The Good Lord Bird

by James McBride

  That rousted the Old Man, who came out his spell grumbling, “Course you would interrupt my reckonings to our dear departed Savior upon Whose blood our lives rest,” he said, “but I reckon He understands the impatience of children and is partial to their youth and recklessness. C’mon, men.”

  They gathered in a wagon with horses tied to follow, and I hoisted myself aboard. There was but eight souls left aboard now from the original Pottawatomie Rifles, and only on the wagon as we rolled did I come to the knowledge that five of those was the Old Man’s sons: Owen and Fred, course, then Salmon, Jason, and John Jr., plus one son-in-law, Henry Thompson. The other two were James Townsley and Theo Weiner, the Jew.

  We stayed off the California Trail, the main trail which runs clear through Kansas, and rode an old logging path for about an hour, then veered off to a trail that led toward a group of houses. Not a one of them fellers lost a breath or showed any hesitation as we moved, but I overheard them fussin’ about where Dutch lived, them guessing he wanted to attack Dutch’s, and there was some confusion about where it was, for it was dark, and there weren’t much of a moon, and new settlements was popping up along the California Trail every day, changing the look of things. Course I knowed Dutch’s place and everything within a mile of it, but I weren’t quite sure of where we was, either. I know we wasn’t in his country just yet. Wherever we was, we was off the California Trail, clear on the other side of Mosquite Creek. I believe we would’a ended up in Nebraska if the Old Man allowed it, for he didn’t know where he was, either.

  I didn’t say a word while they rode back and forth, trying to figure it, and after a while when I looked over at the Old Captain to hear his word on it, I seen he’d fallen asleep in the wagon. I reckon they didn’t want to wake him. He lay there snoring as the others led us ’round in circles for about an hour. I was happy he was asleep, and thought he’d sleep through the whole business and forget it. I was to learn later Old John Brown could stay up for days at a time without eating a crumb, then shut down and sleep for five minutes before waking up to do any kind of task under God’s sun, including killing man or beast.

  He awoke in good time sure enough, sat up, and barked out, “Stop near that cabin in clearing yonder. Our work is here.”

  Now he was as lost as the rest of us, and didn’t know his way out of the particular patch of woods and that homestead any more than a bird knows his way out of a privy with the door closed, but he was the leader, and he had found what he wanted.

  He stared at the cabin in the dim moonlight. It weren’t Dutch’s place at all, but no one, not even Owen or Frederick, said a wrong thing about it, for no one wanted to back-talk him. Truth be told, Brown’s Station, the farmstead where he and his boys stayed, was within ten miles of Dutch’s place, and some of his boys had to know we was at the wrong spot, but none said a word. They was afraid to cross their father. Most of ’em would speak up against Jesus Christ Himself before they took on the Old Man, except Owen, who was the least religious of all his boys and the most sure of hisself. But Owen too looked unsure, at the moment, for this whole conundrum attack and warring in the middle of the night was his Pa’s idea, not his, and he followed his Pa like the rest, right to the brink.

  The Old Man was sure, he spoke with the strength of a man who knowed hisself. “To the cause,” he whispered. “Dismount and tie off the two trailing horses.” The men done it.

  It was dark but clear. The Old Man leaped out the back of the wagon and led us behind some thickets, peering at the cabin.

  “I do believe we’ll catch him by surprise,” he said.

  “Are you sure this is Dutch’s?” Owen asked.

  The Old Man ignored that. “I can smell slavery within it,” he declared. “Let us strike quickly with the Lord’s vengeance. Broadswords only. No guns.”

  He turned to me and said, “Little Onion, you are a courageous child, and while I knows you wants to strike a blow for freedom yourself, tonight is not the time. Stay here. We’ll be back shortly.”

  Well, he didn’t have to tell me twice. I weren’t going nowhere. I stood by the wagon and watched them go.

