Don't Hang My Friend

by Raffensperger, John;

  Dr. Steele glared at the crowd. “There’s nothing more to see. Go on home, mind your own business.” He collapsed on a straight-backed chair. “You did a fine job and can let go now,” he said.

  I leaned against the wall and wiped sweat out of my eyes. That operation was about the scariest thing I ever saw but it was interesting and beat labeling medicine bottles.

  “Kid, is there anyplace I could get a glass of whiskey on credit?”

  “Yes sir, at Friday’s saloon.”

  I’d no more got into the alley when Mr. Farnum came out of the back door of the saloon and scurried down the alley. He was a banker, taught Sunday school and wasn’t supposed to take strong drink.

  It was noisy inside the saloon, but one voice boomed out over all the others. I’m gonna git that sumbitch that shot my dog and then run those slaves out of the county.”

  Murphy was a big thick man with a deep scar across his forehead that he claimed had been made by a rebel bullet. Some folks said he had been a Reb but had traded gray for blue when things got too hot for the South. Others claimed that all he had ever done was steal chickens from southern widows or chase runaway slaves. His black beard was greasy and his patched, faded blue pants and red flannel shirt was dirty..

  I scrunched down by the back door and waved to Mr. Friday. “Can I have a glass of whisky for the new doctor? You can charge it to Pa,” I said.

  He got the bottle and a glass while I snitched a sip of beer. Murphy grabbed a handful of hair and bent my head back. “You gittin’ a whisky for that sumbitch that shot my dog?”

  His face was so close I could see the red lines in his eyes and the gray pits from burned gunpowder in his face. The smell of corn whiskey and tobacco made me want to throw up. He shook my head until I saw stars. I swore that I would get even, if I had to shoot him. “Let him go. He’s a good boy,” said Mr. Friday.

  Murphy gave me one last shake and went back to his friends. I wouldn’t ever forget that ugly face.

  When I got back, Rachel moaned and moved on the table, while Doc Steele held her leg. When she calmed down, the brothers lifted her onto a board and carried her to their wagon. Doc set on the chair and took the whiskey down in one gulp. Pretty soon, he stood up and followed the brothers out to the street.

  They laid her on a pile of straw on the wagon bed under an awning her pa had rigged to keep off the sun. She woke up but her eyes were fuzzy. Someday, I would tell her I helped save her leg and she would give me a big kiss.

  Murphy came out of the saloon, carrying a Henry repeating rifle that could shoot fifteen shots without reloading. All of a sudden the street was empty except for the doctors and the Bontragers. Mr. Farnum looked out the window of the bank with a little smile on his face.

  Murphy and his rowdy friends surrounded Dr. Steele.

  “You gonna pay for killing my dog?” Murphy asked.

  “I killed that dog because he was mad with hydrophobia and was about to bite this little girl,” Doc Steele said.

  “You lie. Ain’t nothing wrong with that dog. He was a full-blooded Walker hound out of Tennessee and worth fifty dollars. Go on, go fer that pistol, or ain’t you man enough to draw.” Murphy spit tobacco juice. “Dog killer, Nigger lover,” said he.

  Mr. Birt came out of the newspaper office with Tim Morton, the town constable who lost a leg at Shiloh.

  Dr. Steele didn’t make a move toward his pistol. I figured he was scared or yellow. The constable didn’t have a gun, but he limped over and took hold of the Henry rifle. Murphy kicked his wooden leg out from under him and Tim landed in the dirt.

  Murphy aimed at the doctor and pulled back the hammer of the rifle. Before he could fire, Mr. Birt, who had been a captain in the 47th Illinois Infantry, grabbed the rifle. “Damn you, damn you good for nothing scoundrel, put down that gun.”

  It was just like magic, the way a little two-barrel Derringer pistol appeared in Mr. Birt’s left hand. Murphy’s face turned red with a look of absolute outrage, but he lowered the rifle and his men backed away.

  “You sumbitch. You ain’t gonna get away with killin’ my dog.” Murphy glared at me. “You, boy, you been helpin’ that damn dog killer. None of you’s getting away with this.”

  He raised the rifle and fired. There was a ‘clang’ and the weather vane on the roof of Pa’ store spun around. It was a damn fine shot, especially for a man who had been drinking. The gang unhitched their horses and went on down towards the ferry landing. Murphy rode an uncommonly handsome black stallion with a white patch on his face.

