The Good Lord Bird (9 page)

The officer approached the Old Man. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I'm John Brown of Osawatomie.”

“Then you are under arrest.”

“For what?”

“For violating the laws of Kansas Territory.”

“I don't abide by the bogus laws of this territory,” the Old Man said.

“Well, you will abide by this,” the officer said. He drawed his revolver and pointed it at the Old Man, who stared at the revolver in disdain.

“I don't take it personal your threats on my life,” the Old Man said calmly. “For you are given orders to follow. I understand you have a job to do. So go ahead and drop the hammer on that thing if you want. You will be a hero to some in this territory if you do it. But should you burst a cap into me, your life won't be worth a plugged nickel. You will be food for the wolves come evening, for I got a charge to keep from my Maker, Whose home I hope to make my own someday. I done no harm to you and will not. I will let the Lord have you, and that is a far worse outcome than any that you can put forth with what you holding in your hand, which compared to the will of our Maker, ain't worth a fingernail. My aim is to free the slaves in this territory no matter what you do.”

“On whose authority?”

“The authority of our Maker, henceforth and forevermore known as the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.”

I don't know what it is, but every time the Old Man started talking holy, just the mention of his Maker's name made him downright dangerous. A kind of electricity climbed over him. His voice become like gravel scrapin' a dirt road. Something raised up in him. His old, tired frame dropped away, and in its place stood a man wound up like a death mill. It was most unsettling thing to see, and the officer got unnerved by it. “I ain't here to debate you on the premise,” he said. “Tell your men to lay down their arms, and there won't be no trouble.”

“Don't want none. Does your work include taking prisoners and exchanging them?” the Old Man asked.

“Yes, it does.”

“I got seventeen prisoners here from Black Jack. I could have killed them directly, for they was intent on taking my life. Instead I am bringing them to Fort Leavenworth for your justice. That ought to be worth something. I want my boys who is held there and nothing more. If you will take these prisoners in exchange for them, I will call it a square deal and hand myself over to you without a fight or harsh word. But if you don't, you will be worm food, sir. For I am in service of a Greater Power. And my men here will aim for your heart and no one else's. And while we are outnumbered here two to one, your death will be certain, for they will aim for you alone, and after that, you will suffer the death of a thousand ages, having to explain to your Maker the support of a cause that has enslaved your fellow human beings and entrapped your soul in a way you know not. I have been chosen to do His special work and I aim to keep that charge. You, on the other hand, have not been chosen. So I am not going with you to Fort Leavenworth today, nor am I leaving this territory, until my boys are freed.”

“Who are they?”

“They are Browns. They had nothing to do with any killings in this area. They came here to settle the land and have lost everything, including their crops, which were burned by the very rebels you see before you.”

The officer turned to Pate. “Is that true?” he asked.

Pate shrugged. “We did burn these nigger-stealer's crops. Twice. And we will burn their homes if we get the chance, for they are lawbreakers and thieves.”

That changed up the officer, and he said, “That sounds like a pretty rotten piece of business.”

“Is you Pro Slave or Free State?” Pate asked.

“I'm U.S. State,” the officer snapped. “Here to enforce the territorial laws of the United States government, not Missouri or Kansas.” He now turned his gun on Pate and said to Brown, “If I carry your prisoners back to Leavenworth, can I trust you to stay here?”

“So long as you bring my sons back in exchange for 'em.”

“I cannot promise that, but I will speak to my superior officer about it.”

“And who would that be?”

“Captain Jeb Stuart.”

“You tell Captain Stuart that Old John Brown of Osawatomie is here at Prairie City awaiting his sons. And if they are not back here in exchange for these prisoners in three days, I will burn this territory.”

“And if they do come back? Would you surrender yourself?”

The Old Man folded his hands behind his back.

“I would do that,” he said.

“How do I know you're not lying?”

The Old Man held up his right hand. “You have it here before God that I, John Brown, will not leave here for three days while I wait for you to bring my boys back. And I will surrender myself to the will of Almighty God upon their return.”

Well, the officer agreed and set off.