  The moon peeked from behind the clouds and it allowed me to see them approach the cabins, spread out in a line. Several switched to guns, despite what the Old Man told ’em, as they approached the front door.

  When they were almost on the front door, and a good thirty yards from me, I turned around and ran.

  I got no more than five steps and runned right into two four-legged mongrels who jumped at me. One knocked me down and the other barked holy hell and would’a tore me apart had not something dropped on him and he fell. The other mutt ran off howling into the woods.

  I looked up to see Fred standing over the slain dog with his broadsword and the Old Man and the rest standing over me. The Old Man looked grim, and the sight of them tight, gray eyes boring into me made me want to shrivel up to the size of a peanut. I thought he was going to chastise me, but instead he turned and glared at the others. “It’s Lucky Onion here had the mind to look out for watchdogs behind us, which none of you had the mind to consider. I reckon you can’t prevent someone from fighting for their freedom. So come on, Little Onion. I knows you want to come. Stay back from us, and be very quick and quiet.”

  Well, he done me a worse service, but I done as he said. They trotted toward the cabin. I followed at a safe distance.

  Owen and Fred stepped up to the front door, guns bared, and knocked politely, while the Old Man stood back.

  A voice inside said, “Who’s there?”

  “Trying to get to Dutch’s Tavern,” Old Man Brown called out. “We’re lost.”

  The door opened and Owen and Fred cold-kicked the man inside the house and stepped in behind him. The rest tumbled inside.

  I went to a side window and watched. The cabin was but a room, lit by a dim candle. The Old Man and his sons stood over none other than James Doyle, who had been in the tavern and held his .45 Colt on the Old Man, and Doyle’s three sons and his wife. Doyle and his boys were pressed to the wall, facing it, while the Old Man’s boys held Sharps rifles and swords at their necks. The Old Man stood over them, shuffling one foot to the other, his face twitching, searching in his pockets for something.

  I don’t reckon he knowed what to do at first, for he had never taken nobody prisoner before. He dug in his pockets a good five minutes before he finally pulled out a piece of yellowed, rumpled paper and read from it in a high, thin voice: “I’m Captain Brown of the Northern Army. We come here from back east to free the enslaved people of this territory under the laws of our Redeemer the Lord Jesus Christ Who spilt His blood for you and me.” Then he balled up the paper, stuck it in his pocket, and said to Doyle, “Which one of you is Dutch Henry?”

  Doyle was white-faced. “He don’t live here.”

  “I know that,” the Old Man said, though he didn’t know it. He had just learnt it. “Is you related to him?”

  “None of us here is.”

  “Is you Pro Slavers or against?”

  “I don’t own no slaves myself.”

  “I ain’t ask that. Ain’t I seen you at Dutch Henry’s?”

  “I was just passing through,” Doyle said. “He lives down the road a piece, don’t you remember?”

  “I don’t recollect every step I take in doing my duties as the Almighty directs me to them,” the Old Man said, “for I am commingling with His spirit almost every minute. But I do recollects you being one of them ruffians wanting to blast me over there.”

  “But I’m not Dutch,” Doyle said. “Dutch’s Tavern is two miles east.”

  “And a heathen’s haven it is,” the Old Man said.

  “But I didn’t fire on you,” Doyle pleaded. “I could have but didn’t.”

  “Well, you should have. You kin to Dutch, by the way?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Well, I
ask you again. Is you for slavery or not?”

  “You won’t find one slave ’round here,” Doyle said. “I got nar one.”

  “Too bad, for this is a big homestead,” Old Brown said. “It’s a lot of work to keep it going.”

  “You telling me,” Doyle said. “I got more plowing than me and my boys can handle. I could use a couple of niggers around here. You can’t make it in Kansas Territory without help. Why, just yesterday—”

  And then he stopped, for he knowed he made a mistake. Old Brown’s face changed. The years dropped off him, and a youngness climbed into him. He straightened up and his jaw poked out. “I come to deliver the Redeemer’s justice to free His people. And to exact the Lord’s revenge on the murdering and kidnapping of the Negro people by slavers and them like yourself who has robbed and stole in the name of that infernal institution. And all that it involves, and all who’s involved in it, who has partaken in its spoils and frivolities. There ain’t no exceptions.”

