In the morning breakfast was served at sunrise. Mrs. Duckworth was fully dressed when I joined her in the dining room. She expressed concern for my well-being and said she wished she could accompany me. I thanked her again and went to the barn for Chula.
The plantation was alive with Negroes preparing for the day’s labors. Corn harvest was underway, and the drudgery of the hoe was set aside for a while. A line of wagons filled with women and children passed down the lane toward the fields. Their clothes were faded reds and blues and greens. They shouted and laughed at each other from wagon to wagon. Wheels creaked, traces jingled, and the drivers spoke to the mules in foreign tongues. To me in this moment these people looked happy.
Chula was excited by the commotion he could not see. He swiveled his neck and worked his ears and nose to catch signals for his good senses. I think his knowledge of the goings on was greater than mine.
When we rounded the corner of the house Lieutenant Rhymes with brass field glasses hanging from his neck stood beside a buggy hitched to an old gray roan. Mrs. Duckworth joined me from the gallery and announced that she had good news for my cause.
“Miss Carter, the Lieutenant has volunteered to accompany you as far as the Macon Hills. It will ease my mind to know that you will be safe in his presence to that point at least.”
The Lieutenant bowed and dropped his hat. I did not expect this situation.
“Oh mam, I could not possibly accept. Your kindness has been more than I deserve.” I spoke this in the direction of the Lieutenant also.
She insisted, “Child, don’t argue with me. It’s not polite. There are dangers in this world that you can’t imagine. Besides, the Lieutenant has promised to return tonight with more fresh game for the pot.”
The oxcart rolled through the back of my mind as I unloaded Chula and placed the bags in the buggy box. I tied him behind and climbed aboard with the Lieutenant. A distant treeline marked the boundary of Larksong, and in less than an hour we had left the plantation and the peculiar prairies behind.
The road was beginning to grow up. For years it had been a main passage for settlers from the East and traffic back to the Mississippi River. Three years before, the railroad from DeSoto Point to Monroe had been completed, leaving this route to the saplings of red gums and bitter pecans. It was mostly surveyor straight and easy to follow in spite of the hindrances. The natural gait of the old mare matched Chula’s, making progress through the forested tunnel slow but steady.
The Lieutenant dipped macaboy snuff. Ever so often he would spit to the side, and on each occasion he would take a drink from his pocket flask. We talked enough to keep the situation polite, but I did not find him as interesting as the evening before.
He had a beautiful gold Napoleon watch on a long, braided chain. He checked it regularly and the horse was allowed to rest for a few minutes beginning exactly on the hour. I noticed that the initials on the watch were not his and asked if they were those of a relative. He did not answer.
At one place of rest squealer ducks sang their comfort call from the buttonbush thicket of a cypress slough. The Lieutenant decided to stalk them with his rifle. Before he got close enough for a shot the calls changed to low danger whistles, and I knew his efforts were wasted. He squandered a shot anyway as they flushed low and away from harm. He came back muttering about Mrs. Duckworth‘s demands.
Bayou Bonne Idee was nearly dry and we crossed on a bed of logs. Patches of cane began to appear. The waist-high fronds of palmetto covered the ground so that you could not see your feet if you left the road. In every wet spot I looked for tracks, and as sure as I breathed the signs of an oxcart lay certain before us.
The Lieutenant pulled up in the afternoon and got out of the buggy. He said there was a cabin just ahead. He told me to continue on toward the Boeuf River and said that he was going to hunt for a while and meet me on the road later. I drove on and soon came to a small, poorly tended field with a cabin on the backside. Dogs barked and a stooped-over woman hurried from the garden into the house slamming the heavy door in her wake. Just past the farm I met the Lieutenant standing in the road. He got into the buggy, pulled a new flask from under the seat, and pressed the mare to a fast walk.
