Angels of North County

by T. Owen O'Connor

  Now, atop his horse outside the ruins of his ranch house, Gabriel watched the flames engulf his mother and her sons; yet his memories went back to the night his spirit became the captain’s. He recalled the skin of the captain’s face, so aged it looked as if old parchment had been dried taut over his prominent features. The only signs of life were the simmering blue embers that burned in the sunken hollows of their sockets. His face was pocked with the scars of the same disease that had taken all five of his siblings as babes, he the only one to live. The face was without hair. It looked as if each individual hair had been plucked out as the vanquished tribes had adorned themselves long ago. He drew on a tobacco pipe carved from a single piece of stone, the secret of its shape and hollowing lost in the currents of the past. Absorbing the heat from the flames, the old men would sip whiskey from tin cups and prod the captain for tales of Jackson and Marion. Stroking the stem of his pipe across his chin, the captain would peer into the wood burner. Other than his soft voice, the only noise was the sound of the fire popping and roaring, as if his breath fed the flames.

  As Gabriel hid, the captain began a tale of how a band of enemy irregulars, British officers dressed up as Indians and their allied tribesmen, violated every woman in a small town. The captain cleared his throat and began: “I won’t tell you the name of the town, for every woman in it from eight to eighty was dishonored, and the womenfolk there still bear in their hearts marks of shame though it be our failure and not theirs. The bucks humped two at a time and left some of the young’ns bleeding to death from the wounds. I won’t be the one to mention the name of them honorable folk, all their brave sons away staging for New Orleans. It were late in the winter of ’14, the war had become bitter, and each side lost its sense, but none yet had become so as these, they had gone back to man’s first nature. It was madness if you had to give it a name.

  “I led a squadron of horse in them days, seasoned hard. There weren’t a man had not proved himself. Only a fool could fail leading such men; not a single one needed tell’n in a fight. All of ’em gone now; I’m the last.”

  The captain paused and reached over to unlock the stove’s gate. He would look to the stack of wood and peer at each cut with deliberation. He would select a single piece of wood and place it alone into the belly of the stove; he did it with the forethought that each had been carved to its shape and meant to serve the nature of the fire at this, its moment. After he placed the cuts into the flames he would study his work and doctor minute adjustments to the flue, and then with a flick of his pipe’s stem he’d sling closed the hinged gate and cage the racing blue flames back into the gaol of the stove’s belly.

  He sipped whiskey slowly and claimed it was only to clear his throat to speak, and he started again, “We chased ’em deep into Creek country. Lasted a fortnight, ran three hundred leagues. I could not let them go. General Andy had brought me into his headquarters in an old Tory manor house and sat me down in its great room. It had a fireplace, the kind you don’t see too often nowadays, you could stand in it. I remember the long white birch logs burning. I can feel the warmth even now and the smell. We were alone except for an old Indian fighter that never left his side; one I never knew to utter a sound. The general told me the price for what was done to them womenfolk, and he was sending me to gather it. I said something about the march on Orleans, and he said this was more important. The general took me by the shoulders, and to this day I can still feel the power of his hands upon me. He raised me up to meet the steel of his gaze, his eyes ablaze as if the great birch fire reflected his light, and he said, ‘Do not desist from this undertaking, Uriah, until the account is settled, Hell will have its bounty.’ ”

  The captain placed his cup between his feet and took out his pipe. He pinched tobacco from a crude leather pouch that hung under his shirt from a hemp cord fastened about his neck. He unhinged the flange gate again with a flick of his pipe’s stem and took a long stick out of the metal bucket near the stove; the sound of the running flames echoed from the belly of the stove in a low hushing rumble. He placed the end of the stick in the heart of the fire and pulled it out, the end aglow with a soft yellow ball of light. He put the flame to his pipe and drew on it until the tobacco accepted the heat, and he dragged slowly upon the pipe, drawing out the flavor. As he exhaled, the smoke billowed about his face and Gabriel would swear he disappeared behind the haze.

