A Man Called Scar

by Jim Cox

  After struggling for an hour, Bart sat in discouragement; he had only climbed a quarter of the way. He was taking in deep gulps of air, and then his energy was exhausted. Giving up would be the easy thing to do, but that was not an option. He must devise another plan. He was fourteen years old, had gone to school seven years back east, and was certainly smarter than Maude.

  Maybe I can get her to come to me? Maybe she doesn't know I'm down here. I'll bet the sack is getting mighty heavy and she’d like to have it removed.

  Bart turned to call, but Maude was gone. "How could she disappear so quickly?" he said to himself. His gaze carefully moved over every section of the hill—behind boulders, behind trees, into the hill crevasses, everywhere. He moved several feet to the left to get a different perspective, but Maude was not to be found.

  He would not give up on his plan. Perhaps Maude was on the other side of the hill but still within calling distance. With his cupped hands to his mouth, Bart made call after call, for over fifteen minutes, and when Maude didn't show, he changed to whistling. Waiting for five minutes, he repeated his efforts, but nothing worked. Maude had vanished.

  The western sun was casting shadows into the valley by the time Bart made it back to his cave. His despair told him he was finished, that he would never leave the cave if he entered it. He did not care. He had had enough. He was through. Things were unbearable. He was in a terrible depression when he lay down. His body was in shambles, starvation was near, and no one was around to help. Between long sobs, he talked with his Pa, who now lived in Heaven with Ma. "Pa, I'm sorry I didn't make it to Colorado, where you said I should go the night you died. I tried, I really did. I gave it my all, but it wasn’t enough. Please forgive me, Pa.” Bart cried himself to sleep in the cold, dark cave.

  Meanwhile, the hill path outside leading to the stream had been used by animals for centuries, and tonight was no exception. Creatures needed to drink, and though the creek's water was still murky from the storm, they continued to come. Like the other animals, Maude needed water after chomping on grass all day in the sun. As she slowly came down the path, her way was blocked with debris, causing her to weave around. At the water’s edge, Maude lowered her head to drink, and the rope-tied sack she bore slid down her neck, becoming entangled in a tree branch that had lodged underwater during the storm. After drinking, she pulled against the entangled bag but was unable to raise her head, so she remained standing with a lowered head as if ground hitched.

  The cave was a great shelter, but it had a fault. Outside sounds were muffled almost entirely. Call it coincidence, luck, or divine intervention, but something woke Bart. Perhaps it was the coolness of the cave? He walked out into the cold, damp, night air. The moon was nearly full and shone brightly on the hillside. Guessing it to be about nine o'clock, Bart turned back for the cave but stopped when he heard something splashing in the water. His view was blocked from the main creek channel, so he moved a few feet for a clearer view. His eyes bugged. There was never a more beautiful animal in creation than the long, floppy-eared mule stomping in the creek’s water. It was Maude!

  Bart was cautious. He knew Maude could flare at any unexpected movement or even smell blood on him and run. He devised a plan that with any luck would not spook his mule. He would approach her downwind. He would leave behind his walking stick which might be considered a threat, and sing songs to calm her.

  Walking north for several yards with the wind to his back, he turned downhill toward the stream. There were some obstructions, but the moon shone bright, illuminating most of the debris along the creek bed. Reaching the water’s edge, he headed back south, walking in the soft sand. Within a couple minutes, Maude's outline came into view some twenty yards farther downstream. Bart's heart was pounding. He started singing very softly. As he came closer, his tone became louder. "Maude, old Maude, you red old mule. Don't you run from me, you fool."

  Puzzled why Maude did not raise her head, he started calling to her, but she remained still. Bart continued talking to her as he walked slowly toward her, and when he was five feet away, he saw her entanglement. Stroking her neck, he reached for the halter and then carefully untied the single rein that looped around her neck. Unlike a normal split rein, Maude had only one, about nine feet long. The single rope was used only to tie or lead her. She was not rein-trained but knew verbal commands. “Haw” meant left, and “gee” meant right. To eliminate any possibility of Maude getting away, Bart tied a slipknot at the end of the reins and looped them around his left arm. Then he proceeded to free Maude.