  The doctor went back to the wagon like his feet were made out of lead and felt Rachel’s pulse. Widow Parker came bustling out of her rooming house and asked for her fifty cents.

  “I ain’t got any money,” Doc Steele said.

  Old man Bontrager fished five dimes out of a big leather purse and dropped one coin at a time into her hand. “Ain’t thirty cents enough?” Widow Parker scowled and shook her head. Bontrager looked at the dimes, like they was made out of gold and gave her two more coins. “Now, doctor how much do I owe you?” He asked. “I could use enough for a few meals and a night’s lodging. When the leg heals, we can talk about the fee,” said Dr. Steele.

  Old man Bontrager took two silver dollars out of his bag. “Will this be enough?”

  “Three would be better.”

  Chapter Two

  The Bontrager boys got up on the wagon, turned the team around and drove off to their farm, twelve miles west of town. The sun was lower now and even the one-story buildings cast long shadows. A breeze sprung up from the river and cooled the air. It was the nicest time of day.

  The dust slowly settled while farm people drifted over to the park to spread quilts and put out baskets of food. They would have supper and stay for the band concert, then go back home in moonlight.

  Dr. Steele, in his hat and coat with his two bags, stood in the middle of the street, jingling the three silver dollars and watching the Bontragers’ wagon until it turned the corner and disappeared. I felt empty and forlorn, like an angel food cake that went flat.

  “Where can I find a room for the night?” Dr. Steele asked.

  “Widow Parker’s the cheapest, but if you want dinner and breakfast, the Camp House is best,” said I.

  Mr. Birt and the Duke brothers shook Dr. Steele’s hand.

  “We’re much obliged to you for shootin’ that mad dog. It would please us to buy you a drink and dinner. The Camp House puts on a good feed,” Mr. Birt said.

  The Camp House, about the finest hotel this side of Chicago, had indoor toilets and running water so folks didn’t have to use an outhouse. People had drinks on the big porch and watched the river roll by. Even on the hottest evenings, there was always a nice breeze off the water. The Camps served elegant food, too. For fifty cents you could get steak and turtle soup and all the pie you could eat.

  I walked Pa home and held his arm because he had consumption and was weak after a day in the store. He was all excited about the operation on account of he had once wanted to be a regular doctor before he learned chemistry and the apothecary business. He had to stop and cough about every other step.

  “Pa, did you ever hear of carbolic acid?”

  “It’s an organic acid, but I never heard of using it as a medicine.”

  When we got home and washed up, Pa rested before supper. Aunt Alice had fixed fried chicken, mashed potatoes and garden greens because Saturday night was special. We ate and then Pa got ready for bed.

  “Can I go to the band concert?” I asked

  Pa waved his hand. “Ask your Aunt Alice.”

  “Do you know your Sunday school lesson?” Aunt Alice asked.

  “I looked at it.”

  “Recite the Bible verse.”

  “I knowed it, but I forgot.”

  “You better stay home and study.”

  “Aw, I can get up early in the morning and learn everything in no time.”

  Aunt Alice turned down the corners of her mouth. “Go
on with you, but get up early and study.”

  I ran past the park where the band was tuning up for the concert. People had spread quilts and were settled in to hear the music. The younger boys squirted mouths full of artesian well water at the girls and some of the older fellows were flirting. It would have been fun to stay for the concert and make eyes at the girls, but I didn’t want to flirt with no other girl but Rachel.

  I sneaked down an alley and across lots until I came to the side of the Camp house. The dining room was lit up bright as day with oil lamps, and two Negro women were clearing away the dishes. I had hoped to talk with the new doctor and look at his revolver. It would be perfect for fighting Indians. I scrunched down under the lilac bushes just before they came out of the dining room, settled into rocking chairs on the porch and lit up seegars. I was glad for the smoke because the skeeters were buzzing around real bad. One bit my leg.

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “There’s a boy down in the bushes. Get up, where we can see you,” Mr. Birt said.

  I stood up, ashamed and scared they would send me away or tell Pa.

  “That’s the boy who helped with the operation. He was a right good assistant. Come up here,” Doc Steele said.

