The Good Lord Bird (2 page)

“I'm gonna make you swear on this Bible that you is for slavery and the U.S. Constitution,” he said. “If you do that, you old bag, you can walk outta here none the worse. But if you're a lying, blue-bellied Free Stater, I'mma bust you across the head so hard with this pistol, yellow'll come out your ears. Place your hand on that,” he said.

Now, I was to see quite a bit of Old John Brown in the coming years. And he done some murderous, terrible things. But one thing the Old Man couldn't do good was fib—especially with his hand on the Bible. He was in a spot. He throwed his hand on the Bible and for the first time, looked downright tight.

“What's your name?” Dutch said.

“Shubel Isaac.”

“I thought you said it was Shubel Morgan.”

“Isaac's my middle name,” he said.

“How many names you got?”

“How many I need?”

The talk had stirred up an old drunk named Dirk, who was asleep at a corner table nearby. Dirk sat up, squinted across the room, and blurted, “Why, Dutch, that looks like Old John Brown there.”

When he said that, Dutch's brothers, William and Drury, and a young feller named James Doyle—all three would draw their last breath in another day—got up from their table near the door and drawed their Colts on the Old Man, surrounding him.

“Is that true?” Dutch asked.

“Is what true,” the Old Man said.

“Is you Old Man Brown?”

“Did I say I was?”

“So you ain't him,” Dutch said. He seemed relieved. “Who are you then?”

“I'm the child of my Maker.”

“You too old to be a child. You Old John Brown or not?”

“I'm whoever the Lord wants me to be.”

Dutch throwed the Bible down and pushed that pepperbox right on the Old Man's neck and cocked it. “Stop shitting around, you God-damned potato-head! Old Man Brown. Is you him or not?”

Now, in all the years I knowed him, Old John Brown never got excitable, even in matters of death—his or the next man's—unless the subject of the Lord come up. And seeing Dutch Henry fling that Bible to the floor and swearing the Lord's name in vain, that done a number on him. The Old Man plain couldn't stand it. His face got tight. Next when he spoke, he weren't talking like an Irishman no more. He spoke in his real voice. High. Thin. Taut as gauge wire.

“You bite your tongue when you swear about our Maker,” he said coolly, “lest by the power of His Holy Grace, I be commanded to deliver redemption on His behalf. And then that pistol you holding there won't be worth a cent. The Lord will lift it out your hand.”

“Cut the jitter and tell me your name, God dammit.”

“Don't swear God's name again, sir.”

“Shit! I'll swear his cock-dragging God-damn name whenever I God-damn well please! I'll holler it up a dead hog's ass and then shove it down your shit-eating Yank throat, ya God-damned nigger turned inside out!”

That roused the Old Man, and quick as you can tell it, he throwed off that barber's bib and flashed the butt end of a Sharps rifle beneath his coat. He moved with the speed of a rattler, but Dutch already had his pistol barrel at the Old Man's throat, and he didn't have to do nothing but drop the hammer on it.

Which he did.

Now that pepperbox is a fussy pistol. It ain't dependable like a Colt or a regular repeater. It's a powder cap gun. It needs to be dry, and all that sweating and swearing must've sprouted water on Dutch's big hands, is the only way I can call it, for when Dutch pulled the go switch, the gun hollered “Kaw!” and misfired. One barrel exploded and peeled sideways. Dutch dropped it and fell to the floor, bellowing like a calf, his hand nearly blowed off.

The other three fellers holding their Colts on Old Brown had stepped back momentarily to keep their faces clear of the Old Man's brains, which they expected to splatter across the room any minute, and now all three found themselves gaping at the hot end of a Sharps rifle, which the old fart coolly drawed out all the way.

“I told you the Lord would draw it out your hand,” he said, “for the King of Kings eliminates all pesters.” He stuck that Sharps in Dutch's neck and drawed the hammer back all the way, then looked at them three other fellers and said, “Lay them pistols down on the floor or here goes.”

They done as he said, at which point he turned to the tavern, still holding his rifle, and hollered out, “I'm John Brown. Captain of the Pottawatomie Rifles. I come with the Lord's blessing to free every colored man in this territory. Any man who stands against me will eat grape and powder.”

