Child of the River

by Wanda T. Snodgrass

  One of the poker players reared back in a cowhide-bottomed chair, looking at Joe Floyd through gold-rimmed glasses. “That man with the gun is sayin’ God is a Negro.” He rounded out the syllables in the word. “What do you think of that…a black God?”

  “I don’t know what color God is, and you don’t either,” Joe replied evenly. “Yes, I’m a Negro…colored…black man…that’s true. But the next man who calls me nigger or boy will sprout some wings.” There was desperation in the man’s voice. “My name is Joe Floyd, and this gun gives me the prerogative that you call me Mister Floyd.”

  Hollis Whitfield squirmed in his chair. “Mister Floyd, I’d appreciate your pointing that weapon in some other direction.”

  Joe obliged by placing the gun in Doc Latham’s back. “I asked you real nice to come and doctor my sick child. Now, I’m telling you. You’re coming with me.”

  “In this storm? Gad, boy…uh…Mister Floyd…how far?”

  “Five or six miles, mostly uphill. You bring the right medicine to cure my Alfie.” Joe waved the gun at the other men. “You better stay put if you want Mr. Doctor to see sunup.”

  “Do as he says,” Doc Latham insisted. “For God sake, don’t follow us.” The doctor donned a heavy overcoat, hat and gloves.

  Before leaving the saloon, the black man half-apologized. “I’m not ordinarily a violent man, but you people gave me no choice. All I want is to live and let live. Not here to do anybody any harm unless you force my hand. I love my son. I’ll die for him. I’ll kill for him if I must. You better believe that.”

  The two men arrived in the wee hours of the morning at the campsite. The sleet had stopped and snow had begun to accumulate. Lucy shivered as she threw more wood on the fire. She was frantic with worry for both Alfie, who was no better, and Joe for being gone so long in the strange wilderness in the storm. She breathed a sigh of relief, and poured fresh coffee for the men who drank it eagerly and warmed themselves by the fire.

  “What have you done for the boy”, the doctor asked.

  “All I knew to do,” Lucy replied. “I gave him mashed boiled onion in honey, vinegar and some whiskey. The phlegm’s so thick, I pulled it out with my fingers a time or two.”

  The doctor climbed into the wagon to examine the child. “Get me a pan of snow,” he yelled.

  “What for?” Joe asked. “Ain’t it cold enough in that wagon?”

  “Don’t argue…get it. It’s the hair of the dog that bit him. To relieve croup symptoms, rub the patient’s upper chest with ice until it turns red. Relief will follow in about a minute.” The doctor ordered a skillet filled with hot coals next and a kettle of boiling water to which he added oil of camphor, oil of eucalyptus, turpentine, coal oil and lard. With Lucy’s help, a sheet was spread over the bed so Alfie could breathe the medicated vapors. Doc Latham dipped a flannel cloth into the solution for a chest poultice.

  Joe huddled by the fire and prayed until the gray streaks of dawn appeared. It was still snowing.

  “Your son’s ailment is worse than I thought. It’s Whooping Cough, and it’s contagious. I gave the boy laudanum so he will sleep for a while. I also gave him quinine tablets. I suggest the rest of you take quinine, too. Wear this asphidity around your necks and chew it every now and then. It smells to high heaven and doesn’t taste good but it might help ward off the disease. The gray-haired doctor squatted down and poked a twig into the fire to light a pipe. “Best thing I know for Whooping Cough is mare’s milk.”

  Joe laughed and looked at the doctor with skepticism. “You’re puttin’ me on. Never heard of milkin’ horses. All I got are mare mules. They’re not fresh. Just once in a blue moon will a mare mule foal.”

  “I’m serious,” Doc replied. “My mare has a nursing colt. See if you can milk her. It won’t take much.”

  The idea seemed preposterous to Joe. He still didn’t believe the man. “Never heard of people drinkin’ horse milk. You sure about that, Mr. Doctor?”

  “Do it. It’ll cut the phlegm and Alfie won’t whoop another whoop. I’ll guarantee it.”

  It was afternoon before Alfie’s fever broke and he awoke. Lucy poked her head through the canvas flap on the wagon, a wide smile spread across her face. “Alfie’s hungry, Joe.” There were tears in her eyes as she climbed down from the vigil at Alfie’s bedside.

