The Good Lord Bird

by James McBride

  They brung everything but food, and the aroma of the birds drawed them to the fire right off. They stood around it in a circle. One of ’em, the Jew named Weiner, a thin, taut, lean feller wearing suspenders, was bearing a newspaper which he gived to Owen. “Hold it till after we eat,” he said, staring at the fire. “Otherwise the Captain will want to ride off directly.”

  But the Old Man come up and seen him and he snatched the newspaper. “Mr. Weiner, no doubt the news from Lawrence is pressing,” he said. “But worry not, for I has had a vision on it already.” He turned to the others and said, “Men, before you stuff your gullets, let us thank our Holy Provider for these victuals, since we is after all spreading freedom in His name.”

  The men stood in a circle with their heads bowed while the Old Man stood in the center, hat in hand, bowing his wrinkled old face over the roasted birds and the fire.

  Thirty minutes later the fire was out, the dinner as cold as Dick’s ice house, and he was still prattling on. I ought to give you a full sample of Old John Brown’s prayers, but I reckon they wouldn’t make sense to the dear reader who’s no doubt setting in a warm church basement a hundred years distant, reading these words wearing Stacy Adams shoes and a fake fur coat, and not having to do no more than waddle over to the wall and flick a button to warm his arse and heat his coffee. The Old Man’s prayers was more sight than sound, really, more sense than sensibility. You had to be there: the aroma of burnt pheasant rolling through the air, the wide, Kansas prairie about, the smell of buffalo dung, the mosquitoes and wind eating at you one way, and him chawing at the wind the other. He was a plain terror in the praying department. Just when he seemed to wrap up one thought, another come tumbling out and crashed up against the first, and then another crashed up against that one, and after a while they all bumped and crashed and commingled against one another till you didn’t know who was who and why he was praying it, for the whole thing come together like the tornadoes that whipped across the plains, gathering up the sagebrush and boll weevils and homesteads and tossing them about like dust. The effort of it drawed his sweat, which poured down his leathery neck and runned down his shirt, while he spouted about burnt offerings and blood from the lamp stand of Jesus and so forth; all the while that dress of mine itched to high heaven and the mosquitoes gnawed at my guts, eating me alive. Finally Owen murmured, “Pa! We got to get up the trail! There’s a posse riding!”

  That brung the Old Man to his senses. He coughed, throwed out a couple more Hail Marys and Thank You Lords, then wound the whole business down. “I ought to give Thee a full prayer,” he grumbled, “rather than just a few bumbling words to our Great Redeemer Who hath paid in blood and to Whose service we is obliged.” He was given to saying “thees” and “thous” in his talks.

  The men collapsed on their haunches and ate while the Old Man read the newspaper. As he done so, his face darkened, and after a few moments he balled the newspaper up in a large, wrinkled fist and shouted, “Why, they attacked our man!”

  “Who’s that?” Owen asked.

  “Our man in Congress!” He uncrinkled the newspaper and read it aloud to everyone. From what I could gather, two fellers got into a wrangle about slavery in the top hall of the U.S. government in Washington, D.C., and one of them knocked the other cold. Seemed like a feller from Massachusetts named Sumner got the worst end of it, being that a feller from South Carolina broke his cane over Sumner’s head and got a bunch of new canes in the mail from people that liked his side of the whole bit.

  The Old Man throwed the newspaper down. “Roust up the horses and break down the tent. We shall strike back tonight. Hurry, men, we have work to do!”

  Well, them men was in no hurry to leave, being they’d just got there and was busy stuffing their faces. “What difference do it make,” one feller said. “It can wait a day.”

  “The Negro has waited two hundred years,” the Old Man said.

  The feller snorted. “Let ’em wait. There ain’t enough food in this camp.” He was a raggedy-dressed feller like the rest, but he was a thick man, bearing a six-shooter and real riding pants. He had a thick, wrinkled neck of a turkey buzzard, and he kept his mouth movin’ on that pheasant as he talked.

  “We is not out here to eat, Rev. Martin,” the Old Man said.

  “Just because two fools have a fight in Congress don’t mean nothing,” he said. “We has our own fights out here.”

  “Rev. Martin, you is on the wrong side of understanding,” the Captain said.

