by Ann Rinaldi
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty–One
Chapter Twenty–Two
Chapter Twenty–Three
Chapter Twenty–Four
Chapter Twenty–Five
Chapter Twenty–Six
Chapter Twenty–Seven
Chapter Twenty–Eight
Chapter Twenty–Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty–One
Chapter Thirty–Two
Chapter Thirty–Three
Chapter Thirty–Four
Chapter Thirty–Five
Epilogue
Author's Note
Bibliography
About the Author
Copyright © 1999 by Ann Rinaldi
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Rinaldi, Ann.
The coffin quilt: the feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys/
Ann Rinaldi.
p. cm.—(Great Episodes)
Summary: In the 1880s, young Fanny McCoy witnesses the growth of a
terrible and violent feud between her Kentucky family and the West Virginia
Hatfields, complicated by her older sister Roseanna's romance with a Hatfield.
1. Hatfield-McCoy feud—Juvenile fiction. [1. Hatfield-McCoy feud—Fiction.
2. Vendetta—Fiction. 3. Mountain life—Appalachian Region—Fiction.
4. Appalachian Region—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.R459C0 1999
[Fic]—dc21 99-14455
ISBN 978-0-15-202015-6
ISBN 978-0-15-216450-8 pb
Text set in Stempel Garamond
Designed by Trina Stahl
K M O Q R P N L
For my daughter-in-law Susan,
my biggest fan
Prologue
DECEMBER 3, 1889
TODAY THEY HANGED Ellison Mounts. He was a halfwit and his people are dirt-poor and simple, but he didn't deserve to die. I know it and some others do, too. But when they put Ma on the witness stand at his trial, they shut her up. Said she still wasn't right in the head after what happened to her. The prosecuting attorney even called Ma a liar, and I thought Pa would shoot him on the spot. And they sentenced the half-wit Mounts to death then and there for what happened the night the Hatfields' gang attacked our house and did the killings.
All of Eastern Kentucky came out for his hanging. There hasn't been such a holiday in Pikeville since I can't remember when. Women wore their best homespun. The streets were so crowded you could scarce walk. Brandy was ordered in from Catlettsburg. The moonshine was supplied by my brother Floyd, who's more than a fair hand at the making of it, who uses copper for his stills and not tin, and who wasn't above selling a few of his hand-whittled toys to the young people on the side.
By ten o'clock most of the men were pretty well in their cups. And there were McCoys all over the place, armed to their eyebrows, wearing leather belts crossed on their chests, loaded with shot, and with pistols strapped on their legs under their trousers, and rifles, long and mean. People were saying that old Devil Anse and the Hatfields were coming any minute to stop the hanging.
People waited for it like the Second Coming. And there was Pa, worn down and looking older than I ever recollect, giving his men orders, sending some to Chloe Creek and others to Coon Creek, to head the Hatfields off if they came.
I met my used-to-be teacher, Ambrose Cuzlin. He bought me a cup of coffee from a street seller. "Too bad about Mounts," he said to me. He'd had Ellison in school. "How's your ma doing, Fanny?"
"She's middling well," I said.
He bought me some gingerbread, too, from an old lady selling it "one fer a nickel and three fer a dime."
"You thought any more about taking the exam for normal school?" he asked me.
I looked around me at the growing excitement of the crowd. Normal school, I thought. I might go just for the sound of it. "I'm still studying on it," I said.
"I'll bring over some more books. The exam is at the end of the month. There isn't much more time, Fanny."
"I'll let you know before Christmas," I promised. "Oh no! A band! They're not going to play music, are they?"
"Sure they are. It wouldn't be a hanging without one, would it?"
The musicians were playing "Blackeyed Susie" and the guards, all McCoys, were leading Mounts to the scaffold. Everybody got quiet. The sheriff asked Mounts if he had any last words.
"I never kilt her," he said.
I think the sheriff knew it, too. Same as we all know that birds listen and chipmunks gossip, that there's witchcraft in the hills around here, that you don't ever go into a person's yard without first giving a holler, and that Hatfields and McCoys will always hate each other.
I turned away at the hanging. I heard something crack. A woman next to us, about six months into her delicate condition, fainted. Mr. Cuzlin picked her up, took a flask out of his pocket, and poured some whiskey down her throat.
"Oh God," she said, "I'll never forget the sound of that man's neck breaking."
"You had no business coming here, the way you are." Mr. Cuzlin scolded her like he'd do to us in the schoolroom. I expected him to tell her to go sit in a corner.
"Likely your baby will be marked now," a woman standing nearby said.
"Nonsense," Mr. Cuzlin said. "The mountain people and their superstitions." Like he wasn't mountain people, too, come from Virginia to survey the land and stayed on to teach. "Did you ever hear such nonsense, Fanny McCoy?"
"I've heard such and more. And you know it."
