Eye for an Eye

by Mark C. Jackson

  “Only thing sitting in them bags is the smell a’ rotten beets, sir.”

  The man stood for a second or two more, then dragged the torch along the passenger side and heaved himself up to sit next to Olgens.

  “Let’s go, boy, ain’t got all day.”

  Olgens released the break and with his reins, strapped the two mules on down the road. Within ten or so minutes, we stopped. Both Olgens and the man climbed down off the wagon and without a word to each other, walked away.

  All was quiet except for a dog barking in the distance. I eased one of the bags off me and peered over the top of the wagon rail into the dark opening of a barn. There was no light to see by but for a half-moon and the morning stars. Earlier, at Sophie’s, Billy told of him and Frenchy visiting the plantation many years before, and how he knew his way around. I trusted him that nothing had changed. He pushed aside the bags, climbed over the sideboard, and with the creak of the wagons’ struts, let himself down to the ground. With my leg stiffened up, I followed, making as little noise as I could. I eased over the sideboard and Billy helped me to the ground. The pain in my thigh was searing. I felt the stitches might burst.

  “You all right, mate?” Billy whispered.

  With my head lowered, I forced myself to stand alone, my weight and hand pressed upon the wound. I wiped blood on my smock, looked up, and nodded with a shrug.

  I would not let him know how bad I hurt.

  A little past the barn lay what must have been the livery stable and the bar gate of a corral. The random whinnies of workhorses could be heard as we passed. A couple of pigs snorted from somewhere behind the building. The crow of the rooster would soon follow. Broussard’s plantation was awakening.

  Billy motioned to follow him to a row of shacks built identical to the other. Beyond, near an acre of open field was bathed in the waning moonlight. In the distance, shrouded in darkness and mist, lay the great swamp of Terre Bonne.

  We stopped at the first shack. “If I remember right, the boys will be in one of the first three,” Billy whispered. “As I said, mate, their names are Abe and Sturgis. Tell them to leave all belongings behind. I will find their mother. Be quick, we must meet back here before dawn’s light.” He faced me and stuck out his hand. For a second, he stood smiling. I reached out and we shook. As I let go, he was gone.

  I stood in the shadows for a long while, fumbling with the coin he had given to me. Though there was a chill in the air, I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead. I bent my left knee back and forth a couple of times and massaged my thigh, again wiping blood on my smock. I felt the pain but was not so stiff that I could not fight or run if need be. I looked up to the last of the evening stars. “Well, Zeb,” I whispered to myself. “At least it ain’t rainin’.”

  From the wagon, I heard the overseer muttering. I could not understand what he was saying, but by the tone of his voice, he seemed to have become impatient with Olgens. I heard the wagon creak forward and then stop. He said, “Boy, I told ya we goin’ this a way!”

  “Yes, sir, yes, sir!” Olgens replied and he loudly switched the mules into action.

  I crept onto the porch and entered the shack. Even in total darkness, I sensed the many sleeping bodies. The room smelled of ancient soil and sweat, of men who may have never bathed in their lives. My head spun as I recognized this smell. For an instant, I was back tied to a stake with my brother, like dogs, behind my father’s teepee. I bumped the first bed and a man groaned. I leaned down and whispered, “Lookin’ fer two boys, brothers, Abe an’ Sturgis.”

  With my eyes grown accustomed to the dark, I could see the silhouette of the man’s head and his white eyes. He sat up and stared closely at my face. “Does I know ya, sir?”

  “No. I’m lookin’ for the boys, can ya help?” I whispered.

  Some of the other men began to stir. I whispered again, with more urgency. “Can you help?”

  The man slowly nodded. “They be in the next house over.”

  I was confused. “The house closest to this one or the one past that?”

  “The next house over, sir,” he repeated.

  The groans from the other men became words, most I did not know. I left out the front door.

  Entering the second shack, there seemed to be fewer men, the lay of the beds were different and there was an oil lamp lit, very low. As I was about to shake the first man, someone near the rear wall picked up the lamp, lit it bright, and began speaking. I snaked my way through the sleeping men to stand in front of him. “Do you know two brothers, Abe an’ Sturgis?”