  The Reverend munched away and said, “I aim to better my reading so I don’t have to hear your interpretations of things, Captain, which I is no longer sure of. Every time I ride out and come back to your camp, you got another face rooting around, eating. We ain’t got enough food for the men here already.” He nodded at me. “Who’s that there?”

  I was stuffing my face with bird fast as I could, for I had my own plan on escaping.

  “Rev. Martin, that’s Onion,” Frederick announced proudly.

  “Where’d she come from?” he asked.

  “Stolen from Dutch Henry’s Tavern.”

  The Reverend’s eyes widened and he turned to the Old Man. “Of all the troublemakers in this country, why’d you pick a fight with him?”

  “I didn’t pick no fight,” the Old Man said. “I went to scout his territory.”

  “Well, you done scouted trouble. I wouldn’t pick a fight with Dutch for a box of crackers. I ain’t come to this country to shoot it out with him.”

  “Nobody’s shooting nothing,” the Old Man said. “We are riding for redemption, and the Bible says it, ‘Hold truth to thine own man’s face, and the Lord shall deliver.’”

  “Don’t pick no boil with me about the Bible,” the Reverend snorted. “I know more about it than any man here.”

  He bit off the wrong end then, for in my 111 years on God’s green earth, I never knowed a man who could spout the Bible off better than Old John Brown. The Old Man straightened up, reared back, and throwed off half a dozen Bible verses right in the Reverend’s face, and when the Reverend tried to back-fire with a couple of his own, the Old Man drowned him out with half dozen more that was better than the first. Just mowed him down. The Rev was outgunned.

  “All right already,” he snapped. “But you sporting trouble. Dutch got a mess of Missouri redshirts ’round his place. You just gived him a reason to set ’em loose. He’ll come after us hard.”

  “Let him come,” the Old Man said. “Onion’s part of my family, and I aim to keep her free.”

  “She ain’t part of mine,” the Reverend said. He sucked a pheasant bone and tossed it down coolly, licking his fingers. “I’m fighting to free Kansas, not to steal oily-headed niggers like this one.”

  The Old Man said icily, “I thought you was a Free State man, Reverend.”

  “I am a Free State man,” the Reverend said. “That ain’t got nothing to do with getting aired out for stealing somebody’s nigger.”

  “You shouldn’t’a rode with this company if you were planning to peck and hoot ’bout the colored being free,” Old Man Brown said.

  “I rode with you out of common interest.”

  “Well, my interest is freeing the colored in this territory. I’m an abolitionist through and through.”

  Now as them two was wrangling, most of the men had finished up eating and sat on their haunches watching.

  “That’s Dutch’s nigger. Bought and paid for!”

  “He’ll forget about it soon enough.”

  “He won’t forget that kind of wrong.”

  “Then I’ll clear his memory of it when he comes.”

  The Indian, Ottawa Jones, stepped to the Captain and said, “Dutch ain’t a bad sort, Captain. He done some work for me before he got his tavern. He weren’t for slavery then. He should have the chance to change his mind.”

  “You just defending hi
m ’cause you had a slave or two yourself,” another man piped up.

  “You’re a liar,” Jones said.

  That started more disruption, with several leaning this way and that, some with the Old Man, others with the Reverend. The Old Man listened in silence and finally waved ’em quiet.

  “I aim to strike a blow at the slavers. We know what they done. They killed Charles Dow. They sent Joe Hamilton to our Maker right in front of his wife. They raped Willamena Tompkin. They’re rapists. Pillagers. Sinners, all. Destroying this whole territory. The Good Book says, ‘Hold thine enemy to his own fire.’ Dutch Henry is an enemy. But I’ll allow if he don’t get in the way, he won’t suffer injury from me.”

  “I ain’t going up against Dutch,” Reverend Martin said. “I got no hank with him.”

  “Me neither,” another man said. “Dutch gived me a horse on credit. Plus this here army’s got too many angles to it. I didn’t come all the way from Connecticut to ride with Jews.”

  The Jew Weiner, standing next to Jones, stepped toward the man with his fists balled. “Peabody, you open your mouth sideways again, I’ll bust you straddle-legged.”

  “That’s enough,” the Old Man said. “We riding on Osawatomie tomorrow night. That’s where Pro Slavers are. Whoever wants to ride, come on. Whoever don’t want to can go home. But go north by way of Lawrence. I don’t want anyone riding south to warn Dutch.”

