by Tom Blair
Father gone one day, and Charles a visit makes. Not seen for months, he was the same, but no gift of bread, honey, or berries. Did not know I was in Jamestown. Saw Nathan by the river and asked where I was. Talk of pleasantries, then I ask, is Mister Greene well, my meaning, does he still live. Yes, the answer. I pause, how can this be, all Englishmen were to be killed by the savages, you and he lived among them, how escape? Not escape, Indians were not fearful of me, he said. No sense this made. Explain, I asked. I did not understand his answer, until long consideration.
Indians were people of the land, not savages, Charles said. Some things they grow, some things they hunt. What they grow they eat. Of what they hunt, most that killed eaten, but some not. Only animals killed that not eaten are those that eat what Indian eats or will kill Indians. A wolf not eaten, poor meat, fur not as large as a deer, or thick as a bear. But wolves eat what Indians eat, and they kill Indians. So an Indian would kill a wolf. But I say, why kill an Englishman? He’s not a wolf. His answer a shiver gave me. They kill those who take their land and food, and they be Englishmen. He paused, then spoke, spoke of years ago. When first arrived in Jamestown, curiosity by Englishmen and Indians. Some small exchanges. Then weakness shown by Englishmen to Indians. Not able to raise crops, not able to hunt game, sickly with diseases and fevers. Only survived if Indians helpful, at first this done. But Englishmen, while taking help, were Englishmen. Accepted help from Indians not because they had needed skills, but because they wanted servants. Indian saw a weak new animal, Englishman. This animal ate more than it grew or hunted.
Conversation no more. Two cups taken from an oak shelf. Cider passed. I thought. Then I asked, but Indian is a man and Englishman is a man, not an animal. True he say. But does England not battle Spain? Are they soldiers who fight Spain? Or savages? Uncomfortable I was. Charles was not wrong, but he cannot be right. But they attacked at first light, no warning given. Before I finished he answered, no warning to the wolves, lie quietly in wait, no sign of the hunter given, then the kill. A final question I asked this day, why only in this year did they attack, why not years before. Answer short. A lone wolf no danger, a pack to be feared.
Father to Martin’s Hundred and returned. Not good. Many homes burned. Only three families in the village, Indians gone. Father said that we should return. His land was there, our future there. Father was my father, but this did not seem right. Always to the next we go, not to stay. But back we went, a long day’s journey. Sorry we did, a sad destination. Many cottages no longer, ours no longer. Ashes and a stone hearth only. Clyde’s cottage became ours, they fled to another village long ago. Their cottage not small, and with two windows of glass, the promise of much light in winter.
In the village were the Bradleys, known from Jamestown, and two families, not known, Brites and Anders, they from a village destroyed. Three families shared what they had with us, and that night in a new cottage, blankets, candles, and bread we had. Next day I busy with chores to make the cottage our home. Nathan and Father were carpenters. Repairs made, cots built. After a pause for the noon meal one day, Father to our burnt cottage. Knelt in the ashes, hands sifting. Then he moved a pace or two, more sifting, then stood up and back. With him the two metal hinges and latch, the bones of our family’s trunk. I prayed not the bones of our family’s future.
Too late in the fall to plant crops, but game plenty. Fewer villagers, same number of deer and turkeys as before. Roast meat every night. During the day, I did chores with Mrs. Bradley, Mrs. Brites, and Mrs. Anders. Few words from Mrs. Anders, sullen look. Mrs. Bradley and Mrs. Brites most content. All things God’s will, ours only to be true to God and chores to complete. One day at work we talk as always. Most talk of home and families. Conversation meanders to my journey from England. I tell of beautiful blue dress given me by Mrs. Sandys, such a generous gift. Without pausing in her chores Mrs. Anders said that it was too bad she is dead, Indians butchered her last spring. God, please, be it not so. That night, I lay in my cot, not moving. In the darkness I think; Charles was wrong, only a savage kill Mrs. Sandys. Days passed, each day less hurt, but no less hate. Then one night, Nathan asleep, Father comes to me. Quiet for a moment, then to me handed an ivory comb with my name, ashes cleaned away, only hints of flame.