  “Why that’s Tom Slocum. He’s a good boy, brings my medicine right regular,” said Mr. Birt.

  I went around to the steps and then along the porch and stood right next to the doctor.

  “Well, Tom Slocum, sit down and be comfortable. Like lemonade?” The doctor asked.

  “Yes sir, lemonade would be fine.” I sat real still with my hands folded in my lap. The men went on talking and didn’t pay me no attention. Isaiah, wearing a black coat, white shirt and a string tie, brought a tray of juleps and a glass of cold lemonade. The old darky was as elegant as any man in Sandy Ford, but in the lamplight, you could hardly make out his features on account of his blackness seemed to swallow the light. He stood straight and just as dignified and brave as any soldier. He was with Captain Trimmer all through the war until the Captain got killed. No telling how old he was, but there was perfectly white hair like a rim of frost around his nearly bald head. Folks liked Isaiah, mainly on account of he always said “yassah” or “nosa”. He was a good darky and fixed the best juleps in town.

  I took a long thirsty drink of the lemonade. It was cold and tart and about the best drink I ever had. The talk wasn’t much different from the farmers down by the horse trough.

  “Times are going to be hard this winter on account of the drought and bad crops,” Mr. Birt said.

  Pete Duke blew a ring of smoke. “It ain’t the weather, it’s on account of Grant is takin’ such good care of his Republican friends in Washington,” said he,

  “Don’t you blame Grant. It’s all these Negroes that come north to take land and jobs from white folks. It’s the fault of people like that Missus Trimmer and her damn husband that gave land to the darkies,” Mr. Farnum said.

  “Those folks pay their bills like everyone else and John Trimmer freed his slaves when he came up from Virginia, long before the war,” Bill Duke said.

  I was still as a mouse and hoped Mr. Farnum wouldn’t tell Aunt Alice I was at the Camp House instead of the concert. Hardly anyone ever talked against the banker. He was an upright man and held mortgages on land all over the county, even on our house and the store. Folks just had to trust him. I didn’t know what to think. It did seem strange that those ex-slaves had property just like white people. Miz Trimmer let us boys hunt rabbits and treated us and the darky children just like we were all her own folks..

  “Them Negroes ain’t got any right to that good bottom land. It’s time we sent them back south,” Mr. Farnum said.

  Mr. Farnum talked like Isaiah wasn’t even there. The old darky stood still as a statue while the banker’s face got red as a ripe tomato and his jowls shook.

  “I woulda swore your pistol was a Navy Colt,” Mr. Farnum said.

  “Yes sir, a .44 caliber Navy,” Dr. Steele said.

  “Bedford Forrest’s men used Navy Colts. Were you a Reb?”

  Doc Steele finished his julep and raised one finger toward Old Isaiah. “What difference does it make? The war is over.”

  Mr. Farnum leaned and spit. The tobacco juice splattered next to Dr. Steele’s boot.

  “Makes a difference to some folks. A lot of Illinois boys didn’t come back from the war.”

  Doc Steele swallowed down the whole glass of julep and raised his finger again.

  “It was a damn fool war in the first place, should never have happened,” said he.

  Mr. Farnum jowls quivered and spit glistened on his fat lower lip. The big old watch chain that was stretched across his middle jiggled when he rose up out of his chair with a hickory walking stick in his hand.

  “You must be a damn Reb, a son of a bitch, I got half a mind to whip you.”

  Mr. Birt, who every moment of his life suffered pain in the stump of the arm he lost at Shiloh, pushed his good hand against Mr. Farnum’s chest. “ Edson, sit down. We don’t know anything about the doctor and you got no cause to make trouble.”

  Dr. Steele looked off across the river, like ghosts walked in the mists. That made the second time he had been insulted and didn’t do anything or even talk back. If this is what doctoring did to a man, I was all for going west to fight Injuns.

  Mr. Farnum sat back down. It was all quiet for a spell. I finished the lemonade and couldn’t help myself. “Could I see your revolver?”

  “It’s up in my room,” the doctor said.

  “Did ya have it in the war?” I asked.

  It was so quiet you could hear the frogs and crickets chirpin’. After a spell, the doctor put down his julep. I could hardly make out his voice. It was like he was whispering to himself and didn’t want nobody else to hear.

  “I got it on June the third, 1864 at Cold Harbor.”