  Not responding to my direct question, he said loudly, “Master don’t know stranger! Master be pissed.” He saw the blood on my britches, began to swing the lamp in an arc and to speak in gibberish. I asked again, trying to catch his attention. His voice grew louder. “Master don’t know stranger! Master don’t know stranger! Master don’t know shit ’bout no stranger!”

  Everyone in the house was now sitting upright in their beds, staring at me. I walked right through them, back to the door, and announced, “Two brothers, Abe an’ Sturgis. I’m here to help ’em.” My hand shook as I pulled the coin from my belt and held it up to the swinging light for all to see. With the commotion, I was near a panic to find those boys and get away.

  A young man of maybe fifteen stood and with an astonished look on his face said, “I’m Abe, sir.” A boy a year or two younger stood up next to him. In their chocolate skin and high cheekbones, I saw both Olgens and Sophie. For an instant, I saw Jonathan and me.

  “The coin, sir? Where did you get the coin?” the young man asked.

  “I’m here to take you away!” I responded and went to usher them out the door. Louder the crazy man spoke and moved swiftly toward the door, as if to cut us off. Some of the other men were standing.

  The younger boy was in tears. “Papa. That be Papa’s gold doubloon, Abe.”

  The older brother also wiped tears from his eyes. “Sir, the only one who might have that coin would be Uncle Olgens.” He stopped. “Mama?”

  I stepped toward him and offered the coin. “Billy’s gettin’ your Mama right now. We must go, else we’re all dead!”

  “Master don’t know stranger!” The man reached over and attempted to slap the coin from my hand. I was too quick.

  “Georgy!” Someone hollered from the shadows. He stopped his gibberish and turned toward the voice. From behind, Abe swung a water jug and struck him hard in the back of the head. The lamp slipped from his hand and spilled to the floor. In an instant, oil and flames washed across the wood planks, lighting rags of bedrolls on fire. Every man and boy pushed to get out. I stepped onto the porch and to the side of the door. Next to me, smoke poured out the top of the only window. I did not see Georgy escape. I fell to my knees and peered back into the burning building. Inside the door, beneath thick smoke, Georgy laid unconscious, bleeding and trampled on. I reached in, grabbed both his wrists and dragged him out to the common yard. By then, the shack was engulfed.

  The screams of fire sounded through all the slave quarters. The yard filled with the resident men, women, and crying children. One by one, their homes went up in flames. They did nothing to quench the fires.

  Billy was beside me. “We must go, now!” he shouted and pointed the way across the field to the swamp. He herded the mother and her two sons to run across the deep ruts furrowed through the soil. I followed with my pistols pulled, limping from my wound. Our steps were not swift and from behind us, there rose such chaos the whole parish must have heard. As dawn spread its light on us, warning bells began to ring. Still hobbling, I glanced back over my shoulder to see if anyone followed. I lost my balance and fell. I tried to stand, but could not. Blood had soaked through the whole left side of my britches. As Billy reached the edge of the field, he gave a high-pitched whistle. Within seconds, Sophie’s two boatmen appeared and gathered the newly freed family together. I could only watch as they disappeared down into the darkness of the swamp.

  Billy stood fo
r a second, looking past me, then turned and started toward where the family had been. I lowered my head and again tried to stand. I heard boots in the dirt and flipped over to lie in a rut, on my back with my pistols pointed and cocked. I shut my eyes for a second and with the back of my blood-streaked hand, wiped the dirt and sweat off my brow. I opened them and Billy leaned in, smiled, and said, “Not a bad rescue, aye mate?”

  I closed my eyes again and breathed a heavy sigh.

  “Aye, mate,” I said and looked up at him. “Not bad for a goddamn Brit.”

  He pulled me to my feet and dragged me to the swamp. Beyond the field there dropped a steep slope of maybe fifteen feet to the water’s shore. Margo and her sons sat in the same shallow boat Sophie had arrived in at Pawpaw’s only a few nights before. They waved at us to hurry. Billy eased me to the ground. With a hand on my shoulder, he gently pushed. I began to slowly slide down slick vines and dead leaves. From across the field echoed a sha-boom. Billy’s hand jerked away. I looked up to see him pitch at a most unnatural position, as if his whole back had been cracked. He touched the blood soaking through his shirt and stared at me in stunned surprise. I tried to stop from sliding, to make my way back up to him. A second sha-boom came an instant later and he was blown off his feet and sent reeling down on top of me. We both splashed face first into the black water.