Nathan join the men in hunting, off every day to track. Almost every day they hunt, return with venison or turkey. I was at the wash with Mrs. Bradley, while men hunted deer. A musket shot heard, fresh venison will be roasted this day. Then another report, then another. One shot for deer, perhaps two. More than two, venison was not the prey. All tasks stopped, all ladies to Mrs. Bradley’s cottage. Time passes, worry builds. Then a yell, Nathan’s voice. Running our way, three others behind at a distance. They be my father and the husbands. Home safe, Mister Anders wounded. Arrow in his arm. Broken off, pushed through, then coat and shirt off. Washed and dressed the wound. This done by Mrs. Bradley while Mrs. Anders moans.
Then the tale, a deer being tracked as always, our men softly walking to not make noise and frighten prey, looking down at trail. To a clearing, into the middle, then a yell. Savages two hundred strides away, in an instant a flight of arrows, one does not pierce the ground. Muskets fired, perhaps one savage felt the musket’s bite. Each party turns, then each gone. This night not much talk, stares at the flames in the hearth. Men decided, one not sleep this night.
With the sun’s rise, Mister Anders and Mister Brites made a decision known. With their wives they were leaving for Jamestown. No cart, no boat, little they take. Father and Mister Bradley spoke often and quietly this day. Bradleys stay. We stay. I know not why. Mrs. Bradley a pleasant companion for me. Her share of a burden taken always without a harsh word. Domestics we did, as winter closer, fewer chores, no gardens, no crops, no washes in the stream. Wood collected, meals prepared. Father, Nathan, and Mister Bradley stalk venison together, close to our cottages. All was well, then the break.
Mrs. Bradley and I in her cottage, chores of everyday. Noise outside, the cottage door open. Nathan and Mister Bradley leaned against Father, holding him upright, on one leg, the foot not standing is turned, it not true. To the cot, Father in pain, both hands clenched the folds of the great gray coat, knuckles white. Cut his trouser leg, I was faint, bone through skin. Not a small bone. I am told to leave. To my cottage, then a scream, deep and long, then quiet.
That night events told. Last summer two trees felled and laid across a stream. Next to each other to make a bridge, walk across one foot on one, the other on the log’s mate. Today the men cross, no concern. But return, in haste, Father’s leg slips between the logs and stumbles to the stream, full weight pulling over a leg grabbed tight by the logs. Two broken bones set, skin sewed, would take weeks to mend, always with a limp. But this was not the worst. Not far from the cottages, across the stream, near a field once for tobacco, many savages. To the cottage our men came, their haste the reason for Father’s break.
Next day Nathan crafts crutches for Father. Only one step taken, then to the cot. Not be able to walk for days, perhaps weeks, perhaps never. Mister Bradley visits, ask to be alone with Father, this is done. Nathan and I visit with Mrs. Bradley, she told us they would leave in the morn. Savages only a small travel from our cottages, she fearful of an attack. Mister Bradley returns, his eyes not to mine. To Father I go, go alone. Father speaks to me in words slow and soft. Not Father’s voice. Nathan and I would be leaving with Bradleys tomorrow. Father to stay, needs time for contemplation. Has food for the winter, no need to leave the cabin, as a bear in a cave, Indians not know he is here. No, I say, together we go. He is on his cot. He looks away. Nothing said. I stood, taller than Father. He turned back and looked up. This was not my father, this was a man, a man in pain. Pain of muscle and bone, pain of heart and soul. He spoke, of mistakes made, of opportunities no more. Dreams only dreams, hopes only hopes, nothing of good for our sacrifices. I am quiet. Nothing to say, it true.
Nathan and I were to leave with Mister and Mrs. Bradley. No cart, o
nly what we carry. First, all food from Bradley’s cottage to our cottage for Father. Nathan moves all chopped wood inside. Father boasted in a fortnight fine he would be, and journey to join us. If not, return in the spring and he would be fat from food and no labors. We move to leave. Father extends his hand to Nathan. Never before. Nathan could not move, then went forward. Father’s hand shaken. Then to his cot I went. Told me he would be safe and soon we would be together. Touch him I did not. I knew not what to do, but I knew this was not right. Still I stood. Then off, through the cottage door. With the Bradleys, the four we walked. Through the village, past the ashes of our burnt cottage, to the path. Stride after stride, this was not right. More strides, farther from Father. Mister Bradley’s boots heavy and firm. Each stride, a pound of the ground. As on the English paths long ago when the groan of the cart’s spoke marked the greater and greater distance from Grandmother never to be seen, and as each slapping wave against the hull marked the growing distance from so much that I loved, the thump of his boots measured the distance from Father. This cannot be, I thought. It shall not be. This was my choice.
