“I don’t mind, sir.”
Grandfather let out a loud guffaw. “You don’t mind—what boy wouldn’t mind riding and hunting the day long? You’re smart as a whip like your grandmother, school’n come natural to you in time. I don’t have time, though, to wait for the schoolmarms to finish with you before I teach you what’s important to our kind. War’s coming, Johnny; I seen a spell of it. It gets so you can smell it in the air like the scent of a good leaf fire gusting your way; there’s no mistaking it. It’s drifting this way from up yonder.” The old man pointed north as he said it.
“I hear the talk, sir.”
“I was gone five years fighting that tyrant king and his red butchers. Folks forget, Johnny; folks got a way of forgetting. Silly cartoon of nabobs standing about some parchment with flowery words; all of ’em all patting themselves on the back for doing nothing more than scratch’n their names on it. It’d be kindling I ever got my hands on it.
“I had a cobbler for my first captain, a wife and eight sons when he left home for the fight. The redcoats had dug themselves a fort on a hill and we were taking an awful licking from their cannon, an awful licking trying to take it. Captain got both his legs taken off below the knee. We dragged him back beyond some trees and laid him on some grass. He lay there with the bright red running thick out over the dark green of the grass, we couldn’t stem it, the legs so tore up, life runn’n out of him. I was a boy, no more than seventeen or so, looking down at him with a handful of other fools waiting for something to happen, as if there were anything to be done, and that cobbler raised himself on his elbows and cried out, ‘Boys, no nation was freed by gawking, to your guns, lads, to your guns, finish them red sons-of-bitches.’ That cobbler’s name was John Michaels, and you bear his name.
“Anytime a tyrant tells a free man how he ought to live—the matter is settled by blood. Tyrants come in many guises; my sense tell’n me another is bound to rise out of the ashes of the old one, and again the call will come to the Walkers. I gave your father that name so he’d give it to you; so when your nation calls you, you’d never forget what it means to be a Walker—honor bound to ride to the sound of the guns; the days com’n, Johnny, when you’ll need to draw your sword and throw away the scabbard.”
“Yes, sir.”
John Walker was in town when the news of Fort Sumter came. He watched as the streets exploded with yells, church bells ringing and the music hall band striking up Dixie on the steps of city hall. He returned to his family’s Sommersville plantation that afternoon and told his father and mother that he had received a commission with the cavalry. They were delighted. His mother suggested Crimshaw’s shop for a winter and summer cut uniform. His father voiced displeasure with his decision to join the cavalry, saying a man of John’s station should be with the infantry. Yet, despite the minor disappointment, his father understood that his son was a horseman like his father had been; so he relented, but insisted that he would speak to the governor to see that he was billeted under a capable commander and not some pony-riding brigand.
Molly came to Sommersville when she heard the news. They had been engaged for three months and she was thrilled that the family was celebrating John’s going away with a soiree. She counted fifty hands landscaping the gatehouse road, planting five thousand tulips along the borders. The newly minted captain of horse would ride out the following day through a portal of dazzling white. It was planned with exquisite detail. Molly and John sat on the porch swing. They sat talking, oblivious to the hands swarming about the house grounds when his mother came out onto the porch.
She was prim and austere, and said, “John, so you know, we are fixing up your bedroom. I think it is high time those items you’ve collected over the years running about in the woods are put aside.”
“Mother, springing this on me on the day before I leave to serve our country,” John replied with mock indignation.
“Oh, don’t worry. Missy Jay is doing the work. I know she’ll put your knickknacks in a safe place.” She wheeled in her perfectly tailored dress and disappeared through a large door divided by a dozen glass panes; the door was opened by an old white-bearded slave whose father had had the same task for John’s grandmother for the fifty years before him, his only task—to follow her around and open doors for her all day.
Molly asked, “What do you have in this boy’s room of yours?”
John answered, “Let’s go see.”
