Agnes Canon's War

by Deborah Lincoln

  “I been thinking about old Frank Kunkel,” he said, stirring a mess of venison and potatoes in the fry pan. “He ain’t never give up on that bottom land he stole from Pa. Maybe it’s time we taught him a lesson.”

  “You think we can scare him into giving over claiming that field for himself?” Jake said.

  “Don’t see why not. I hear Earl’s gone off with the militia, so there’s nobody there but Frank and his old lady.” Willard picked at the venison, burned his finger, swore. “We need new horses, anyway. Frank always had a good eye for horseflesh.”

  “They’d know in town who did it, if we was to hit the Kunkel place,” Jake said. “Sheriff’d be after us for sure. I ain’t so sure we should shit in our own nest.”

  “This is war, son.” Willard flashed a feral grin at his brother. “Kunkel’s the enemy. No one’s going to say nothing about it for fear they get hit, too.”

  “Maybe,” Jake said. “Before we hit the Kunkel place I want to go home and fetch some warm clothes.” He dished up a plateful of stew. “And I sure wouldn’t take amiss having some of Ma’s biscuits and chicken for a change.”

  Willard snorted. “Soft-ass. We’ll just take a little vacation, go on home for a good meal, sleep in a soft bed, then go visit old Frank.” He guzzled from his pocket flask, always full, Jake didn’t know for sure how that happened. “I’ll tell the boys we’re taking a breather.”

  

  Retreating to the bush again might present a hardship, Jake thought, seeing how his ma fed him three hot meals a day and plied him with sweets. Pa expected him to help with chores, and the old man didn’t want to know what his two oldest boys had been up to. But the younger kids hung on every word and every story, and Willard spun some tales that Jake knew stood tall, but he fancied playing hero.

  Pa himself, not Wil, brought up the Kunkel problem one evening after dinner. Most all the family paid no heed to Reuben when he got up his wind about Frank Kunkel and the boundary dispute, they’d heard it so much. But this time Jake and Willard joined in, goaded on by a new aggravation, the fact that Frank Kunkel pastured his sheep on the bottom land and proposed to fence it.

  “He ain’t got no call to be building a fence down there,” Reuben said, bracing a pipe against his stump and tamping tobacco with a flat-headed nail. “I’m going have to go out there and tear it down, and he knows I’ll do it, too.”

  “Let him finish it first before we tear it down,” Wil said, “and he’ll of wasted all that time and money.”

  “You can take some of those damn sheep too,” the old man said. “Treat your boys to mutton.”

  “Hey, there’d be a feast, Wil, what do you think? I bet the boys’d be mighty pleased to see something besides venison.” Jake said.

  “Oh, we’ll take more than sheep,” Willard said. “I don’t aim for Kunkel to get off that easy.”

  His pa threw him a sharp look from under heavy gray brows. “What you planning, boy?”

  “Don’t worry, Pa, when I’m done he won’t want that bottom land no more.”

  Bigelow took the pipe from his mouth, stared at it. Never did draw right. “Don’t you go doing nothing to come back on me and your ma,” he said. “We got to live here.”

  “I’ll take care of Kunkel, Pa. You take care of you and Ma and the kids.”

  Bigelow glowered but dropped the topic and didn’t mention Kunkel or the fence again before the boys left. Jake felt a sadness in his pa when he and Wil packed heavy coats and the gloves their ma had made for them and mounted up, Jake on the little gray mare he’d picked up on the farm in Easton, Willard on a roan horse he’d borrowed from Juwitt. It wouldn’t do to ride home on Sam’s stolen black where Pa might recognize it. Jake swiveled in his saddle and waved a hand. He thought maybe Pa waved back but he couldn’t be sure.

  Dusk settled in fast, the late October afternoon faded by heavy overcast and a chilling wind that stripped the last leaves from the maples and white oak. When they reached the junction where the road branched toward the Grand River, Wil turned the wrong way.

  Jake jerked the mare’s head around. “What the hell?”

  “Taking a detour,” Willard said over his shoulder. “Canon’s place, then Kunkel’s.”