  The captain continued, “They run us deeper and deeper into the Creek lands, all the way to the Red Sticks. This were after Horseshoe Bend so there were no Creek left, but there were something odd about Red Stick mound country, something mighty odd. In parts of that bog the roof was so thick and deep you lost sight of the sun in day and stars at night, but the ground was soft and the trail stayed fresh, as if the earth in there wanted to give up its secrets and direct us to ’em. We found horses dead along the trail, hacks of meat cut out of them, so we knew they were riding their mounts ’til they dropped dead under them.

  “We found no fire, so they were cutting raw strips from the tenderloin to keep running, always kept moving—like scared animals, rabbits that know the hounds is chase’n without looking back, they could smell us upon them. Every so often, we’d catch prints making off left or right, buying into the fool’s philosophy to split from the pack hope’n we would beg off tracking the stragglers and stick to the main party.

  “But I had me two brothers from the Carolinas had got their liv’n chasin’ runaway slaves ’fore the war; I also had me a Spaniard that spoke Seminole from his days being raised in the swamps of Spanish Florida, his family been killing Creek for more’n a hundred year. It would take them three no more’n hour or so to track some poor Harry trying to slog his way in that bog. They’d catch back to us and present me with a right ear.

  “I don’t know if the main pack of Harries were dumb enough to trust the Shawnee they had with ’em or if they fixed a compass point and stuck to it. My hunch is the Harries know their acts of dishonor meant death and they reckoned to go as deep in them bog mounds as needed to lose what’d been elected to give penance. Lord knows I never in my day saw another purpose to go into that country again.”

  The captain eyed Gabriel among the shelves, and gave Gabriel that pipe-smoker smile—half grin, half leer—the prevailing emotion secreted by the pipe’s stem. Gabriel froze in the captain’s gaze, but the old warrior winked and relief coursed through Gabriel’s body; he wondered how the captain could see into the dark recesses of the shelves where he hid. The captain had pardoned him from the old boys cuffing his ear and tossing him to the cobblestones of the road, the harshness of the slaps coming from their jealousy of youth and its invasion of what the aged men defended fiercely as their province.

  As the captain’s eyes turned again to the stove, the lamp ran out of oil and the room dropped into total darkness. Clem, the storekeeper, got up, saying it’d take a moment to fill with whale oil but the old hands feared the interruption would stay the captain’s telling and hissed for him to be still. The only light now stole out from the slats of the stove’s grate, bathing the captain’s face in the caged flames’ amber aura; the old hands about him receded into the flickering shadows waiting for their eyes to accustom to darkness. The shadows heightened the radiance of the pipe’s stone bowl when the captain drew his breath upon it, burning a deep crimson.

  The captain sipped the brown liquor and cleared his throat—“We chased ’em ’til the path led into stone outcroppings allowing the sky to open again. The Harries were all but on foot now; two horse left if memory serves. The sun had set and twilight gave us enough to find the foot falls vanishing into a cavern, its maw high and wide, bigger cave I never seen, a man mounted could gallop into its opening. We thought better to rush such a hard position, so we set about the cave for two days, waiting for ’em to come charg’n or creep’n out in the night, as we saw little option for ’em, figur’n hunger and thirst would drive ’em out.

  “Second night late two tried to run for it, but
we shot them in the legs, one was regular English that had adorned hisself as a Creek, t’other was Shawnee. I heard a year later the Shawnee were Tenskwatawa’s kin, a nephew if I recall, a rumor anyways was that he was related to The Prophet. Who really can distinguish, though, how they consider kin, everything running from the mothers.

  “We tried to get him to tell, but he died without a sound, most impressive. The Harry cried out for his mother as he lay dying from the cutting but would not tell about the cave, the strength or disposition of the unit, or their aim.

  “Funny though, the Harry’s eyes never changed from a blank, odd stare, ’til the very end when he called for his mother and his eyes flashed over, but he was on the doorsill of the next world by then and spoke no more.

