Books: The Red Acorn
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John McElroy >> The Red Acorn
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Moved thereto by the hospitable urgings of Aunt Debby, and his own
appetite, Harry ate heartily. Under the influence of the comfortable
meal, the cheerful sunshine, and the rousing of the energies that
follow a change from a recumbent to an erect posture, his spirits
rose to a manlier pitch. As he could not walk without pain he
took his seat in a slat-bottomed chair by the side of the hearth,
and Aunt Debby, knitting in hand, occupied a low rocker nearly
opposite.
"Where's Mr. Fortner?" asked Harry.
"Jim got up, arly, an' arter eatin' a snac said he'd go out an'
take a look around--mebbe he mout go ez fur ez the Ford."
As if to accompany Harry's instinctie tremor over the possibilities
attending the resumption of Fortner's prowling around the flanks
of Zollicoffer's army, the fire shot off a whole volley of sharp
little explosions.
Harry sprang two or three inches above his chair, then reddened
violently, and essayed to conceal his confusion by assiduous
attention with the poker to the wants of the fire.
Aunt Debby regarded him with gentle compassion.
"Yer all shuck up by the happenin's yesterday," she said with such
tactful sympathy that his sensitive mettle was not offended. "'Tis
nateral ye should be. Hit's allers so. Folks kin say what they
please, but fouten's terrible tryin' to the narves, no matter who
does hit. My husband wuz in the Mexican War, an' he's offen tole
me thet fur weeks arter the battle o' Buner Visty he couldn't heah
a twig snap withouten his heart poppin' right up inter his mouth,
an' hit wuz so with everybody else, much ez they tried ter play
off unconsarned like."
"Ah, really?" said Henry, deeply interested in all the concerned
this woman, whose remarkable qualities were impressing themselves
upon his recognition. "What part of the army did your husband
belong to?"
"He wuz in the Kentucky rigimint commanded by Kunnel Henry Clay,
son o' the great Henry Clay, who wuz killed thar. My husband was
promoted to a Leftenant fur his brav'ry in the battle."
"Then this is not your first experience with war?"
"No, indeed," said she, with just a trace of pride swelling in the
temple's delicate network of blue veins. "The Fortners an' the
Brills air soljer families, an' ther young men hev shouldered ther
guns whenever the country needed fouten-men. Great gran'fathers
Brill an' Fortner come inter the State along with Dan'l boone nigh
onter a hundred years ago, and sence then them an' ther descendents
hev fit Injuns, Brittishers an' Mexikins evr'y time an inimy raised
a sword agin the country."
"Many of them lose their lives?"
"Yes, ev'ry war hez cost the families some member. Gran'fathes
Brill an' Fortner war both on 'em killed at the Injun ambush at
Blue Licks. I wuz on'y a baby when my father wuz killed at the
massacre of Winchester's men at the River Raisin. My brother---"
"father of the man I was with yesterday?"
"No; HIS father wuz my oldest brother. My youngest brother--the
'baby' o' the family--wuz mortally wounded by a copper ball in the
charge on the Bishop's Palace at the takin' o' Monterey."
"And your husband--he went through the war safely, did he?"
The pleasant, mobile lines upon the woman's face congealed into stony
hardness. At the moment of Harry's question she was beginning to
count the stitches in her work for some feminine mystery of "narrowing"
or "turning." She stopped, and hands and knittng dropped into her
lap.
"My husband," she said slowly and bitterly, "wuz spared by the
Mexikins thet he fit, but not by his own countrymen an' neighbors,
amongst whom he wuz brung up. His blood wuz not poured out on
the soil he invaded, but wuz drunk by the land his forefathers an'
kinsmen hed died fur. The godless Greasers on the River Grande
war kinder ter him nor the CHRISTIAN gentlemen on the Rockassel."
The intensity and bitterness of the utterance revealed a long
conning of the expression of bitter truths.
"He lost his life, then," said Harry, partially comprehending, "in
some of the troubles around here?"
