Don't Hang My Friend

by Raffensperger, John;

  Captain John Trimmer

  Army of Northern Virginia

  April 6, 1812 –July 2, 1863

  Over to one side were markers for Young Isaiah and little Ike. There was a law against burying Negroes next to white folk, but this was family. It was the right thing to do, no matter what people said. The first rays of sunshine lit up the trees when they lowered her coffin into the newly dug grave. The Negroes and Bessie and me got down on our knees, but Old Isaiah stood straight as a soldier and held his proud old head like he was seeing the face of God up there in the sky. “Miz Trimmer was a good, kind woman who freed us slaves and brought us to this promised land. She is in heaven with her Captain,” he said. Isaiah didn’t sound like a “yassah, nossah” ex slave but like a strong man, standing on his own two feet, talking directly to God. Bessie clutched my hand and cried hard, maybe because her own father and the town preachers refused to let Miz Trimmer into church when she gave land to the Negroes.

  Old Isaiah recited from memory without even looking at a Bible.

  “For you shall go out in joy,

  And be led forward in peace;

  The mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing,

  and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

  Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress;

  instead of the briar shall come up the myrtle;

  and it shall be to the Lord for a memorial,

  for an everlasting sign which shall not be cut off.”

  Bessie had a tight hold on my hand and rocked back and forth. “That’s from Isaiah fifty-five,” she said.

  When the grave was filled, Obediah got on the back of the wagon and blew a high sweet note on an old bugle. Zebediah strummed a banjo so fast you couldn’t see his fingers on the strings. Folks began to sing and the children danced. I felt like singing and jigging too. A happy feeling came over me. Miz Trimmer was with her captain in a better place. Maybe, this was how religion was supposed to make people feel.

  When we got back to the cabins, Odette was still out of her head. Doc carried her to the wagon and put her on a pile of straw. Isaiah drove them back to town. I followed in the buggy with Bessie and the boy, Michele.

  “Tom, I got a message for you from Rachel,” Bessie said.

  “Is she married yet?

  “No. Her ma said that if she gets healed, it is a sign from God that Rachel isn’t supposed to be married yet. The man she was to marry got tired of waiting and called off the betrothal. Rachel says to tell you she might get to go to school.”

  That was powerful good news but first, I had a duty to take care of John Trimmer’s papers that gave his land to the Negro family. When we got back to town, I ran into the newspaper office and gave the papers to Mr. Birt. He promised to see Judge Parsons that very day. He did it, too.

  When we got home, Doc carried Odette into a room, just as gentle as he would a newborn baby. “Aunt Alice, make tea and soup,” he said.

  After she was settled in bed, he caressed her face, smoothed her hair and tried to force brandy into her mouth, all at the same time.

  Aunt Alice pushed him out of the way. “You, Tom, take the doctor to the kitchen. There’s coffee on the stove and fresh apple pie. Give some to that poor old darky and the little boy.”

  Isaiah, the boy and Doc sat around the kitchen table while I sliced the pie into four pieces. There was also a chunk of cheese and milk. Doc had coffee with a good dose of whisky. We all dug in and in no time, the pie and cheese was gone. Isaiah sat back and rubbed his stomach. “I din’t know you white folks et so good.”

  The boy hadn’t said a word, but perked up when Doc cut the second pie into four big slices. “No use in letting this pie go to waste.”

  We finished the pie and the boy drank another glass of fresh milk. Then his head went down. He went sound asleep.

  “Fix a bed for him in your room,” Doc said, “and find a place for Old Isaiah.”

  I made up a pallet of quilts for the boy and put Old Isaiah in the spare room. He settled in, closed his eyes and slept. He was mighty easy for a man who came close to swingin’ from a rope.

  Aunt Alice washed Odette and put her into a nightgown, like she was her own child. “The girl has wood ticks full of blood all over her body,” she said.

  Doc bowed his head and locked his hands together like he was praying. “She has brain fever and doesn’t have much chance,” he said in a low, tired voice. He was just about wore out after seeing sick folks every day and most nights since the diphtheria epidemic started. There was no rest because Billy Malone and his pa came into the yard, leading another horse, carrying a man who looked pretty much the worse for wear.