  ‘Thanks be to God,” Joe replied. “The Good Being and Mr. Doctor pulled him through. The Lord Jesus pointed me to you, sir.”

  Doc Latham’s kindly face beamed. “He’ll be all right, Mr. Floyd. Let him rest and recuperate a few days before you break camp.”

  Tears blurred in the big black man’s tired bloodshot eyes. “My son would have died without you. Thanks you, Mr. Doctor. How much do I owe you?”

  Doc Latham was taken aback that the black man offered to pay. The man hadn’t had any dealings with freedmen before. Besides, he rarely received cash for services rendered to white settlers. More often, people paid in wild plum jam or algarita berry jelly, chickens or fried pies. He studied the black man’s honest face. “Dollar ought to do it.”

  “Take two. It was worth it to us, sir.”

  The doctor took the man’s money with a bit of reluctance. There was something about this strange Negro man who forced him out into the cold, stormy night that commanded respect. “Where you folks headed?”

  “Got 160 acres of homestead land east of Fort McKavett.”

  Doc nodded. “The free government land. According to the San Antonio newspaper, not one Texan has taken that offer.” He sopped gravy with a biscuit. “Why’d you come through the hills for crying out loud? Most folks take the eastern route out of Austin, down through Burnet and Mason. It’s a miracle you got this far in that heavy old Conestoga. The folks at Gentry Creek moved in by oxcart. Goodness, man, you’re ten miles off the main road.”

  “I’ve got a compass,” Joe told him. “I know where I’m goin’. A friendly rider a ways back warned me about outlaws on the road. I had to protect my family.”

  Dr. Latham studied the man and puffed on the pipe. “I still say it took a lot of nerve to come through the hills. You former slaves?”

  “Yes, in Mississippi.”

  “Your master mean to you, was he?”

  “Matter of fact, no if you mean whippin’. The Farringtons took good care o’ Larkspur slaves. Worked hell out of us, but we had good eats…good clothes.”

  “Then why in heaven’s name did you leave to come to this Comanche infested wilderness?”

  Joe straightened and looked the doctor straight in the eye. “I wanted to be my own man. Don’t want anybody takin’ care o’ me and mine. I can take care of my family myself. Don’t want nobody bossin’ me or my wife and boys. Don’t want to call anybody master. We want to be free…live out our lives in peace and enjoy our freedom same as white folks.”

  Assuring the couple that their son would recover, the doctor told them about a cattle trail as he saddled his mare. “A drover by the name of Chisholm came through a few weeks ago with a herd of Longhorns. You’ll hit his trail a few miles over yonder way, but it’s rough country. It’s smoother riding on the highway, man. You’ll have to cross the highway to hit the cattle trail.”

  Floyd shook his head. “No, sir. We’re not takin’ that main road. Some Texas folks don’t like coloreds. We ain’t welcome here. We been spit at, cussed, and laughed at. Bunch o’ little boys throwed rocks at us while their pappies laughed. One time, we’s chased out o’ town by men on horseback. We quit campin’ in towns a long way back. We worked too hard in that cotton patch for what little money I got for some outlaw to steal it. That fellar told me the outlaws ain’t past takin’ liberties with my wife ‘cause she’s black. So, you see, Mr. Doctor, I mean to cut through the country.”

  “At least follow the cattle trail. Cattle have an instinct for finding the easiest route through the hills. Springs, too. You’re nearly there, boy…uh…Mr. Floyd. Not more’n twenty miles to Menardville.”

  Joe gathered up
the blanket and tossed it across the mule’s back. “Be back soon’s I can, Lucy. I’ll see Mr. Doctor safely back to Gentry Creek.”

  “No need, sir,” Dr. Latham told him. “I know every tree in this forest.” He waved goodbye and headed through the snow-covered forest back to Gentry Creek with a new respect for freedmen.

  Lucy held onto her husband’s arm as they watched the good doctor out of sight. She smiled up at him. “You’ve brought us this far, my husband. Whatever you decide. Take us the rest of the way.”

  “You’re a good woman, Lucy. We’ll take the doctor’s advice and find that cattle trail.”