Well, there must've been half a dozen drummers bearing six-shooters standing 'round that room, and nary a man reached for his heater, for the Old Man was cool as smoke and all business. He throwed his eyes about the room and said calmly, “Every Negro in here, those of you that's hiding, come on out. You is now free. Follow me. Don't be afraid, children.”

Well, there was several coloreds in that room, some on errands or tending to their masters, most of 'em hiding under the tables, shaking and waiting for the blasting to start, and when he spoke them words, why, they popped up and took off, every single one of 'em. Out the door they went. You didn't see nothing but the backs of their heads, hauling ass home.

The Old Man watched them scatter. “They is not yet saved to the Lord,” he grumbled. But he weren't finished in the freeing business, for he wheeled around to Pa, who stood there, trembling in his boots, saying “Lawdy, Lawdy . . .”

This the Old Man took to be some kind of volunteering, for Pa had said “Lawd” and
he'd
said “Lord,” which I reckon was agreement enough. He clapped Pa on the back, pleased as punch.

“Friend,” he said, “you has made a wise choice. You and your tragic octoroon daughter here is blessed for accepting our blessed Redeemer's purpose for you to live free and clear, and thus not spend the rest of your lives in this den of iniquity here with these sinning savages. You is now free. Walk out the back door while I hold my rifle on these heathens, and I will lead you to freedom in the name of the King of Zion!”

Now, I don't know about Pa, but between all that mumbling about kings and heathens and Zions and so forth, and with him waving that Sharps rifle around, I somehow got stuck at the “daughter” section of that speech. True, I wore a potato sack like most colored boys did in them days, and my light skin and curly hair to boot made me the fun of several boys about town, though I evened things out with my fists against those that I could. But everybody in Dutch's, even the Indians, knowed I was a boy. I weren't even partial to girls at that age, being that I was raised in a tavern where most of the women smoked cigars, drunk gut sauce, and stunk to high heaven like men. But even those lowly types, who was so braced on joy juice they wouldn't know a boll weevil from a cotton ball and couldn't tell one colored from the other, knowed the difference between me and a girl. I opened my mouth to correct the Old Man on that notion, but right then a wave of high-pitched whining seemed to cover the room, and I couldn't holler past it. It was only after a few moments that I realized that all that bellowing and wailing was coming from my own throat, and I confess here I lost my water.

Pa was panicked. He stood there shaking like a shuck of corn. “Massa, my Henry ain't a—”

“We've no time to rationalize your thoughts of mental dependency, sir!” the Old Man snapped, cutting Pa off, still holding the rifle on the room. “We have to move. Courageous friend, I will take you and your Henrietta to safety.” See, my true name is Henry Shackleford. But the Old Man heard Pa say “Henry ain't a,” and took it to be “Henrietta,” which is how the Old Man's mind worked. Whatever he believed, he believed. It didn't matter to him whether it was really true or not. He just changed the truth till it fit him. He was a real white man.

“But my s—”

“Courage, friend,” he said to Pa, “for we has a ram in the bush. Remember Joel first chapter, fourth verse: ‘That which the palmerworm hath left, hath the locust eaten. And that which the locust hath left, hath the cankerworm eaten. And that which the cankerworm hath left, hath the caterpillar eaten.'”

“What's that mean?” Pa asked.

“You'll be eaten alive if you stay here.”

“But my child here ain't no gi—”

“Shush!” said the Old Man. “We can't tarry. We can talk raising her to the Holy Word later.”

He grabbed my hand and, still holding that Sharps at the ready, backed toward the rear door. I heard horses charging down the back alley. When he got to the door, he released my hand for a moment to fling it open, and as he did, Pa charged him.

At the same time, Dutch lunged for one of the Colts laying on the floor, snatched it up, pointed the hot end at the Old Man, and fired.

The bullet missed the Old Man and struck the edge of the door, sending a sliver of wood about eight inches long out sideways. The sliver jutted out the side of the door like a knife, straight horizontal, about chest high—and Pa runned right into it. Right into his chest it went.

He staggered back, dropped to the floor, and blowed out his spark right there.