"He wuz killed, bekase he wouldn't help brek down what hit hed cost
so much ter build up. He wuz killed, bekase he thot a pore man's
life wuth mo'en a rich man's nigger. He wuz killed, bekase he
b'lieved this whole country belonged ter the men who'd fit fur hit
an' made hit what hit is, an' thet hit wuzn't a plantation fur a
passel o' slave-drivers ter boss an' divide up jess ez hit suited
'em."
"Why, I thought all you Kentuckians were strongly in favor of
keeping the negores in slavery," said Harry in amazement.
"Keepin the niggers ez slaves ain't the question at all. We folks
air ez fur from bein' Abolitionists ez ennybody. Hit's a battle
now with a lot uv 'ristocrats who'd take our rights away."
"I don't quite understand your position," said Harry.
"Hit's bekase ye don't understand the country. The people down
heah air divided into three classes. Fust thar's the few very rich
fam'lies that hev big farms over in the Blue Grass with lots o'
niggers ter work 'em. Then thar's the middle class--like the Fortners
an' the Brills--thet hev small farms in the creek vallies, an'
wharever thar's good land on the mounting sides; who hev no niggers,
an' who try ter lead God-fearin', hard-workin' lives, an' support
ther fam'lies decently. Lastly thar's the pore white trash, thet
lives 'way up in the hollers an' on the wuthless lands about the
headwaters. They've little patches o' corn ter make ther breadstuff,
an' depend on huntin', fishin', an' stealin' fur the rest o' their
vittles. They've half-a-dozen guns in every cabin, but nary a hoe;
they've more yaller dogs then the rest o' us hev sheep, an they
find hit a good deal handier ter kill other folks's hogs than ter
raise ther own pork."
"Hardly desirable neighbors, I should think," ventured Harry.
"Hit's war all the time between our kind o' people, and them other
kinds. Both on 'em hates us like pizen, an' on our side--well, we
air Christians, but we recken thet when Christ tole us ter love our
inimies, an' do good ter them ez despitefully used us, he couldn't
hev hed no idee how mean people would git ter be long arter he left
the airth."
Harry could not help smiling at this new adaptation of Scriptural
mandate.
"The low-down white hates us bekase we ain't mean an' ornery ez they
air, an' hold ourselves above 'em. The big-bugs hates us bekase
we won't knuckle down ter 'em, ez ther niggers an' the pore whites
do. So hit's cat-an'-dog all the time. We don't belong ter the
same parties, we don't jine the same churches, an' thar's more or
less trouble a-gwine on batween us an' them continnerly."
"Then when the war broke out you took different sides as usual?"
"Of course! of course! The big nigger-owners an' the ornery whites
who air just ez much ther slaves ez ef they'd been bot an' paid fur
with ther own money, became red-hot Secessioners, while our people
stuck ter the Union. The very old Satan hisself seemed ter take
possession ov 'em, and stir 'em up ter do all manner o' cruelty
ter conquer us inter jinin' in with 'em. The Brills an' Fortners
hed allers been leaders agin the other people,an' now the Rebels
hissed their white slaves onter our men, ez one sets dogs onter steers
in the corn. The chief man among 'em wuz Kunnel Bill Pennington."
Harry looked up with a start.
"Yes, the same one who got his reward yesterd," she continued,
interpreting the expression of his eyes. "The Penningtons air
the richest family this side o' Danville. They an' the Brills an'
Fortners hev allers been mortal enemies. Thar's bin blood shed
in ev'ry gineration. Kunnel Bill's father limpt ter his grae on
'count of a bullet in his hip, which wuz lodged thar soon arter
I'd flung on the floor a ten dollar gold piece he'd crowded inter
my hand at a dance, where he'd come 'ithout ary invite. The bullet
wuz from teh rifle ov a young man named David Brill, thet I married
the next day, jest ez he wuz startin' fur Mexico. He volunteered
a little airlier then he'd intended, fur his father's wheat wuz
not nearly all harvested, but hit wuz thot best ter git himself out
o' the way o' the Penningtons, who wuz a mouty revengeful family,
an' besides they then hed the law on ther side. Ez soon ez he come
back from teh war Ole Kunnel Bill, an' Young Kunnel Bill, an' all
the rest o' the Pennington clan an' connection begun watchin' fur
a chance ter git even with him. The Ole Kunnel used ter vow an'
swar thet he'd never leave the airth ontil Dave Brill wuz under
the clods o' the valley. But he hed ter go last year, spite o'
hisself, an' leave David Brill 'live an' well an' becomin' more an'
more lookt up ter ev'ry day by the people, while the Penningtons
war gittin' wuss and wuss hated. We hed a son, too, the very apple
of our eyes, who wuz growin' up jest like his father---"
The quaver of an ill-repressed sob blurred her tones. She closed
her eyes firmly, as if to choke back the brimming tears, and then
rising from her seat, busied herself brushing the coals and ashes
back into the fire.
