The Good Lord Bird (6 page)

“Surely. He kidnapped me. Made me wear a dress and bonnet. But I escaped that murdering fool.”

“Why?”

“You see how he got me dressed.”

Bob looked at me closely, then sighed, then whistled. “There's killers all up and down these plains,” he said slowly. “Ask the red man. Anybody'll say anything to live. What would John Brown want with you anyhow? He need an extra girl to work his kitchen?”

“If I'm tellin' a lie I hope I drop down dead after I tell it. I ain't a girl!” I managed to pull the bonnet back off my head.

That shook him some. He peered at me close, then stuck his face into mine and it hit him then. His eyes got wide. “What the devil got into you?” he said.

“Want me to show you my privates?”

“Spare me, child. I takes your word for it. I wouldn't want to see your privates any more than I'd want to stick my face in Dutch Henry's Tavern. Why you paddling 'round like that? Was John Brown gonna run you north?”

“I don't know. He just murdered three fellers up about five miles from here. I seen that with my own eyes.”

“White fellers?”

“If it look white and smell white, you can bet it ain't buzzard.”

“You sure?”

“James Doyle and his boys,” I said. “Deadened 'em with swords.”

He whistled softly. “Glory,” he murmured.

“So you'll take me back to Dutch's?”

He didn't seem to hear me. He seemed lost in thought. “I heard John Brown was about these parts. He's something else. You ought to be grateful, child. You met him and all?”

“Met him? Why you think I'm dressed like a sissy. He—”

“Shit! If I could get Old John Brown to favor me and carry me to freedom, why, I'd dress up as a girl every day for ten years. I'd be thoroughly a girl till I got weak from it. I'd be a girl for the rest of my life. Anything's better than bondage. Your best bet is to go back with him.”

“He's a murderer!”

“And Dutch ain't? He's riding on Brown now. Got a whole posse looking for 'em. Every redshirt within a hundred miles is rolling these plains for him. You can't go back to Dutch nohow.”

“Why not?”

“Dutch ain't stupid. He'll sell you south and git his money for you while he can. Any nigger that's had a sip of freedom ain't worth squat to the white man out here. High-yellow boy like you'll fetch a good price in New Orleans.”

“Dutch wouldn't see me sold.”

“You wanna bet?”

That gived me pause then. For Dutch weren't too sentimental.

“You know where I can go?”

“Your best bet is to go back to Old Brown. If you ain't lyin' 'bout being with his gang and all. They say they're fearsome. Is it true he carries two seven-shooters?”

“One of 'em does.”

“Ooh, wee, that just tickles me,” he said.

“I'd rather blow my brains out than run around dressed like a girl. I can't do it.”

“Well, save yourself the bullet and go on back to Dutch, then. He'll send you to New Orleans and death'll be knocking shortly. I never heard of a nigger escaped from there.”

That done me in. I hadn't considered none of that. “I don't know where the Old Man is now,” I said. “I couldn't find him by myself nohow. I don't know these parts.”

Bob said slowly, “If I help you find him, you think he could lead me to freedom, too? I'll dress like a girl for it.”

Well, that sounded too complicated. But I needed a ride. “I can't say what he'll do, but he and his sons got a big army. And more guns than you ever saw. And I heard him say it clear, ‘I'm an abolitionist through and through, and I aims to free every colored in this territory.' I heard him say that many times. So I expect he would take you.”

“What about my wife and children?”

“I don't know about that.”

Bob thunk on it a long moment.

“I got a cousin down near Middle Creek who knows everything in these parts,” he said. “He'll know where the Old Man's hideout is. But if we set here too long, another posse's gonna roll up, and they might not be drunk like the last. Help me tie that wagon wheel back.”

I hopped to work. We rolled a fallen tree stump under the wagon. He harred the horse up so it pulled the wagon high enough to free the bottom, then tied the rope to a tree and harred the horse up again, creating a winch. We piled planks and stones under it to keep it up. I searched the thickets and found that cotter pin and helped him put the wheel back on and chink it in. The sun was near to noon when we finished, and we was hot and sweaty by the time we got the thing done, but we got that wagon wheel spinning like new, and I hopped aboard the driver's seat next to him, and we was off in no time.

