The Bontrager boys got up on the wagon, turned the team around and drove off to their farm, twelve miles west of town. The sun was lower now and even the one-story buildings cast long shadows. A breeze sprung up from the river and cooled the air. It was the nicest time of day.
The dust slowly settled while farm people drifted over to the park to spread quilts and put out baskets of food. They would have supper and stay for the band concert, then go back home in moonlight.
Dr. Steele, in his hat and coat with his two bags, stood in the middle of the street, jingling the three silver dollars and watching the Bontragers’ wagon until it turned the corner and disappeared. I felt empty and forlorn, like an angel food cake that went flat.
“Where can I find a room for the night?” Dr. Steele asked.
“Widow Parker’s the cheapest, but if you want dinner and breakfast, the Camp House is best,” said I.
Mr. Birt and the Duke brothers shook Dr. Steele’s hand.
“We’re much obliged to you for shootin’ that mad dog. It would please us to buy you a drink and dinner. The Camp House puts on a good feed,” Mr. Birt said.
The Camp House, about the finest hotel this side of Chicago, had indoor toilets and running water so folks didn’t have to use an outhouse. People had drinks on the big porch and watched the river roll by. Even on the hottest evenings, there was always a nice breeze off the water. The Camps served elegant food, too. For fifty cents you could get steak and turtle soup and all the pie you could eat.
I walked Pa home and held his arm because he had consumption and was weak after a day in the store. He was all excited about the operation on account of he had once wanted to be a regular doctor before he learned chemistry and the apothecary business. He had to stop and cough about every other step.
“Pa, did you ever hear of carbolic acid?”
“It’s an organic acid, but I never heard of using it as a medicine.”
When we got home and washed up, Pa rested before supper. Aunt Alice had fixed fried chicken, mashed potatoes and garden greens because Saturday night was special. We ate and then Pa got ready for bed.
“Can I go to the band concert?” I asked
Pa waved his hand. “Ask your Aunt Alice.”
“Do you know your Sunday school lesson?” Aunt Alice asked.
“I looked at it.”
“Recite the Bible verse.”
“I knowed it, but I forgot.”
“You better stay home and study.”
“Aw, I can get up early in the morning and learn everything in no time.”
Aunt Alice turned down the corners of her mouth. “Go on with you, but get up early and study.”
I ran past the park where the band was tuning up for the concert. People had spread quilts and were settled in to hear the music. The younger boys squirted mouths full of artesian well water at the girls and some of the older fellows were flirting. It would have been fun to stay for the concert and make eyes at the girls, but I didn’t want to flirt with no other girl but Rachel.
I sneaked down an alley and across lots until I came to the side of the Camp house. The dining room was lit up bright as day with oil lamps, and two Negro women were clearing away the dishes. I had hoped to talk with the new doctor and look at his revolver. It would be perfect for fighting Indians. I scrunched down under the lilac bushes just before they came out of the dining room, settled into rocking chairs on the porch and lit up seegars. I was glad for the smoke because the skeeters were buzzing around real bad. One bit my leg.
“Ouch,” I said.
“There’s a boy down in the bushes. Get up, where we can see you,” Mr. Birt said.
I stood up, ashamed and scared they would send me away or tell Pa.
“That’s the boy who helped with the operation. He was a right good assistant. Come up here,” Doc Steele said.
“Why that’s Tom Slocum. He’s a good boy, brings my medicine right regular,” said Mr. Birt.
I went around to the steps and then along the porch and stood right next to the doctor.
“Well, Tom Slocum, sit down and be comfortable. Like lemonade?” The doctor asked.
“Yes sir, lemonade would be fine.” I sat real still with my hands folded in my lap. The men went on talking and didn’t pay me no attention. Isaiah, wearing a black coat, white shirt and a string tie, brought a tray of juleps and a glass of cold lemonade. The old darky was as elegant as any man in Sandy Ford, but in the lamplight, you could hardly make out his features on account of his blackness seemed to swallow the light. He stood straight and just as dignified and brave as any soldier. He was with Captain Trimmer all through the war until the Captain got killed. No telling how old he was, but there was perfectly white hair like a rim of frost around his nearly bald head. Folks liked Isaiah, mainly on account of he always said “yassah” or “nosa”. He was a good darky and fixed the best juleps in town.
I took a long thirsty drink of the lemonade. It was cold and tart and about the best drink I ever had. The talk wasn’t much different from the farmers down by the horse trough.
“Times are going to be hard this winter on account of the drought and bad crops,” Mr. Birt said.
Pete Duke blew a ring of smoke. “It ain’t the weather, it’s on account of Grant is takin’ such good care of his Republican friends in Washington,” said he,
“Don’t you blame Grant. It’s all these Negroes that come north to take land and jobs from white folks. It’s the fault of people like that Missus Trimmer and her damn husband that gave land to the darkies,” Mr. Farnum said.