"Thet walnut pops so awfully," she said, "thet a body hez to sweep
nearly ev'ry minnit ter keep the harth at all clean."
"The death of his father made no change in the younger Col.
Pennington? He kept up the quarrel the same as ever, did he?"
asked Harry, deeply interested in teh narrative.
"Wussen ever! Wussen ever! He got bitterer ev'ry day. He laid
his defeat when he wuz runnin' fur the Legislatur at our door. He
hired bullies ter git inter a quarrel with David, at public getherin's,
an' kill him in sech a way ez ter have a plea o' self-defense ter
cla'r themselves on, but David tuck too good keer o' hisself ter
git ketched that a-way, an' he hurt one o' the bullies so bad thet
he niver quite got over hit. He an' Kunnel Pennington leveled ther
weepons on each other at a barbecue near London last Fall, but the
bystanders interfered, an' prevented bloodshed fur a time."
"When the war broke out, we never believed hit would reach us. Thar
mout be trouble in Louisville and Cincinnati--some even thought
hit likely that thar would be fouten' in Lexington--but way up in
the mountings we'd be peaceable an' safe allers. Our young men
formed theirselves inter a company o' Home Gyards, an' elected my
husband their Capting. Kunnel Pennington gathered together 'bout
a hundred o' the poorest, orneriest shakes on the headwaters, an'
tuck them off ter jine Sidney Johnson, an' drive the Yankees 'way
from Louisville. Everybody said hit wuz the best riddance o' bad
rubbish the country 'd ever knowed, and when they wuz gone our
chances fur peace seemed better'n ever.
"All the flurry made by ther gwine 'way hed died down, an' ez we
heered nothin' from 'em, or the war, people's minds got quiet ag'in,
an' they sot 'bout hurryin' up their Spring work.
"One bright, sweet mornin' in May, I wuz at my work in the yard
with Fortner--thet wuz my son's name--fixin' up the kittles ter dye
some yarn fur a coat fur him. Husband 'd went ter the other side
o' the hill, whar the new terbacker ground wuz, ter cut out some
trees that shaded the plants. The skies wuz ez bright an' fa'r ez
the good Lord ever made 'em. I could heah the ringin' o' David's
ax, ez he chopped away, an'h hit seemed ter be sayin' ter me
cheefully all the time: 'Heah I am--hard at work.' The smoke from
some brush-piles that he'd sot afire riz up slowly an' gently, fur
thar wuz no wind a-stirring. The birds sung gayly 'bout their work
o' nest-buildin', an' I couldn't help singin' about mine. I left
the kittles fur a minnit ter run down the gyardin walk, ter see
how my bed o' pinks wuz comin' out, an' I sung ez I run.
"Jest then a passel o' men come stringin' up the road ter the
bars. They looked like some o' them that Kunnel Pennington tuck
'way with him, but they rid better critters then any o' them ever
hed, an' they were dressed in a sorter soljer-cloze, an' all o'
'em toted guns.
"Something sent a chill ter my very heart the moment I laid eyes on
'em. Hit a'most stopped beatin' when I see Kunnel Bill Pennington
a little ways behind 'em, with a feather in his hat, an' sword an'
pistols in his belt. When they waited at the bars fur him ter come
up, I knowed instantly what they were arter.
"'Fortner,' I said ter my son, tryin' ter speak ez low ez possible;
'Fortner, honey, slip back through the bushes ez quick ez the
Lord'll let ye, an tell yer daddy that Bill Pennington an' his gang
air heah arter him. Sneak away, but when ye air out o' sight, run
fur yer life, honey.'