  “Do that mean you don’t like me?” Doyle said.

  “Step outside,” the Old Man said.

  Doyle growed white as a sheet and pleaded his case. “I meant you no harm at Dutch’s,” he said. “I’m just a farmer trying to make a dollar change pockets.” Then he suddenly swiveled his head, glanced at the window—my face was stuck dead in it and the window was right there—and saw me peering in, wearing a dress and bonnet. A puzzled look come across his face, which was stone-cold frightened. “Ain’t I seen you before?” he asked.

  “Save your howdys for another time. I’m doing the talking here,” Brown said. “I’ll ask you for the last time. Is you Free State or Slave State?”

  “Whatever you say,” Doyle said.

  “Make up your mind.”

  “I can’t think with a Sharps under my chin!”

  The Old Man hesitated, and Doyle was almost off the hook, till his wife hollered out, “I told you, Doyle! This is what you get for running with them damn rebels.”

  “Hush, Mother,” he said.

  It was too late then. The cat was out the bag. Brown nodded to his boys, who grabbed Doyle and throwed him and his two older boys out the door. When they reached for the last, the youngest, the mother throwed herself at Old Brown.

  “He’s just sixteen,” the missus pleaded. “He ain’t had nothing to do with them law-and-order people. He’s just a boy.”

  She pleaded with the Old Man something terrible, but he weren’t listening. He was lost. Seemed like he went to a different place inside his head. He looked past her head, beyond her, like he was looking to heaven or something far off. He got downright holy when it was killing time. “Take thine own hand and split an ax with it,” he said. “That’s Eucclestsies twelve seven or thereabouts.”

  “What’s that mean?” she asked.

  “This one’s coming with me, too.”

  Well, she fell on her knees and howled and pleaded and scratched some more, so much she throwed the Old Man out of his killing stupor for a minute, and he said, “All right. We’ll leave him. But I’m keeping a man with a muzzle trained on this door. If you or anybody else pokes their head outside it, they gonna chew a powder ball.”

  He left a man to watch the door and split the rest, half taking Doyle to one part of the thickets, the other half a few yards off with Doyle’s two boys. I followed Fred, Owen, and the Old Man, who took Doyle a few steps into the thicket, stopped, and placed him standing with his back to a large tree. Doyle, barefoot, quaked like a knock-kneed chicken and begun moaning like a baby.

  The Old Man ignored that. “Now, I’mma ask you for the last time. Is you Pro Slavery or Free State?” Brown said.

  “It was just talk,” Doyle said. “I didn’t mean nothing by it.” He commenced to shaking and crying and begging for his life. His sons, several feet away, couldn’t see him, but they heard him bellowing like a broke calf and begun to moan and howl as well.

  The Old Man didn’t say nothing. Seem like he was hypnotized. He didn’t seem to see Doyle. I couldn’t stand it, so I moved out the thicket, but not fast enough, for Doyle seen me in the glint of the moonlight and suddenly recognized me. “Hey,” he said suddenly. “Tell ’em I’m all right! You know me! Tell ’em. I never done you no wrong.”

  “Shush,” Brown said. “I’ll ask you for the last time. Is you a Pro Slaver or not!”

  “Don’t hurt me, Captain,” Doyle said. “I’m just a man trying to make a living slinging wheat and growing butter beans.”

  He might as well have been singing to a dead hog. “You didn’t say that to Lew Shavers, and them two Yankee women you ravaged outside Lawrence,” the Old Man said.

  “That weren’t me,” Doyle murmured quietly. “Just those I knowed.”

  “And you wasn’t there?”

  “I was. But that . . . was a mistake. It weren’t me that done that.”