We came up on the steep bank of the Boeuf River without warning, the water still and stagnant. If a tall tree were to fall on its shore, it would reach all the way across. I got out and the Lieutenant held the buggy brake hard down the bank. We were lucky. The ferry was on our side and in working order. Few travelers and fewer profits in recent years left the crossing abandoned as a commercial venture. Police juries once auctioned off ferry sites each year to the highest bidder. Competition was keen. That was before the war and before the railroad to the south. Now these Carroll Parish ferries ran by the grace of good Samaritans handy with a hammer and a bailing bucket.
It was no easy task to get the buggy aboard. The deck of the ferry was knee high above the muddy shore in spite of the sloped ends of the boat. I led the mare up close and the Lieutenant laid on her one time with the quirt and a shout. She jumped up on to the deck where I caught her head. He then laid planks from the front of the wheels up to the deck and the horse pulled the buggy aboard. Chula balked at first but I ran a rope behind his back legs and pulled him forward gently. He stumbled onto the ferry and stood there looking indignant as only he could do.
A rope ran from trees on each bank through pulleys at the ends of the boat. Three feet higher another rope stretched between the same two cottonwoods. This was the pull rope. Chula and the mare were moved forward to raise the front of the ferry off the bank. The Lieutenant and I grasped the pull rope on the in-stream end and walked the length of the deck. After several repetitions we were across. The weight was shifted to the rear and the ferry nosed up to the shore. The loading procedure was reversed to disembark. In time we stood atop the east bank and looked down upon the scene of our labors. Up and down the river hard-scaled garfish broke the surface to gulp air in gasps that seemed almost desperate.
The Lieutenant drank and became fidgety as we continued on. He said he had expected to see more game and return to Larksong before now. I assured him that I was quite capable of carrying on alone and encouraged him to head back. At the five o’clock rest break he agreed.
I thanked him and offered to pay for his time. He looked at me for a moment as if considering the offer but begged his leave and wished me luck. When he left, I did feel loneliness but not for him.
The Macon Hills are not really hills at all. This land is more of a flat-topped ridge between Boeuf River and Bayou Macon that rises above the swamps and great floods of the Mississippi River. The forest is not dense, and dark green tops of scattered pine trees pierce the canopy of post oaks and ash. The soil is yellow in the dry, cracked ruts of the road. As high ground the ridge begins in Arkansas and runs south between the rivers to Sicily Island. At my crossing point it was twelve miles wide.
There were few if any planters in the Macon Hills. The farms were hardscrabble, and some outsiders spoke of the people with low words. Mr. Laran once said all Maconites were close kin to each other and the devil with little difference amongst ‘em.
I did not see anyone as I left the road to follow a dry creek in search of a campsite. Just beyond, it passed through an opening with thorn trees sprinkled about. A wallow pawed into the streambed by deer and other animals held a small pool of water—enough for the night.
I built a fire and made coals to fry Mrs. Duckworth’s salt meat and potatoes. Chula grazed peacefully and followed the shifting smoke of the campfire to avoid the evening flies. I was content when the sun set after a long day and looked forward to the lingering summer twilight before darkness. In these times I gathered courage for the night.
A bullbat appeared suddenly then and began to write a veiled warning in his loops and turns above the wild meadow. Even his buzzing calls I did not interpret, much less heed. Such is the state of sensibilities of one who is in-between.
Chula heard the creaking wheel before me. He raised his head and turned to face the trail. At first I could not be sure it was coming toward our campsite, but it soon became louder and there was no doubt. The heavy wheel of the oxcart cried for grease. Panic is the only word for my emotions. For long moments I stood frozen and listened—to the wheel, to the bullbat, to the drone of the evening’s first locust. A glance at Chula broke my trance. He stood calmly, ears forward, breathing as normal—a paradox in a crisis. I dove for the canvas bag and dug frantically for Mr. Carter’s long skinning knife.
The man stepped into the opening with a rifle on his shoulder, and against my will I laughed out loud, a hysterical cry of relief. It was not the butcher but Lieutenant Rhymes leading the mare.
I stood up quickly and moved near the fire.
“Lieutenant, I am sorry. I did not expect you.”
“Bro-o-o-ke the spindle trying to board the damned ferry.” The buggy listed hard to one side. “Closer to Pinhook now than back to Duckworth’s. Thought I mi-i-i-i-ght eat a bite with ya before lookin’ up the blacksmith.” The whiskey dragged on his burdened words.