By now the clabbering of horses making their way down the alley at hot speed was on us, and the Old Man kicked the door open wide.

Dutch Henry, setting on the floor, hollered, “Nigger thief! You owe me twelve hundred dollars!”

“Charge it to the Lord, heathen,” the Old Man said. Then he picked me up with one hand, stepped into the alley, and we was gone.

The Good Lord Bird

W
e drove hard out of town, left the beaten California Trail, and headed straight into Kansas flatlands. There was three of them, the Old Man and two young riders. The two riders charged ahead of us on pintos, and the Old Man and me bounced behind them atop a painted horse with one blue eye and one brown eye. That horse belonged to Dutch. So the Old Man was a horse thief as well.

We rode hard for a couple of hours. The cottonwoods showed some distance off, and the hot wind beat against my face as we flew along. Kansas Territory is flat, wide-open hot earth to the sight, but when you making hot speed atop a horse, it's hard riding. My arse took a pretty strong beating bouncing atop that horse's back, for I had never ridden one before. It knotted up to about the size of a small bun, and just when I thought I couldn't bear it no more, we hit the top of a rise and stopped at a crude camp. It was a clearing with a three-sided tent held up by sticks, stretched along a rock wall with the remnants of a campfire. The Old Man stepped off the horse and helped me down.

“Time to water these horses and rest, my child,” he said. “We can't tarry. The others is coming soon.” He looked at me for a moment, his wrinkled face frowned up. I reckon he felt guilty for kidnapping me and getting my Pa kilt, for he seemed a little funny about the eyes, and stared at me a long time. Finally he begun ransacking his flea-bitten coat pocket. He rummaged through it and pulled out what appeared to be a ball covered with feathers. He dusted it off and said, “I reckon you is not feeling righteous about what has just transpired thereabouts, but in the name of freedom we is all soldiers of the cross and thus the enemy of slavery. Like as not, you now believes you has no family or may ne'er see what family you has ever again. But the fact is, you is in the human family and is welcome to this one as any. I like that you might hold this, my child, as a token of your newfound freedom and family, joining us as freedom fighters, even though you is a girl and we need to get rid of you as soon as possible.”

He held the thing out to me. I didn't want whatever it was, but, being that he was white and hurrumped and hawed over the dang thing so much, I reckon I had to take it. It was an onion. Dried, dusty, covered with feathers, cobwebs, lint, and other junk from his pocket. That thing looked worse than dried mule shit. The Old Man had a high tolerance for junk, and in later years, I was to see him produce from his pockets enough odds and ends to fill a five-gallon barrel, but, being that this had been a scouting expedition to Dutch's, he'd been traveling light.

I took the thing and held it, frightened and afraid, so, not knowing what he wanted, I reckoned he wanted me to eat it. I didn't want to, of course. But I was hungry from the long ride and I was also his prisoner, after all, so I bit into it. That thing tasted foul as the devil. It went down my gullet like a stone, but I got the job done in seconds.

The Old Man's eyes widened, and for the first time I seen a look of sheer panic run across his old face, which I took for displeasure, though in later years I learned a look from him could mean just about anything you could render it to.

“That there's my good-luck charm you just swallowed,” he grunted. “I had that thing for fourteen months and nar a knife has nicked me nar bullet touched my flesh. I reckon the Lord must mean it to be a sign for me to lose it. The Bible says it: ‘Hold no idle objects between thouest and me.' But even a God-fearing man like myself has a pocketful of sins that flagellate betwixt my head—and my thighs too, truth be to tell it, for I has twenty-two children, twelve of them living, Little Onion. But my good luck lives between your ears now; you has swallowed in your gut my redemption and sin, eatin' my sin just like Jesus Christ munched on the sins of the world so that you and I might live. Let that be a lesson to me, old man that I am, for allowing sacrilegious objects to stand between me and the great King of Kings.”

I didn't make head nor tails of what he was saying, for I was to learn that Old John Brown could work the Lord into just about any aspect of his comings and goings in life, including using the privy. That's one reason I weren't a believer, having been raised by my Pa, who was a believer and a lunatic, and them things seemed to run together. But it weren't my place to argue with a white man, especially one who was my kidnapper, so I kept my lips closed.