Stop I did. Much protest. Mrs. Bradley most impassioned, I will not be swayed. To Nathan, a hug, a kiss on the cheek. See you soon, remember me always. Then back, back to the cottage. Opened the door. Father on the cot. To him I go. Kneel by the cot, a kiss on his hand. Father, I love you, nothing he said, looked away.
Father and I alone. No fire or candles at night, no signals for savages we make. Days long. Father mostly still. Meat we have is dried, small portions eaten before the dark. Father finally up, few steps become more. His crutch be his partner. Then outside he goes, not far. Then not his crutch, but with his musket. Why take a musket? Perhaps hunting his walk. The cold came fast. A small fire during the day for some warmth. Eat less we do. As fall slowly into winter, leaves drifting with the wind, hunger squeezing us tight. My thoughts from loved ones to food. Father cooked our meal, only one each day. Most often soup. Bitter, not good. A cold wrapped the cabin. Then a snow. More snow, less soup. My clothes not fit, Father’s face not his. In time, no soup. Only weak tea made with melted snow.
One cold morn my father came to me. Wonderful news, he had seen a large fat deer with a yearling. The snow gave their trail. He would be off to track and then much we would eat. He would butcher them on the spot, and make a coat from the fat one’s hide. Asked that I not think poorly of him should he spend the night in the forest eating their roasted flesh. When told this, I in my cot, hiding from the cold. He then silent. Took off his long gray coat and laid it over me, a great blanket it be. Knelt by the cot, took my hands in his. On my finger, one next to my thumb, a ring was placed. My mother’s wedding ring. “Hold this tight and think of Mother tonight.” Forward he leaned. His face near mine, then our foreheads touched. Moments passed. No words. Then he stood, then I alone.
Father gone. In my cot that day, then night. Prayers I said, but not on my knees. Lay still, so dark. No stars, no moon through the glass. Alone, cold and dark. The wind in the trees my companion. Then a thought, only happy memories for me this night. My home in Tewkesbury. Mother by the hearth, smells of warm bread. Nathan by the river, fishing with Father. Grandmother Alice, spinning and sewing, then holding my hand as prayers said. Jack, walking with me, sharing a roasted apple. His smile, his good-bye. Mister Johnson, so much time, so many lessons learned. Beautiful fish, a tortoise gliding through clear warm waters. Pearl buttons and a fine blue dress from Mrs. Sandys, the most beautiful seen. Tea with ladies, so special. Charles, such pain, but so kind to me. And Father tried so hard. Before sleep, another prayer. God I then spoke, I ask forgiveness for wrongs I did, and know that no one has wronged me. Then sleep.
In the morning I woke, but eyes I did not open. I lay in my cot. On my face the warm sun. No cold. Then I felt the hand. A hand held softly. Opened my eyes, sweet Grandmother by my side.
Emilie
John
The Great Depression was the largest and deepest depression in American history, spanning the period of 1929 to 1939. Over 25 percent of the population seeking work were unemployed. Banks failed, savings evaporated, property foreclosed, and in city after city soup lines stretched for blocks.
No group was harder hit by the Depression than farmers and farm workers. During the first three years of the Depression, farm income fell by a staggering two-thirds. A bushel of wheat that sold for $2.94 before the Depression sold for 30 cents in 1932. Of the farmers, the sharecroppers of the South were particularly fragile and quickly felt the pain of the Depression; their very existence was tenuous even before the Depression.
After the Civil War the bulk of the Southern farm land was owned by a relatively few rich men; rich white men. In the 1870s newly freed slaves and poor whites accepted the sharecropper system. The way of life of most sharecroppers was inferior to that of many people in medieval Europe. Housing consisted of primitive log cabins or clapboard one-room houses. Few homes had glass windows or screens. Indoor plumbing was nonexistent; water was provided from open wells or nearby springs and creeks, and bathrooms were outdoor privies located a few yards behind the hovel that was home.