“Those folks pay their bills like everyone else and John Trimmer freed his slaves when he came up from Virginia, long before the war,” Bill Duke said.
I was still as a mouse and hoped Mr. Farnum wouldn’t tell Aunt Alice I was at the Camp House instead of the concert. Hardly anyone ever talked against the banker. He was an upright man and held mortgages on land all over the county, even on our house and the store. Folks just had to trust him. I didn’t know what to think. It did seem strange that those ex-slaves had property just like white people. Miz Trimmer let us boys hunt rabbits and treated us and the darky children just like we were all her own folks..
“Them Negroes ain’t got any right to that good bottom land. It’s time we sent them back south,” Mr. Farnum said.
Mr. Farnum talked like Isaiah wasn’t even there. The old darky stood still as a statue while the banker’s face got red as a ripe tomato and his jowls shook.
“I woulda swore your pistol was a Navy Colt,” Mr. Farnum said.
“Yes sir, a .44 caliber Navy,” Dr. Steele said.
“Bedford Forrest’s men used Navy Colts. Were you a Reb?”
Doc Steele finished his julep and raised one finger toward Old Isaiah. “What difference does it make? The war is over.”
Mr. Farnum leaned and spit. The tobacco juice splattered next to Dr. Steele’s boot.
“Makes a difference to some folks. A lot of Illinois boys didn’t come back from the war.”
Doc Steele swallowed down the whole glass of julep and raised his finger again.
“It was a damn fool war in the first place, should never have happened,” said he.
Mr. Farnum jowls quivered and spit glistened on his fat lower lip. The big old watch chain that was stretched across his middle jiggled when he rose up out of his chair with a hickory walking stick in his hand.
“You must be a damn Reb, a son of a bitch, I got half a mind to whip you.”
Mr. Birt, who every moment of his life suffered pain in the stump of the arm he lost at Shiloh, pushed his good hand against Mr. Farnum’s chest. “ Edson, sit down. We don’t know anything about the doctor and you got no cause to make trouble.”
Dr. Steele looked off across the river, like ghosts walked in the mists. That made the second time he had been insulted and didn’t do anything or even talk back. If this is what doctoring did to a man, I was all for going west to fight Injuns.
Mr. Farnum sat back down. It was all quiet for a spell. I finished the lemonade and couldn’t help myself. “Could I see your revolver?”
“It’s up in my room,” the doctor said.
“Did ya have it in the war?” I asked.
It was so quiet you could hear the frogs and crickets chirpin’. After a spell, the doctor put down his julep. I could hardly make out his voice. It was like he was whispering to himself and didn’t want nobody else to hear.
“I got it on June the third, 1864 at Cold Harbor.”
I ain’t never heard of Cold Harbor, but even though there wasn’t a breath of wind, I felt a chill, and the hair on the back of my neck went up. The doctor took another long drink. Seemed to me he was drinkin’ pretty heavy. Most men, after a couple juleps talked like they had a mouthful of oatmeal, but when he startin’ in again his voice was clear and cold, like a day in January. I had the feeling he didn’t want to talk about it, but maybe it was because of Mr. Farnum.
“I joined the 19th Indiana a week after Mr. Lincoln called for volunteers,” Dr. Steele said.
“That was the Iron Brigade. Not many Indiana soldiers made it home,” said Mr. Birt.
Dr. Steele’s hands trembled and his voice quivered. “Yes, I was lucky to get home. Grant killed those poor boys, no, not killed, it was cold blooded murder. It was in May. He figured the Rebs was done for and he could take Richmond so the Republicans would nominate Lincoln again. Before he could take Richmond, Grant had to get past Robert Lee and he didn’t know Lee. No union army ever beat Lee when his soldiers were behind cover. Those Rebs were up on a little ridge in holes behind logs and fence poles, so you couldn’t see nothin’ but musket flashes and smoke. There were swamps and ravines and thickets of brush between our lines and their trenches. Every Union soldier knew it was suicide to go up that ridge. We were plum wore out from marchin’ in the hot sun and eatin’ nothing put putrid salt pork and drinkin’ foul water. We got beat on the second, then Meade ordered a long march in the rain and we didn’t get no sleep. The officers got us up before daylight without even coffee and ordered us to charge through the swamps and up a hill to drive the Rebs out of their holes. The bugles blew, the boys yelled and tried to run but the ground was sticky with mud and men tripped and fell.”
I raised my hand. Dr. Steele stopped talking and sipped more julep. “I hope I get to charge like that, against the Injuns,” I said. Dr. Steele paid no notice to my outburst.
