In late April of 1862, New Orleans fell to the Yankees, and though the nearest enemy soldiers were many miles away, the people of Bayou de l’Outre were finally singed with the heat of war. The big trade boats suddenly stopped coming. The Tubbs and their friends were deprived of fresh oysters for their parties, and we watched the coffee and flour barrels empty away. Plantation owners and small farmers alike wondered aloud about the fate of the cotton crop without a New Orleans market. Those who were smart began to turn inward toward the land for survival. Many could have used lessons from my mother.
Except for Mrs. Barrett, the religious people of this place were not Catholic. They sought God and His miracles most eagerly in late summer when the crops were laid by. Under brush arbors traveling preachers would try to set afire the faithful and wrestle with sinners for a week at a time. Because of the war some people decided that they could not wait until August for God. The brush arbor meetings were moved up to May, and two Arkansas preachers were called.
A natural meadow on the south edge of Iron Branch served as the meeting grounds. From the main road a trail barely wide enough for a wagon forked away at the blacksmith shop and led down to a flat open area surrounded by white oaks and beech trees. An open frame of cedar posts, taller than I could reach, covered most of the small field. Saplings connected the tops of the posts, and green brush was piled on above to make the shade. Split log benches could sit a hundred people at a time. A row of hitching posts lined one edge of the meadow across from long rough tables that often bowed under the weight of the faithful’s food.
The meetings began on a Monday night. Since most people were working their crops the services started at six o’clock instead of noon. The Carters and I took the wagon as soon as the milking and evening chores were done. We got to the grounds early and visited with folks until near sunset. Minor and I had planned to meet, and when he came we sat on a bench near the back. Just before dark four pine knots were lit and placed on poles at the front of the brush arbor. Each had a boy to tend it, to keep it going, and to watch for stray embers. The preachers were late and did not make their entrance until full dark. When they did it was a sight worth seeing.
They were as different as a water roach and a horsefly. Reverend Bloomer was a giant and weighed more than three hundred pounds. He was bald-headed and had a black bushy beard down to his belt. The Bible that he carried was the biggest book I had ever seen. He toted it in front of his belly like a treasure chest.
Preacher Snearly was tall too, but he was skinny as a sapling. His thin face was shaved except for a small pointed goatee, and his long hair was straight and white as snow. Bloomer’s skin was dark but Preacher Snearly’s reminded me of flour paste, and you could see blue blood veins on the side of his head. His Bible was no bigger than a deck of cards. They both wore gold rings, tall black hats, and black suits that rarely visited a wash pot.
In his deep voice Reverend Bloomer started the meetings by shouting, “Brothers and sisters, rise up off these benches and pray with me for eternal peace in this world as we walk toward eternal salvation in the next.”
He did not stop for an hour. When he did we sang hymns for a while. I always liked to sing the hymns—except the blood songs—I never sang them.
The torches were crackling and popping when Preacher Snearly started his sermon. His voice was the strangest I have ever heard. It was a loud whispering hiss that carried to the edges of the meadow. He began by talking about the marks of an evil man. He spoke of greed, jealousy, and intolerance. Although he did not say it directly, it was easy to see that Yankees were the targets of his poison. Reverend Bloomer backed him with three-syllabled “a-ME-ins” at every chance.
The preachers traded sermons two more times and we did not get home until after midnight. The best part for me was being with Minor.
It rained hard the next day, and we did not go for two nights because the roads were still bad from the wet season. By Thursday both preachers were leading a charge against anything to do with the northern states. The air was full of amens as first one and then the other bellowed or hissed eternal damnation on all “bluebellies” and their offspring for a hundred generations. Anatilda was there with most of her family on the front row. For a while Preacher Snearly seemed to have her in a trance.
Friday was a full moon night, and Minor did not go to the meetings. He went stovepiping on the bayou with Lemuel Greenlea and would not take me along. He said he had promised to take Lemuel on this moon for weeks, and that he had rather take me in June when we could go alone. “Besides,” he said, “the fishing will be better then.”