They climbed the steps taking two at a time to the third floor and detoured to a remote staircase, only used by the servants, that entered into the rear of John’s bedroom. As they climbed the stairs, Molly could hear the sound of shuffling feet and bickering. John put his finger to his mouth and signaled Molly to be quiet. They crept up the stairs.
“No, no, don’t go throw’n everything in one basket, we need to split it out,” came a woman’s sing-song voice.
“Why? When he come back, he ain’t never going to look at this stuff again, this is boy’s things,” a raspy man’s voice responded.
“You heed me, Jess, and put the stuff that’s bones and rocks in that basket, like ’em arrowheads and flints; the feather stuff go in a cotton bag so it keep and the copper stuff need to go in a wood box. Git and go find me a hardwood box, there’s empty wine crates in the pantry.”
John eased the door open and crept into the room. He tried to sneak up on Missy Jay, but before he could startle her she said, “John Michael, you got feet of stone. I heard you coming up them steps, didn’t I, Jessup?”
“I reckon she did, Master John, she winked at me as you coming.”
“I done told you a hundred times you can’t sneak up like no Injun,” Missy Jay said.
Missy Jay was a large woman, and she dwarfed the diminutive Jessup. She was of a light complexion giving her the look at certain angles of a white woman of mixed blood. Jessup was dark and always wore a friendly smile. Molly looked over the room. Native American artifacts filled every shelf of the room. On one shelf, there were glass-top-looking boxes filled with arrowheads of multiple shapes; under each arrowhead there was written in neat printing a description such as: “flint; Chickasaw”; “shale; Cherokee”; “bone; unknown.” In other cases, there were exotic beads, another with pipes carved from bones, and antlers carved with animals in minute and intricate beauty. Nine handheld axes were mounted across one wall, the blades arranged in the same direction. The first three were crafted of stone, others bone, crude iron, and one of copper.
Looking about the room, Molly remembered her brother finding a single arrowhead once and the jealousy and excitement of the other boys at his find. She had never seen anything like this, it looked like a museum. A round table in the far corner of the room was laden with maps, drawings of foliage, sketches of animals, and a dozen dog-eared journals of the British Geographical Society. There was also a daguerreotype of four young boys all about thirteen years of age in what looked like costumes. She recognized a young John wearing a bush hat and a vest adorned with shotgun shells.
She looked at John. “How is it possible you recovered all this? You must have looked every day as a boy.”
“We did quite a bit of searching I must admit.”
“Who are these boys in the picture?” Molly asked.
Missy Jay snatched a glance at Molly and Jessup grabbed a basket and headed out the door and down the stairs.
John hesitated for a moment and said, “When I was eleven I was a founding member of the Intrepid Explorer’s Guild. We read too many British Geographical Society journals for our own good.”
“This one boy looks so young. What’s his name?” Molly asked.
John took the daguerreotype in his hands. “That’s Addie Sparrow. She was the only girl ever let into the guild, but she proved her mettle always. She’s gone now, caught in the river during a summer storm.”
Missy Jay said, “He was wild when he was young, Miss Molly. Yes, ma’am, he were wild for ’em woods. I told him not to go messing in those places but
he never heed me, uh-uh.”
Molly’s curiosity was piqued. “John, what is Missy talking about?”
“We had great adventures tracking in the old Indian lands; we’d head deep into the bayou looking to search the ancient mounds. Boys’ dreams of finding a lost city.”
“Are those the Indian mounds you can see from the riverboat?” Molly asked.
“Yes, that’s the start of the mound country. The mounds are ancient; built a thousand years before the Nation got there. The Geographical Society has stories of mounds of similar size and shape in Africa. It was Courtney’s idea to explore the mounds for a lost city.”
“The Collinses’ boy?” Molly asked.
“Yes, Courtney was the first to buy a subscription to the British Geographical Society’s journal. We read every one we could get our hands on. He’s gone too. He went with a British expedition to explore the mound country in the great desert of Africa, lost at sea is what I heard.”