  “On the mornin’ of the third day, my patience wore thin and I called a war council, said it were my thought to rush and conclude it. We weighed us the options, and I let some back and forth, but no man in that troop ever was keen on waiting for a fight. We figured if Andy were here he’d’ve wanted it done sooner than later. We rushed in preparing to blaze away, but the cavern were empty, there were enough light to show its only occupants were two mounts lolling by a pool of dark water at the furthest point yonder the entrance. Otherwise noth’n to speak of, not even bats, only some old bones strewn along aged fire pits. The pits used rings of smooth stone, the builders I reckon were there before the Creek nation were even born—I never knew tribes to use river stones.

  “We brought in torches and lit every inch and found no way to learn the sense of the vanishing. It was then Davey said he recalled the Harry and Shawnee were soak’n wet when he tied ’em, he recalled he had to pull the hemp cords tighter because the wet let ’em stretch. It was then we went to the pool of water sitting in the back of the cave; first thought it to be a stagnant pool from the drips of the cave wall but when you bring the wet to your nose you smelled it were fresh. We knew they had found a way out through that pool.

  “Most of my troop had been boys along the Duck and Cumberland ’fore they took to the horse, so they could fin like otters. We sent Davey with a catch of breath under, and he were gone so long we thought for sure he were taken by the pool or by a Harry, but no sooner did he poke his head back out gulp’n for air. He told of a ledge near ten feet across he negotiated to the rival side, and he could see from under the depth there were lights burning above on the far shore. We knew there were more caves on the far side of the rock ledge, the riddle for us was how to keep our powder dry and fin under to finish ’em. After a bit we knew there were no means, at least none any could think of, we had no oil or wax paper, no good bolts of cloth.”

  The captain coughed and apologized, laying blame on never having the habit to talk so long. He picked up his pewter tin and sought to drain it, but it was empty. The act prompted the old boys to spit blasphemies at Clem for letting the captain’s cup go without a fresh charge of whiskey. Clem fiddled in the darkness begging the captain’s pardon, and the jug emerged in the glow tilted hard to bring the color of rich amber to the pewter’s rim, the fire’s light shimmering off the circle of liquid. The captain politely nodded and took a sip allowing the burn to meander, savoring its slow passage, allowing it to harbor for a good spell in the catch of his throat before he let it sink to warm his innards.

  The captain went on, “We had little option other than it to be blade-to-blade when we come forth from the water on the far side, so we begun whet’n the edges. We knew they’d be waiting, and if one thing could be said of them Harries, odd sissy ducks to parlay with but no stranger to the fight. The Shawnee was with ’em, so any advantage we had of the blade was lost. I was seasoned by that time, scores of fights and quite a few charges against Harry cannon, the devil’s breath, but in all my days there was none more than that day standing on the shore of that black pool that I did judge it inscribed in the heavens that there’d be no back to this shore for me. We left none on the close side but Tom Jordan, he being the youngest with a wife little more than sixteen carry’n his first when we left. Gave Tom his orders, if’n it’s a Harry or Shawnee come up from the pool, he were not to miss the first to emerge with a musket shot, but then he were to quit the cave, ride to General Andy, and let it be known the debt was still outstanding.

  “I led and crept into the pool, trying so as to not disturb the waters and give ’em warning on the far side. I readied to stifle the chill, but the pool were warm and thick and easy to float in, as if’n it were meant to hold you. I drifted out, and eleven more crawled in after, and we put out to the rock, some had knives in their mouths, it looked foolish but any man go’n on that crossing were free to go as he liked. With a common nod, we took breath and went under the ledge and forded our way across to the far shore. The water was thick and hardly splashed when I came up, I were gasping for breath.

  “We stormed the far shore but there were no one there. The cave went back, and torches were still lit. Where they got the torches or means to light, I don’t reckon, but it were like a full moon bright in there. We looked about and at each other wonder’n if they had found a ways out, and then they came pour’n out of the shadows. No sound, no yelling, not a single utter, Shawnee and Harries storming at us holding ancient weapons, spears, stone clubs, axes, as black wild-eyed madmen silent as the dawn. You had to stab them three or four times before they quit, and even then they didn’t utter word one, nor cry out when cut.