  Jake grimaced. “Not Sam, Wil. Come on.”

  “Hey, man’s for the Union. He’s fair target.”

  “What about the boys? They’ll be waiting on us up at camp.”

  “Nope, they’re meeting us here. I told them before we left. Should be camped over to Hog Creek.”

  Jake didn’t like it, but he shrugged, reined the mare around, and followed his brother.

  

  Jake was surprised at how many of the men waited for them in the hollow along Hog Creek north of the road to Richville. Both the Littles showed up, and Ora Juwitt, along with Dave Powers and Hank Jensen. He’d half thought they’d seen the last of a couple, at least of Hank, whose whining about his wounded shoulder got worse with the weather.

  The men joked and laughed among themselves. Everyone looked rested and well-fed and anxious to get on with the night’s work. Willard and Juwitt talked low between themselves, then Willard yanked on the bridle and motioned his men out of the creek drainage and to the southeast, headed for Canon’s farm.

  Night, crisp and deep, blanketed the farm, the unlit house a silhouette against the paler eastern skyline. The Canons must have gone to town, and no hired men stayed on the place this time of year. Jake was relieved, but Willard, furious at Sam’s absence, rode the roan onto the porch and slammed his boot through the door. Jake started when Sam’s old shepherd, hovering next to the barn, set up a furious racket behind him. Wil whirled off the porch, lifted his revolver and silenced it with one shot. The old dog flopped once or twice before it lay still. Jake remembered it trailing after him when he worked for Sam and headed into the fields after one of Miz Canon’s breakfasts. She always made the best flapjacks.

  Juwitt and Jensen ransacked the house, scrounging up a revolver, a rifle and ammunition, as well as cash and old lady Canon’s jewelry. The Little brothers disappeared into the barn and returned with Sam’s saddle horse and plow mules, while Willard directed the operation from horseback. Jake sat his horse in silence, disregarded or forgotten by the others, and watched Powers twist together a length of straw. Dave lifted it toward Willard, who touched a Lucifer to the tip, then threw it through the barn door, crackling into the duff on the floor. The terrified scream of an animal rose, a cow, Jake thought. Dick Little sprinted back into the barn, and in seconds three milk cows trundled out, eyes wild and rolling, and disappeared into the blackness. Jake wondered what the hell he was doing there. Then Willard slid out of his saddle, picked up another twist of straw, lit it, and steered for the house. Jake shook himself and leaped from the horse.

  “No.” He grabbed Willard’s hand. The mad look in his brother’s eyes terrified him, he’d never seen them this wild before. “No, Wil, not that. It ain’t worth it. You done enough here.”

  Willard’s eyes stared beyond him, glazed, then focused, swung back to Jake’s face. He laughed and threw down the torch. Jake stepped on it, grinding out the flame with the heel of his boot. Willard punched him on the shoulder, laughing. “Just testing you, little brother.” He grasped the saddle horn and swung onto the roan and laughed again.

  “So this is just practice, boys,” Willard shouted. “Now for the real show.”

  The fire in the barn swelled and crackled as dry straw caught. The gray mare pranced, and Jake hopped in circles before he managed to mount. His brother wheeled his horse around and tore up the road at a dead run, a triumphant howl trailing back. The others pushed their horses to keep up, drunk on destruction, and Jake galloped along side, shouting with the best of them, trying to drown out the doubts.

  

  Frank Kunkel must have heard them coming over the fields well before they’d got within pis
tol shot. Jake spotted him right away, standing in the shadows of a big elm next to his porch, musket rifle aimed directly at Willard’s chest. The overcast had blown itself into frayed clouds, and a half moon shone bright enough to light up the riders. Jake shivered, felt like he had a target painted on his chest.

  “You there, Willard Bigelow, you stop where you are,” Frank called before Willard reached the steps. “What you think you’re doing, running around in the middle of the night disturbing decent folks’ rest?”

  Willard guffawed. “Hey, Frank, ain’t you gonna give a welcome to old neighbors? Why you got that gun on us?”

  Moonlight flashed off the rifle barrel. “I’ve heard what you boys been up to this summer, and you ain’t welcome here and you know it, so just turn that horse of Sam’s around and take yourselves out of here.”