“Since you has shown me the way of the Maker and is now my good-luck charm, Little Onion, I will give you good fortune as well, and hereby absolve myself of all these trickerations and good-luck baubles which is the devil's work.” And here he dug in his pockets and produced a thimble, a root, two empty tin cans, three Indian arrowheads, an apple peeler, a dried-up boll weevil, and a bent pocketknife. He throwed them all in a sack and gived it to me.

“Hold these things, and may they bring you good fortune till you come along and meet the soul that shows you the way of the Maker, Onion. For the prophet may cometh in the form of man, boy, or a woman-child, as in the case of you, and each person must attain his wisdom of the Almighty when they meets their own prophet maker of the word who holds the sign to redemption at the ready, and that includes you, Little Onion.” Then he throwed in there, “And may you meet another Little Onion in your travels, so that
she
might be your good-luck charm and thus rid you of these baubles and make you truly free like me.”

Here he produced the last from his pocket, an odd, long black-and-white feather, and throwed the feather in my head, tucked it right in my curly napped hair, then paused a moment, reflecting, staring at that feather in my head. “Feather of a Good Lord Bird. Now, that's special. I don't feel bad about it neither, giving my special thing to you. The Bible says: ‘Take that which is special from thine own hand, and giveth to the needy, and you moveth in the Lord's path.' That's the secret, Little Onion. But just so you know, you ought not to believe too much in heathen things. And don't stretch the Great Ruler's word too much. You stretch it here, stretch it there, before you know it, it's full-out devilment. We being fighters of His righteous Holy Word, we is allowed a few indulgences, like charms and so forth. But we ought not take too much advantage. Understand?”

I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but, being he was a lunatic, I nodded my head yes.

That seemed to please him, and he thrust his head toward the sky and said, “Teach thy children the ways of our King of Kings, and they shall not depart from it. I hear Thee, oh great Haymaker, and I thank Thee for blessing us every minute of every day.”

I don't know but that God said to him aye-aye and proper, for after that, the Old Man seemed satisfied with the whole bit and forgot about me instantly. He turned away and pulled a huge canvas map from his saddlebag. He clopped to the canvas lean-to in his worn boots, plopped down on the ground under it, and stuck his head in the map without saying another word. As an afterthought, he motioned for me to sit on the ground next to him, which I done.

By now the two other riders had dismounted and come up, and by the look of it, they was the Old Man's sons, for they was nearly ugly as him. The first was a huge, strapping youth about twenty years old. He was taller than Dutch, six feet four inches tall without his boots. He had more weapons hanging off him than I ever seen one man carry: two heavy seven-shot pistols strapped to his thighs by leather—that was the first I ever saw such a thing. Plus a broadsword, a squirrel gun, a buckshot rifle, a buck knife, and a Sharps rifle. When he moved around, he rattled like a hardware store. He was an altogether fearsome sight. His name, I later come to know, was Frederick. The second was shorter, more stocky, with red hair and a crippled arm, a good bit older. That was Owen. Neither one of 'em spoke, but waited for the Old Man to speak.

“Water these horses and scare us up a fire,” he said.

The Old Man's words got them movin' while I sat in the lean-to next to him. I was frightfully hungry despite being kidnapped, and I must say my first hours of freedom under John Brown was like my last hours of freedom under him: I was hungrier than I ever was as a slave.

The Old Man settled his back against the wall under the canvas tent and kept his face to the map. The camp, though empty, had been used heavily. Several guns and effects lay about. The place was odorous, downright ripe, and the smell brung mosquitoes, which swarmed about in thick black clouds. One of them clouds settled on me and the mosquitoes had at me right away something terrible. As I swatted at them, several mice scurried about in a rock crevice on the wall behind the Old Man, just over his shoulder. One of the mice fell off the rock crevice directly onto the Old Man's map. The Old Man studied it a moment, and
it
studied him. The Old Man had a way with every animal under God's creation. Later I was to see how he could pick up a baby lamb and lead it to slaughter with kindness and affection, could tame a horse just by gently shaking and talking to it, and could lead the most stubborn mule out of mud stuck up to its neck like it was nothing. He carefully picked up the mouse and gently placed it back in the rock crevice with the rest of its brother mice, and they set there quiet as pups, peeking over the Old Man's shoulder as he stared at his map. I reckoned they was like me. They wanted to know where they was, so I asked it.