The Old Man was lying, of course. For he didn't say nothing about surrendering himself to the U.S. government. Anytime he said something about the will of God, it meant he weren't going to cooperate or do nothing but as he saw fit. He had no intentions of leaving Kansas Territory or turning himself in or paying attention to what any white soldier told him. He would tell a fib in a minute to help his cause. He was like everybody in war. He believed God was on his side. Everybody got God on their side in a war. Problem is, God ain't tellin' nobody who He's for.

A Bad Omen

T
he Old Man said he'd wait three days for the federals to bring his boys back. He didn't get to wait that long. The very next morning, a local feller, friendly to our side, come charging in on his horse, breathless, and told him, “The Missourians got a column heading to burn down your homestead.” That was Brown's Station, where the Old Man and his boys had staked out claims and built homes, near Osawatomie.

The Old Man considered it. “I can't leave till the federals come back with John and Jason,” he said. “I gived my word. I can't go back home and face their wives with empty palms.” Some of his son's wives wasn't too fond of the Old Man for pulling their husbands into the war and getting 'em damn near kilt—in fact, before it was over, some of 'em was kilt outright—over the slavery question.

He turned to Owen and said, “Take Fred, Weiner, Bob, the Onion, and the rest of the men to Osawatomie. See what you see and report back with the men. But leave the Onion in Osawatomie with your sister-in-law Martha or the Adairs, for she has seen enough killing. Don't tarry.”

“Yes, Father.”

He turned to me and said, “Onion, I is sorry I am taking you out the fight. I knows how much you like fighting for your freedom, having seen you in action at Black Jack”—I ain't done a thing there that I recall other than cower and holler in that ravine when we was taking fire, but the Old Man looked over there and saw me down there with the best of his men, and I reckon he claimed that as bravery. That was the thing with the Old Man. He seen what he wanted to see, for I knowed I was square terrified, and unless you count hollering uncle and curling up into a ball and licking your toes signs of courage and encouragement, there weren't nothing too courageous about what I done down there. Anyway, he went on: “Brave as you are, we involved here is men, even Bob here, and it is best that you stay in Osawatomie with my friends the Adairs till things calm down, then think about heading north to your freedom where it is safer for a girl to be.”

Well doggone it I was ready to hit out hooting and hollering that minute. I was done with the smell of gunpowder and blood. Him and his men could pick fights and spur their horses into shoot-outs for the rest of their days as far as I was concerned. I was finished. But I tried not to show too much joy about the whole bit. I said, “Yes, Captain, I will honor your wishes.”

Osawatomie was a full day's ride from Prairie City, and Owen decided to lead his men on the main California Trail, which was a little more risky for chance meetings with Pro Slave patrols, but he wanted to get back to his Pa in quick fashion. The Adairs who I was set to stay with lived off that trail too, in the same general direction as Osawatomie, so all the more reason to take the trail. It worked out well at first. As we rode, I gived a thought or two to where I'd slip off to once Owen and the Old Man's men left. I had a few boy's items I'd picked up in my travels, and a few little items. But where to go? North? What was that? I didn't know north in any way, shape, fashion, or form in them days. I was considering this thought as I rode along with Fred, which always made me feel better about myself, for Fred didn't require but a half a mind to talk to, being that he weren't but half a glass, which made him a good talking partner, for I could think one thing to myself and chat to him about another, and he generally was agreeable to anything I said.

Me and him lingered in the rear of the column, with Weiner and Owen leading up front, and Bob in the middle. Fred seemed blue.

“I heard Owen say you know all your letters now,” he said.

“I do,” I said. I was proud of it.

“I'm wondering why I can't hold a letter in my head,” he said drearily. “I learns one at a time and forgets 'em right off. Everybody else can hold their letters in their head except me. Even you.”

“Knowing letters ain't all it's cracked up to be,” I said. “I ain't read but one book. It's a Bible picture book I got from the Old Man.”

“You think you could read it to me?”

“Why, I'd be happy to,” I said.

When we stopped to water the horses and eat, I got my book out and throwed a few words at Fred. I gived him my version of it anyway, for while I knowed my letters, I didn't know more than a few words, so I cooked up what I didn't know. I gived him the book of John, and John's tellin' the people of Jesus's coming and Jesus being so great that John weren't even worthy to fasten his slippers. The story growed to the size of an elephant in my retelling of it, for when's the last time you read in the Bible 'bout a horse named Cliff pulling his wagon 'round into the city of Jerusalem wearing slippers? But Fred never said a cross or contrary word as he listened. He liked it fine. “It's the most dandy reading of the Bible I ever heard,” he declared.