  Willard grinned as he reined in the gelding at the porch rail, Powers and Jensen ranging up alongside him. “Now, Frank, if you heard about us you know what we’re here for. We want your guns and your ammunition, and maybe your cash. You stay out of the way and you ain’t going to get hurt, you and Nellie.” He pulled back on the reins. The black chuffed and pranced. Willard got him under control and started to dismount.

  Frank raised the rifle, aimed it at Willard’s head. “Stay where you are, Bigelow, or I shoot.”

  Willard eased back into the saddle, his chuckle a trifle nervous now. Everyone knew Frank Kunkel for a dead shot, but no one expected he’d pull the trigger on a man, especially a man he knew.

  “Frank, don’t cause no trouble. You don’t put that gun down I’m going to ride right up on the porch and through that door without getting off, then there’ll be a real mess.”

  Powers sneered. “He ain’t going to shoot.” He threw his leg over the saddle, slid to the ground. “I’ll go get that gun and we can get on with this,” and he started up the steps.

  The gun boomed, and Powers screamed like a banshee. His horse whinnied and jumped, shying away from the sudden noise and the smell of powder. The other horses plunged and snorted. The dark stain on Powers’ left shoulder glistened in the moonlight. He stumbled backwards and fell in the dust. In an instant, chaos erupted. Men jumped off their mounts and sheltered behind them, screaming oaths, pistols cocked.

  “You killed him! Son of a bitch you killed him!” Jake heard Willard’s shriek, and he cringed, waiting for the next shot. But Frank threw down the rifle and backed to his door, and Jake stood in his stirrups craning to see. Willard rushed the porch along with Hank and Ora Juwitt while Dick and Harlan Little danced around hollering like red Indians. From the darkness of the porch came the soft thud of fists pounding into flesh, the crack of bone. Frank cursed. Jake heard a woman’s voice, high and hysterical, raising a chill along his scalp. Juwitt swore, and Nellie Kunkel spun off the porch and onto her backside in the moonlight under the dancing hooves of the horses.

  Something inside Jake tugged at him, urging him to turn tail and run for it, but that would mean the end of it between him and his brother. Instead, he reined up and watched. In a moment Hank and Willard dragged Frank from the porch by both arms. Kunkel’s head wobbled as if it pained him to hold it up, blood covered the front of his white nightshirt, his trousers hung ragged over bare feet. The old lady sprawled sobbing in the dirt.

  “What do we do with him, Wil?” Juwitt asked, his voice excited and sounding happy to Jake.

  Wil’s voice drawled. “What do you do with someone murders one of our boys?” He looked around the circle.

  “Why, you hang him,” Hank said.

  Frank’s head jerked up, and Jake felt the terror coming off the man from a dozen yards away. He almost laughed out loud, the idea was so preposterous. Nobody’s going to hang Frank Kunkel. Sure he and Pa had their differences, but mostly everyone considered the feud entertainment, nobody got hurt. So Kunkel’s a Union man, but in war you shoot a man’s trying to shoot you, no call to go hanging neighbors.

  But something about Wil’s lazy, intoxicated swagger scared Jake, and he almost smelled the boys’ excitement. He realized Harlan Little twirled a rope from his fist, and then Harlan flung it over a branch of the elm, a noose dangling from the end. Frank trembled so bad that Willard and Hank had to hold him up. Nellie sat on the ground where she’d fallen, legs splayed out in front of her, keening a single high note. They tied Frank’s wrists behind him with Hank’s neckerchief, Juwitt led his own horse to the tree, they boosted Frank up. Ora held him in the saddle.

  Jake watched, numb. Surely they wouldn’t do this thing. They’d give the old man a scare he wouldn’t forget, then they’d leave him and Nellie rethinking their Union loyalties and go make camp and have a drink and laugh about it. But then his brother, mounted on the black, sidled up to Frank, settled the noose around his neck.