"He turned ter go, but tat that minnit Bill Pennington shouted out:
"'Stop thar! Don't ye send thet boy away! Ef he moves a step, I'll
put a bullet through his brain!' Fortner would've run in spite o'
him, but I wuz so skeered for him thet I jumped ter his side an'
ketched his arm.
"'Keep quiet, honey,' I said. 'Likely they won't find yer daddy
at all.'
"Vain hope! Ez I spoke, the sound o' David's ax rung out clearly
and steadily. The cannons at Wildcat, yesterday, didn't sound
no louder ter me. I could even tell that he wuz choppin' a beech
tree. The licks was ex a-sharp an' ringin' ez ef the ax struck
iron.
"Bill Pennington lit offen his beast, an' walked toward me, with
his sword a-clatterin' an' his spurs a-jinglin'.
"'Whar's that Yankeefied scalawag of a husband o' your'n? Whar's
Dave Brill?' he said savagely.
"Hit seemed ter me that every stroke from over the hill said ez
plainly ez tongue could utter words: 'Heah I am. Come over heah!'
I tried ter gain time ter think o' something.
"'He started this mornin' on Roan Molly fer Mt. Vernon, to 'tend
court,' I said, knowin' thet I didn't dare hesitate ter make up a
story.
"'Kunnel, thet air's a lie,' said Jake Johnson, who knowed us.
'Thar's Dave Brill's Roan Molly over thar, in the pasture.'
"'An' this hain't court-day in Mt. Vernon, neither,' said another.
"'I know your husband's on the place, I wuz tole so this mornin','
said Kunnel Bill. 'Hit'll be much better fur ye, ef ye tell me
whar he is. Hit'll at least save yer house from bein' sot afire.'
"Ring! ring! went David's ax, ez ef hit war a trumpet, shoutin'
ter the whole world: 'Heah I am. Come over heah!'
"'Ye kin burn our house ef yer that big a villain,' I said; 'but
I can't tell ye no different.'
"'Kunnel, thet's him a-choppin' over thar,' said Jake Johnson.
'I know he's cl'ared some new ground fur terbacker on thet air
hill-side.'
"'I believe hit is,' said Kunnel Bill, listenin' a minnit. 'Parker,
ye an' Haygood go over thar an' git him, while some o' the rest o'
ye look 'bout the stable an' fodder-stack thar. Mind my orders,
an' see thet they are carried out.'
"His manner made me fear everything. A thought flashed inter
my mind. Thar wuz thet horn thar."--Harry followed her eyes with
his, and saw hanging on hooks against the wall one of the long tin
horns, used in the South to call the men-folks of the farms to their
meals. It was crushed and battered to uselessness.--"I thought I'd
blow hit an' attract his attention. He mout then see them a-comin'
an' git away. I ran inter the house an' snatched the horn down,
but afore I could put hit ter my lips, Bill Pennington jerked hit
'way from me, an' stamped on hit.
"'Deb Brill,' said he, with a mortally hateful look, 'yer peart an'
sassy an' bold, an' hev allers been so, an' so 's yer Yankeefied
husband. Ye've hed yer own way offen--too offen. Now I'll heve
mine, an' wipe out some long-standin' scores. Dave Brill hez capped
a lifetime o' plague an' disturbance ter his betters, by becomin'
a trator to his country, an' inducin' others ter be traitors. He
must be quieted. come out an' listen.'
"He pulled me out inter the yard. Dave wuz still choppin' away.
Fur nearly every day fur night thirty years, the sound o' his ax
hed been music in my ears. I had larned to know hit, even afore we
wuz lovers, fur his father's land jined my father's, an' hit seems
ter me that I could tell he note o' his ax from thet o' everybody
else, a'most ez airly ez I could tell a robin's song from a
blackbird's. Girl, woman, wife an' mother, I hed listened to hit
while I knit, wove, or spun, every stroke minglin' with the sounds
o' my wheel or loom an' the song o' the birds, an' tellin' me whar
he wuz, an' thet he wuz toilin' cheefully fur me an' mine.
