The Carroll Farm Fight

by Greg Hunt

  “Believe that if you want to,” Mel told him. “But the fact is, I’ve got no place else to go. What’s in the pot tonight?”

  “We cleaned you out last night, so now we’re back to eating what we brought with us.” The cook scraped some other man’s leavings out of a dented metal plate onto the ground, then filled it with a big ladle from the huge iron pot. “Salt pork, cabbage and potatoes,” he said.

  “I’ve had worse,” Mel said.

  “Don’t be so sure of that until you try it,” the cook laughed. After this long day of fighting and death, he seemed to be the only one in camp who still enjoyed his work.

  Mel carried his plate and spoon over to the patch of ground beside the road that somebody had decided to turn into a graveyard. Long mounds of dirt marked the spot where many of the day’s casualties had already been buried side-by-side in shallow trenches. A crew was digging another trench while a score or more of its future occupants were laid out on the ground nearby, waiting patiently for eternity.

  In the flickering light of the kerosene lamps that dimly lit the area, Mel stood eating his dinner and looking at the dead men. Their wounds were varied and most were grisly examples of the many ways that a little lead ball could steal a man’s life away. One man had a severed leg laying across his chest, and despite the oddity, Mel decided that he approved of that. If it was him, he’d want to be buried with all his parts, even if some of them weren’t attached anymore.

  It was curious, he thought, that when you looked at a dead man, it was hard to believe that this thing had ever been alive, walking, talking, eating, sleeping, thinking. Daddy had told him it was because the spark was gone—the soul.

  Mel guessed he was right. Three years back when he had nursed his father through six long, pain-filled weeks of dying, every day had been a tribulation to both of them. It was horrible watching what the old man suffered through, and more than once he had been tempted to end it for him. But he kept reminding himself that God was at work here, and he would end it in his own time.

  Then one day when he woke from one of those deep, troubled naps that passed for rest back then, he realized the room was still. No more gasps of breath into old worn-out lungs, no more moans and sobs of pain, no more broken, delirious conversations with a wife already dead for so long.

  Mel knew he was alone in the cabin, although Daddy’s body still lay only a few feet away. The father he had loved, learned from, fought with, and tenderly nursed in his last days, was gone. And what was left cooling, stinking and still on the cot was just the useless leftovers, needing only to be dressed up, read over, and put into the ground.

  It was the same for these men here. Whatever they had been before, sons, husbands, fathers, fine men or scoundrels, Holy Rollers or heathens, didn’t make much difference tonight. The meat and bone all went into the same trench.

  After eating, Mel wandered back up the toward the cabin. He talked a cook out of a tin cup of coffee, then sat on a big rock to drink it.

  He was still having trouble believing what had become of his simple life and his simple little farm since that morning only three days before when those three men rode into his yard and ended up shooting Belle. He wondered how Daddy would have dealt with all this mess and disruption. Knowing how that tough old frontiersman was, he probably would have raised enough of a ruckus to get himself shot or hung, or at least tied, gagged, and put out of the way somewhere until it was time for this bunch to pull out.

  The last mouthful of coffee was full of grounds, and he spit it into the dirt. It was time to turn in. It wasn’t that late, but farming folk used to working from can to can’t six days a week could generally fall asleep anytime the sun was down and their head hit a pillow.

  “Mr. Carroll, I’ve been looking for you.”

  Mel recognized the voice and turned to see Major Elliott walking down the hill toward him.

  “I wondered if you made it through the fight,” Mel said. “I hadn’t seen you since midday. I was afraid you caught one.”

  “I did, early on, but not as bad as some,” Elliott said. In the light of a nearby campfire, he looked ten years older than he had that morning. His shoulder wound had bled through its filthy dressing, and the uniform that had been clean and crisp yesterday was a wreck now.

  “Is that okay?” Elliott asked, pointing to the cheesecloth around Mel’s arm.