  The sound of a smack on the horse’s hindquarters raised a shout from the men gathered around the tree, and Jake squeezed closed his eyes and felt his face wet with tears. When next he looked, Frank dangled from the bough of the elm. His feet still kicked, his upper body twitched, and it seemed an eternity before those spasmodic movements finally stilled. There was no sound in the farm yard except the low, quiet sobbing of the woman. Jake thought sure they'd kill her too, but Willard dismounted, leaned over her and said something, then stood and laughed.

  “That’s a night’s work, boys,” he said. “Let’s go.” He swung into the saddle, the rest followed suit and trotted down the road in single file. Jake gaped at the still form hanging from the tree. Now there was no going home. Now it was truly war, and he was in for a pound. Nothing to do but follow Willard, go where he went, fight when he fought. Maybe it didn’t really matter.

  30

  Winter and Spring 1862

  The day after Sam’s barn burned and Frank Kunkel was murdered, Sam moved Rachel into the Jacksons’ house, while he and Billy barricaded themselves at the farm and began to rebuild. Rumors circulated that rebels massed at Albany, seventy miles away in Gentry County, and that the Yankee General Prentiss advanced on them from Chillicothe. And then the word was a fight on the Grand River forced rebels and bushwhackers to retreat west. So the good folk of Lick Creek locked their doors and hid away from one another in the dark winter nights.

  They never discovered who was responsible for Jabez’s beating, though Aldo Beaton appeared to limp for several days following. He claimed a horse trod on his foot, but Agnes heard his voice in her head. All yours Missus. The sheriff refused to hear her arguments. But most troubling to Agnes was the change in Jabez. His fire and anger about the war, about politics, his restless energy in debate and argument, his passion for interposing common sense on chaos devolved into something uglier. A slow recovery from the beating, a recovery more dilatory of mind than of body, brought on a dark, brooding quiet in both action and word.

  He neglected his medical practice, closeting himself in his surgery writing pamphlets and tracts and articles and sending them to distant papers. Whether they were published Agnes never knew. His eyes no longer flashed, his quick laugh disappeared, and his sessions with Charlie and the alphabet dwindled away. And the debates and discussions, those long conversations of events and literature and ideas no longer seemed to interest him.

  He first talked about sending Agnes and the children away a few weeks after Christmas. Whole families packed up and left the county, husbands sent wives and children to safety in the north. Abandoned farms and desolated towns dotted the countryside. Jayhawkers and bushwhackers on the prowl often found houses deserted, contents ripe for the plundering. Jabez wanted to send them to Pennsylvania, to her family, and her refusal sparked one of their first arguments.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll not leave you behind and run.” She dropped her book in her lap and glared at him.

  “Then send the children away,” he said. He slumped in his reading chair following dinner. Charlie and Sarah, both suffering from croup, finally slept, and the
day of freezing February rain, fractious children and a brooding Jabez waned all too slowly.

  “I’ll do no such thing,” she said. “They’re perfectly safe here in town with family about.” She knew that wasn’t strictly true after what happened to Sam and Frank Kunkel. And the dispatches reported bad news daily: the Confederacy retreated in Kentucky, the federals pushed Price out of Springfield, raiders operated north of the river, close to Lick Creek. She wondered what was happening to her family? To all the families in Lick Creek? Rachel’s home violated, Sam confused and angry at the chaos he saw around him, Billy preparing to march off to war. John clinging to unreality, evading a declaration of loyalty to one side or another. Faces, like images flashing from a magic lantern, appeared before her. Annie Irvine, whose father sent her and her mother to Ohio. The Cottiers, who deserted their farm and disappeared to the southwest. Galen Crow, gone to fight with Price. In normal times, a rural town countered boredom and grinding labor with an almost humorous daily dose of bickering, petty feuds, and entertaining litigation, mixed with a liberal portion of loyalty and friendship. Now it plunged headlong into disorder and destruction, and Agnes found herself alternately terrified or numb, cynical or enraged, accepting violence as a way of life.

  “Just associating with us puts your family at risk,” Jabez said. His long fingers picked at the material of his trousers in short, angry jerks. “We can’t raise children in a town filled with hate. You need to take them away.” He pulled off his reading glasses and dropped them to the floor.