"Now, fur the fust time in all these years, hits steady strong beat
brought mis'ry ter my ears. Hit wuz ez the tollin' of bell fur
some one not yit dead. My heart o'ny beat ez fast ez he chopped.
Hit would give a great jump when the sound o' the blow reached me,
an' then stand still until the next one came.
"At last came a long--O, so long pause.
"'They've got thar,' said Bill Pennington, cranin' forward his
head ter ketch the fust sound. 'He's seed 'em, an' is tryin' ter
git 'way. But he kin never do hit. I know the men I sent ter do
the job.'
"Two rifle shots sounded a'most together, an' then immediately
arter wuz a couple o' boastful Injun-like yells.
"'Thar, Deb, heah thet? Ye'r a widder now. Be thankful thet I
let ye off so easy. I ought by rights ter burn yer house, an' put
thet boy o' your'n whar he'll do no harm. but this'll do fur an
example ter these mounting traitors. They've lost their leader,
an' ther hain't no one ter take his place. They'll know now thet
we're in dead airnest. Boys, go inter the house an' git all the
guns thar is thar, an' what vittles an' blankets ye want; but make
haste, fur we must git away from heah in a hurry.'
"I run ez fast ez my feet'd carry me to whar David lay stone
dead. Fortner saddled his colt an' galloped off ter his cousin
Jim Fortner's, ter rouse the Home Gyard. The colt reached Jim's
house, bekase hits mammy wuz thar; but my son never did. In takin'
the shortest road, he hed ter cross the dangerousest ford on the
Rockassel. The young beast wuz skeered nigh ter death, an' hits
rider wuz drowned."
Chapter XIII. "An Apple Jack Raid."
This kind o' sojerin' ain't a mite like our October trainin',
A chap could clear right out from there, ef it only looked like rainin';
And the Cunnels, too, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners,
An' send the Insines skootin' to the bar-room, with their banners,
(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted,) an' a feller could cry quarter
Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water.
--James Russel Lowell.
The morning after the battle, Kent Edwards was strolling around
the camp at Wildcat. "Shades of my hot-throated ancestors who
swallowed several fine farms by the tumblerful, how thirsty I am!"
he said at length. "It's no wonder these Kentuckians are such
hard drinkers. There's something in the atmosphere that makes me
drier the farther we advance into the State. Maybe the pursuit
of glory has something desiccating in it. At least, all the
warriors I ever heard of seemed composed of clay that required as
much moistening as unslaked lime. I will hie me to teh hill of
frankincense and the mountain of myrrh; in other words, I'll go
back where Abe is, and get what's left in the canteen."
He found his saturine comrade sitting on a log by a comfortable
fire, restoring buttons which, like soldiers, had become "missing
by reason of exigencies of the campaign."
The temptation to believe that inanimate matter can be actuated
by obstinate malice is almost irresistible when one has to do with
the long skeins of black thread which the soldiers use for their
sewing. These skeins resolve themselves, upon the pulling of the
first thread, into bunches of entanglement more hopelessly perverse
than the Gordian knot, or the snarls in a child's hair. To the
inexperienced victim, desirous of securing the wherewithal to sew
a button on, nothing seems easier than to pull a thread out of
the bunch of loose filament that lies before him. Rash man! That
simple mesh hat a baffling power like unto the Labyrinth of Arsino,
and long labor of fingers and teeth aided by heated and improper
language, frequently fails to extract so much as a half foot of
thread.
Abe had stuck his needle down into the log beside him. Near, were
the buttons he had fished out of his pocket, and he was laboring with
clumsy fingers and rising temper at an obdurate bunch of thread.
"I've been round looking over the field," said Kent, as he came
up.
A contemptuous snort answered him.
"You ought to've been along. I saw a great many interesting things."
"O, yes, I s'pose. Awful interesting. Lot o' dead men laying
around in the mud. 'Bout as interesting, I should say, as a spell
o' setting on a Coroner's jury. The things you find interesting
would bore anybody else to death."
Abe gave the obstinate clump a savage twist which only made its knots
more rebellious, and he looked as if strongly tempted to throw it
into the fire.
