There were new peculiarities about Minor caused by the war that were hard for me to understand. He was loath to talk about the fighting, and the glimpses of his burdens came seldom and unexpectedly. One evening we were all sitting on the porch after supper watching fireflies and debating whether they or stars were bigger. It was the first day of the year that smelled of autumn, the same as when Mother gave me to the Carters. Atlas and Sudie and Minor were trying to smoke rabbit tobacco in their corncob pipes, but it was too green to stay lit for very long. Mirah sat on the rough planks and leaned back against the locust post, enjoying relief from her sleeping baby. Mirah rarely spoke unless asked a direct question, but out of the blue she said, “Massa Barrett, you ever kill a Yankee?”
Sudie was quick to shush her, nearly spitting the pipe across the porch. I thought for Mirah to ask this bold question she must have had a particularly keen interest in the health of Yankees. I could not figure if her stock was for them or against them.
“Sweet Mirah,” Minor began, “I reckon I shot several, but besides one I don’t know how many of ‘em were killed.” He went on to say that in the last year more than five hundred hot balls left the barrel of his favorite but now lost rifle. Many were fired in fear, some in boredom, few in celebration. “Most,” he said, “were shot at Chickasaw Bayou north of Vicksburg when Sherman’s men paid us a call three days after Christmas. They planned to storm the lines and crack the fortress, but they didn’t know that our spies had days before discovered their eighty gunboats and transports steaming our way. We were ready for them, and it was no surprise when the drummers and fifers began to stage their troops in the clear morning air. The abatis along the bayou slowed the Yankees considerably. When they charged up the hill, they were muddier than hogs in a summer wallow after floundering through the natural defense of the lowland sloughs. They came up to us with hot blood and fresh hope. Both were spilt in the yellow dirt in less time than it takes to sing all the verses of Amazing Grace. One wave of mudcoats got nearly to the top when our Sergeant Beard jumped the rampart and ran down to meet them, crowing like a rooster set afire. He shot the color bearer and was himself cut down by a dozen slugs seconds later. For reasons still unfathomable to me, I found myself kneeling over the color-bearer trying to pry the flag from beneath him. It seems now that the next events happened in slow time and in a world without sound. The boy turned over from his belly as if to aid my efforts. He was shot in the neck and strikingly resembled my redheaded second cousin from New Orleans. From the corner of my vision I saw the sweep of a long-barreled pistol as he brought it to bear on the point of my nose. The cylinder was larger than a goose egg, and the single remaining cartridge rolled beneath the firing pin as he thumbed the hammer. I grabbed the barrel and forced it hard toward his mouth. The flash that followed rendered me completely deaf and partially blind for several hours.”
Minor gave up on smoking the pipe and said that the battle accomplished nothing in the long run other than sending a bunch of boys to their maker and taker. “That fight, and Vicksburg’s still lost,” he said. He said the boys in his regiment were proud of the captured flag he brought in. It had flown over a rough bunch of Hoosiers from Indiana. That night the company voted to make Minor the new sergeant, but he declined to take the position. He said he had lost his gumption to lead men to kill the resemblances of his redheaded cousin.
Mirah got up and resituated on the steps where she could get a better view of the night sky. Inside the cabin her baby began to fuss. After a while she said, “I believe stars are biggern’ lightnin’ bugs, Massa Barrett.”
Sometime later Sudie sent us to the Tensas to gather a bucket of mussel shells, which she used to scrape everything from calabashes to coon hides. As Minor and I walked along, he suddenly commenced to have a fit, or so it looked to me. He jerked off his hat and began to flog himself about the back of his head. He cussed like the devil’s fireman while stomping a cripple jig in the middle of the road. My first thoughts were that a yellow jacket or a red glistener had stung him. It was not so. To him the enemy was a harmless green and black striped caterpillar that he finally mashed into the gumbo clay. When he composed himself, he looked at me, unable to cover his embarrassment, and said, “I’d rather fight a gross of panthers than be measured again.” I sat him on a red gum log and got this story.