  The Chisholm Trail wound around live oak thickets, bare mesquite trees, bear grass, cedar bushes and Spanish oaks, but the trail was easier than a straight cross-country course. The trail veered west on the mountain crest back toward the highway as they neared the village of Menardville. Joe halted the mules, and the family climbed down from the wagon to peer at the village below. The town was nestled in a valley with hills on three sides. The highest was in the neighborhood of two hundred feet. Stovepipe smoke curled upward, giving evidence of civilization, but they saw nobody on the street that early morning.

  “Looks like easy prey for an Indian attack,” Joe remarked. “They could swoop down from all these hills.”

  The black man had underestimated the courage and resourcefulness of the stout- hearted pioneers who settled the valley. People from every walk of life had one thing in common. The settlers were Rebels, all. This was a Confederate village. Some came to the frontier for adventure. Others came from the war torn battleground to begin anew. A few were fugitives wanted by the military. They were “good old boys” with a Robin Hood attitude. Some of the war widows and others would not have survived without their generosity. True, General Lee surrendered. The South, indeed, had fallen, but Menard County belonged to the pioneers. This was their land. No man, red or white, would be able to sever the roots they planted without a terrific battle.

  Got to figure some way down this mountain, Joe mused, as he surveyed the countryside. He turned to speak to Lucy and found her with her hands on her hips. A frown knitted the brows on her unsmiling face. She shook her head with determination. “Joe, if you’re a-thinkin’ what I think you’re a-thinkin’, just forget it! I’ve walked down my last hill. You get this here wagon over to the main road. Can’t be too far over yonder. We ain’t a-slidin’ down this hill like a bunch of fools this close to town. I mean it, Joe.”

  It was the first time Lucy had crossed him on the entire westward journey. Joe grinned and removed his hat and bowed low. “Yes, Ma’m…whatever you say, princess.” He laughed and gave her a knowing look. “You’re real fetchin’ when you get all riled up. Know that? Kinda turns love bubbles on in me. Just as cute as a li’l old Banty hen with her feathers all ruffled up, a-runnin from a rooster and hopin’ he’ll catch her.”

  His wife grinned and smoothed her hair. “Reckon I ought to stay riled the way I look now.”

  At the foot of the high hill leading into Menardville, Joe called the team to a halt. He was bewildered by the message on a large wooden slatted sign across the road from the cemetery. Near the sign was a lonely grave. He wondered why it wasn’t in the cemetery with the others. He read the sign aloud:

  FREE STATE OF MENARD

  NO KILLERS, ROBBERS OR CHICKEN THIEVES ALLOWED

  NO SHOOTING UP THE TOWN

  (It upsets the womenfolk) Somebody had tacked on an afterthought:

  TRY IT AND YOU’LL NEVER REACH THE COUNTY LINE!

  Jacob swallowed hard and pointed to the lonely grave. “Why’s this one so far from the others? Why’s it clear across the street?”

  Joe climbed down from the wagon to read the crude epitaph:

  Here lies Lester McDoon

  Who shot up our only saloon

  He thought we was jokin’

  But the mirror was broken

  So we buried Mr. McDoon.

  Frightened, Lucy clung to Joe’s strong arm. “What little town is this? What strange place have we come to? These people make their own rules. What will they do to….”

  Joe slowed the team to a walk as they approached the men sitting outside the general store. “Don’t know. Don’t know what they might try.” He unbuttoned his coat so he could reach his gun if needed. “We’re almost home to our own land. We’re free people, and we plan to stay. Don’t apologize to nobody ’cause we’re black folks. Hold your heads up high. We’re plantin’ our roots in this good land, and nobody…I said nobody is going to force us off our land.”

  Chapter 16

  It was a blustery December day on Larkspur Plantation. The north wind howled through the trees in the bottomland as Rufus, the women and older children crawled on their hands and knees raking through the leaves, scrapping the last of the pecan crop. The fall vegetables had been harvested more than a month ago. Sweet potatoes, Irish potatoes, dried pinto beans and black-eye peas had been stored in the root cellar. Hot peppers were strung, and onions were hung from hooks on the ceiling of the smokehouse to dry. Apples and pears that were not dried or canned had been carefully wrapped in newspaper for keeping through the winter. A killing frost hit in early November, and the green tomatoes that were salvaged were ground with cabbage and onions into chow-chow. A few were wrapped for later ripening.