  “You wanna ride against Dutch, go ’head,” the Reverend said. “I won’t get in the way. But nobody tells me where to ride—especially not over a nappy-headed, bird-gobbling nigger.” He placed his hand on his shooter, which hung on his left side. Peabody and a couple of other men stepped aside with him, and suddenly, just like that, the Old Man’s army split in half, one side standing with the Old Man, the other angling behind the Rev.

  There was a rustle in the crowd behind the Old Man, and the Reverend’s eyes growed to the size of silver dollars, for Fred came at him and he was hot, drawing his hardware as he come. He handled them big seven-shooters like twigs. Quick as you can tell it, he was on the Reverend and mashed both his seven-shooters on the Reverend’s chest. I heard the cocks snap back on both of them.

  “If you say another word about my friend Onion here, I’ll bust a charge in your chest,” he said.

  The sound of the Old Man’s voice stopped him. “Frederick!”

  Fred froze, pistols drawed out.

  “Leave him be.”

  Frederick stepped away. The Reverend huffed and glared, but he didn’t pull his metal, and he was wise not to, for Owen had stepped out the crowd, and so had two of Brown’s other sons. They was a rough bunch, them Browns. They was holy as Jesus to a man. They didn’t swear, didn’t drink. Didn’t cuss. But God help you if you crossed ’em, for they didn’t take no backwater off nobody. Once they decided something, it was done.

  The Reverend gathered his rifle and things, got on his horse, and hit off without a word. Peabody and two others followed. They rode north out the campgrounds, the way the Captain told ’em to do.

  The Old Man, Ottawa Jones the Indian, and the Jew Weiner stood together and watched Reverend Martin and his men leave.

  “You ought to duck-hunt that Reverend in his back while you got the chance,” Weiner said. “He won’t be out of sight five minutes before he turns south and heads to Dutch’s Crossing. He’ll hoot and holler to Dutch loud as he can.”

  “Let him holler,” the Old Man said. “I want everyone to know what I aim to do.”

  But he made a mistake letting the Reverend go that day, and it would cost him down the line.

  4

  Massacre

  The Old Man’s plan to attack Osawatomie got delayed, like most things he done, and we spent the next few days wandering the county, stealing from Pro Slavers so we could eat. The Old Man was always broke and delayed in everything. For one thing, he had a lot of men to feed, twelve in all. That’s a lot. I sometimes reckon that Old John Brown wouldn’t have started no trouble at all if he didn’t have to feed so many people all the time. Even at home he had twelve children there, not to mention his wife and various neighbors who throwed in with him, from what I’m told. That’s a lot to feed. That’ll make anyone mad at anything. Weiner fed us at his trade store in Kinniwick. But after two days, his wife was done with the slavery fight and throwed us out. “We’ll be slaves ourselves once this is done,” she growled.

  Them first few days of wandering the territory gived me time to get a read on things. From the Old Man’s side of things, new atrocities was occurring all up and down Kansas Territory, the business in Congress being the last straw. From his point of view, the Yank settlers was being plundered regular by the Kickapoo Rangers, the Ranting Rockheads, the Border Ruffians, Captain Pate’s Sharpshooters, and a number of such bloodthirsty, low-down drunks and demon outfits bent on killing off abolitionists or anyone being suspected of being one. Many of them types was personal favorites of mine, truth be told, for I growed up at Dutch’s and knowed many a rebel. To them the Old Man’s Yanks was nothing more than a bunch of high-siddity squatters, peddlers, and carpetbaggers who came west stealing property with no idea ’bout how things was, plus the Yanks wasn’t fighting fair, being that they got free guns and supplies from back east which they used against the poor plainsmen. Nobody asked the Negro what he thunk about the whole business, by the way, nor the Indian, when I think of it, for neither of their thoughts didn’t count, even though most of the squabbling was about them on the outside, for at bottom the whole business was about land and money, something nobody who was squabbling seemed to ever get enough of.