On the morning of the day that he got shot on the Big Black River, Minor was hoping that the fallback into the Vicksburg lines would go quickly and without trouble. He had a powerful urge to add fresh fish to his meager rations, and for the first time in many days the opportunity was at hand. From his position he could see the swirls of catfish and bream as they feasted on the freshly hatched oak worms falling from the overhanging trees. He felt his breast pocket to be sure he had not lost the small linen bag containing the silk line and bent pins, and for a pole he eyed a tall cane patch just upstream a ways.
Across the field on the far side of the river the Yankee snipers with their long sharpshooter rifles had other ideas. They aggravated the Confederate retreat by picking off the southern soldiers just often enough not to reveal their own positions in the distant treetops. It was one of these skulkers that shot Minor when he left cover to help the drowning Alabama boy.
The ball that struck Minor was not as big as most musket balls, but it was powerful enough to knock him back over the log where he landed on his back and also on the sharpened end of a frog gig that he had been whittlin’ to pass the time. Getting shot did not feel like Minor thought it would. He said he expected it to be a pain akin to a bad burn with a hot poker, but this was more like a hard, unforeseen horse kick.
Without even trying Minor knew he could not walk, much less run to dodge the sniper’s lead hornets. The other boys in his company were scattered along the riverbank. None were close enough to see his situation, and he did not anticipate a chance of relief until mid-afternoon when Lemuel had promised a visit to reckon on the fishing possibilities if all was quiet at his duty post. Minor plugged the musket ball hole the best he could with a piece of dirty shirtsleeve to slow the bleeding and decided to wait, his only real choice.
In the beginning Minor did not believe he was going to die. He had his haversack that contained, among other things, a boiled potato and a half-full canteen. But by late afternoon his mood soured. His water was long since gone, firing had picked up along the riverbank on both sides, and Lemuel had not come. Then a paralysis fell upon him, seizing his joints, and staking him even more helplessly to the ground. When an inch-worm fell on the back of Minor’s hand and began his work, an invisible black mantle settled over the Barrett spirit and began to smother the hope within.
The business of the caterpillar was to measure in his hump-back, jerk-straight way. He started at Minor’s remaining cuff and paced up his arm toward his shoulder. Before the worm reached his elbow, Minor saw before him the image of the bow-legged tailor from Farmerville standing over his father’s body as it lay straight and gray on a door supported by saw-horses in the sunlit parlor. The tailor stretched his tape along Mr. Barrett’s sleeve to measure for the new funeral coat. Just like Minor’s caterpillar, he traced the distance around the neck twice to double check, and then surveyed the other sleeve in case one arm was longer, as is not uncommon in backwoods communities where kin marry as often as not. When Minor’s worm reached the end of the torn sleeve he reared up as if confused about the great discrepancy and turned about to retrace his steps to settle the matter for all time. To Minor it seemed that he was being measured for his death suit too.
The story was finished. Minor stood up and started walking toward the Tensas again. He went just a few steps before he turned to me and said, “There’s another thing I’d just as soon not be measured now, and that’s my worth as a man. It’s not rightly clear in my mind.”
These words pulled me even closer to him as I realized that I did not tote the only sack of old doubts in Louisiana.
Our next visitor was alone and blacker than the wild bunch. We had heard that he was in the area and half expected him to show up. When he came in the night, the end-of-summer locusts hushed, which naturally roused the dogs. They startled the bear and drove him from the leftovers of the garden before he could do serious damage. The next morning Atlas and Minor studied his four-toed hind foot track in the dust and declared the invader to be a half-grown he-bear that would surely return as he had tasted a pumpkin. They decided to catch him.
Sudie was happy. Dalkeith had dumped the last of our lard on the ground. For the weeks since, our meals were boiled and lacked the flavor of her golden brown batters. Sudie said bear oil was sweeter than that of any hog on the Tensas and would not go rancid in the heat. She encouraged the bear catchers.
Quint was excited to the point of getting in the way. He needed a distraction, as he still grieved over the loss of Uncle Jeff and declared several times a day that he hoped the goat with a mighty butt would crack Dalkeith’s head. I did not mention my fear that Uncle Jeff had long since been served up as stringy, strong-tasting roasts. To keep Quint occupied, Atlas put him to work making three long spears from bitter-pecan saplings. The hard wood dulled his homemade jack-knife but not his enthusiasm.