  When Bart lifted the sack, Maude raised her head, causing the bag to slide back in place, resting next to her shoulders. Scratching her forehead and patting her cheek several times, Bart headed up to his cave leading Maude. About halfway up the hill, he became exhausted, so he grabbed Maude's tail and hung on with all his strength. She practically dragged his worn-out body up the hill to his camp. He was exhausted and wanted to rest, but first, he must eat.

  Bart tied the mule to a nearby tree and started untying the knot in the rope that held the bag around her neck. Soon he was dragging the sack toward his shelter. He sat on a rock outside the cave’s entrance with the bag at his side. It was a warm night with a slight breeze, and the moon lit the hillside in a beautiful twilight.

  He found himself somewhat reluctant to open the bag. What was he afraid of? He needed food, even though he had ceased to have hunger pangs. His weak, blood-covered hands pulled open the mouth of the bag, and he slowly reached inside. Pieces of cornbread wrapped in wet paper were his first find. Looking at the food in his hands, his eyes swelled with tears. Never had he been so truly thankful for food as he was now. Pausing before eating, he thanked God for the food and asked for protection.

  Bart’s hand was shaking as he brought the wet, crumbling cornbread to his mouth. Opening his mouth was painful, and chewing was almost unbearable, so he held the bread against the right side of his mouth with his tongue and let it more or less dissolve before swallowing. After a couple of swallows, he was full. Bart remembered being told a starving person could eat very little, and this proved to be true. If his strength was to improve, he must eat a little at a time, but often. Maybe he should eat another piece of cornbread in a few minutes. However, sleepiness overpowered hunger and Bart's head started nodding. Soon, long breaths were all that could be heard as he lay in front of his cave.

  Sometime later, Maude heard something coming down the path. Her long ears pointed in its direction, and her nostrils flared, taking in an identifiable smell. It was her worst enemy, a mountain lion. Maude started tugging at her tied rope, but it held. After several whinnies, she woke Bart. His own senses couldn’t identify the danger, but he knew something was out there because of the way Maude was acting. He immediately came to hold her halter. Whatever was bothering her left the valley because several minutes later Maude calmed down.

  After double-checking her tie, Bart started back for his shelter. He picked up a few sticks of firewood on his way, thinking it was time to build a fire. The fire would keep wild animals away, and he was ready to make coffee and fry bacon.

  Bart saw a flat rock under overhanging tree limbs, close to the cave, that would be a perfect location to build his fire. The overhanging limbs would filter out the smoke, which was important even at night because smoke could be seen for miles against the bright moon. The trees would also restrict the view of any passersby. He placed pieces of bark and handfuls of dried leaves on the fire site, followed with small dry sticks, then with larger ones, and finally with limbs large enough to burn for several hours.

  Digging in the gunnysack, he located two pieces of flint and a piece of dry paper. Sticking the paper under the leaves, he struck the flints a few times and blew softly on the kindling; shortly, he had a fire blazing.

  Waiting for the fire to burn down a bit, Bart dug in his sack for the coffee pot and went to the stream to fetch coffee water. The creek water had not totally cleared of the storm’s mud, but it was oka
y for coffee. Returning, Bart placed a flat rock at the edge of the fire, half in, half out, and set his kettle on it. When the water started to boil, he dumped several heaping spoons of coffee into the pot, and then pulled bacon from the bag and sliced four pieces from the slab. He held the bacon over the fire on a long, forked branch; flames flared as drops of liquid fat dropped into the fire. Bart sat on a rock, occasionally feeding the fire with wood, and drank hot coffee directly from the pot. He was stuffed and felt content after eating the bacon and a second piece of cornbread. The last several days had been almost unbearable, but having something to eat gave him some peace of mind.

  It was a beautiful night. The sky was filled with masses of stars, twinkling brightly in the clear Missouri heavens. The moon hung large as if dedicating its entire light to the valley. Silvery moonbeams reflected off the stream. Gentle night noises filled the air.

  As Bart sat drinking, his mind drifted back to some of his very first memories. He was five years old, living in Pennsylvania. It seemed so long ago. So much had happened since then.