I did not want to go to the meetings either without Minor, but Mrs. Carter asked me in a nice way and I felt obliged. I do not remember much about the sermons that night. The ranting droned along with the rise and fall of the locust calls. There were many blood hymns.
When Reverend Bloomer got up for his last preachin’ of the evening, I slipped out the back of the arbor to be away from the crowd for a while. I was thinking of Minor wading among the cypress trees in the clear shallow water of the bayou. I knew Lemuel was holding the pine torch high as they searched the sandy bottom for beds of nesting sunfish. I had been with Minor once before when he slipped the piece of stove pipe down over the nests and reached in to pull out blue and orange bull bream glistening in the torchlight. I knew the grass sack would be heavy well before dawn.
The scent of sweetbay flowers drifted in the shadows as I walked away from the people and along a small creek behind the eatin’ tables. The full moon was high, making it easy to see if you did not look back at the torches. I had stopped by a beech log to sip a handful of water when strange sounds began to come into my ears. At first I thought it was a mother coon and her babies talking as they hunted along the creek. I began to move toward the noise in a quiet way that an old man had taught me as a small child in Mother’s village. Soon I could tell that the sounds came from the backside of an old falling-down smokehouse, and it was not raccoons. Silently I slipped up to the corner of the smokehouse and peeped around at a sight I will never forget. Anatilda was sitting on a flour barrel and leaning back against the smokehouse with both knees as high as her chin. Preacher Snearly was standing close against her with his bare legs shining blue in the moonlight. The noises they were making could have been from Heaven or Hell.
The sight addled me for a moment, and I could not move. When finally I jerked back I thought Anatilda saw me, but I did not know for sure for another month.
After the brush arbor meetings the war continued to steal closer to us on furtive wings. Every day brought confusing new rumors. In the morning we would hear of a great victory for the South, and before dark another would declare a bitter defeat for us on the same battlefield. A Confederate colonel from the “Bell Battery” came through Iron Branch pleading for plantation bells that could be melted down and forged into cannon. The Tubbs had the only brass bell, and they gave it up with great ceremony. Then the Yankees captured Memphis and Baton Rouge. Vicksburg was the next target, and people fleeing their homes along the great river began passing on the road in front of our house. This trickle of men, women, children, white and black, became a flood in times to come. For now though, the new conscription laws worried me the most.
I did not want Minor to go to the army to fight a war that I could not understand. I did not feel threatened here by Yankees, who the fire-eaters described as demons from the underworld. I could not see an enemy worthy of Minor’s bravery, and I dared not think of losing him. As it turned out the greatest peril for us spent her days tatting and playing hull-gull on a wide breezy porch.
After a wonderful Sunday afternoon of visiting with Minor and his mother in the magical parlor, he and I left in the buggy for the Carters’ farm. Just on the edge of the village a surrey suddenly dashed in front of us from a side trail. It was Anatilda and her driver Mink. The frightened Claybank mare reared wild-eyed and nearly fell over sideways in the ditch. When she came down she struck out at the other horse with a forefoot. Mink, in one smooth motion with his whip, lashed open the skin on the side of the mare’s head. Before he could recover, Minor was on him and they crashed into the red clay road. In a moment Minor had two wraps of the whip around Mink’s neck and tightened it until his eyes bulged. Minor dragged Mink upright to a small hickory and tied him standing to the tree by making more wraps around the trunk. All the while I managed to separate the horses, and Anatilda was screaming.
Minor was angrier than ever I had seen him.
He roared at her, “What is the meaning of this?”
She begged him, “Don’t kill him! Please don’t kill him!”
The talk was that Mink was a half-brother to the Tubbs children. As Minor loosened the whip I could see that it might be true. His skin was the color of café au lait, but his eyes were green and his short hair the dingy yellow-brown of oak flowers, just like Anatilda’s. He slid down the trunk and sat there cowed.
Anatilda gathered herself then. The self-righteousness flowed back into her being, and she bloomed like a morning-glory once more.
“Minor Barrett, I have a prospect for you.” Her pointed chin no longer quivered. Confidence returned to the voice that whined more often than not.
“What do you want?” he demanded through clinched teeth.