Prisoner Again

W
e didn't get two miles down the road before we runned into patrols of every type. The entire territory was in alarm. Armed posses crisscrossed the trail every which way. Every passing wagon had a rider setting up front with a shotgun. Children acted as lookouts for every homestead, with Pas and Mas setting out front in rocking chairs holding shotguns. We passed several wagons pulling terrified Yankees going in the opposite direction, their possessions piled high, hauling ass back east fast as their mules could go, quitting the territory altogether. The Old Man's killings terrified everyone. But Bob got safe passage, for he was riding his master's wagon and had papers to show it.

We followed the Pottawatomie Creek on the California Trail toward Palmyra. Then we cut along the Marais des Cygnes River toward North Middle Creek. A short way along the river, Bob stopped the wagon, dismounted, and tied off the horse. “We got to walk from here,” he said.

We walked down a clean-dug trail to a fine, well-built house on the back side of the river. An old Negro was tending flowers at the gate, turning dirt on the walkway as we come. Bob howdied him and he hailed us over.

“Good afternoon, Cousin Herbert,” Bob said.

“What's good about it?”

“The Captain's good about it.”

At the mention of the word “Captain,” Herbert glanced at me, shot a nervous look at his master's house, then fell to turning that dirt again on his hands and knees, getting busy on that dirt, looking down. “I don't know nothing about no Captain, Bob.”

“C'mon, Herbert.”

The old feller kept his eyes on that dirt, turning it, busy, tending flowers, talking low as he worked. “Git on outta here. Old Brown's hotter than a pig in shit. What you doing fooling with him? And whose knock-kneed girl is that? She too young for you.”

“Where's he at?”

“Who?”

“Stop fooling. You know who I'm talking about.”

Herbert glanced up, then back down at his flowers. “There's posses from here to Lawrence combing this whole country for him. They say he throwed the life spark outta ten white fellers up near Osawatomie. Knocked their heads clean off with swords. Any nigger that mentions his name'll be shipped outta this territory in pieces. So git away from me. And send that girl home and run on home to your wife.”

“She belongs to the Captain.”

That changed things, and Herbert's hands stopped a moment as he considered it, still looking down at the dirt, then he started digging again. “What that got to do with me?” Herbert said.

“She's Captain's property. He's running her out this country, outta bondage.”

The old man stopped his work for a minute, glancing at me. “Well, she can suck her thumb at his funeral, then. Git. Both of y'all.”

“That's a hell of a way to treat your third cousin.”

“Fourth cousin.”

“Third, Herbert.”

“How's that?”

“My Aunt Stella and your Uncle Beall shared a second cousin named Melly, remember? She was Jamie's daughter, second cousin to Odgin. That was Uncle Beall's nephew by his first marriage to your Mom's sister Stella, who got sold last year. Stella was my cousin Melly's second cousin. So that makes Melly your third cousin, which puts your Uncle Jim in the back behind my uncles Fergus, Cook, and Doris, but before Lucas and Kurt, who was your first cousin. That means Uncle Beall and Aunt Stella was first cousins, which makes me and you third cousins. You would treat your third cousin this way?”

“I don't care if you is Jesus Christ and my son together,” Herbert snapped. “I don't know nothing 'bout no Captain. 'Specially in front of her,” he said, nodding at me.

“What you gettin' in a knot over her for? She's just a child.”

“That's just it,” Herbert said. “I ain't gonna eat tar and feathers over that high-yellow thing there who I don't even know. She don't look nothing like the Old Man, whatever he do look like.”

“I didn't say she was his kin.”

“Whatever she is, she don't belong with you, a married man.”

“You ought to check yourself, cousin.”

He turned to me. “Is you colored or white, miss, if you don't mind my asking?”

“What difference do it make?” Bob snapped. “We got to find the Captain. This little girl is rolling with him.”

“Is she colored or not?”

“Course she's colored. Can't you see?”

