sam snapped and stalked off. Billy glared after him.

  “I’ll build up the fire,” John said. “Billy, build another one over the other side of the mules for fear it circles back. Keep that rifle handy and stay awake.”

  Billy and Agnes g
athered up an armful from the pile of sticks the children had collected, and they soon had a blaze going at the far edge of the grove. He sat in the fire’s light on bare ground, rifle next to him, hands dangling between his knees and sulked. “Nothing’s ever good enough for him.” He glowered at the flames.

  Agnes squatted next to him and poked at a log. “Every sixteen-year-old since Cain has complained about his pa not understanding him.”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  “I know, but don’t let him put you out of sorts. He’s proud of you, you know. He couldn’t say enough about the turkey.”

  “He said exactly three words: ‘Nice job, son.’”

  “Well, for Sam, that’s downright voluble.”

  They were quiet.

  “At any rate, I’m glad you didn’t shoot it. I’ve never seen such a magnificent animal.”

  “It was something, huh? I like to hunt, and I’m good at it, but sometimes, I just can’t pull the trigger.” He leaned over to the wood pile, picked up a branch and threw it in. “Last fall I was hunting up along Frazer’s Ridge, you know that place back behind Hans Meuer’s spread? I was by myself and I couldn’t find a deer to save my life. Not a track, no scat, nothing. I stopped to take a—” he caught himself and looked at Agnes sideways. “Well, to take a break, and when I looked up there was a stag standing there, top of the ridge, outlined against the sky. Must have been ten points on that rack, six feet across. I never saw anything so big in my life. And it was staring at me, just standing up there staring. And I couldn’t move. I had my rifle in my hand and couldn’t aim it.” He glanced over at Agnes with a half smile. “After a while he turned around and disappeared over the ridge. I went home empty-handed.” He looked back at the fire. “Couldn’t kill it.”

  Agnes squeezed his shoulder. “That means you’re a civilized man, Billy. You can pick and choose. You did the right thing then and the right thing tonight.” She pushed herself up, using his shoulder for a boost. “Your pa’ll see it that way tomorrow, you wait.”

  “No, he won’t, but Ma will.” He grinned, in humor again. “She’ll bring him around.”

  “Good-night then, Billy. Keep us safe from beasties.”

  “Night, Agnes.”

  He watched her until she slipped back into her bedroll next to Rebecca, then threw another branch on the fire. Sparks shot up into the treetops. The beech trunks, wrinkled and enduring, looked soft to the touch in the firelight. He wondered what they had seen, here in this grove. Maybe other travelers, maybe the ancient people who roamed these plains, untold generations passing by, coming and going year after year. He listened for sounds of the cougar, but there was nothing but the peepers at the creek and the occasional buzz of a mosquito. He dozed by the fire, the predawn air chill. His head snapped up at a rustle in the camp, and he saw Agnes leave her bedroll again and make her way to the creek.

  He waited a few minutes, to give her time to do her business, but when she didn’t return he rose and followed her to the creek’s edge. The footing was tricky, but the darkness was melting into that subtle grayness that was no longer night but not yet dawn, and he found her sitting cross legged on the top of a mossy boulder, her hands tucked beneath her armpits for warmth. She looked down at him and patted the rock next to her, so he climbed up, folded his legs and wiggled until he was comfortable. From where they sat they could see over the prairie to the east, back toward Pennsylvania and civilization. The black of the sky overhead shaded into deepest blue, then into rich azure at the horizon. A single star hung in the east, its brilliance fading. A faint line of red-gold grew, low down along the tops of the grass.

  “It’s daylight in Pennsylvania,” she said. “Papa will be in the barn doing the milking. Mattie’s slopping the pigs. She hates that job but there’s no one else to do it.” She wrapped her arms around her knees.

  “You sorry you came?” Billy said.

  “Not at all. I miss them. But I’ll see them again, some day.” She glanced at him. “And now I need to do this.”

  “Yes, you do.” He took her hand and squeezed it, let go. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  7

  August 1852

  A welcome mizzle of rain had begun falling in late afternoon when Jabez arrived at the roadhouse along the east bank of the Missouri. He was on the return trip to Ohio, with a ticket on the next day’s steamboat for Kansas Town. He’d spent most of the past two months in northwest Missouri, in the town of Lick Creek, finding a home, buying the basics, re-establishing his medical practice.

  He’d discovered Lick Creek back in ’43, when he thought Eliza was lost to him and he left Columbus at loose ends. It was brand new back then, two years a town, and already cholera was showing its ugly presence. His services were sorely needed, though he wasn’t fully credentialed, and he’d set up practice with Dr. Norman.