Mirah was terrified, according to her nature as I had come to learn. I was unsettled too. I was not frightened of a live bear. A few still roamed the l’Outre bottoms and raided sweet corn patches and bee skeps from time to time. I never knew of a bear to attack a person unprovoked. It was dead bears that stirred a dark stream of thoughts that led back to my mother’s village. When I was a small girl a trader had come leading a gray horse that pulled a sled. On the sled was a skinned bear without a head. It looked like a decapitated man. The whole village went into an uproar and drove the trader away. Fires were built and smothered with special green plants. The old people prayed. Mother said that a bear’s head should never be cut off until it is completely butchered or bad things would happen. They knew this even before we learned of the pale horse in the Book of Revelation. These thoughts were still in my mind when I made Minor promise not to cut off the bear’s head until very last.
Before the war got close, a shallow draft steamboat with the name of Silver Moon had run the Tensas River during high water to serve the local plantations. On her last trip she had knocked one of her stacks off on a fresh-leaned ash just below Rainey Lake. Atlas and Minor used the wire cable that had braced the stack to make a snare. They made a loop and ran the cable through two holes in an old door hinge that was rusted half shut. The hinge would allow the loop to close but not open. Minor took down three rails from the garden fence and arranged them in the fashion of a funnel to guide the bear through the gap. Atlas put a small log across the opening for the bear to step over and set the snare close by the log. They tied the loose end of the cable to the ear of the iron wash pot and filled it full of dirt. I watched them, half amused, and doubted their scheme would be successful.
Atlas made gestures to show us that the bear would step in the snare with his front foot and pick it straight up out of the trap. The sweeping motion of the hind leg would be his undoing according to Atlas. Atlas also said it would take several nights to catch the bear. Both of his forecasts were wrong.
The lure of the garden was sweetened with heads and entrails of catfish, drawing the bear in on the first night. The dogs were shut up in the corncrib so as to keep them from harassing the culprit. To my amazement he promptly caught himself just before dawn.
A clatter of tumbling fence rails woke us. Quint was up and racing for his spears almost before Minor caught him by the britches. Everybody else got dressed and went to the porch except Mirah. She burrowed deep under the covers with her baby and did not come out until it was over. We stood close and still and listened to the muted sounds coming from the garden. My heart was not the only one pounding with excitement. Minor did not help the situation when he declared, “Might be grandpappy’s grandpappy out there.” When the first gray light came, our regiment advanced armed with the weapons of our fortress – spears, axes, and a cane knife proven in battle.
Except for one thing the trap had worked as planned. The only bad idea was the wash pot. It did not slow the bear down much as according to the signs he had quickly dumped out the dirt, crossed the fallow field, and passed through the wall of the forest with the pot in tow. We followed the drag marks to the edge of the big woods, still blanketed in dark shadows that would only brighten by a degree at midday. Here Sudie decided to go back and stay with Mirah. I cannot be sure, but I do not think she was really afraid. Not bold Sudie. She left us with a warning. “Watch yer hind side. Dat bear be mighty roused havin’ to tote de pot he gonna be cooked in. Worsen’ diggin’ yer own grave.”
Atlas used the cane knife to open a passage through the briars at the forest edge, and we followed in single file, Quint holding tight to my coattail. Behind the wall the forest floor was cleaner, the drag marks were clear, and we tracked the bear as fast as we could walk. When the trail came to a big rock elm log, it did seem as though the bear reached down and began to tote the pot. Minor said this, and we all looked ahead half expecting to see the bear standing on his hind legs carrying the pot in his arms and staring over his shoulder at us in disdain. I began not to like the situation in a different way, one that favored the bear.
The trail led into a canebrake that ran down a narrow ridge between Rainey Lake and the river. This obstacle slowed us and finally brought us to a halt when the thicket became impenetrable with crossed and leaning canes that wove a barrier no less daunting than castle walls. That the encumbered bear could navigate the maze was supernatural to me. We managed to make our way to the boundary of the canebrake, and Atlas went ahead skirting the edge to hunt the trail if it came out. While we rested, I began to worry that the bear would escape and forever be burdened with the pot meant to cook him. I believe that the river of feelings in some animals flows through the depths of terror no less than in people.