  I ain’t never heard of Cold Harbor, but even though there wasn’t a breath of wind, I felt a chill, and the hair on the back of my neck went up. The doctor took another long drink. Seemed to me he was drinkin’ pretty heavy. Most men, after a couple juleps talked like they had a mouthful of oatmeal, but when he startin’ in again his voice was clear and cold, like a day in January. I had the feeling he didn’t want to talk about it, but maybe it was because of Mr. Farnum.

  “I joined the 19th Indiana a week after Mr. Lincoln called for volunteers,” Dr. Steele said.

  “That was the Iron Brigade. Not many Indiana soldiers made it home,” said Mr. Birt.

  Dr. Steele’s hands trembled and his voice quivered. “Yes, I was lucky to get home. Grant killed those poor boys, no, not killed, it was cold blooded murder. It was in May. He figured the Rebs was done for and he could take Richmond so the Republicans would nominate Lincoln again. Before he could take Richmond, Grant had to get past Robert Lee and he didn’t know Lee. No union army ever beat Lee when his soldiers were behind cover. Those Rebs were up on a little ridge in holes behind logs and fence poles, so you couldn’t see nothin’ but musket flashes and smoke. There were swamps and ravines and thickets of brush between our lines and their trenches. Every Union soldier knew it was suicide to go up that ridge. We were plum wore out from marchin’ in the hot sun and eatin’ nothing put putrid salt pork and drinkin’ foul water. We got beat on the second, then Meade ordered a long march in the rain and we didn’t get no sleep. The officers got us up before daylight without even coffee and ordered us to charge through the swamps and up a hill to drive the Rebs out of their holes. The bugles blew, the boys yelled and tried to run but the ground was sticky with mud and men tripped and fell.”

  I raised my hand. Dr. Steele stopped talking and sipped more julep. “I hope I get to charge like that, against the Injuns,” I said. Dr. Steele paid no notice to my outburst.

  “The Rebs fired double loaded grape and canister when we were a hundred yards from their lines. The guts flew out from the fellow in front of me and the next man had his head blown off and another lost an arm
.” Dr. Steele said.

  “What happened, what happened next?” I asked. “We took the first trench and the Rebs ran off.”

  I thought he was done, but he put his head between his hands. “I was jamming home a new load when this young Reb, no older than this boy, roused up from five feet away and aimed a pistol at my chest. I pushed the bayonet into his belly. He pulled the trigger, but his pistol wasn’t loaded. He whimpered like a baby while I held him in my arms and gave him a drink of water. That boy didn’t have any hair on his face and was skinny as a rail. He said the gun had belonged to his pa who got killed in ’62 at Malvern Hill and asked me to give the pistol to his younger brother. There was a letter, too, and a picture of his mother.” That poor little boy wasn’t my enemy. The Rebs weren’t bad people. They prayed to the same God and cried with the same pain as our men. Those abolitionist preachers and the rich men who manufactured the guns and the uniforms and even the shovels used to bury the dead were the enemy.”

  He sat real still, slumped down. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  Mr. Birt rubbed his eyes. “Well, there is more, tell us the rest, get it off your chest,” said he.

  “The Rebs came back, yellin’ and screamin’ and firing from a second trench. We turned and ran back to our lines. I tripped and fell behind a stump and listened to minie balls thunkin into our soldiers. That night, I crawled through a little gully and got back down to our lines all the time thinking that Grant was a butcher and that damn fool, Lincoln, didn’t have to start the war. Not a one of those Reb boys owned a slave and the slaves weren’t better off after the damn war.”

  Mr. Farnum came straight up out of his chair holding the hickory stick over his head.. “Damn you sir! That’s treason, no one can talk against Grant and Lincoln in my presence.”

  The doctor didn’t make a move. Mr. Birt grabbed the banker’s arm. “Edson, Grant is no saint and the doctor might even be right about Lincoln. You go on home before someone gets hurt,” he said.

  Mr. Birt never even raised his voice. He was the only one who dared talk back to the banker. Pa said Mr. Birt was the moral conscience of the town. I never knew what he meant until that moment. I sort of agreed with Mr. Farnum about Grant and Lincoln, but Mr. Birt had been a hero at Shiloh and wrote what he pleased in the paper. The banker had stayed home during the war.