  “I’ll beg the Lord your forgiveness, then,” Brown said. He turned to Fred and Owen and said, “Make quick work of it.”

  By God, them two raised their swords and planted them right in the poor man’s head, and down he went. Doyle wanted to live so bad he fell down and got up in the same motion, with Fred’s broadsword still planted in his skull, scrambling for life. Owen struck him again and knocked his head nearly clean off, and this time he went down and stayed there, still twitching as he lay on his side, legs running sideways, but even with his head half sheared off, Doyle hollered like a stuck hog long enough for his sons, not more than ten yards off in the thickets, to hear. The sound of their Pa’s getting murdered and bellowing spooked them to howling like coyotes, till the thud of swords striking their heads echoed out the thicket and they was quieted up. Then it was done.

  They stood in the thicket, the whole bunch of ’em panting and exhausted for a minute, then a terrible howling emerged. I jumped in my skin, thinking it was from the dead themselves, till I saw a soul running off through the woods and seen it was one of Brown’s own sons, John. He ran toward the cabin clearing, squawking like a madman.

  “John!” the Old Man hollered, and took off after him, the men following.

  There weren’t going to be another chance. I turned into the thickets where the wagon and two horses were tethered. One of them, Dutch’s old pinto, had been ridden over by one of the Old Man’s men. I leaped atop it, turned it toward Dutch’s, and put it to work as fast as it would go. Only when I was clear of the thickets did I look behind me to see if I was clear, and I was. I’d left them all behind. I was gone.

  5

  Nigger Bob

  I made it to the California Trail as fast as that horse could stand it, but after a while she tired down and moved to a trot, so I ditched her, for light was coming and me riding her would attract questions. Niggers couldn’t travel alone in them days without papers. I left her where she was and she trotted on ahead while I moved on foot, staying off the road. I was a mile from Dutch’s Tavern when I heard a wagon coming. I jumped into the thickets and waited.

  The trail curved around and dipped before it hit an open wood area near where I was, and around the curve, up over the dip, came an open-back wagon driven by a Negro. I decided to take a chance and hail him down. I was about to jump out when, around the curve behind him, a posse of sixteen redshirts on horses in columns of twos appeared. They was Missourians, and traveling like an army.

  Sunlight was laying across the plains now. I laid in the thickets, crouched behind a row of bramblers and thick trees, waiting for them to pass. Instead, they halted at the clearing just a few feet from me.

  In the back of the wagon was a prisoner. An elderly white feller in a beard, dirty white shirt, and suspenders. His hands was free but his feet was roped to a metal circular hook built into the floor of the wagon. He looked downright tight. He sat near the back flap of the wagon, while the rest passed a bottle of joy juice among them, regarding him.

  A man rode t
o the front of them, a sour-looking feller with a face like molded bread, pock-faced. I reckon he was their leader. He dismounted his horse, swayed, two sheets to the wind, then suddenly swerved around and staggered right toward me. He stepped to the woods not two feet off from where I crouched hidden. He swayed so close to my hiding place I saw the inside of his ear, which looked like the cross-section of a cucumber. But he didn’t spot me for he was clean soused. He leaned against the other side of the tree where I hid, and emptied his bladder, then staggered into the clearing again. From his pocket he brung out a rumpled piece of paper and addressed the prisoner.

  “Okay, Pardee,” he said. “We gonna try you right here.”

  “Kelly, I already told you I weren’t a Yank,” the old man said.

  “We’s see,” Kelly mumbled. He held the rumpled piece of paper up to the sunlight. “I got several resolutions here saying the Free State men is liars and law-breaking thieves,” he said. “You read them out loud. Then sign them all.”

  Pardee snatched the paper. He held it close to his eyes, then far off at arm’s length, then close again, straining to see. Then he thrust it back at Kelly. “My eyes ain’t what they once was,” he said. “You g’wan and read it.”

  “You ain’t got to follow it to the dot,” Kelly barked. “Just put your mark on it and be done with it.”