“Middle Creek,” he grunted. He didn't seem in a talking mood now. He snapped at his boys, “Feed this child.”

The big one, Frederick, he moved 'round the fire and come up to me. He had so many weapons on him, he sounded like a marching band. He looked down, friendly, and said, “What's your name?”

Well, that was a problem, being that I didn't have no time to think of a girl one.

“Henrietta,” the Old Man blurted out from his map. “Slave but now free,” he said proudly. “I calls her Little Onion henceforth for my own reasons.” He winked at me. “This poor girl's Pa was killed right before her eyes by that ruffian Dutch Henry. Rascal that he is, I would have sent a charge through him, but I was in a hurry.”

I noted the Old Man hadn't said a word about scrapin' by with his own life, but the thought of Pa being run clean through with that wood pike made me weepy, and I wiped my nose and busted into tears.

“Now, now, Onion,” the Old Man said. “We're gonna straighten you out right away.” He leaned over and dug out his saddlebag again, rumbled through it, and brung out yet another gift, this time a rumpled, flea-bitten dress and bonnet. “I got this for my daughter Ellen's birthday,” he said. “It's store-bought. But I reckon she'd be happy to give it to a pretty girl like you, as a gift to your freedom.”

I was ready to give up the charade then, for while I weren't particular about eating the flea-bitten onion that lived in his pocket, ain't no way in God's kingdom was I gonna put on that dress and bonnet. Not in no way, shape, form, or fashion was I gonna do it. But my arse was on the line, and while it's a small arse, it do cover my backside and thus I am fond of it. Plus, he was an outlaw, and I was his prisoner. I was in a quandary, and my tears busted forth again, which worked out perfect, for it moved them all to my favor, and I seen right off that crying and squalling was part of the game of being a girl.

“It's all right,” the Old Man said, “you ain't got but to thank the Good Lord for His kindnesses. You don't owe me nothing.”

Well, I took the dress, excused myself, and went into the woods a ways and throwed that nonsense on. The bonnet I couldn't tie proper atop my head, but I mashed it on some kind of way. The dress come down to my feet, for the Old Man's children was stout giants to the last. Even the shortest of his daughters stood nearly six feet fully growed without her shoes, and head and shoulders above yours truly, for I followed my Pa in the size department. But I got the whole business fixed right as I could, then emerged from behind the tree and managed to say, “Thank you, marse.”

“I ain't master to you, Onion,” he said. “You just as free as the birds run.” He turned to Frederick and said, “Fred, take my horse and teach Onion here to ride, for the enemy will be hurrying our way soon. There's a war on. We can't tarry.”

That was the first I heard the word
war
. First I ever heard of it, but at the moment my mind was on my own freedom. I was looking to jump back to Dutch's.

Fred led me to Dutch's old pinto, the one me and the Old Man was riding, prompted me on it, then led my horse along by the reins, holding it steady, while riding his. As we rode, Fred talked. He was a chatterbox. He was twice my age, but I seen right off that he had half a loaf, if you get my drift; he was slow in his mind. He had a bubble in his head. He chatted about nothing, for he couldn't fix his mind on one thing more than a minute. We plodded along like that for a while, him blabbing and me quiet, till he piped up, “You like pheasant?”

“Yes, massa,” I said.

“I ain't your massa, Onion.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, for I was of the habit.

“Don't call me sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Then I'll call you missy.”

“Okay, sir.”

“If you keep calling me sir, I'll keep calling you missy,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

This went on for several minutes, us sirring and missying one another, till finally I got so hot I wanted to take a rock and bust him across the head with it, but he was white and I was not, so I busted into tears again.

My tears throwed Fred. He stopped the horse and said, “I am sorry, Henrietta. I takes back every word I said.”

I quit bawling and we headed forth again, pacing slowly. We rode about a half mile down the creek where the cottonwood thickets stopped. The clearing met woods near a set of rocks and wide trees. We dismounted and Fred looked around the area. “We can leave the horses here,” he said.