The old man stopped his digging to stare at me a moment, then started digging again, and snorted, “If I didn't know no better, I'd say she was kin to old Gus Shackleford, who they say got his spark blowed out on account of talking to John Brown in Dutch's Tavern four days past, bless his soul. But Gus had a boy, that trifling Henry. He worried Gus to devilment, that one. Acting white and all. He needs a good spanking. I ever catch that little gamecock nigger outside Dutch's I'll warm his little buns with a switch so hard, he'll crow like a rooster. I expect his devilment is what sent his Pa to his rewards, for he was as lazy as the devil. Children these days is just going to hell, Bob. Can't tell 'em nothing.”

“Is you done?” Bob said.

“Done what?”

“Fluffling your feathers and wasting time,” Bob snapped. “Where's the Captain? Do you know or not?”

“Well, Bob. A jar of peaches'll go far in this kind of weather.”

“I ain't got no peaches, Herbert.”

Herbert straightened. “You work your mouth awful good for a feller who never gived his cousin a penny in this world. Driving 'round in your high-siddity wagon with your high master. My marse is a poor man, like me. Go find yourself a bigger fool.”

He turned away and dug more dirt into his flower bed.

“If you won't tell it, cousin,” Bob said, “I'll go inside and ask your marse. He's a Free Stater, ain't he?”

The old man glanced back at the cabin. “I don't know what he is,” he said dryly. “He come out to this country Free State, but them rebels is changing these white folks' mind fast.”

“I'll tell you this, cousin. This here girl do belong to John Brown. And he's looking for her. And if he
do
find her, and she tells him you was pushing the waters against him, he's liable to ride down here and place his broadsword on your back. And if he sets his mind to that kind of blood frolic, nothing'll stop him. Who's gonna look after you then?”

That done it. The old man grimaced a bit, glanced up at the woods beyond the cabin behind him, then returned to digging his flowers. He talked with his face to the ground. “Circle 'round the cabin and move straight back into the woods, past the second birch tree beyond the corn field yonder,” he said. “You'll find an old whiskey bottle stuck between two low branches on that tree. Follow the mouth of that bottle due north two miles, just the way the mouth is pointed. Keep the sun on your left shoulder. You'll run into an old rock wall somebody built and left behind. Follow that wall to a camp. Make some noise 'fore you roll in there, though. The Old Man's got lookouts. They'll pull the trigger and tell the hammer to hurry.”

“You all right, cousin.”

“Git outta here 'fore you get me kilt. Old Brown ain't fooling. They say he roasted the skulls of the ones he kilt. That's the Wilkersons, the Fords, the Doyles, and several folks on the Missouri side. Ate their eyeballs like they was grapes. Fried the brains like chitlins. Used the scalps for wick lamps. He's the devil. I ain't never seen white folks so scared,” he said.

That's the thing about the Old Man back in them days. If he done a thing, it got whipped up into a heap of lies five minutes past breakfast.

Herbert covered his mouth and chortled, licking his lips. “I want my jar of peaches, cousin. Don't forget me.”

“You'll git 'em.”

We bid leave of him and headed toward the woods. When we reached them, Bob stopped. “Little brother,” he said, “I got to cut you loose here. I'd like to go, but I'm getting shaky. Being that Old John Brown has chopped off eyeballs and heads and all, I don't think I can make it. I'm fond of my head, since it do cover the top of my body. Plus, I got a family and can't leave 'em just yet, not unless they has safe passage. Good luck, for you is going to need it. Stay a girl and go with it till the Old Man's dead. Don't worry 'bout old Nigger Bob here. I'll catch up to you later.”

Well, I couldn't assure him of nothing about whether or not the Old Man would take his head or be deadened, but there weren't nothing to do but take my leave of him. I followed old Herbert's directions, walking through the tall pines and thickets. A short while later, I recognized a piece of the rock wall—that was the same wall the Old Man had leaned on to follow the map when he first kidnapped me, but the camp was gone. I followed that wall along till I seen smoke from a fire. I went behind the wall, on the far side, intending to go behind the Old Man and holler at him and his men so they'd recognize me. I made a wide circle, snaking through trees and thickets, and after I was sure I was far back off 'em, I rose up, stepped behind a wide oak, and sat down to gather myself. I didn't know what kind of excuse I would cook up for 'em and needed time to think of one. Before I knew it, I fell asleep, for all that trekking and running around in the woods got me exhausted.