  I weren’t thinking them thoughts back then, of course. I wanted to get back to Dutch’s. I had an aunt and uncle back there, and while I weren’t close to them, anything seemed better than starving. That’s the thing about working under Old John Brown, and if I’m tellin’ a lie I hope I drop down a corpse after I tell it: I was starving fooling with him. I was never hungry when I was a slave. Only when I got free was I eating out of garbage barrels. Plus, being a girl involved too much work. I spent my days running around, fetching this or that for these young skinflints, washing their clothes, combing their hair. Most of ’em didn’t know their heads from their arses and liked having a little girl to do this and that for ’em. It was all, “Fetch me some water, Onion,” and “Grab that gunnysack and bring it yonder,” and “Wash this shirt in the creek for me, Onion,” and “Heat me some water, dearie.” Being free weren’t worth shit. Out of all of ’em, only the Old Man didn’t demand girl chores, and that’s mostly ’cause he was too busy praying.

  I was done in with that crap and almost relieved when he announced after a few days, “We is attacking tonight.”

  “You ain’t gonna tell us where it is?” Owen grumbled.

  “Just sharpen your broadswords.”

  Well, that kind of talk goes down fine when you giving orders to a Negro. But them men was white, and there was some grousing from them about not knowing exactly what they was supposed to attack and so forth. The Old Man’s army was brand new, I found that out. They hadn’t been in a war before, none of ’em, not even the Old Man. The hell-raisin’ they’d done was mostly stealing food and supplies. But now the game turned serious, and he still wouldn’t tell ’em where they was going to fight. He ignored ’em when they asked. He never gived out his plans to nobody in all the years I knowed him. Then, on the other hand, looking back, maybe he didn’t know his own self, for he was prone to stop on his horse in the middle of the afternoon, cup his hand to his ear, and say, “Shh. I’m getting messages from our Great Redeemer Who stoppeth time itself on our behalf.” He’d set several minutes, setting on his horse with his eyes closed, meditating, before movin’ on.

  After he announced the attack for the night, the men spent the day sharpening their broadswords on stones and getting ready. I spent the day looking for a chance to run off, but Fred was on me. He
kept me busy tending the fire and learning to sharpen broadswords and clean rifles. He wouldn’t give me two minutes on my own and kept me close to him. Fred was a good teacher in them things but a pain in the neck, for he had adopted me, and it pleased him to see his little girl catch on so quickly riding a horse and ignoring the mosquitoes and being so adaptable, he said, “almost like a boy.” The dress itched me something terrible, but as the days wore into the cold nights, it growed right warm and comfortable. And I ought to say it here—I ain’t proud to report it—it also kept me from the fight. Somebody was gonna get their head blowed off, and I had no interest in that business.

  Afternoon turned to dusk, and the Old Man announced, “The hour is near, men.” No sooner did he say it when, one by one, the men begun to peel off and make excuses to quit. This one had to tend to his livestock. That one had to cut crops. That one had a sick child at home, another had to run home to fetch his gun, and so on. Even Ottawa Jones begged off at the last second, promising to meet us later.

  The Old Man let them go with a shrug. “I’d rather have five dedicated, trained fighters than an army of frightened ninnies,” he scoffed. “Why, take Little Onion here. A girl and a Negro besides, tending to her duties like a man. That,” he pointed out proudly to Fred and Owen, “is dedication.”

  By evening, the company of twelve had whittled down to eight, not counting yours truly, and the pep had gone out of them that stayed. There was a new color to the thing now, for it growed serious, and hunger struck again. The Old Man hardly ever ate, so his needs for food wasn’t great. But them others was dying of hunger, as was yours truly. Seemed like the closer the hour came to mounting the attack, the hungrier I got, till midnight rolled past, and the hunger changed to fear, and I forgot all about being hungry.

  Well into the wee hours, the Old Man gathered what was left of the Pottawatomie Rifles ’round him to pray—I’d say on average he prayed about twice an hour, not counting meals and including the times when he went to the privy, for which he uttered a shortie even before he ducked into the woods to remove his body’s impurities. They gathered ’round him, and the old man rousted it up. I can’t recollect all what he said—the terrible barbarity that followed stayed in my mind much longer—though I do recall standing in my bare feet while the Old Man called on the spirit of Jesus with an extra long spell of Old Testament and New Testament workings, hollering about the Book of John and so forth. He barked and prayed and howled at God forward and backward a solid forty-five minutes, till Owen called out, “Pa, we got to roll. It’ll be light in three hours.”