  “Only a nick,” Mel said. “But I’d be obliged if you could take me into my cabin long enough to change the dressing.”

  “I could ask our doctor to look at it. He was my neighbor back home in Searcy.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mel said. “I went by that smokehouse where he’s been working, and I don’t want anything to do with that place. I figure I might as well burn it down after you’re through with it and out of here.”

  “That might not be soon, Mr. Carroll,” Elliott advised. “We’ve been ordered to hold this position at any cost to deny the enemy the use of that road. We’re supposed to have reinforcements moving up tonight or tomorrow. I hope they get here before the enemy has at us again tomorrow.”

  “Well, I guess I won’t be here to see that fight. This afternoon I was talking to a fellow from the other side who came out to pick up the dead. He told me there had been another big fight at another farm over west of here, a bad one, so he said. I think that farm might belong to a neighbor of mine, Ezekiel Adderly. So I guess I’ll head over that way at first light tomorrow and check on them.”

  “I can understand your concern for your neighbors, but heading west is not a good idea,” Elliott said soberly. “They’re still going at it over there, and you’re bound to run into soldiers any way you try, especially by the road. No matter which side you ran into, it probably wouldn’t go well for you.”

  Mel considered the major’s warning, then quickly made up his mind. “I guess I’m bound to try,” he said. “There’s a girl in that family. Her name is Rochelle, and I need to know what’s become of her.”

  A faint smile came to Elliott’s face, and he nodded his head. “I understand. I have a wife and three little ones back home myself, and if I got word that anything might have happened to them . . .”

  Mel wasn’t sure whether Elliott had choked on his words, or whether he had stopped because he couldn’t allow thoughts like those into his head right now.

  “But the fact is,” the major said, “your chances of surviving the trip would be poor. Our information is spotty because some of our scouts have disappeared. We at least know that General Willard got a shellacking two days ago, but he’s not whipped yet. He’s still fighting, and those northern boys are still hot after him. If you start west right now, you’ll be heading into a hornet’s nest.”

  Mel didn’t say anything, but he was thinking of the back-country trails and valleys he might follow to the Adderly place. The road might be faster and easier, but it wasn’t the only route to where he wanted to go.

  “But there’s another reason why we can’t let you leave just yet,” Elliott said. “We need your help here.”

  “No, sir, I won’t take sides in this,” Mel said firmly. “I don’t even know what it’s all about, but I have an idea that if I did pick a side, it wouldn’t be yours.”

  “That might be, Mr. Carroll, but I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

  “A man’s always got choices,” Mel said. “Even when none of them are any damn good.”

  “Two weeks ago in a little town called Jefferson,” Elliott said, “a man named Goings refused to accept an on-demand note for his horses and mules. He told Colonel Mayfield it was cash or no deal. A few minutes later, when they couldn’t come to terms, the colonel had Goings taken out into the street and shot. This is a mean struggle we’re in, Mr. Carroll, and life is cheap. I’d hate to see you lose yours standing up for something that’s not worth the price you’ll have to pay.”

  Mel said nothing. What was there to say?

  “We won’t ask you to fight,” Elliott said. “We need your
help putting some men in place in those woods down along the valley. Those sharpshooters worked us over pretty good yesterday, and we’d like to make sure that doesn’t happen again tomorrow when the fight starts to heat up.”

  Mel considered that. It didn’t seem worth putting his life on the line to say no. If things started going bad, he could always lose the men he was guiding, and then he’d be on his own in his home woods.

  “There are some trails Daddy and I used when we deer hunted,” he told Elliott. “We liked to be at the stand at first light when the deer strayed out into the valley to feed.”

  “Do they pass by where those sharpshooters were yesterday?”

  “Close enough. I could lead your boys right down into the belly of the beast if you had a mind.”

  “Something tells me we might already be there,” the major said tiredly.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mel retrieved his shotgun before they left, and no one objected. There were about twenty men in the group he was to lead, grim-faced and quiet, knowing what a risky excursion this would be. They’d be squared off against expert marksmen with better weapons than theirs, in the dark on unknown ground, and once the day’s fighting started, they’d be out there on their own between the two armies.