  I lay still, in silence, with Billy’s lifeless body sinking me deep into the mud. I felt that I could breathe if I only opened my mouth. Breathe in the whole swamp, as I once saw Olgens do. I knew I was not to die that day. I knew in my soul I would live on and remember the weight that pressed upon me.

  Hands reached down, pulled me up, and placed me in the boat.

  “Where’s Billy?” I asked.

  No one spoke.

  I started to slip over the side. One of the boatmen stopped me. The two brothers jumped into the water and raised Billy’s body up from the mud. We made room for him.

  Silently, we slipped south, disappearing into the morning mist of the Terre Bonne.

  CHAPTER 29

  On a funeral pyre made of old bones, cut cypress, oak, and wrapped in Spanish moss, we burned Billy’s body at sunset, next to Pawpaw’s home on the water, near where the gator had hung. Smoke and cinders billowed up to the stars. Standing alone at the edge of the clearing, I saw fireflies dance away through the trees and disappear.

  I sang him a Lakota death song. It was much later that I wept for him.

  Olgens came the next morning saying that with the fire and all the commotion, he drove that old wagon straight out the plantation’s gates and all the way back to New Orleans. His reunion with Margo and her boys was indeed joyous. That evening, we feasted on roasted gator, bluegill, greens, and the roots of cattails. The mood was bittersweet, as we all knew the life it took to free them.

  Olgens led us in a prayer. “Lord, have mercy on Billy’s soul. A good man he was, a righteous man. Never hurt no one. And if he did, didn’t mean to.” He glanced at me. “Retribution is not ours to receive, but the Lord’s to give. In our Christ’s name . . .”

  Everyone followed with amen.

  Olgens, Pawpaw, and I sat on the porch and smoked. The silence between us felt comfortable, like we were old friends.

  I did not know what to do or where to go. I said as much to them.

  “You must come with us to Haiti. I’ll insure you live very comfortably, my friend,” Olgens kindly offered.

  I said thanks and gave him as gracious a look as I could muster.

  Pawpaw proposed I stay with him in his home, saying I could hunt, fish, catch gatas for the rest of my days and be happy. Again, with a sense of gratitude, I shook my head no.

  “Might head back up to Missouri . . .” I suggested. “See some friends near Arrow Rock.”

  Olgens sheepishly smiled. I did not remember ever telling him of the doctor and his daughter. I smiled also, though more to myself than to him.

  “Might strike out west, back to the Rockies. Though I hear there ain’t many beaver left to trap,” I said with only half a heart.

  Then, out of the blue, I announced, “Hell, I think I’ll go to Texas. I hear they’re givin’ away the bloody land!” I was shocked to hear Billy’s voice echo in my own. “Of course, I might have to kill a few Mexicans while I’m there.” I slapped my thigh in excitement and winced in pain. All three of us busted up laughing.

  “That certainly would be a prudent thing for you to do, Mr. Creed,” Olgens stated. Pawpaw nodded in agreement.

  We sat smoking for a while longer. Olgens and his grandfather retired for the evening, joining Margo and the boys in the warm, crowded house. I stayed outside, alone, enjoying the cool air. I slept without dreaming.

  Olgens left the next morning with his brother’s wife and sons, headed south to the Isle of Grande Terre to catch a small schooner and on to Haiti. I wished them all well.

  I doubted I would ever see Olgens Pierre again.

  Before leaving, Abe and Sturgis gave to me their father’s coin I had given them the morning of the rescue. Again, I rubbed the two faces with my thumb and forefinger. There was no difference.

  That night, Pawpaw and I sat out under a sky full of brilliant, shining stars. I realized it had not rained in several days. I mentioned this to the old man.

  “Only time it’s rain, is when ya feel it hit yer face. All the other time, it water pourin’ from the sky,” he proudly exclaimed and laughed.

  I smiled and we returned back to the quiet of the evening. Nothing more was needed to be said.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Originally from Oklahoma, Mark C. Jackson is an accomplished songwriter, performer, and poet who currently resides near San Diego, California, with his lovely wife Judy, their dog Brody, and cat Brook. This is his first novel.