“Hey, young man! Read any good books?”
“Doc Grasson, thank you, thank you! I read ‘um all. Got any more?”
“Not a problem. I told you there were more where those came from. Listen, I was at Miss Lillian’s place earlier today and ran into your mamma. I ask her about you and me taking a little ride up to Brice’s Cross Roads. She said it would be fine if I could get Miss Lillian to release you from that cotton field prison.”
Jessie’s eyes froze on the old country doctor.
“Well, let me tell you. Miss Lillian challenged my every word, but I softened her up with a mess of turnip greens before I brought up the subject. She reckoned the cotton harvest hung in the balance of weather and hired help, not the efforts of a 12-year-old boy for one afternoon.”
“Eureka! You’re wonderful, Doc Grasson! Can we bring Rover?”
“Could we stop him from coming if we wanted to?”
Doc put the Chevy in reverse and backed into the road and headed for the Battlefield at Brice’s Cross Roads. Jessie grinned. Rover reached around the cab of the truck and licked Doc Grasson through the window.
The silence between Willard and Bully cut deep, overshadowed only by the drone of the old Ford’s engine. Five miles from Carl’s, Bully exploded.
“You son of a bitch, you set me up! I thought you and me were friends. Friends, hah! You’re just a paid whore for a snake in the grass bootlegger!”
“What the hell are you talking about, Bully? It’s me, Willard, your running buddy!”
“Running buddy, my ass! You knew what Carl Butcher had in mind! Business? Yea, I got a little business trip from him!”
Willard pulled the truck over to the side of the road and came to a stop.
“Bully, what went on back there? I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t know Carl Butcher has his eyes on Mr. John’s land? You didn’t know Carl wanted me to betray Miss Lillian? You didn’t know Carl threatened me and my family with our lives if I didn’t play his little game?”
“Bully, I swear on my mamma’s grave. I’m not in on Mr. Carl’s scheme.”
“Willard, if you’re lying, I will kill you.”
“Bully, I’m shooting straight. You believe me?”
Bully looked straight ahead. Willard leaned toward Bully trying to think of something else to say.
“Willard, I want to believe you.” Bully’s voice took on a more rational tone. “Carl’s boys don’t have the best reputation in town, you know.”
“Bully, I’m not proud of working for Mr. Carl. It’s just easier to get in than to get out.”
“I can’t tell you what to do, screwed up as I am.” Bully broke into a smile. “Yeah, I believe you.” Bully reached over and tapped Willard’s chin.
“Bully let’s go over on the Tallahatchie River and see what’s going on. I’m not ready to go home.”
“Suits me, I’m not ready to go home either.”
Willard put the Ford into low gear and pulled away.
Bully passed him the Wild Cat.
Jessie, excited about the prospects of spending an afternoon with Doc Grasson, fought to sit still. He tried to sit up straight in the truck seat like Doc Grasson. He tried to rest his arm on the truck window like Doc Grasson. He tried to sit big. Jessie felt important and special. His mind raced.
What would that sow Rebecca Smith, I mean, girl, think if she could see me with Doc Grasson? She’s picking cotton and I’m headed for Brice’s Cross Roads. Wait till I tell Miss Francina. Bet Jarvis and Cleo are wondering what happen to me. I can’t wait to tell Mamma and Daddy. Jessie’s galloping thoughts stilled when Doc Grasson’s Chevy came to a stop. Rover hit the ground chasing a butterfly. Jessie and Doc Grasson exited the truck.
“Now, Jessie, I want you to picture what I’m about to tell you.” Doc stood on a ridge overlooking a valley. He pointed to the west.
“Imagine seeing eight thousand plus Federal troops coming at you. That’s what the Johnny Rebs saw on the morning of June 10, 1861. A fellow named General Sturgis commanded the Federal troops out of Memphis. It was a sight to behold. I can imagine the sounds of mules, wagons, and men making their way through this valley on that morning. Sun coming up over that ridge, shining in their eyes. Sturgis had some help. A fellow name Grierson was his right-hand man. Then he had officers with names like Winslow, Waring, Wilkins, Hoge, Bouton, and McMillian. Jessie, it was an unforgettable sight for the southern boys. Some of them were not much older than you.”