  Major Elliott told him that all the men in the party were volunteers. Mel didn’t bother to point out that it wasn’t exactly true. He hadn’t volunteered.

  At least they had been able to get a few hours of sleep before the moon came up. Mel guessed that early dawn was still about two hours off, plenty of time to move down through the woods to the area where the snipers had set up yesterday.

  He led the men into the woods toward what he and Daddy called the Dogleg Trail, which followed the meandering downhill path of a creek northeast at first, then after a sharp crook, back toward White Tail Valley. It was an ancient trail, probably used by game and Indians centuries before the first white man found his way into these parts. Mel chose it over a more direct route because it was easy to follow even in the faint speckled moonlight.

  He kept the pace easy to keep the noise down, but from time to time he still heard the men in the line behind him stumbling around in the dark, falling occasionally and cursing under their breath.

  The man in charge was a young lieutenant named Turnipseed, which was a hell of a name for a man so small, spindly and downright irritating to have to carry around, Mel thought. Mel didn’t like him from the start, but then he really didn’t need to. After tonight he was pretty sure they would never meet up again on this earth, and he figured he could put up with even this high-toned little jackass for a few hours if it meant putting this job behind him.

  The lieutenant repeatedly demanded reassurances from Mel that they were on the right track and that they would get there on time. Despite Mel’s warnings to keep quiet, Turnipseed kept reprimanding his men in harsh whispers for one small foul-up or another. The others seemed to barely tolerate him because he had the rank, and not because any of them felt any true respect for him.

  Mel stopped the group every few minutes to let the woods go quiet around them. The worst outcome he could think of would be to stumble onto a group of enemy soldiers unawares, and him right up front with no choice but to fight for his life. During each pause he surveyed the woods around them, seeking any sight, sound or smell that wasn’t part of the native forest. Turnipseed was impatient with the stops, clearly eager to reach their destination and start shooting at somebody.

  When they had followed the faint pathway northwest for long enough, Mel led them off the trail, moving due west now, toward the area where the snipers had been yesterday. Even in the near dark, Mel could move quietly, but some of the men behind him weren’t as skilled. At last he paused the group again and knelt to have a whispered conference with Lieutenant Turnipseed.

  “The woods end about a hundred yards west of here,” Mel explained, pointing off in the darkness. “We’d best stop here and wait for better light before we move in closer. If there’s anybody up there already, it’ll only take one of these men stumbling over a root and falling down to let them know we’re close by.”

  “My orders are to proceed to the edge of the valley under cover of darkness,” Turnipseed said, “and take up position to ambuscade the enemy sharpshooters when they arrive.” He seemed determined to look, sound and act like a soldier, even if he was only a scarecrow kid.

  “That’s some dandy orders,” Mel said, “as long as you’re certain they didn’t get here before you did. But what if they’re already there, up in the trees someplace with those long rifles of theirs, and one of these here clubfooted men steps in a rabbit hole or trips over his tallywhacker?”

  “We need to be closer,” Turnipseed said doggedly. “How can we set up an ambuscade if we stop back here?”

  “I understand that you’ve got orders,” Mel said. “But your men aren’t exactly slipping through the woods like bobcats, mister. Maybe your orders don’t fit this place and time, and you need to make a new plan.”

  “That ain’t how it works in the army,” the lieutenant said with annoyance. “When a superior officer gives you an order, you don’t change it whenever it suits you.”

  “Even if it might keep you alive, and those that are with you?”

  “No, sir, not even then.”

  “Then I guess there’s a whole lot I don’t understand about soldiering,” Mel admitted. But he didn’t argue any more. If the leader of this bunch didn’t know smart advice when it reached out and slapped him, then there was not much Mel could do. Except stay out of it, of course.