When I woke, the first thing I saw was a pair of worn boots with several toes sticking out of them. I knowed them toes, for just two days previous, I'd seen Fred throw a needle and thread at them things as we set by the fire salting peanuts. From where I lay, them toes was looking none too friendly.

I looked up into the barrel of two seven-shooters, and behind Frederick was Owen and several more of the Old Man's army, and none was looking too happy.

“Where's Pa's horse?” Fred asked.

—

Well, they brung me to the Old Man and it was like I hadn't gone no place. The Old Man greeted me like I had just come back from an errand to the general store. He didn't mention the missing horse, me running off, or none of them things. Old Brown never cared about the details of his army. I seen fellers walk off from his army one day, stay away a year, and a year later walk back into his camp and set down by the fire and eat like they had just come back from hunting that morning, and the Old Man wouldn't say a word. His abolitionist Pottawatomie Rifles was all volunteers. They came and went just as they pleased. In fact, the Old Man never gave orders unless they was in a firefight. Mostly he'd say, “I'm going this way,” and his sons would say, “Me too,” and the rest would say, “Me too,” and off they went. But as far as giving orders and checking attendance and all, the abolitionist army was a come-one, come-all outfit.

He was standing over a campfire in his shirtsleeves, roasting a pig, when I walked up. He glanced up and seen me.

“Evening, Onion,” he said. “You hungry?”

I allowed that I was, and he nodded and said, “Come hither and chat whilst I roast this pig. Afterward, you can join me in praying to our Redeemer to give thanks for our great victory to free your people.” Then he added, “Half your people, since on account of your fair complexion, I reckon you is one half white or thereabouts. Which in and of itself, makes this world even more treacherous for you, sweet dear Onion, for you has to fight within yourself and outside yourself, too, being half a loaf on one side and half the other. Don't worry. The Lord don't have no contention with your condition, for Luke twelve, five says, ‘Take not the breast of not just thine own mother into thy hand, but of both thy parents.'”

I didn't know what he was talking about, course, but figured I'd better explain about his horse. “Captain,” I said. “I got scared and run and lost your horse.”

“You ain't the only one that run.” He shrugged, working that pig expertly. “There's several 'round here who's shy to putting God's philosophy into action.” He glanced around at the men, several of whom looked away, embarrassed.

By now the Old Man's army had gotten bigger. There were at least twenty men setting about. Piles of arms and broadswords were leaned up against trees. The small lean-to tent I first saw was gone. In its place was a real tent, which, like everything there, was stolen for it was painted in the front with a sign that read Knox's Fishing, Tackle, and Mining Tools. Out near the edge of camp, I counted fourteen horses, two wagons, a cannon, three woodstoves, enough swords to supply at least fifty men, and a box marked Thimbles. The men looked exhausted, but the Old Man looked fresh as a daisy. A week's worth of white beard had growed on his chin, bringing it closer down to his chest. His clothes were soiled and torn worse than ever, and his toes protruded so far from his boots, they looked like slippers. But he moved spry and sprite as a spring creek.

“The killing of our enemies was ordained,” he said aloud, to no one in particular. “If folks 'round here read the Good Book, they wouldn't lose heart so easily when pressing forth in the Lord's purpose. Psalms seventy-two, four, says, ‘He shall judge the poor of the people, and save the children of the needy, and break into pieces the oppressor.' And that, Little Onion,” he said sternly, pulling off the fire the pig that was now roasted clean through, and glancing around at the men who looked away, “tells you all you need to know. Gather 'round a moment as I pray, men, then my brave Little Onion here will help me serve this ragged army.”

Owen stepped forward. “Let me pray, Pa,” he said, for the men looked to be starving, and I reckoned they couldn't stand an hour of the Captain doodling at the Almighty. The Old Man grumbled but agreed, and after we prayed and ate, he huddled with the others around his map, while Fred and I stayed away from them and cleaned up.

Fred, short as he was in his head, was terrific glad to see me. But he seemed worried. “We done a bad thing,” he said.