  Two years later the army called, his own restlessness called louder, and he took ship for the southwest and the war for Mexican territory. But he always hoped to return to Holt County when it was time to settle, and in the back of his mind he never let go of the idea that Eliza would be with him when he did.

  A figure met him at the roadhouse door, arms folded over a stout belly. “Fastyr mie!” Henry Banks’s voice echoed across the yard in the accents of the Isle of Man. “Ye’re welcome, Doctor, welcome,” he said and thrust out his hand.

  Jabez shook and swung his cases inside the door. The welcome aroma of boiling beef and hot coffee wafted out. Henry always had the stew pot on and never failed to give him a hearty welcome. He’d been one of Jabez’s first patients nine years ago when the cholera struck. One of the lucky ones.

  They entered into a smoky warmth, lit by lantern and cook stove, damp and humid in the August rain. A heavy table ran the length of the space, two men sitting on benches and shoveling stew into their mouths with hunks of black bread. Jabez recognized them, Ora Juwitt from up by Hemme’s Landing, and Willard Bigelow from Lick Creek. Both of them very young, both of them trouble, both of them already half-drunk.

  He ignored them, nodded to a stranger tipped back in a chair by the door pulling on a pipe, and sat to table, ravenous. By the time he finished, dusk had fallen and Henry had lit a fire in the hearth to chase away the damp. The sounds of wagons and the creak of harness drifted in under the steady drum of rain, signaling more guests. It would be a crowded night. Jabez retreated to a dark corner by the fireplace and pulled out a cigar.

  Henry checked the stew pot, grabbed a lantern and opened the door.

  “Have you shelter?” Jabez heard a man’s deep voice, “and a hot meal?”

  “You can bunk in the barn. Ladies in the storeroom,” Henry said. Ladies. That meant all the men would be bunking in the barn, Jabez thought. Sounded like lots of them.

  They crowded into the single room, blinking and stretching and filling the space. The stranger slipped out behind them, the two drunk boys ogled the women.

  There must have been four or five women and a gaggle of kids. One of the women, taller than the others, dropped onto the bench and looked dumbly about her. Jabez started. He recognized the woman from Cincinnati, the book stall. And her friend, the black-haired beauty.

  “There, you, Juwitt, and you, Willard, off ye go, make room for the ladies!” Henry flourished a butcher knife so expertly about their ears that the two boys scrambled away from the table without protest, taking their flask with them. Henry was an amiable host, and he set the women and children to table in quick order, placing steaming beef and vegetables in front of them.

  The warmth of the food went a long way toward reviving the younger travelers, but the older women were visibly tired, almost crotchety. The black-haired woman was no longer quite so lovely, her face pale and drawn, her eyes dull in the firelight. The tall woman, Agnes, he remembered, began to look about her with interest, and for some reason he pushed back into the shadows, his features hidden.
He kept an eye on Juwitt and Willard, though. Willard’s eyes, the color of newly-dead fish, were glued on the black-haired woman. Jabez drew on his cigar, and Agnes glanced toward him and then away.

  The women had nearly finished eating, the children yawning, by the time their men came in from settling their stock. Jabez recognized the red-haired boy, married to the Beauty, and Billy. And to Jabez’s surprise, Reuben Bigelow followed, bringing with him that particular odor which trailed along with him wherever he went. Jabez liked Reuben. The big one-armed man was a character around Lick Creek, uneducated, rough, ready for a fight, but good-hearted under all. Jabez wondered if Willard was there to meet his pa or if it was just the boy’s unlucky day.

  Bigelow leaned over to light a straw at the fire, touched it to the pipe clutched in his teeth, drew deep. “Henry,” he said, “This here’s the Canon clan.” The big man turned from the fire, made to introduce the men around and caught sight of the boys against the wall. So, Willard’s unlucky day. Reuben’s single hand rose slowly and pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Wil Bigelow,” he said, the sound low and deep in his chest. “What you doing here, boy?”

  The boy shrank away. “Hey Pa,” he said and laughed, a high cackling sound.

  Bigelow dropped his pipe and wrenched the flask from Willard’s fist. “Ain’t I told you keep away from this stuff?” He threw the flask across the room. “And you, Juwitt. I told you keep a distance from my boy.” With a massive paw he grasped his son’s shirt collar and lifted him clean off the floor, hustled him to the door and planted a boot on the boy’s behind. Willard landed face-first in the mud of the dooryard.

  “In the barn and sleep it off,” Bigelow called after him. “You’ll go home with me tomorrow so’s I can keep my eye on you.” The boy scrambled to his feet and scuttled into the darkness.