By the time of the Great Depression sharecroppers represented 65 percent of all Alabama farming. By 1940 it was estimated the average sharecropper family income was less than 65 cents a day. From this amount they had to pay the land owner for the meager sundries he had provided during the year.
I KNEW WE WAS POOR. WASN’T TILL THE ARMY THAT I LEARNED THERE was good poor and bad poor. We was bad poor. Barefoot poor.
Renfroe is where I grew up. It wasn’t more than a long walk in good weather from Talladega. Then Talladega was an hour on the train to Birmingham. Never did ride the train there. Never even saw Birmingham till the army.
In Renfroe there was Pa, Ma, me, and Billy. I was named John after my ma’s big brother who was killed in the first war. Blown up in a trench is what they told me. I thought the name John would have matched up good with Ma’s maiden name of Green. Both ending with “n,” sort of poem-like. But our name, Butcher, didn’t go so good with John. Billy Butcher sounded good, but not John Butcher. Too bad for me, ’cause that was my name.
Pa always was a farmer. He didn’t own land, he worked moneyed people’s land. For sure he wasn’t paid. Pa just got a shared part from the sale of cotton, corn, peanuts, and whatever we could coax out of the baked Alabama soil. Pa worked fifty acres. Most men worked twenty-five, maybe thirty-five. Pa worked sixteen hours most every day, with us kids helping, for those fifty acres. If things went right Pa could make more money with fifty acres.
Problem was that most times things didn’t go right, so Pa worked twice as hard as a sharecropper with twenty-five acres, and they both made the same—nothing. I asked Pa once, why fifty acres, since we had to work twice as hard. What he told me was if we got lucky for three years or so, and it rained, and the bugs stayed away, his share of crop money would be enough to buy fifteen or twenty acres outright. Hoped maybe he could give Billy and me our own land, then we’d get all of the crop money.
That fifty acres of mostly red clay wasn’t much good for growing things. Difference between rocks and Alabama clay was maybe you could break a rock. Coming down through the middle of our fifty acres was Harkins Creek. Okay for a scoop of drinking water, but nothing much else. For certain nary a fish. Did have some trees growing along it. Trees knew where water was. Working in the fields between the sun and the clay you could start to feel like a twice-turned-over hoecake. We’d stop for dinner, whatever vittles were in the tin pail that Ma had put together, and if we was nearby the creek we’d set ourselves down in some shade.
Our house was better than most. Pa built an extra room in the back for Billy and me, so’s Ma and Pa had their room and we had ours. In the big room was our stove, table, and some chairs that sat crooked. I was about twelve or so when we got electricity, got it from President Roosevelt. Then right before I went off, we got a radio. We had a better than middling crop that y
ear. Anyway, this painted brown radio sat on the end of our table that was pushed up against the wall, so at supper there were five at the table. The five being Pa, Ma, me, Billy, and the radio. Pa said we could eat faster ’cause no one needed to talk. The radio did all the talking but none of the eating. When there was light, Pa would always want to get a couple more hours in the fields after supper.
Other than the extra room, our house wasn’t nothing special. Walls of boards, roof of shingles and tar paper. More tar paper than shingles. Roof sagged in the middle, like it was tired. Two windows in front, two in back, sides plain, no windows. Boards weathered, never painted. The floor was packed-down dirt. Not too much stuff inside. Ma and Pa had a bed. Metal frame with one leg missing, so that corner was propped on a block of wood. Ma had a dresser. When it was her grandmom’s it was probably white. Drip pots in the corners, used for when it rained. Me and Billy had a straw tick mattress on the floor.
If we weren’t in the fields we did most of our living in the big room. Against one wall was the AVONDALE—that was like the heart of everything. Cast-iron, black, on four short legs. Pipe out the top to the roof, smoke’s path to the sky. When I was a half-baked-size kid I would sit and stare at this thing that pushed out the cold and gave us heat and warm vittles. Stared at it like I expected it to speak from the grate or maybe waddle over to me on its stubby legs.