“The Rebs fired double loaded grape and canister when we were a hundred yards from their lines. The guts flew out from the fellow in front of me and the next man had his head blown off and another lost an arm.” Dr. Steele said.
“What happened, what happened next?” I asked. “We took the first trench and the Rebs ran off.”
I thought he was done, but he put his head between his hands. “I was jamming home a new load when this young Reb, no older than this boy, roused up from five feet away and aimed a pistol at my chest. I pushed the bayonet into his belly. He pulled the trigger, but his pistol wasn’t loaded. He whimpered like a baby while I held him in my arms and gave him a drink of water. That boy didn’t have any hair on his face and was skinny as a rail. He said the gun had belonged to his pa who got killed in ’62 at Malvern Hill and asked me to give the pistol to his younger brother. There was a letter, too, and a picture of his mother.” That poor little boy wasn’t my enemy. The Rebs weren’t bad people. They prayed to the same God and cried with the same pain as our men. Those abolitionist preachers and the rich men who manufactured the guns and the uniforms and even the shovels used to bury the dead were the enemy.”
He sat real still, slumped down. Tears ran down his cheeks.
Mr. Birt rubbed his eyes. “Well, there is more, tell us the rest, get it off your chest,” said he.
“The Rebs came back, yellin’ and screamin’ and firing from a second trench. We turned and ran back to our lines. I tripped and fell behind a stump and listened to minie balls thunkin into our soldiers. That night, I crawled through a little gully and got back down to our lines all the time thinking that Grant was a butcher and that damn fool, Lincoln, didn’t have to start the war. Not a one of those Reb boys owned a slave and the slaves weren’t better off after the damn war.”
Mr. Farnum came straight up out of his chair holding the hickory stick over his head.. “Damn you sir! That’s treason, no one can talk against Grant and Lincoln in my presence.”
The doctor didn’t make a move. Mr. Birt grabbed the banker’s arm. “Edson, Grant is no saint and the doctor might even be right about Lincoln. You go on home before someone gets hurt,” he said.
Mr. Birt never even raised his voice. He was the only one who dared talk back to the banker. Pa said Mr. Birt was the moral conscience of the town. I never knew what he meant until that moment. I sort of agreed with Mr. Farnum about Grant and Lincoln, but Mr. Birt had been a hero at Shiloh and wrote what he pleased in the paper. The banker had stayed home during the war.
Mr. Farnum stamped on down the stairs and didn’t look back.
Old Isaiah took Dr. Steele’s glass and murmured so low, I could hardly hear.
“You is right. De treat darkies mighty mean down there in the South these days.”
Dr. Steele closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, like he had all the stuffin taken out of him. Mr. Birt took a long pull of laudanum for the pain in the stump of his arm. The Duke Brothers drifted on home.
“You couldn’t have just thrown down your rifle and quit. No man could desert from the Union Army and walk away without Grant snatching him back and putting him before the firing squad,” Mr. Birt said.
“No, no, I went to give the rifle to the lieutenant but he was dead and the captain had a bullet in his chest. The colonel, cozy in his tent, drinkin’ whiskey behind the lines said I could be a stretcher bearer. The wounded were on that battlefield under the hot sun. Grant would not agree to a truce because it would look like he lost the battle. It was three days before we went out with a white flag. By then, the boys were covered with flies and the vultures had pecked out their eyes.”
“All the books say the war was noble and fine. There was nothin’ about vultures pecking out soldiers eyes,” said I.
“Tom, there is nothing noble about killing people. The war was pure hell,” Mr. Birt said.
The doctor took another long pull of julep. “ I went to Rush medical school and then Edinburgh.”
“ Did you kill many Rebs with the pistol?” I asked.
“I never killed a Reb,” he said.
“Did you find the boy’s mother?” Mr. Birt asked.
“When the hospital moved to Richmond, I found the boy’s home. An old darky said the woman told the bluecoats she didn’t have any gold or silver. The soldiers burned the house with the woman and boy inside.”
We rocked a little and watched the fireflies twinkling over the lawn and down towards the river. The band had been playing old war songs. Now, the only sound was the chairs creaking, frogs chirping and the hoot of an owl, hunting rabbits down near the river. “Ain’t you worried about Murphy and those outlaws?” I asked.
“Tom, that man acted bad, but if he wouldn’t stand up to a one-armed man like me he is plumb yellow,” Mr. Birt said. “I don’t worry about his kind,” said Dr. Steele.
“Doc Evans is getting old. Sandy Ford is growing and we could use a new doctor,” Mr. Birt said.
“I don’t aim to stay. The professor at Rush Medical School offered me a chance to practice in Chicago and teach how Dr. Lister prevents infections. I’ll stay here until that girl’s leg heals. How can I get out to their farm and see her tomorrow?”