“It seems that your domestic friend here is soon to be encumbered with serious problems.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our good friend Preacher Snearly is back in these parts and is staying at our house until his next calling. He has confided in me events that I find most shocking. He is deeply disturbed and in order to cleanse his soul stands ready to declare the whole matter in a public forum from the pulpit.”
“What has this to do with Abita?”
“Preacher Snearly is primed to tell the world that he was seduced by Miss Half-breed Scholar here at the recent meetings.”
She turned to me for the first time as she said this. Minor looked at me too. He was as stunned as I. Then his rage began to rise again.
“You are lying!” he said.
She stepped from the buggy and walked to him.
“Am I now? Whether you believe me or not is hardly relevant at this point. Preacher Snearly is a very pious and highly respected man in this country. His word is the gospel truth you know.”
She was in control now. Minor’s strength was no match for her poison.
“There is however a solution to this predicament—a way to eliminate further embarrassment to all the concerned parties.”
“What do you want?” asked Minor.
“Preacher Snearly always seems anxious to heed my advice, and I’m quite certain that I can convince him to lay the matter aside. I do ask one favor in return though.”
She reached and took Minor’s hand.
“Marry me, Minor Barrett.”
In my mind I was not in this drama. I was standing to the side watching it unfold, unable to believe the words coming from her mouth. I could not have spoken had my life depended on it.
Minor jerked away from her as she continued.
“You can never have her Minor. If Preacher Snearly talks she will be disgraced forever. People will drive her away, perhaps back to the Indians to live in a grass hut for the rest of her life. If you really care for her you will marry me and save her reputation. She still will be able to make a life for herself in a white world. Otherwise she is doomed.”
Anatilda motioned for Mink to get in the buggy and then walked over to me. An ivory cameo on a black ribbon hung from her neck and she smelled unnaturally of roses.
“Do you think you love him? Love is an emotion restricted to civilized human beings you know. I suppose that you might be capable of some primitive, rudimentary feelings only slightly above the urge to procreate. If so, would you have Minor known as one who associated with the likes of a Babylon whore? From this point on your capacity to love is on trial.”
She got into her buggy.
“Preacher Snearly is a distressed man, Minor. I’m not sure how long I will be able to console him. Let me know of your decision soon.”
They rode off leaving Minor and me to sort through the hailstones of this sudden summer storm. In a while we drove on toward the Carters’.
Minor said, “She is mad! She has been bitten by one of her father’s own rabid, blue-blooded hounds! How could she dream up such a story?”
I told him then what I knew of Anatilda and Preacher Snearly. It became clear that Anatilda controlled the preacher, and with the threat of accusing him of seducing her she could demand anything within his power and get it. Involving me in a lie would only be a small transgression for Preacher Snearly at this point.
Minor became solemn and did not talk again until we neared the Carters’. “It is beginning to make sense,” he said. “Jealousy is only one of many lures in her witch’s kit, and my fondness for you is the purest of baits.” Minor told me that Anatilda had been stalking him since the brush arbor meetings. He said that on the second night when I stayed home because of the bad roads, she insisted on sitting close by him, crowding him hard against the cedar post when the torches burned low. He rebuffed her when she touched him in a manner that a lady would never touch an unfamiliar man. Minor said that she tried to entice him into the shadows with promises that he could not speak of without suffering extreme embarrassment. A sudden, exciting curiosity tempted me to press him for details, but it passed when Minor said that only the day before Anatilda confronted him in the Iron Branch mercantile shop. She publicly implored him to carry out for her the last bolt of cloth in the store, even as Mink stood with the surrey. Minor obliged her and in recounting the scene suddenly lost his shyness. “Pennyroyal tea!” he exclaimed. “There in the street as God is my witness she whispered to me that I had nothing to fear from a vigorous encounter, as she would promptly dose herself afterwards with pennyroyal tea. ‘Oh, why tempt ye me, ye hypocrite?’”
At the gate he squeezed my hand and told me not to worry. He said that he would think this out and drove away.