We were friends. Sometimes I thought he was the only real friend I had anymore, though I saw him only on occasion. After the hanging he asked me was I all right, and was there anything he could do for me. I wished there were. I wished he could open Pike's Arithmetic and tell me the universe is all made up of numbers, and everything adds up and makes sense. I said no, thanked him, and started home, disgusted with myself for coming. It was too cold, the world too shivering naked and howling fierce. And made colder by the eager looks on the faces of those who had come to see a man hanged, rather than stay home by their fires and make venison stew or nail together a wooden toy for children who would soon be out in a world that hanged a person who wasn't guilty.
And I was worried about Ma, left on her lone as she was in the house.
***
FIRST THING I did was
seek her out in the small mean parlor. The fire in the grate was down, so I built it up. Then I made her some sassafras tea. She was sitting there all alone working on her Friendship quilt. That would be funny if it weren't so sad, Ma working on a Friendship quilt when nobody in my family even knows anymore what friendship is about. If they ever did.
It made me think of the quilt I had hidden upstairs under my bed, and the promise I'd made when it was first given to me. And the promise I made to myself about it. And how I had to break the first promise and keep the second. Soon. Very soon now.
Ma looked so frail sitting there. It was the pitifullest thing. She never has been right since she had her hip and arm and skull smashed that night two years ago now. It gives me the jimjams every time I see her.
"Is Mounts dead?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I'll pray for his soul."
I was sure she would. Only thing I didn't know was what side of her tree stump would the pebble named Mounts end up on? The saved side? Or the damned?
First thing she did when we moved to this house on East Main Street was find a flat stone out back where she put the pebbles of everybody she prayed for. She hobbles out there every so often to change the pebbles to different sides. I don't want to know anymore what side I'm on. Me and Ma have fussed too much at each other in this house. I hate it here. I miss our place on Blackberry Fork. But it's all gone, burned to the ground.
I have places to go. I don't have to stay here. I can go stay with my brother Jim and his family. Or my brother Sam. I can go to normal school like Mr. Cuzlin wants. Onliest reason I haven't bestirred myself yet is for Ma. Pa's away all day running the Big Sandy ferry from Pikeville to Ferguson's Creek. My sister Adelaide has become a granny woman, and she's only two years older than I am, eighteen. She tends people when they get down sick and delivers babies.
Forget Trinvilla. She's just become too downright uppity.
"Did Devil Anse come, like your pa feared?" Ma asked.
"No. He never showed, Ma."
She sighed. "Adelaide sent a note she might be in for supper."
"There's enough food. I'll go fix things." I went to the kitchen to start supper. As usual I had to struggle with the cast-iron stove. I hate it. I miss our old wood range at home, with its warming closets on top where you could put biscuits at breakfast and they'd stay warm all day. I miss the fresh trout brother Calvin would bring in, the honey from brother Pharmer's bees, the raccoons brother Bud and his dogs would bring home from a day's hunting.
We belonged to a place on Blackberry Fork. And it was a staying thing. Now it's gone. Oh, I can do some ciphering and know, bit by bit, how it was taken away. But that doesn't put any sense on it. And today I'm toting such a misery about it that I've come right to my room to write in the blank book Mr. Cuzlin once gave me.
I write to improve my penmanship for normal school. I have to give Mr. Cuzlin an answer soon. That man's been good to me. But I can't bestir myself to go unless I rid myself of the poison inside me. My writing is kind of like Adelaide's blood purifier that she's always giving Ma. And besides, I don't aim to be like our sheep, so shy that if a wild animal attacks, they just lie down and get ready to die. There's been too much dying around these parts for my liking. I'm plumb sick of it. And I don't even know if it's all over yet. So I'm going to write what happened. The way it was for me, at least. The way it was all my life. Since I was a knee baby of seven.
Chapter One
1880
I ASKED MY brother Tolbert about our sheep once, why they do like they do, being on the one hand so brave the way they spend weeks a-wanderin' in the mountains, and on the other hand so meek.
It was the time me and Tolbert were sent by Pa to fetch my sister Roseanna home, after she first run off. I was staying with Tolbert and Mary for a spell because my sister Alifair had tried to kill me again. For the third time. This time she held my head under the pump in the yard until I near drowned, because I'd left school without permission. Once before she spilled hot bacon fat on me, which she said was an accident. I had to wear a cut potato bound on my arm for a week. Another time she switched my legs until I couldn't walk. Both times for sassing her. Alifair is the oldest girl, and as such demands respect. And Ma and Pa turn a deaf ear when I say she's trying to kill me. But they know it to be true. Else why would they send me to live with Tolbert for a spell to get me away from her?
The why of it nobody has figured. Ma says Alifair has the light of holiness. Isn't she working at church with the healing group? She hasn't healed anybody yet, but she's darned near killed me. I think she has powers, all right. Evil. But the good part is I get to stay with Tolbert and Mary when Alifair's light of holiness gets too bright. Tolbert is my favorite brother, not only because he cusses a lot in public and gets fined a dollar a cuss for it, but because he likes to dance and sing, and fight, too. His pebble in Mama's prayer garden is always on the side of the damned. It never bothers Tolbert any.