  “Where you all been?” I asked Billy.

  “We follered the gang most all night until they swam their horses across the river and we lost the trail. This one got throwed from his horse and is bad hurt,” Billy said.

  The young fellow screamed like he was about to die when we carried him into the house. One of his shoulders was dislocated and he had a bunch of busted ribs.

  I gave him a whiff of ether. Doc took off his shoe, put his stocking foot in the man’s armpit and pulled on the arm. There was a loud “pop” when the bone went back into its socket. We bound up his arm and chest while he came out of the ether.

  I could tell Doc was bone tired, but I asked him, “How could you have missed Murphy?” “The pistol was loaded with birdshot. I aimed at the horse. The sting drove him plumb crazy,” Doc said.

  “Birdshot! Why?”

  “I was figuring on getting a mess of quail.”

  That just about beat everything. He had bluffed a whole gang with nothing but a pistol loaded with birdshot. I guess that’s why he was such a good poker player.

  A little later, Aunt Alice answered a knock at the door.

  “I’m Bryon Mackey, ma’am, United States marshal. May I come in?”

  Mr. Mackey was tall, well built and had a droopy gray tinged, walrus mustache. For a law officer, he had a kindly face. When he took off his Stetson, I saw that he had a high, pale forehead and sparse gray hair. He didn’t wear a gun. You wouldn’t suspect he was a law officer if it hadn’t been for the U.S. Marshals badge on his vest. He came into the office and politely asked if we could talk.

  Doc came out of Odette’s room, looking about as bad as I ever saw him. Old Isaiah came too. When we were all there, the Marshall took out a notebook. “I’m here to investigate the Klan.”

  I fidgeted, and waited for someone else to talk but Isaiah was too shy and Doc was all drawn inside himself. It was up to me. I took a couple of deep breaths and told about how little Ike died and how the gang burned a cross in front of our house and about the murder of Young Isaiah and how they had beat up on Miz Trimmer. It took a long spell to get it all out and all the while, the marshal wrote in his notebook. When the marshal was done asking questions he walked over to the man with the dislocated shoulder.. “Young fellow, you are facing charges of attempted murder. Tell me the names of the gang members or go to jail, maybe even hang,” said the marshal. The idea of hanging caught his attention and he blurbed out the gang members names, but mostly he claimed it was Murphy and the Sherriff who had the idea for killing the negroes.

  Aunt Alice fixed fried eggs, biscuits and hot coffee. The Marshall was right pleased and said he would be working for Judge Parsons until everything was cleared up. He put down his coffee cup and took some papers out of his coat pocket. “Dr. Steele, there is a little matter that hasn’t been settled. You ran off to Europe after shooting a man.”

  “I caught that man cheating at cards. He shot first. I plugged him in the shoulder but didn’t kill him.”

  “How come you were in such a hurry to leave the country?”

  “I already paid the fare on a boat that was leaving for Liverpool the next day.”

  “The man you shot admitted to cheating and firing the first shot before he died. . Since it was self defense, the state dropped
the charges,” the marshal said.

  Doc sat very still for a long time. “I guess that is the end of it,” he said.

  Mr. Mackey said he would be around town, until he brought the Klan to justice.

  Michele ate and sleep for about a week. When he got his strength back, he told about how he and Odette got away from the overseer and escaped up the river. I said he should change his name to Mike on account of it sounded more American. “You can call me Mike, starting right now,” he said. He fattened up and hung around Aunt Alice, like a lost pup. Mike chopped all the firewood and washed dishes. It got so he was like a brother and it was nice to have him do my chores. Aunt Alice took him down to Otto’s store and bought him new clothes. Billy Malone took a liking to him and taught him how to play ball.

  We walked around the house on tippy toes because loud noises made Odette wake up and scream. When she burned up with fever Doc and Aunt Alice cooled her with wet cloths and forced broth into her mouth.

  “I’ve never seen a case of brain fever, but the books say it’s fatal if they have fits.,” Doc said.