Lemuel passed on the road during the week and brought me a note from Minor saying that he would call on Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Carter and I were busy in the garden at this time. It seems strange now, but I was not worried as I went about my chores. I was not afraid of Anatilda’s lies as they pertained to me and thought she could certainly not devise a test of our love. I did not see the problem as it really was.
Minor came on the mare on Sunday. I mounted behind him and we rode to the springhouse where I had left a small, early melon to chill overnight. The saddlebags were bulging and I had to hold the melon in my hands as we rode. When I asked Minor what was in the saddlebags, he spoke in riddles. He said that it was me, Abita, strapped inside the fine English leather cases that had once belonged to his father.
We rode toward our place on Bayou de l’Outre. It was a good five miles from the house through a rolling hill forest yet to feel the sharp blade of an ax. A person could see a long distance under the giant oaks, hickories, and short-needled pines. The settlers burned the underbrush regularly, as had the Indians before them, to make travel and finding game easier. Now, in the summer, the wild pea vines with pink and blue flowers grew on the forest floor and called for the large black bees. Toadstools were plentiful after the recent showers, and only a few had not been bitten by squirrels and ground turtles. The ears of the mare showed us a newborn fawn lying tight to the earth against a log and as still as death. The only noise was the footfall of the mare in dry leaves and the warning calls of jays high in the trees.
The final hill had lost a struggle with the bayou as timeless floods had carved a bluff face in the iron rock and clay. Shade from beech trees on a narrow shelf against the bayou cooled the small cliff enough to grow waist-high ferns. A spring ran steady from beneath the roots of a sweetbay. Long undercut by thunderstorm currents, a cypress had fallen in mid-life and lay stretched from the bank nearly across the bayou. This was the place, our place, on Bayou de l’Outre, to which we came that day.
Minor pulled the bridle and saddle from the horse and cross-lined her to graze in the lush water grass as I spread a quilt near the spring. We took off our shoes and walked the cypress log to its first broad fork. Facing each other and sitting straddle of the log we let the coolness in its journey flow around our feet and legs. Minor cut the melon and fed me pieces from the point of his knife. I traced the moles on his arms and neck and across his breast beneath his open shirt. He considered them blemishes and proclaimed me flawless. I told him of the childhood scar from the dog bite, which had settled on my side at the top of my hip as the bones had broadened. He put two fingers there and held them until after a while he suddenly grew restless.
“I must liberate another beauty from the confines of the saddlebags. Come sit on the quilt.”
He took my hand and led me to the bank. I watched as he removed a small canvas, paints, and brushes from the pouches. He trimmed a mulberry sapling to hold the canvas and prepared the oils.
“Do not be afraid.”
He positioned me on the quilt looking away over the bayou. Gently and from behind he pulled my cotton blouse up to bare the small of my back. He twisted the shirttail and gave me the knot to hold in front. My hair was yet to suffer the consequences of grief and fell below my waist. This too he arranged to his satisfaction.
Minor demanded of the canvas, “Yet as eons have passed to create this scene primeval, it is only as a moment before such splendor will grace this bayou again. Come forth.”
He painted for a long while, and my thoughts were of the present. I could not bear to think beyond this hour of happiness though I did wonder if a heart could suffer to be so full forever. When he finished he held me close and looked through my eyes until I was afraid he would see too much. We danced to music beyond hearing until the shadows grew long.
Minor held the wet canvas carefully on the mare’s withers as we rode home. At the picket gate he helped me down and said these words, “My dear, there is but one way for now. I must marry Anatilda.”
He kissed me on the mouth and pressed into my hand a small degaurrotype of himself. Carrying my image he rode off into the twilight. Just before he went out of sight the horse snorted twice at the blur of a rabbit darting across the road.
I did not sleep that night. The next day I sat in the swept dirt along the bois d’arc hedge in the side yard from sunrise until the quarter moon rose from the chimney. Before me the ground was covered with the button-size pits of doodlebug traps. As a happy person I would spit on a broom straw and stick it in the hole hoping to catch the insect within while singing a child’s rhyme. But on this day I dropped black sugar ants into the pits and watched them struggle until the pincer-jawed creatures snapped them to pieces.