  Cold weather meant hog killing time. A black wash pot bubbled with boiling water to be poured over tow sack draped carcasses of two fat hogs. The steam would loosen the hair stubble on the rind for easy scraping. Soon a few of the luckier children would be squatting by the fire roasting hog melts on forked sticks.

  There was no waste to a hog. Hams and bacons were heavily salted and seasoned with brown sugar and pepper and hung in the smokehouse, along with rings of sausages ground from the shoulders and trimmed meat. The entrails were cleaned for chitterlings and sausage casings. The feet were pickled. The head was boiled for hogshead souse, and the brains that were eaten fresh were usually scrambled with eggs. Everything except the squeal was salvaged. The fatty rind was rendered into cracklings, leaving plenty of lard for baking and making lye soap. Tenderloins and spare ribs were eaten fresh.

  Ike’s cotton was the last to be picked so it was yet to be plowed and laid in for spring planting season. Other sharecroppers had just begun to plow the stubble under. There was no leisure time for the workers from the time of the first frost until the land was laid by. Fruit trees were topped and trimmed and the deadwood burned. Grapevines were pruned, as well, and the orchard was raked by hand. Benjamin insisted on perfection regardless of the cost for extra laborers. It was a matter of pride.

  With barely time to wash up and eat supper, the weary adults filed into the great room for Miss Lila Eppson’s evening school. Before starting the lesson, she read a letter from Benjamin:

  “My dear Miss Eppson,

  I was deeply grieved to learn about the passing of Mose. He was a loyal slave throughout his lifetime at Larkspur. The plantation will never be the same without his music. His death made me realize that three more of my servants are not as young as they used to be. I have decided to retire them with a small pension. Luke will take over the responsibility of overseeing the plantation in Logan’s stead, beginning January 1. I do not want Cassie or Rufus doing hard labor any longer either.”

  Logan was deeply concerned. His expression was troubled. “Does that mean Mista Ben done fired us old folks?”

  The teacher shook her head. “Nobody’s been fired,” she patiently explained. “Mr. Farrington means it in your own best interest.” She continued reading the letter:

  “It’s high time the oldsters took to rocking chairs. Tell Luke to be looking for another gardener to take Rufus’s place. The new man, George, should consider taking over Luke’s portion of the cotton field. Mandy will assume Cassie’s position as head housekeeper and oversee the staff of house servants.”

  Cassie interrupted with indignation. “Ain’t nobody, let alone Mandy, gonna keep the Far
rington mansion like I do. I ain’t no old woman. Gotta lot o’ kick left in me.”

  Miss Eppson was short with Cassie. “Then direct your energies in another direction. Mr. Farrington didn’t ask your opinions. These are his orders. Please, you all be quiet and listen, or we’ll never get to the lesson.”

  “…I want Luke and his family to move into the servants quarters at the big house soon after Christmas. No need to make the transition now. The holidays are upon us. Logan and Cassie will, of course, move their things down to Luke’s cabin….”

  Mandy was delighted with the promotion. It showed in her smile and the pleased look on her face while Cassie’s resentful brown eyes shot darts at her.

  “…I was not the least surprised to hear that Josephus and Lucinda left Larkspur. He has been strange and aloof since the war, and I suspect would have been a troublemaker in my absence. He was, however, an excellent fanner. Well, no matter. If Josephus wanted to leave, I say good riddance. Negroes all over Mississippi are crying for jobs.

  “You didn’t say in your correspondence, Miss Eppson, but I hope Logan didn’t give Josephus the deed to his allotted ten acres….”

  “Oh, I did, Miss Eppson. I give Joe the deed,” Logan lamented. “More’n a week before they left. Joe sold it, too. I didn’t know no better. Mista Ben signed the deeds and told me to give ’em to ’em when they cotton’s picked an’ ginned.” Logan scratched his head trying to remember. “That’s the way I understood it. Or was it when the land’s laid in? Oh mercy! Mr. Ben’s gonna be powerful mad!”

  Miss Eppson didn’t say a word to Logan. She glared at him in such a way over her half-glasses that he clammed up immediately and shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

  “…I’m delighted the school is going so well. It’s a comfort knowing you are there lending your expertise to my servants’ educational needs. Again, please convey my heartfelt sympathy to the Negroes for their sorrow in the loss of dear old Mose.