“You are welcome to the leftovers. I was going to save them for breakfast but there is plenty for that.”
I stoked the fire, wiped out the pan, and went about the business of heating the Lieutenant’s supper. My head was light with giddiness. Chula had known. Chula had known the butcher was nowhere about and that our intruder was only the harmless Lieutenant. I should have trusted the little mule.
“Lieutenant, could you pass me the tin of lard next to my pack. We will have fried potatoes in no time.”
He reached into the bag and pulled out the daguerreotype of Minor.
“Is this your beau? The one you’re going to all this trouble for?” He held the image at arm’s length and strained to focus his drink-laden eyes.
“He is my – good friend,” I added.
He stared hard at the figure and gently placed it back in the bag.
“The lard is behind the pack,” I added.
He picked it up, loosened the lid, and tossed it to me.
“R-u-u-u-b it on your bosom.”
“What!?” Surely I did not hear him correctly.
“I said rub the lard on your bosoms.”
I could not believe these words were coming from the Lieutenant. They did not fit him any better than the short-sleeved coat.
He stepped over to Chula and patted his neck. “You’re real fond of this mule, ain’t ya?” He put his rifle barrel against the side of Chula’s head and the wickedness came forth. “Do what I t-o-o-le you or I’ll paint the treetops with his brains.” He kept stroking Chula’s neck. “Do it now!”
The lard was soft from the hot day. I tried to do as he demanded without revealing myself.
“Take off the shirt.”
The situation was racing away with me and I could not help it. I turned my back to him, unbuttoned my blouse and watched it fall to the ground.
“Turn around here real sl-o-o-o-w so I can look at ya.”
I did as he said. He was breathing as if he had just run a mile.
“Now the skirt and more lard.” He said it with his jaws clinched.
Weakness washed over me and I felt that my legs would no longer support me. “I can not,” I said.
He shot Chula then. In one motion he cocked the rifle and pulled the trigger. The roar, the flash, and the blood came together. The smoke was an instant later, and from within it he leaped and forced me to the ground. I fell on my back and he lay heavy on me, one hand grasping my hair and the other tearing at my skirt. These thoughts come to me now as though I were another person standing to the side and watching this happen. Such was my consciousness as he struggled to commit his crime. I twisted and rolled but he stayed atop me as I began to drift away. I knew it was inevitable.
From under a palmetto frond the serpent appeared. In my trance she struck in slow motion, gaping her mouth as she passed over me to hit the Lieutenant full in the face. One fang buried deep in the cheek beneath his eye, and the other curved through the side of his nose and came out again, the venom dripping onto my breast. For a moment the scene was calm and peaceful. The rattlesnake was still and beautiful. Her skin was marked with the velvety hues of ripe peaches and winter sunsets framed in bronze. She hung there quietly. The Lieutenant made throaty, whimpering noises, a sound like nursing puppies. His eyes crossed and uncrossed and rolled back in his head. Finally, he tore the snake away, threw her into the brush and ran moaning in the direction of the road.
The attack stunned me for a long while. I remember little of the night other than that I cleaned myself up and sat against a tree until the gray dawn and my senses returned. When the light came I saw the Lieutenant’s horse still harnessed to the buggy. The mare rolled in the dust and trotted off to the west when I set her free.
It took all of my strength to search for Chula. I dreaded the thought of seeing him, but I could not leave without saying goodbye. He had not fallen where he was shot and a blood trail lay north along the dry creek. In places the palmetto looked to have been sprayed with his blood. He had crashed through tangles of vines and fallen often. I imagined his pain and fear. The trail continued on for a quarter mile, and more than once I envisioned a log to be his prostrate form. Just ahead the ground began to rise and a giant mound came into view. I became afraid again, thinking of the spirits of the ancient people who built this monument. I was to the point of running away when I saw Chula. He was standing at the foot of an earthen ramp that led to the top of the mound. It came upon me as a powerful sign.