We mounted up and followed the trail that crossed to the north side of the Marais des Cygnes River, which cuts through Osawatomie. We were passing close to the Brown settlement but not quite at it, when the smell of smoke and hollering suddenly drifted into the wind.

Owen rode ahead to look, then returned at full gallop. “The Missourians is having it out with a bunch of Free State Indians, looks like. Maybe we should run back and fetch Father.”

“No. Let's join the Indians and attack the rebels,” Weiner said.

“We got orders from our Pa,” Owen said.

Them two argued about it, with Weiner favoring joining the Indians and attacking the redshirts, and Owen in favor of obeying the Old Man's orders and movin' on to check on Osawatomie, or at least run back and fetch the Old Man. “By the time we get anywhere, the redshirts will have burned them Indians out and moved into Osawatomie,” Weiner said.

“We got my orders to ride on,” Owen said.

Weiner was itching mad but kept quiet. He was a stout, stubborn man who loved a good fight, and you couldn't tell him nothing. We rode closer and seen the Free State Indians and Missourians engaging through the thin pine trees of the wooded area in the clearing. It weren't a big fight, but them Indians defending their free settlement was outnumbered, and when Weiner spied it, he couldn't help hisself. He rode off, busting through the woods on his horse, leaning low. The other men followed him.

Owen watched them go, frowning. He turned on his horse and said, “Fred, you and Onion ride forward toward Osawatomie and wait outside the settlement while we chase off these Missourians. I'll be back shortly.” And off
he
went.

Now, Bob was setting there on his mount and he watched them ride off. And nobody said nothing to him. And
he
rode off in another direction. Said, “I'm gone,” and took off. That nigger ran off a total of seven times, I believe, from John Brown. Never did get free from the Old Man right off. He had to run all the way back to slavery—to Missouri territory—to get free. But I'll get to that in a minute.

That left me and Fred setting there on our stolen ponies. Fred looked itching for a fight, too, for he was a Brown, and them Browns liked a good gunfight. But no way in God's kingdom was I gonna go over there and fight it out with the Missourians. I was done. So I said, just to distract him, “Gosh, this little girl is hungry.”

That snapped him right to me. “Ohhh, I will get you some eatings, Little Onion,” he said. “Nobody lets my Little Onion go hungry, for you is halfway to being growed now, and you needs your rest and victuals so you'll grow into a great big sissy.” He didn't mean nothing by it and I took no offense from it, for neither of us knowed what the word really meant, though the leanings of it from what I knowed weren't flattering. Still, it was the first time he said the word
sissy
since he first come to knowing of my secret some time back. And I took note of it and was glad to be leaving him before he gived me away.

We rode forward into a patch of thick woods about a mile farther up the trail, then cut off it to follow an old logging trail. It was peaceful and quiet, once we drawed away from the shooting. We crossed a creek and come to where the old logging trail picked up again on the other side and tied our horses off there. Fred pulled off his hardware and got his blanket and hunting things out—beads, dried corn, dried yams. Took him several minutes to unstrap them guns, for he was loaded. Once he done that, he give me a squirrel rifle and took one for hisself. “Normally I wouldn't use this,” he said, “but there's enough shooting 'round here so it won't draw no attention, not if we hurry.”

It weren't dark yet but evening was coming. We walked about a half mile along the creek bank, with Fred showing me the markings and the likes of where a beaver family was busy making a dam. He said, “I'll cross the creek and work him from the other side. You come up this way, and when he hears you coming, that'll flush him out, and we'll just meet yonder near where the creek bends to get him.”

He crept over on the other side and disappeared in the thickets, while I come up on the other side of it. I was about halfway to where we was to meet when I turned and seen a white man standing about five yards off, holding a rifle.

“What you doing with that rifle, missy?” he said.

“Nuthin', sir,” I said.

“Put it down, then.”