  Chapter Three

  Home was in Blainsboro, Pennsylvania, in a small log cabin at the north edge of town. Pa had cut and notched the logs himself, careful to make tight fits to stop the cold winter winds from entering. The front door was hinged with leather straps, and the doorway was short of five feet. One had to bend when entering and walk down three steps to the dugout dirt floor. Most houses in the area had dugout floors, which helped keep the house cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

  It was a oneroom cabin, fifteen by eighteen feet, with two shuttered windows. A stone fireplace for heating and cooking centered the east wall, and Pa’s homemade table and benches fronted the fire. Ma and Pa’s bed was in the back corner with clothes hanging on nearby wall pegs.

  Pa had started building the cabin in the spring of 1854 and had it finished by fall when he and Ma married and moved in. Two years later, in April 1857, I came along, as the story goes. Ma had a difficult time birthing me, partly because I was two weeks overdue and large for her first child. Following my birth, she was confined to bed for two weeks. By the time I was six months old, Pa had built a barn with several stalls and an overhead loft for storing winter hay. A rail fence, connected to the barn, bordered the pasture where our two milk cows and three horses grazed. A pig pen was in one corner. Chickens ran about wherever they pleased. Ma's garden was between the house and barn.

  My first recollection was my first day of school. It was a subscription school, held in the church which was less than a hundred yards from our house. The monthly school fee was one dollar per student. There were only four girls and five boys, including me, who attended regularly. Most kids in the area didn't attend school. Mr. Adams, the teacher, introduced us to our classmates. We each had to tell something about ourselves and give our full name along with our nickname. I knew I was in trouble.

  When it was my turn, he nodded at me. I stood and said, "My name’s Azro Bartholomew Carter, but most folks call me Bart. I'm six years old and live with my ma at the north edge of town." The whole class snickered, and one overgrown boy, at least a full head taller than me, laughed. Then the entire class laughed. After school, Ma met me at the cabin door, concerned about my bloodied nose and a torn shirt. That was the first of many school fights.

  Our daily routine never varied much. Ma would have breakfast on the table when she woke me at six a.m. After eating, we both headed for the barn carrying the milk cans and a bucket of slop for the pigs. While Ma milked, I did the feeding, let the livestock out, and did a few other jobs. After school, we did the evening chores, ate supper, and worked on my school assignments. Ma always helped me with my school work and made me recap every detail of my school day. Before going to bed, she read to me from the Bible and explained the meaning of the verses. I could never follow all of those thees and thous, but Ma said it would come to me as I grew older. On Saturdays, we chopped firewood and cleaned the barn stalls, spreading the manure on our garden.

  Ma worked six days a week at the town's mercantile store, owned and operated by Mr. Stevens. Her hours were from eight a.m. to six p.m. except on Saturdays when she worked a couple hours longer. Ma was always pleasant to customers and seemed to get along with everyone. I often heard Mr. Stevens say Ma was a blessing to him, and she could manage the store as well as he did. He was good to us in return by giving Ma a few extra items when she purchased her supply of staples, like salt, sugar, flour, molasses, and wax to make candles. However, we didn’t need to purchase many food items because we grew and canned most every kind of vegetable and even had a potato hill by the garden. We had chickens that provided eggs and once a month had fried chicken for Sunday dinner. We had milk to drink and plenty left over to make butter and cheese. Every fall, we butchered and salted down three hogs to provide our yearly supply of bacon and other pork products.

  Around people, Ma always had a smile, but everything was not as it seemed. At home, she seemed unhappy. Nighttime was especially hard for Ma. Sometimes I would wake and see her kneeling at her bedside in prayer. Between sobs, she asked God over and over to protect her husband. Her sobs were hard and long-lasting. I never asked Ma about her prayers. I knew they were private and painful.

  I couldn't remember Pa. He went off to war in the spring of 1861 when I was only four and had been gone for four years. In all that time, Ma had received only a few letters, maybe every six months or so. She was always positive, telling me the war would soon be over and that Pa would be coming home, but I knew, deep down, she had doubts. We both did.