  Turnipseed turned away from him and sent word down the line for the men to take a few minutes of rest, and then prepare to move forward.

  Mel found a soft patch of moss under a big chestnut tree and settled back to relax. To his way of thinking, his job here was about done. He had led the soldiers to the place they wanted to be. When they moved up to set their trap, or to spring their enemy’s trap, he would just sit here and wait for them. Whether they succeeded or failed didn’t make a whole lot of difference to him, but he had a notion that he wouldn’t be leading nearly as many men back up the hill to his farm as he had led down here.

  Despite the purpose, he felt good being in a place where he had passed so many contented hours in his life. The damp predawn air, the complicated mix of fresh forest odors, the sounds of birds and insects—all conspired to stir old feelings and memories.

  Daddy started taking him hunting when he was so little that raising a rifle to his shoulder and pulling the trigger taxed his courage and his young abilities to their extremes. He killed his first deer when he was five, with daddy holding the barrel to steady it while Mel peered excitedly down the sights and pulled the trigger. The recoil nearly broke his shoulder, but he made the kill. By eight he was tromping through these woods by himself, kicking rabbits out of the thickets and plinking squirrels out of the hickory trees.

  For families like theirs, hunting wasn’t for sport. It put meat on the table when otherwise there might not be any. Together he and his father had hunted the deep woods surrounding their home for so long that eventually, with only a few hand signals, and even fewer words, they functioned as a smooth, effective team.

  The hunt he remembered best was the last one he and Daddy went out on, before the pain in Daddy’s belly controlled his life and he took to bleeding out of places where a man wasn’t supposed to bleed. They had set out early on one of those chilly, late fall mornings when the mountain meadows were silver with frost and a layer of ice as thin as satin lay on the surface of the ponds. Both of them carried long guns, and Daddy had his sidearm strapped on. They had butchered a hog a few days before and meat was curing in the smokehouse, so there was no great urgency to bring home food. But still it was wise to salt and cure as much deer jerky as possible in preparation for the long winter months ahead. Some to eat, and extra to give away if the need arose. That was the family rule.

  They followed their customary rou
te down Dogleg Trail, and Mel patiently matched his pace to Daddy’s slower, painful gait. Daddy was fifty-two that year, which was into old age in these parts where hard work and hard circumstances wore a man out early. The rheumatism in his hips had bothered him for years, and now his knees were starting to fail him. But the real pain, the one that worried them most, the one they never talked about, was deep in his belly.

  Daddy was too prideful a man to ever talk about it, or even acknowledge the pain. But Mel noticed it from time to time, and when he did the sadness and dread pricked some raw nerve inside him. Mother had passed on four years earlier at forty-six, suddenly and mercifully while she was hoeing the vegetable garden. But Mel had a feeling that his daddy would not be so lucky.

  During that morning hunt, Daddy sat on a log and emptied himself onto the forest floor. When Mel got a glimpse of the coal-black waste, streaked with lines of fresh red blood, he knew something frightening and odious was happening inside the old man’s gut.

  Mother had passed on her belief to Mel that every day the Lord let a body walk on his earth was a good day. In the Good Book, she said, God told them not to worry because if he was watching out for every little bird in the forest, wouldn’t he take even better care of mankind, his masterpiece? Mel liked that philosophy and had always believed it helped put hard times in perspective. But when a man had blood in his dung, and moaned out in pain in the middle of the night, it made it a lot harder to cling to high-sounding Bible teachings.

  That morning when he and Daddy settled into their stand at the edge of White Tail Valley, the first spackling of sunlight was just starting to slant through the trees behind them. The low thick fog that blanketed the open meadow was so delicate that when a bird flew near the ground above it, it stirred and swirled like steam over a boiling pot.

  A quarter mile down the valley a dozen or more deer grazed near the tree line on the far side of the valley. The buck was a fine husky animal, a ten or twelve pointer, Mel guessed, although he was too far away to actually count the prongs on his rack.