I done like he said, and he come up on me, snatched my rifle from the ground, and, still holding his rifle on me, said, “Where's your master?”

“Oh, he's 'cross the creek.”

“Ain't you got a sir in your mouth, nigger?”

I was out of practice, see. I hadn't been 'round normal white folks in months, demanding you call 'em sir and what all. The Old Man didn't allow none of that. But I righted up. I said, “Yes, sir.”

“What's your marse's name?”

I couldn't think of nothing, so I said, “Fred.”

“What?”

“Just Fred.”

“You call your marse Fred or just Fred or Marse Fred or Fred sir?”

Well, that tied me in knots. I should'a named Dutch, but Dutch seemed a long way away, and I was confused.

“Come with me,” he said.

We started off through the woods away from the creek, and I followed on foot. We hadn't gotten five steps when I heard Fred holler. “Where you going?”

The man stopped and turned. Fred was standing dead in the middle of the creek, his squirrel gun cocked to his face. He was a sight to see, big as he was, frightening to look at with dead intent, and he weren't no more than ten yards off.

“She belong to you?” the man said.

“That ain't your business, mister.”

“You Pro Slave or Free State?”

“You say one more thing, and I'mma deaden where you is. Turn her loose and git your foot up that road.”

Well, Fred could'a burned him, but he didn't. The feller turned me loose and trotted off, still holding my squirrel rifle.

Fred climbed out of the water and said, “Let's come off this creek and head back toward where the others is. It's too dangerous out here. There's another creek on the other side from where they left.”

We went back to where the horses were tied off, mounted, and rode a half hour or so north, this time to a clearing near where another, bigger creek widened out. Fred said, “We can catch a duck or a pheasant or even a hawk here. It's gonna be dark soon and they'll be collecting their last vittles of the day. Stay here, Little Onion, and don't make a sound.” He dismounted and left, still holding his squirrel rifle.

I stuck close to the spot where he left me and watched him move through the woods. He was smooth business out there, quiet as a deer, not a sound come out of him. He didn't go far. Maybe thirty yards off, I could see his silhouette in the trees, then he spotted something up in a long birch that stretched skyward. He raised his rifle and let a charge go, and a huge bird fell to the earth.

We run up on it and Fred paled. It was a fat, beautiful catch, black, with a long red-and-white stripe on its back, and a strange, long beak. It was a nice bird, plenty meat, about twenty inches long. Wingspan must've been nearly a yard. Big as any bird you'd want to eat. “That's a hell of a hawk,” I said. “Let's move away from here just in case somebody heard the shot.” I moved to grab it.

“Don't touch it!” Fred said. He was pale as a ghost. “That ain't no hawk. That's a Good Lord Bird. Lord!”

He sat on the ground, just ripped up. “I never saw it clear. I only had one shot. See that?” He held up the squirrel rifle. “Damn thing. Only got one shot. Don't take much. Man sins without knowing, and sins come without warning, Onion. The Bible says it. ‘He who sins knows not the Lord. He does not know Him.' You think Jesus knows my heart?”

I growed tired of his mumbling confusion 'bout the Lord. I was hungry. I was supposed to be getting away from the fighting and here I was held up by more of the same. I was irritated. I said, “Stop worrying. The Lord knows your heart.”

“I got to pray,” he said. “That's what Father would do.”

That wouldn't do. It was almost dark now, and the others hadn't caught up to us yet, and I worried that the shot would draw somebody. But there ain't nothing to tell a white man, or any man, who's made up his mind to a prayerful thing. Fred set there on his knees and prayed just like the Old Man, fluffering and blubbering to the Lord to come to his favor and this and that. He weren't nearly as good as his Pa in the praying department, being that he weren't able to attach one thought to the next. The Old Man's prayers growed up right before your eyes; they was all connected, like stairways running from one floor to another in a house, whereas Fred's prayers was more like barrels and clothing chests throwed about a fine sitting room. His prayers shot this way and that, cutting hither and yon, and in this way an hour passed. But it was a precious hour which I'll tell you about in a minute. After he gived up them various mumblings and jumblings he gently picked up the bird, gived it to me, and said, “Hold it for Pa. He'll pray on it and favor God to fix the whole thing up righteously.”