The bear did not escape. Atlas returned and motioned us to follow him quietly. The trail left the canebrake and crossed a slave ditch dug in vain effort to drain Rainey Lake. It went down the river road a ways marking the bare ground with scuffs and drops of blood. It went off the high bank and ended fifty feet from the river. Atlas stopped and pointed ahead. The top of a gum sapling shook from time to time revealing the bear’s location. We slipped forward and saw him.
Atlas was wrong in that the bear was not caught by the hind foot. The snare was on his front paw, but just barely, catching the two inside toes. The pot was wedged between two saplings, and he seemed to be pointing at it with his outstretched arm as he strained against the cable. He had known hard times before this day. A long, festering cut lay along his right flank, stressing the general gauntness of his frame. His fur was dull, matted with cockleburs of the fields, and stank to high Heaven. He panted like a dog and turned his head to watch us through small brown eyes. In the minutes to follow I saw in those eyes resolve, panic, and in the end a wild, emerald fire.
The bear did not move or utter a sound as we approached him. Atlas led Quint forward with a hand on his shoulder and made motions to show him how to thrust the spear into the bear’s heart just behind and below the outstretched arm. Though the spear was six feet long, Quint whispered that he thought it too short to do the job. It was the beginning of the end of his enthusiasm. Atlas nudged him ahead just as the boy’s bones turned to mayhaw jelly. He let the spear drop and brush against the bear’s back. In an instant the bear spun around snorting, baring and popping his fangs in the most ferocious manner. We fell all over ourselves in retreat at the fright. Even Atlas’s dignity received a minor wound, perhaps justly, for encouraging young Quint.
The bear resumed his former position and was quiet again. It occurred to me that if he charged back through the two saplings the pot would dislodge and he would be able to maneuver again. Minor noticed this too and made me stay behind him. By now Quint was almost out of slingshot range while Atlas squatted on his haunches and studied the bear. I implored Atlas to make quick work of the job at hand, for a suffering creature I cannot tolerate. Minor volunteered to dispatch the bear, but I protested. He was still far from strong and could not run. Already the morning’s exertion had made him sallow in appearance. Atlas did not hurry the situation. The air filled with wet heat, and the bear waited in a small cloud of flies. I knew he was in-between life and the unknown. I sensed that he knew more than we could imagine.
Atlas stood up tall with a spear in one hand and the cane knife in the other. He called Quint from the high bank and traded him the cane knife for his plaited palmetto hat. To Quint’s great relief he was released to serve as rear guard once again. The next moments are still unbelievable to me. With the spear held high Atlas closed with the bear, talking to him in words that we could not decipher. The bear answered his challenge as before, but Atlas stood his ground and rapped the bear twice on the nose with the spear. When the bear shied away Atlas moved in and began to thoroughly thrash his rear with Quint’s hat. A sequence developed and was repeated five times. As the bear turned on Atlas, he received the spear across the nose; when he cowered, Atlas spanked him unmercifully. Finally agitated to a permanent state of panic, he sulked. Atlas reached in with the point of the spear, shoved it under the snare, and pried it loose. The bear knew at once that he was emancipated. Atlas slapped him one final time, tearing the brim from the hat. I could have touched the bear as he raced by me toward the river. For a second he looked up at me and I saw in him a survivor of the ages.
Atlas watched him splash across the shallow river and fade into the undergrowth before he turned to us. Through his beaming smile and shining toothless gums his proclamation rang clear and true. “Freedom!” he declared. I think he had practiced saying this word.
We had no cooking oil for the remainder of our stay at Rainey Lake. After hearing our story Sudie said we all needed “chidn’ like a red-headed stepchile.” Of course she calmed down soon and before nightfall decided, “Dat bear jes tryin’ to make a livin’ like de res of us.” Mirah was overjoyed that we had returned empty-handed and her wish had come true. Atlas’ harmless flogging drove the bear away for good. Minor said the bear was probably too embarrassed to show up here again.