Jessie could almost see the Federal troops on the horizon.
“If eight thousand soldiers were not enough, Sturgis had two hundred and fifty wagons with enough supplies to last twenty days. There were twenty-five ambulances. Those Federal boys brought artillery with them, too, about twenty cannons. Those Yankees were looking for a fight. Well, they didn’t have long to wait. See, the Rebs had this fellow by the name of Forrest—General Nathan Bedford Forrest. Now, he was something. He was a cavalry officer.”
Doc’s voice was slow and steady.
“Jessie, when you hear the word cavalry, you want to think of men on horses. The cavalry is the eyes and ears of the infantry. This fellah Sturgis was a sharp general, I reckon, but, Forrest—well, he was a little quicker.”
Jessie’s mouth gaped and his eyes riveted on the old southern doctor. Doc Grasson sat on the running board. He picked up a stick and drew lines and formations in the dirt. Jessie looked at Doc’s diagrams and formations, then he looked at the battlefield. He visualized that morning and his heart raced. Doc’s descriptions of the battle on June 10, 1861, came to life.
“See, Jessie, timing is everything in life—was then, is now. Well, Forrest could have ridden down there and met the enemy and gotten in the middle of them. Forrest didn’t do that. He waited. See that hill over there?” Doc pointed to a knoll covered with scrub oak.
“Yes, sir.”
Jessie could almost hear the Rebs in the scrub oak, which were a beautiful golden orange color.
“In 1861, this whole area was covered with scrub oak, just like what you see there. The only area that was clear was the road Sturgis and his men traveled. This was a pig trail of a road; very narrow. Well, Forrest placed his cavalry in the bush and waited. Then, he waited some more.
“The tension between the advancing Federal forces and the waiting Confederate soldiers created too much excitement.”
“What happened next, Doc Grasson?”
“See that creek yonder?” Doc pointed to a small stream running though the valley.
“There was a bridge on that creek. Just wide enough for one wagon at a time. Forrest, being a little quicker than Sturgis, waited.”
“Doc Grasson, please don’t start that waiting, again!”
“Well, in fact, Forrest did wait. He waited until Sturgis’s eight thousand plus infantry crossed that nothing of a bridge, then he waited until all two hundred and fifty wagons and twenty-five ambulances crossed. His men were anxious, too, Jessie, but they were also disciplined. If Gen. Forrest said wait, they waited. When the waiting ended, it ended with a vengeance, Jessie. Forrest opened up on Sturgis’s men with all he could muster: cannons; muskets; revolvers; and sabers. Confusion and panic broke out in the ranks of the boys in blue. The Yanks’ day got off to a bad start; those Rebs came from all directions with that blood curdling scream, called the rebel yell. Those scrub oaks crawled with Johnny Rebs. The infantry fell back due to the ferocious fire from Forrest’s men. Problem was, they didn’t have much of a place to run. The wagons blocked the path. Then the teams and wagons tried to turn around. A wagon turned over on the bridge blocking the entire road. Mangled wagons, supplies, and men backed up against the bridge. For the Rebs, it was target practice. Forrest’s boys were outnumbered two to one, but on that day, the morning of June 10, 1861, Gen. Forrest’s boys gave the Yanks a licking.”
Time stopped for Jessie while Doc Grasson related the story of Brice’s Cross Roads. For a brief suspen
ded moment, he felt transported to that fateful morning almost a hundred years ago. He heard the blasts, the horses, the smell of gun powder and the cries of men. He forever captured the allure of the distant past and his soul ached to know what Doc Grasson knew. There was no fear of being beaten. The only screaming was the battle cry of the rebel yell. There were no cotton fields. There was no worrying about his mamma. For Jessie, something magic happened on that hill overlooking the fields known as Brice’s Cross Roads. The birds of passion and freedom had flown into his heart.
“Jessie! Jessie! Are you all right?” Doc broke into Jessie’s moment.
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Jessie emerged from his daze.
“You know what I’ve often thought about?” Doc asked Jessie.
“What?”
“I’ve often thought it would be fun to get down in that old creek bed and poke around sometime. No telling what we might find. You interested?”
“Yes, sir! Doc Grasson, that would be great. Let’s do it now!”
“No, not today. Anything we might find will still be there later.”