“I kin git a trap out at the livery stable and come here for you in the morning,” I said.
“Let’s go in the cool of the morning,” he replied.
Just then, a sound like a dying rabbit came out of the darkness down by the river. “Skee, skee, skee.” It was Billy Malone blowing our danger signal on a blade of grass held between his thumbs.
I slipped off the porch into the dark toward the river. Billy was with Ike, Old Isaiah’s grandchild. Everyone thought Ike was feeble in the head, but he was tongue-tied and couldn’t talk good. He was on the small side and younger than us. Billy was about the only one who understood him.
“What you doing here?” I asked.
“Ike was hid in the weeds down by the ferry landing when he heard riders with sheets over their heads brag about how they were going to get Isaiah and the new doctor. They rode off toward Whitney Lake. Ike came to warn Old Isaiah but the white folks chased him away. He found me.
Ike held a tow sack tied up with string.
“What’s in the sack?”
“He’s got snakes,” Billy said.
“What’s he doin’ with snakes?”
“He sells snakes to Professor Cromwell at the academy.”
“What does Mr. Cromwell do with snakes?”
“He cuts em up and studies their insides.”
“How many does he got?”
“A black snake, a blue racer and two garter snakes. We gotta go to Whitney Lake and see what those men are planning. Then we can warn Isaiah and the doctor,” Billy said.
“It’s late, I gotta get on home.”
“You got plenty of time, besides, who’s to know?”
There wasn’t no arguing with Billy. He was just about the smartest and toughest boy in town. Besides, he was my best friend.
Whitney Lake was surrounded by dense thickets of willow trees and briars a half mile down the river. The walking was hard and the woods and swamps were filled with snapping turtles big enough to take off a leg. It was a good place for people running away from the law. Us kids liked it on account of we could shoot guns and smoke without our folks knowin’. Ike and I followed Billy through the brush with our feet sucking in the mud until we saw hooded men on horses around a big bonfire. They were singing.
“Klansman, Klansman of the Ku Klux Klan
Native born white man
Hooded, Knighted, Robed and True
Royal Sons of the Red White and Blue”
I wanted to run, but Billy pulled me behind a cottonwood tree. The skeeters were so awful, it was hard to stay quiet and every so often something would slither against my bare ankle. We scrunched down low and peeked through the brush. I got the shivers when I seen those men on horses with white sheets on their heads. There was nothing but big black holes where their eyes should be. The air smelled of coal oil from their torches and a pot of tar bubbled over the fire. One of the men had a feed sack filled with chicken feathers. When they finished singing, a big man on a black horse gave a speech. “We gonna make this land safe and get rid of the foreigners and ex-slaves that are squatin’ on good land. We gonna start with that old darky and that doctor what shot my dog,” Murphy said.
“I got a plan,” Billy whispered.
“Let’s skedaddle home,” I said.
“No way, I’ll go round and fire musket balls with my slingshot. You make a lot of noise.”
Billy slipped away and pretty soon musket balls came flying out of the woods. Horses jumped like they’d been shot. When a ball hit one of the men on the head, he fell off his horse into the fire and his sheet burst into flames. The horses reared and men fired guns into the shadows. Ike ran into the mess of horses shrieking like a banshee and threw a six- foot black snake that wrapped itself around one of the spook’s neck. The snakes’ mouth was wide open, like he was going to chaw on that man. When the rest of those snakes got out of the bag, those horses went wild. By then, I was up and hollering, but one of those men seen me and came runnin’ so fast, I almost got brained by the horses’ hooves. I dove through a mess of brambles and got out from under the horse. A gun went off right next to my head. I swear the bullet almost nicked my ear. I figured we were as good as dead.
Without even thinking about water moccasins or man eating gar fish, I dove into the lake and didn’t come up until I was near the middle. The leader, on a big black horse with a sword in one hand took after Ike. The rest of the men cussed the worst oaths I ever heard. Billy dog-paddled out in the lake until we met up. Both our faces were covered with mud; we ducked into a mess of cattails. They gave up looking for us and ran off after Ike. Billy and I ran until we got to the horse trough to wash off the mud and soothe the skeeter bites with the cold water.
“Them fellows mean business. We gotta wait for Ike,” I said.
“Don’t worry about Ike. They can’t see him in the dark. I figure he swum the river and went to his folks,” Billy said.
“Who were those men?” I asked.
“The Ku Klux Klan. Pa said a southern general organized the Klan to scare ex slaves. Murphy’s gang rustles cattle too. Pas is organizing vigilantes to stop the Kluxer’s from stealin’ and scaring people off their land.”
“I gotta get on home,” I. said.
I went to bed on the back porch and dreamed about Rachel, her new curves and her broken leg then the dream got all mixed up with those men in white robes.