Molly could see in John’s eyes he was far off, a thousand miles from where they stood. “Was the bayou dangerous?”
“We rode out on horses and brought our guns. I tried once to wrangle some hands to carry our packs like I had seen in a journal drawing about an expedition to Africa; Father gave me the switch. Was it dangerous? I suppose—we crossed rivers, climbed cliffs, tested our mettle, as Grandfather used to say.” John took a copper ax down from the wall; he paused for a moment and added, “We discovered an old abandoned village, possibly Chickasaw, deep in Miller’s bog. The village was old, maybe a hundred years or so; it looked like the entire village up and walked away one day leaving everything behind right where they left it. We explored the village, that’s where most of the collection comes from.”
Missy Jay interrupted, “Master John, it don’t do to go talking about that explor’n that years ago.”
John smiled and said to Molly, “Don’t worry about Missy Jay, she’s a superstitious one. She remembers the old slaves telling tales of that bayou.”
“Oh, no, Master John, I ain’t meant you to share that,” Missy Jay said. Missy turned to another box of relicts and shook her head.
“What tales John?” Molly persisted.
“It was Pierce Briggins’s passion. He supplied us with machetes that came from Old Man Briggins’s sugar plantations in Hispaniola. An old hand on his estate told Pierce there was an ancient burial ground, a lost city in Miller’s bog. Many years before, the hand had gone with Old Man Briggins on one of his hunting trips into the bog. The guild set out to cut our way in and find it.”
Missy’s interrupting became more urgent, “Now, Master John, don’t go telling Miss Molly about such stuff. It ain’t for a lady.”
“Missy, I have teased you enough.” John said.
“I am impressed that you were such an adventurer. Did you ever find the burial grounds?” Molly asked.
Missy Jay looked down at the row of arrowheads she was packing and grimaced.
“I don’t know if it was a lost city; we found a cave, a cavern really; tales were told that Old Man Briggins used to venture into that cave. Missy remembers, don’t you?”
“Now, Master John, you can tell your tale but don’t bring Missy in it,” she said.
“You see, Missy knew all these stories as a little girl on the Brigginses’ plantation. Isn’t that right, Missy?”
“Oh, Master John, there’s no cause to go on about them Briggins. They all gone now.”
Molly was intrigued. “Why was Pierce Briggins so obsessed with it all?”
“The town gossip about Old Man Briggins infuriated Pierce. The old man had attained his fortune sailing slavers from the west coast of Africa to Hispaniola. The gossip was he paid his sea captains a bounty to barter with the tribal chiefs for women who had the mark.”
Molly asked, “The mark?”
“In Africa if the shamans think a girl is a witch they brand her with fire; sometimes on the forehead, or cheeks. Old Man Briggins wanted witches. Isn’t that right, Missy Jay?”
“Master John, that all a bunch of hooey and it don’t do nobody no good raising dust about them Briggins, they gone. Tell’n such stories to a young lady, shame on you.”
Missy shook her head and opened the top drawer of an old dresser and started removing clothes. From time to time during the conversation Missy Jay would steal glances at Molly.
Molly picked up on Missy Jay’s pained expressions and changed the subject. “Missy Jay, was he always such a mysterious rogue?”
Missy Jay smiled. “He never had a cross word for me, Miss Molly. Always a gentleman, so daring though he needed the switch every so often. Used to scare Missy Jay so. I remember once he with those intrepid boys and they were build’n a rope swing down by the river. It was springtime rains and that river was angry, crashing against itself. I came up to his room to see to things. I found two leggings cut off a pair of brand-new long pants. I gist knew he’d cut short pants for swimm’n, so I ran ’cause I remember them boys pulling rope out the back stable and talk’n about the river. I never gave it no thought ’til I seen the leggings. I broke hard for the creek and I come out the brush and see them swing’n out over that water and back ag’n to the ground. And I seen it was Master Johnny’s turn. I so out of breath I couldn’t holla. He took that rope and ran and leap out. I gist knew he was gonna let go o’ that rope; had it in him since he was a babe, as soon as he start crawl’n turn your back a second and be headed to trouble.”