Doc walked over to the truck, opened the door and reached under the seat. He pulled out an elongated object wrapped in an old quilt.
“Jessie, I’ve been thinking about it, and I want to give you something.”
He lay the blanket on the ground and unfolded it with great care. Jessie’s heart raced with anticipation. Before Jessie’s eyes appeared a .58 Cal. Springfield musket, ammo belt and canteen.
“My daddy gave them to me. You want them?” Doc asked.
“Do I want them?! Yes!”
“Like I said, my daddy gave them to me, and I’m not getting any younger. So, I figured you might take care of them for me. What ya say?”
“Doc, this is the happiest day of my life. Thank you! Thank you!”
Jessie gave the old country doctor a hug.
“Well, I best be getting you back home. Call old Rover and let’s head back.”
Jessie called out several times for Rover without success.
“Watch this,” Doc Grasson said. He started the Chevy engine with a roar. Rover came running and jumped into the back of the truck. Doc Grasson winked at Jessie. Jessie smiled.
The Tallahatchie River winds through Mississippi like a snake. Most of the time, she’s a peaceful home to raccoons, possums, foxes, an occasional bobcat and man. During heavy rains, the Tallahatchie becomes vicious. Her muddy waters invade towns, fields, homes, and becomes unforgiving. She was sleepy on this afternoon.
Willard pulled the old Ford under a huge oak overlooking the Tallahatchie and disconnected two wires. The engine died.
“Wow! Look at the ole girl, just as friendly as she can be, Willard said. But, let me tell you, that bitch can bite. Me and this other fool went looking for trouble one morning back in the Spring. He traded his brother-in-law a railroad jack for some sort of little old boat. He said it was like what the Indians used to have.” Willard was drunk.
“Anyway, we came over here and put that lil’ old boat in right down there. Willard pointed. Strange thing, though. On Sundays, people crawled this place except on this Sunday. That struck me funny, but we plowed on like idiots and put that boat in the water. Blind leading the blind, I reckon.”
Bully grinned at Willard and sipped on the Wild Cat. He had heard this story twice, but Willard liked to tell it and Bully didn’t mind.
“We hadn’t gone a half mile when I heard this roaring sound. My heart jumped into my throat and sweat broke out all over me. We edged over to the bank and climbed this little bluff. Biggest goddamn waterfall you ever seen. Sleepy ole girl was in an ill mood that day. Well, here is where our senses left us. I wouldn’t blink, and that fool I was with didn’t blink, so the only thing left to do was to go over that fall.We figured. We connived. And we plotted against this ole gal. We figured two fellas smart as we were could out do any lil’ ole fall that this sissy Tallahatchie could throw at us.”
Willard got louder and louder.
“Well, we figured our strategy out to the letter. Dotted every i and crossed every t. Picked the perfect spot. Estimated the correct speed. Secured the supplies and gear. Got back in that boat and shoved off. We came in at the exact angle. Hit that spot perfect. That bitch swallowed us up. Whoosh! Water in the boat. Whoosh! More water in the boat.”
Willard waved his arms around hitting the top of the truck cab and making high water sounds.
“Whoosh! Next thing I know, I’m tossed around under the water like I’m in one of those fancy ringer washing machines. I’m scratching, clawing, and digging, trying to get to the top. My mind’s a racing. I’m thinking, I’m gonna be a mile down this ole river when I come up. Well, I came up and there was that damn waterfall staring me right in the face. I took a half a breath and got sucked right back under. Whoosh! That Tallahatchie gal humbled me. A sober thought hit me: Willard boy, you’re gonna die.”
Willard had sucked Bully into the story, again.
“The strangest thing happened while I was under there. A calm passed over me like I’d never had before. I stared into the face of God or something. A conversation I heard between two ole river rats more than two years ago popped in my head. They were talking ‘bout getting sucked under and stuff. They said to swim to the bottom. I remembered, even though I was drunk. Swim to the bottom. So, I stepped out on blind faith and did it. That ornery ole Tallahatchie spit me out like lukewarm drinking water. I gasped, wheezed, and coughed. When I came to the top. I was naked, except for my daddy’s ring.”
Willard held up his prized turquoise and silver ring.