Though his appearance was frightening, Chula was not mortally wounded. Dried blood coated his head, neck and withers. The shot had passed through both ears cutting a clean hole in one and notching the other near its base. The big vein in each ear was severed and covered with clots. The muzzle blast had singed the side of his head. He stood there patiently as if he were waiting for me to come.
I left him and went back to the campsite to pack my belongings. I stashed most nearby and carried the rest to the mound. The morning passed while I tended Chula with a poultice of mullein and chickweed. By the afternoon he was browsing kunti, jerking the vines from trees, and threatening to start his ears bleeding again.
I felt compelled to climb the mound. It looked to be sixty feet high and was shaped like the top half of a hornet’s nest. The sides were steep except for the ramp to the east. Large trees of sassafras, elm, hickory and red oak covered its slopes and peak. The builders of this place were older than the ancestors of these trees. This was revealed in giant logs that rested head down in a slow return to the earth.
Halfway up, a fresh fox den was burrowed into the mound. Pieces of broken clay pots lay scattered in the diggings. I examined them closely for a connection. Some old women in my mother’s village still made pots of clay when I was a girl. They mixed the crushed shells of river mussels into the wet mud to give it strength. The shaped vessels were etched with beautiful designs and fired to a polish.
Pots on this mound had no shells to make them strong, and the markings were broad loops and circles within circles. I could not detect a Choctaw presence here. Still, there was something in the essence of this place I could feel but not grasp. I concluded that it might involve the people of my father’s mother.
Before I reached the top of the mound, I decided to spend the night there. It was too soon for Chula to travel, and there were issues pressing against the inside of my head. For days I had kept some thoughts imprisoned on the edge of my consciousness. The attack released demons of doubt. A positive power emanated from the mound, and it seemed a good place to confront this enemy.
From the summit it was possible to look out over the forest canopy for miles in every direction. The setting sun illuminated thin, wispy plumes of smoke rising far to the east. They were soon replaced by a climbing piece of moon yellow as butter. I sat with my back against a tree and watched its ascent for most of the night. The Psalmist wrote that there is no danger in the moon, but during this time the beasts came and I cried aloud to the universe.
“Who am I to undertake this journey in search of another woman’s husband!? What of my motives? Are they right or wrong?”
The biblical word “covet” haunted me, and I wondered if this was my test as God had tried Moses and his people.
“Is this a measure of my judgment?” I wondered aloud.
If so, I thought that I had surely failed. My appraisal of the Lieutenant’s character and intentions was evidence enough. As a reflection of the whole endeavor, it did not bode well.
I struggled with these issues and others more basic to my selfish wants for hours. I wondered if Minor was alive, if Anatilda was with him now, and of course if he loved me still. Revelations in the soft, pious calls of a horned owl were beyond my understanding, and sometime before dawn I crawled into the mosquito netting, exhausted, and slept until mid-morning.
A cat squirrel barking at Chula woke me. I was hungry and wished the squirrel battered and fried alongside Mrs. Carter’s biscuits. The thought of such a delicious breakfast made me homesick to see the Carters. I ate cold parched corn and hoped they were well.
The night’s ordeal answered only one of my questions, that being whether to continue on. I could not do otherwise. My determination was innate, as that of traveling wild geese, and did not rise from rational conclusions, which would have surely sent me home. Besides, I was near the halfway mark; the smoke in the eastern sky must be Vicksburg. As parting advice, Mr. Carter had told me not to cross any footlogs with my hands in my pockets. It was his way of saying “be careful,” that many falls in life could be prevented. I resolved to heed his counsel diligently from this point forward.
Except for the worrisome flies, Chula showed no ill effects of his wounds. We returned to the first camp, and I washed him as best I could with the limited water. He seemed eager to proceed and pushed me about as I loaded the pack. We left this baneful place and were soon on the main road heading east again.
My plans were to travel slowly the rest of the day and stop early for the night so as not to stress Chula. This we accomplished without incident except for a brief rainstorm in the evening. We camped off the road as usual and during the night heard dogs barking from the village of Pinhook.