  Blainsboro was a two-street, side-by-side town. All the businesses were located on Main Street, and the people’s homes were on Church Street that ran parallel, west of Main Street. The white clapboard church was located at the far end of Church Street. There were about eighty people in town, mostly women, children, and elderly men. All the working-age men and older boys were off to war and had been since I could remember.

  It was a painful time for folks. Everyone had a loved one on the battlefront. Some had a husband, some a father, a brother, or a son. Nearly every month, a soldier rode down Church Street with a message—a message of death. Men and women with sober faces and clasped hands would congregate around the messenger, fearing their loved ones’ names would be read. After a man’s death was verified, the town’s folks tried to comfort the bereaved by providing daily meals and offering friendship. Anticipation and anxiety were on everyone's mind. Folks knew the next death news could be for them.

  But time passed. Ma stayed busy with her store work and me with school. Mr. Adams told Ma my school work was well above average for my age, especially in numbers. He said I could grow up to be a businessman or banker. School was mostly an enjoyable time, but sometimes the older boys would pick fights or make snide remarks about my name or size. Most of the time, I let the teasing pass, but occasionally, my temper got the best of me. I’d start fights, even though I knew I would end up with a bruised face or a bloody nose. On those days, Ma would get home, see my face, and simply shake her head as she reached for the ointment.

  One April morning in 1865, a rider came at a gallop down Main Street shouting, "The war's over! The war's over! Lee has surrendered to Grant!" People hurried onto the street and repeated the news to everyone they met. Some jumped about, nearly dancing. Some kneeled in prayer, and some of the older men headed for the saloon.

  It was a time of celebration, capped off with an evening town supper. After the morning news, the women had spent most of the afternoon cooking their favorite dishes and getting dressed up for the evening’s festivities. The event started at the church with the parson delivering a prayer. He prayed for everything and then prayed for everything again. His praying lasted so long that people's thoughts drifted to the tables filled with all sorts of delicious food. The parson finally said amen and the lines formed. Benches from the church had been moved outside where folks sat holding plates full of fried chicken, roast pork, mashed potatoes, fresh h
ot bread, and many other foods. The kids ate fast, wanting to be first in the dessert line for ice cream and cookies. As people departed that evening, their minds were filled with anticipation and eagerness—all were wondering when their loved one would be coming home.

  The first soldier arrived home two weeks later. Then several arrived weekly for the next three months, but Pa didn't show.

  Six months later, sitting at the supper table, I said, "Pa's not coming home, is he? He'd be home by now if he was still alive." Ma sat forking her food without eating a bite as tears filled her eyes. The silence was deafening; she stared into the unknown. "Son," she finally said after collecting herself, "some men have died without being identified, and it's possible your father is among them, but let's not give up…not yet." We both sat in silence. After a while, when it became clear we wouldn’t be eating another bite, we rose to clear the table.

  Several weeks passed, and nothing more was said about Pa's death. Ma’s face showed her worry, and with each passing week, her doubts increased. Often times after work, she sat rocking, looking down the road in hopes Pa would appear. Sometimes during these depressed stages, I would try to perk her up and force a conversation about school or farm activities, but eventually, even that didn't arouse much interest. Weeks passed this way.

  One Sunday morning, the middle of October 1865, I was dressed for church, waiting outside for Ma to join me, when I saw a rider coming up Church Street. The streets were empty because folks were inside getting ready for church. The lone rider caught my eye even though he was some distance off, but as he came closer, I could make out a few details. He was wearing a blue army uniform, he was slumped in his saddle, swaying from side to side, and his horse's head hung in exhaustion. As he got closer, I could see fatigue in his face and knew he needed assistance.

  "Ma," I called through an open shutter, "there's a soldier riding our way, and he needs help. You'd better hurry out here." Ma rushed out the door, and we both ran to the soldier, who by this time was sliding from his horse. We lowered him to the ground, holding tightly to his upper arms. His head rested on the ground, and his brimmed army hat had slid down, covering most of his face. His swollen, cracked lips were the only part of his face showing through his mustache and beard. We stood, trying to figure out what to do.