  He gave her valerian drops when she got excited and willow bark and quinine for the fever. She talked French in her sleep and when her eyes were open, she acted plumb scared. After a few days she broke out in a skin rash and the fever came down. Aunt Alice looked after her like she was a baby. Doc hardly ever left the room until Bessie came over and shooed him away.

  When the diphtheria epidemic died down, I handled the office as best I could and went out on a few calls. One night, Odette’s fever broke and she settled into a normal sleep, It was cold enough to have a fire. Doc came into the parlor and warmed himself with a stiff drink by the flames. Aunt Alice rushed into the room. “Come quick,” she said.

  Odette had come out of the coma and asked for Doc. Her hair was thin, there were great dark circles under her eyes and she had lost a lot of weight. Doc looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  “Odette, Odette.” He went down on his knees and the tears rolled down his face for pure happiness. I got a big lump in my throat too on account of I was plumb tickled. Doc and Odette got me to thinking about Rachel and I got low down again.

  In a few more days, Odette sat by the window. When her head cleared, she spoke English as well as anyone, but sometimes she and Doc spoke French just for practice. When she was stronger, Alice bundled her up in blankets and Doc took her for buggy rides. Folks took to calling her the French woman.

  After the epidemic passed on, it seemed like there wasn’t much sickness, except for accidents and kids with measles. Doc looked after the office patients and went back to doing his morning rounds. With Mike helping out with the chores, there was more time for me to study. It got so I could read about all those wars in Gaul and Caesar’s invasion of Britain, but the Latin pluperfect tense was a mystery. I really liked “Natural and Experimental Philosophy” a book by a man named Richard Green Parker.

  It was late fall and there wasn’t any word about Murphy and the gang. Everybody thought the rascals had run off to Missouri or Tennessee. The sheriff had left for parts unknown. We were still uneasy and worried about the law coming for Odette. Then, too, I still got dreamy thinkin’ about Rachel.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Mr. Mackey stayed at the Camp House, but spent a lot of time in Friday’s saloon nursing a glass of sarsaparilla and listening to gossip. He drilled the vigilantes and made them do a lot of target practice until the town boys learned to shoot pretty good. The church folks liked Mr. Mackey on account of he didn’t smoke or drink and went to the Presbyterian Church. He talked to Mr. Birt until he knew pretty much everything that went on in the county.

  It was the time of year, when the Indians came back to their hunting camp. Bessie took food and clothing to the women and children just like always. Folks said she was keeping company with Mr. Mackey because he had ridden out to the Indian camp with her a time or two. There was speculation that she had finally found a man.

  Late one night, I woke up to hear pebbles bouncing off my window. “Psst, Tom, Tom. It’s me, Billy.”

  “Go away, I want to sleep.”

  “The marshal and the vigilantes are going to raid Murphy’s hideout. Come on, let’s go.”

  I got dressed in a hurry and went out into the frosty night air. The stars were bright and there was a cold old moon hanging in the sky off to the west. Billy was bundled up in his mackinaw coat and carried his .22 rifle.

  “We need a horse,” Billy said.

  He wanted a horse more than my company. I didn’t mind and wanted to be in on the arrest, and maybe a big shootout. We went out to the barn and saddled the gelding after giving him a few knocks on the head. I got up behind Billy and we rode through the streets to the town square. Mr. Malone and a dozen vigilantes held their horses and listening to Mr. Mackey. Billy and I hung back in the shadows.

  “Murphy and his gang have been bothering the Indian women and are holed up in the swamp abut a mile from the Indian camp. Our plan is to surprise them at daylight and take them alive. I don’t want any shooting,” Mr. Mackey said.

  Obediah and Zebediah rode up on two wet mules that looked like they had been ridden hard and forded the river. Obediah had a long muzzle-loading squirrel rifle and Zebediah carried a shotgun.

  “How’d you know about this?” I asked them.

  “Isaiah overheard the Marshall at the Camp House. We gonna help ketch those men and make ‘em pay for what they done,” Obediah said.