“I grabbed a tree bent downstream from the current and held on for dear life. I looked back at the fall and could see our little ole boat bobbing up and down like a cork. That angry bitch ate our boat. My buddy got flung over the fall like a rock in a slingshot. He made it to the bank. After I gathered myself, I swam in his direction. I pulled myself out and lay flat on my back for the longest time. My heart raced. I was waterlogged and thankful to be alive. I never will forget the ride home. Life exploded around me. Colors were brilliant, smells washed over me, and I was alive. Every breath is a gift from God. Sometimes, I wish I could live in that moment. Hell, I wish I could get back there. It made me not take things for granted and not sweat the little stuff, Bully.”
“That sure is a good story, Willard. I thought I was in that boat with you for a moment.”
Bully passed Willard the Wild Cat.
“I’m sure glad the ole girl let you go, Willard.” A moment connected the two. They fell silent.
“Bully, let’s get out, stretch our legs and skip a few rocks across the water.”
Willard and Bully made their way down the riverbank Willard ran and Bully hobbled. Willard ran toward Bully with a fishing reel he found on the bank. They practiced casting and rock skipping till their whiskey depleted energy dissipated. Willard helped Bully up the bank and suggested Jessie might like the fishing reel. They made their way back to the old Ford and climbed in. Willard tied the two wires together and hit the starter. The Ford came to life. The sun set on the Tallahatchie. Willard and Bully headed for Lee County and home.
Francina awoke to her mother’s screaming and yelling at Alice Fae. Miss Lillian’s claim of being “high strung” proved correct, during times of duress. However, Francina felt for Alice Fae. Since returning from Europe, Francina loathed her mother’s outbursts and felt protective of her. Alice Fae seemed to have no protective barrier between herself and the world and Miss Lillian made up a large part of her world. Each incident became a frontal assault with Alice Fae wilting under the fire, but Miss Lillian had no tolerance for weakness in herself or in others. She wanted to change it or kill it.
Francina waited until Alice Fae disappeared around the curve to ask her mother to join her in the parlor.
“Mother, may I talk to you concerning something that is bothering me very much?” Francina expressed firmness in her voice.
“Sure, dear.
I don’t have a lot of time. Jarvis and Cleo are expecting me to meet them at the cotton gin before dark.”
“Mother,” Francina chose her words with caution, “why do you treat Alice Fae so bad?”
“What do you mean, Francina? Get to the point.”
“I feel so sorry for Alice Fae. I wish you would treat her better.”
Miss Lillian sat on the edge of her seat. “Francina, Alice Fae is nothing but white trash. She has always been white trash, and she will die white trash. Her husband is white trash and that snotty nose kid of her’s is white trash. You have more to concern yourself with than to be fretting over the likes of Alice Fae.”
“Mamma, you treat Killer better than you treat Alice Fae.”
“Killer’s got more sense than Alice Fae.”
“Mother be kind,” Francina chastised her mother.
“Look, Francina, you need to be concerning yourself with meeting a nice boy, getting married, and having babies. Not fretting over the likes of simple-minded white trash like Alice Fae.”
“Mother, what young man would risk getting past you and Killer to court me?”
“Francina, you are the prettiest girl in Lee County. Men will be lining up at the door soon as word spreads of your return from Europe. Now, I’ve got to go, Francina. You work at staying pretty and let me handle the black and white trash on this farm.”
Miss Lillian rose, kissed Francina on the cheek and rushed out.
Darkness pervaded the Mississippi landscape. Bully and Willard made their way home. The Wild Cat worked, and the old Ford droned. Willard turned into Bully’s drive. He hit the mailbox. It went flying but neither Bully or Willard noticed. Bully opened the door and fell on the ground. Rover pounced. He licked Bully’s face and pulled on his shirt. Willard laughed, tossed the rod and reel onto the ground and circled the house with the Ford’s accelerator to the floor. He got sideways near the south corner of Bully’s house and hit Alice Fae’s clothesline. Sheets went flying and the hens in the coop started squawking. Willard hit second gear when the Ford rounded the house. Rover released Bully and hit the cotton patch behind the house, running. He raced the old Ford to the plum bushes. Bully heard Willard screaming and yelling. Tail lights faded around the curve.
Mud Creek Page 8