  “A Shawnee clubbed me across the right shoulder separate’n it not for the first time, but the blow did drop me to my knee—he were huge and he drove that stone-and-iron club down again, and I parried it with my sword, but it be my left hand and the blow overpowered me and sent the sword flying and me onto my back. The Shawnee stood over me and chanted some song fore he was fixing to finish me when his chest split and a torrent of steel and blood spit forth. The club dropped to my feet and the Shawnee stood looking at the shaft of blade that run through his heart. He dropped to his knees and then I seen it was Tom Jordan behind, sopping wet holding the hilt of that blade. Tom drew it back from the Shawnee and sent his head rolling with another cut.

  “We gathered up and finished the last of them, cutting each down, the last was wielding nothing but a stick with a stone ball atop it. After we finished ’em, we found their muskets and a good bit of powder dried up over them two days on some of the altars, no explanation we could ever figure why they come at us with clubs. We collected up our wounded and dipped ourselves back into the pool, any of our number that passed back through them waters no matter how deep the cuts, lived to tell about that fight, though I suspect many told no one. We had collected the debt.”

  Clem said, “Captain, what brung about Tom Jordan’s choos’n to cross over?”

  The captain stared out from the glow of the fire and looked at Gabriel and said, “There are only two things that bind a man to another. The first is blood—we all seen it, a tradesman can run a commerce and for all the years he labors, he can have by his side a trusted hand, a hand that can be counted on to never pinch and cut the rows with him ’til both are sore of back and bone. The tradesman without such a trusted hand might never see the fruit of his endeavor—and through the years the tradesman will pound his breast and spout oaths that the hand is dearer to him then his own profligate son—the hand is the son of promises. He will grow to love the tradesman and have faith that his sacrifices will be rewarded and that the tradesman is not a liar, but the son of promises’ faith is fool’s gold. Time and ag’n the tale be the same. As he age, the son of promises learns the tradesman cannot hold the promise, he must break away and build his own commerce, he knows the tradesman will give his legacy to his son of blood. If the son of blood be shiftless, if in the tradesman’s heart he knows the son of blood will destroy what his life’s toil built, the son of blood still takes. Though he can’t give voice to his knowledge or reason, the son of blood takes what is his father’s, as the sow’s cub knows the mother’s milk is his.

  “The son of promises
must move on; the son of blood once in possession means the end for him, the time he remains may vary but no matter, long or short, the son of promises’ time is done—the jealousy of a son for his father’s favor is a vicious obsession and brooks no competition. The son of promises will learn that his master’s oaths were no more than the ripples of a pebble tossed in a swift river. It is the way of it. The father knows that as the gravedigger’s first blade of dirt spills over his pine box, his profligate son of blood will curse him saying the commerce is failing because the tradesman had not built it strong enough, or had kept the secrets of its running from him. The son of blood will spew vile oaths on his father’s name for not preparing him for a life of toil, resentment will be his only lasting birthright.

  “Hard work is learned over time, the muscles and sinews cannot be born overnight, and those who do not work in youth find like the colt that never walks that it can never run. Years by, the tides of this world will bring the word of the tradesman’s death to the son of promises who has built his own commerce in exile. Upon hearing of the loss of his father of promises he will look upon his own son of blood, whether in the crib or crawling about and there he will understand that his father of promises was bound by blood. Just as he be. The son of promises will carry himself to a quiet place, and there he will not curse the father of promises, but on that spot he will pray for his soul and forgive him.

  “A man’s only loyalty is to his blood—all other bonds between men be like the fire in this stove’s belly, it may burn for a time, but come morning the embers be cold, that is, lest the bond be forged in war. Tom Jordan come across because he were bound to us in war. Other than blood, war is the only forge that binds men’s souls one t’other—the crucible of battle brings out in man his first nature—when without reason or proper religion, he ran wild in the forests bound to his tribe, to those who first crawled the earth in packs the tribe is all. Jordy come across because he could not do other—he were bound to his company, he had fought with us and so, like a twin in the womb, his fate was burned to ours—if’n he had fled he would’ve walked the rest of his days in his own exile, like the outcast, the old drunk you see muttering to himself begging for scraps about the town streets, the one you wonder about, as to the cause of his madness. Yes, two things bind men’s souls, blood and war, the rest be ashes.”