  The vigilante committee trotted off toward the Indian camp. Billy, me and the two darkies followed but kept out of sight. At the Indian camp, we hung back in the shadows under the trees, but close enough to see the smoky little fire in front of the chief’s tent. Raven in the Sky materialized out of the smoke, like he was a ghost and not a flesh and blood Indian. Mr. Mackey had everyone the horses and said we should follow the chief. Raven in the Sky pointed down a path leading to the big swamp. We sneaked along until we were just behind Mr. Mackey and the Indian. We walked for near an hour, sometimes in water over our knees until Raven-in-the Sky stopped and sniffed the air. There was a whiff of stale tobacco, sweat and grease, kind of like a saloon. The Indian changed direction and set off through the briars and trees where the walking was even harder. The men made a lot of noise crashing through the brush, even though Mr. Mackey tried to make them stay quiet. The Indian stopped on a spit of higher land near the river a little ways from a rundown log cabin surrounded by vines and dense brush. There was smoke from the chimney, but the cabin was quiet and dark.

  When the men got in position Mr. Mackey pounded on the door. “I am a U.S. marshal. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”

  Nothin’ happened for about a minute. “You gotta come in and get us,” a voice hollered. “Come out now and we won’t hurt you,” Mr. Mackey said.

  “Go to hell.”

  Gunfire came from the front door and muzzles flashed from holes in the chinks between logs. Bullets crashed in the brush and buckshot pattered on the ground but no one got hurt. The vigilantes scrambled behind trees and fired back. Billy and me flopped on the ground, with our heads down. Zebediah and Obediah were out in plain sight, but it was so dark you could hardly see their faces.

  “Ain’t do no good to shoot, less’n you see something to shoot at,” Zebediah said. After a while the firing died down. “You got another chance to come on out,” Mr. Mackey yelled.

  There were more shots from the cabin. “Come on and git us, you damn yellabellies.”

  “I got an idea,” Billy whispered. He gave me the .22 rifle, sneaked up behind the stone chimney and stood on Obediah’s shoulders. He climbed, like a cat to the top and put his coat over the top of the chimney. Before long, the men inside coughed and cussed more.

  “We give up, don’t shoot.”

  The first man out the door was barefoot in long underwear. Four more came out with their hands in the air. The vigilantes lost no time in roping the pri
soners together. Mr. Mackey told his men to keep their guns ready, but they were already drinking and bragging, like they had done something dangerous and noble.

  The marshal lit a lantern and went inside the cabin all by himself. Billy was still up on the chimney. “One slipped out the back,” he yelled.

  Mr. Mackey was blinded by the lantern and the others milled around, like they were plumb befuddled. The escaped man ran down a path towards the river, weaving in and out between the trees and clumps of brush as nimble as a deer. We ran and stumbled and kept getting tangled in vines. He stopped at the river’s edge and fired four or five shots real fast. I figured, then, it had to be Murphy.

  We got behind a tree, but bullets zinged pretty close. Zebediah stepped out in the open and cut loose with his shotgun. Buckshot scattered on the water. Murphy stopped firing, stooped down and pushed off in a skiff.

  He rowed fast and could escape if he crossed to the other side.

  Obediah let out a strangled cry. I ain’t going to let him get away. The son of a bitch killed my brother.”

  He raised the squirrel rifle and powder flask over his head and ran, jumping and splashing down the river, creating waves like a steamboat, even when the water got thigh and then waist deep. He ran, until he had to swim, one handed, with the gun and powder held high in his other hand. Obediah was near six feet tall and powerful. The bright early morning sun sparkled on the river like diamonds and the splashing water made a big rainbow around Obediah. It was like he was in a halo of water as he went splashing and jumping down the river. His legs were going up and down so fast, it looked like he was runnin’ on top of the water.

  Billy came down the path hollering and running, then went out until he was knee deep, chasing as hard as he could go. Obediah was ahead of us but still behind the skiff, that was fast getting away downriver. My heart was pounding. Everything in me wanted to catch Murphy and put an end to the worry and dread that he would kill me. Billy and I were about wore out. Murphy was almost a quarter mile ahead with Obediah a hundred yards behind the skiff. He was losing ground, until it was just like the hand of God reached down and put a sandbar in the river. One second Murphy was rowing, kicking up a wake and moving fast and then the skiff stopped dead in the water. Murphy pushed with the oar, but the skiff was stuck hard.