In his house you can read Oliver Twist of a Sunday without Mama saying you'd burn in hellfire forever for violating the Sabbath. And Mary treats me like I was near grown. I know they want me to live with them regular-like. Tolbert asked Pa once if I could. They'd send me to school, teach me to observe God's laws, take me to Sunday Meeting, everything. Pa said no. He doesn't like to let go of what's his.
Anyways, we were riding over to West Virginia to fetch Ro home. Pa sent Tolbert because he's so level in the head, and Tolbert took me because I was close to Roseanna. In this family, being so many of us, the young 'uns sort of attach themselves to an older one. Trinvilla and Adelaide belong to Alifair. Bill follows Bud around like a coon pup.
"Why do our sheep just lie down and get ready to die when they're attacked?" I asked Tolbert. "Why don't they fight?"
"Got nuthin' to fight with," he said. "And they know it."
"It's not fair that God didn't give them anything to fight with," I said. "Most other creatures can defend themselves."
"Maybe God was tryin' to show us that there's two kinds of creatures in this world. Those that fight and those that don't," he said.
"You mean the sheep are like Mama? They'd rather pray?"
"Maybe," he said. "But that don't make 'em stupid. You think Ma's stupid?"
One thing Tolbert wouldn't hold with was my sassing Ma or Pa. Even though he knew they were both wrong about things sometimes. So I said no. Because I didn't ever want to earn myself the rough side of Tolbert's tongue.
"The sheep aren't stupid," he said. "Look how they know to come home after bein' out in the mountains for weeks."
Our sheep come home at least once a month. You open your eyes one morning and there they all just are, come for salt. Pa or one of the boys would give them some, and then they'd be gone again. All on their own.
I was kind of hoping that's the way it would be with Roseanna, that I'd just open my eyes one morning and she'd be there in the bed next to me. I missed her something powerful. "Do they come home only for the salt?"
"'Pears to be so."
"For nothing else?"
He looked at me. Tolbert was the tallest and he was fair of hair and eyes, but it was what was in those eyes that held you. He didn't say much. But when he did, you listened. "What's goin' on in that head of yours, Fanny?"
"Well, I just thought maybe they come home because they know they belong here," I said. "And they want to make sure it'll all still be here for them. The house and us, I mean."
"They come home for the salt," he said. "But I like to think that all creatures want to come home sooner or later."
"Do you think Ro will come home, then?" I asked.
He didn't say anything for a minute. Just kept his eyes on the trail ahead, like he does sometimes. "Hope she's got the sense of our sheep," he said.
"Tolbert, why does Alifair hate me so?"
"She doesn't hate you, Fanny. She hates herself. Hates that she's lived twenty-two years and don't know what she's about. Hates that you're just a young '
un and still have the chance to find out. My guess is once she forgets about this healing business and pays mind to that young Will Bectal who wants to court her, she'll be a happier woman."
"Does she have the light of holiness? When she comes at me I want to kick her or bite her. But how can I if she's got it?"
"She's got the light of too much Ma. She should have got out from under Ma's shadow and been married years ago. Ma's a good woman, but she's trying to make Alifair into herself all over. She's got no light and no holiness, and the sooner she finds it out, the better we'll all be. So you kick and bite her all you want to defend yourself. Onliest reason I tell you this is because Alifair's been so hard on you. Not so you don't reverence Ma. You understand?"
I said yes. And since he was explaining things so good I thought I'd push further. "Why do Hatfields and McCoys hate each other?"
He grunted. "I hold it goes back to when Pa lost his sow and his pigs, two years ago. Ma says no, before that even. During The War Amongst Us, Pa's younger brother Harmon was murdered by bushwhackers. Everybody says it was old Devil Anse Hatfield and his Wildcats. You see, in 1863, Virginia's western counties broke away and became West Virginia. When men from that area got to come home on leave, they just didn't go back. They'd been fighting for their own ground, and now it was Union blue ground. So they formed their own Home Guard in West Virginia and stayed Confederate. Called themselves the Wildcats.
"And those were the people, headed up by Devil Anse, who shot and killed Pa's brother Harmon when he came home for a Christmas furlough. Shot him for coming out for the Union."
"So it started with the war?"
"Let's say the war just continued, only in a different way," Tolbert said.
"Ma always said it was the fortunes of war that made the men hereabouts so lawless and disorderly."
"Lawless and disorderly be danged. There's nothing lawless about wanting your own sow and pigs back," Tolbert muttered. Only he didn't say danged. "It's just in the McCoy blood to make right a wrong done to you or yourn. And to uphold the family honor while you're doing it. People around here, for the most part, are very serious about honor, though nobody more than the McCoys. It goes back to our ancestors in Scotland, who were Highland Celts. That Celtic strain runs right through our blood."