Molly turned to John who was looking at Missy Jay. The smile on his face was radiant and loving.
Molly asked, “John, why did you let go of the rope?”
He turned to Molly. “The challenge was to build a rope bridge and you had to get one rope across the river to start. I went last. Nobody before me had let go of the rope. For the sake of the honor of the guild, I had to do it.”
John burst out laughing.
Jessup came into the room with another basket. “Master John, I’m gonna place all this stuff in shed in t’west field. It stay driest, and the critters seem to leave stuff be in there.”
“That’s fine, Jess.”
Missy Jay let out a sniffle.
Jessup said, “Now, now, don’t be go’n on again. She go on when she thinks about you leav’n for this here war, sir. This pack’n up done brought the memory to her.”
John walked to Missy Jay standing by his old dresser. “Missy Jay, don’t worry.”
“I worry about you doing your stuff. I won’t worry though, Master John, if’n you promise Missy Jay.”
“Anything, Missy Jay, I could never say no to you.”
“Promise me this time you won’t let go of that rope, and I won’t worry so much.”
John smiled. “Missy Jay, I learnt my lesson. Remember how you tanned my backside when they pulled me out of that river downstream? If the water didn’t kill me, you almost did.”
“Go on now and promise Missy Jay you won’t let go of the rope in this here war com’n.”
Missy Jay was searching his eyes for an answer. John turned his gaze to Molly and Missy knew he wouldn’t promise.
Missy Jay looked down into the top dresser drawer and pulled out a baby’s swaddling cloth. She held it close to her face, breathing it in. “I remember the first time I swaddled your backside. You come into this world and Doc Fields put you face down on them sheets. I reached for these; they was so soft, softest I ever knew; and you being so new, you still slimy. I turned to bring out the swaddling and Doc Fields says, ‘Missy Jay look at that, Missy Jay look, look’ and I see over and there you was on your hands and knees lift’n your head look’n at the world. Said to Doc Fields, ‘we got a strong one, like Sampson’; and Ol’ Doc Fields jest shook his head repeat’n—‘I’ll be damned, I’ll be damned.’ ”
John placed his hand over Missy’s hand for a moment before he spun around and grabbed Molly’s hand. Missy stared at the swaddling as the two departed down the back stairs.
As they descended the stairs Moll
y could hear Jessup saying, “Now don’t go on again, Missy. It be all right. This war over ’fore Christmas. You know folks don’t stand to be out in the cold. Johnny back and you be tended to his little ’uns. Come on now; we got a boat of folks com’n t’night.”
Dinner lasted well into the evening. Speeches were heard around the table with the same themes—the southern cause, states’ rights, the Philistine armies of the North will fall to the sword. The speeches went on until brandy and tea was served. The young officers and their ladies stole out on to the sprawling back porch, gathering about the porch railings and swings to enjoy the cool night air. The ladies floated around in billowing dresses; the young men preened in new uniforms.
The next day there were over a hundred guests as John mounted his horse. He bid his farewells. His mother and father stood on the porch. He was in his new uniform and was leading four horses. The family, the guests, and all the plantation hands waved as he mounted, and a great hurrah went up from the crowd.
Molly descended the porch and walked up to John. “So handsome.”
He responded, “I’ll be back before you know it. We’ll give them Yanks a licking; it’ll all be over before Christmas.”
“Promise me,” Molly said.
“Molly, I wouldn’t ask you to wait if my intentions weren’t true.”
“Hah, you were mine the first time I batted my eyes at you. I’ll wait for you only if you promise me something special,” Molly whispered.
“Anything.”
“Promise me that you won’t let go of the rope,” Molly said looking in his eyes.
Angels of North County Page 13