"Don't do it, Abe," said Kent, with a laugh that irritated Abe worse
still. "Thread's thread, out here, a hundred miles from nowhere.
You don't know where you'll get any more. Save it--my dear
fellow--save it. Perchance you may yet sweetly beguile many an hour
of your elegant leisure in unraveling its fantastic convolutions
with your taper fingers, and---"
"Lord! Lord!" said Abe with an expression of deep weariness,
but without looking in Kent's direction, "Who's pulled the string
o' that clack-mill and set it going? When it gets started once
it rolls out big words like punkins dropping out o' the tail of a
wagon going up hill. And there's no way o' stopping it, either.
You've just got to wiat till it runs down."
"The Proverbs say so fittingly that 'A fool delighteth not in wise
instruction,'" said Kent, as he stepped around to the other side
of the fire. His foot fell upon a projecting twig, the other end
of which flew up and landed a very hot coal on the back of Abe's
hand. Abe's action followed that of the twig, in teh suddenness of
his upspringing. He hurled an oath and a firebrand at his comrade.
"This is really becoming domestic," said Kent as he laughingly
dodged. "The gentle amenities could not cluster more thickly around
our fireside, even if we were married."
When Abe resumed his seat he did not come down exactly upon the
spot from which he had arisen. It was a little farther to the
right, where he had stuck the needle. He had forgotten about it,
but he rose with a howl when it keenly reminded him that like the
star-spangled banner, it "was still there."
"Don't rise on my account, I beg," said Kent with a deprecatory wave
of the hand, as he hurried off to wher he could laugh with safety.
A saucy drummer-boy, who neglected this precaution, received a cuff
from Abe's heavy hand that thrilled the rest of the drum-corps with
delight.
When Abe's wrath subsided from this ebullient stage back to its
customary one of simmer, Kent ventured to return.
"Say," said he, pulling over the coats and blankets near the fire,
"where's the canteen?"
"There it is by the cups. Can't you see it? If it was a snake
it'd bite you."
"It's done that already, several times, or rather its contents have.
You know what the Bible says, 'Biteth liek a serpent and stingeth
like an adder?' Ah, here it is. But gloomy forebodings seize me:
it is suspiciously light. Paradoxically, its lightness induces
gravity in me. But that pun is entirely too fine-drawn for camp
atmosphere."
He shook the canteen near his ear. "Alas! no gurgle responds to
my fond caresses--
Canteen, Mavourneen, O, why art thou silent,
Thou voice of my heart?
It is--woe is me--it is empty."
"Of course it is--you were the last one at it."
"I hurl that foul imputation back into thy teeth base knave. Thou
thyself art a very daughter of a horse-leech with a canteen of
whisky."
Abe looked at him inquiringly. "You must've found some, some
place," he said, "or you wouldn't be so awful glib. It's taken
'bout half-a-pint to loosen your tongue so that it'd run this way.
I know you."
"No, I've not found a spoonful. The eloquence of thirst is the only
inspiration I have at present. I fain would stay its cravings by
quaffing a beaker of mountain-distilled hair-curler. Mayhap this
humble receptacle contains yet a few drops which escaped thy ravenous
thirst."
Kent turned the canteen upside down and placed its mouth upon his
tongue. "No," he said, with deep dejection, "all that delicious
fluid of yesterday is now like the Father of his Country."
"Eh?" asked Abe, puzzled.
"Because it is no more--it is no more. It belongs to the unreturning
past."
"I say," he continued after a moment's pause, "let's go out and
hunt for some. there must be plenty in this neighborhood. Nature
never makes a want without providing something to supply it.
Therefore, judging from my thirst, this country ought to be full
of distilleries."
They buckled on their belts, picked up their guns and started out,
directing their steps to the front.
In spite of the sunshine the walk through the battle-field was
depressing. A chafing wind fretted through the naked limbs of the
oaks and chestnuts, and drew moans from the pines and the hemlocks.
The brown, dead leaves rustled into little tawny hillocks, behind
protecting logs and rocks. Frequently those took on the shape of
long, narrow mounds as if they covered the graves of some ill-fated
being, who like themselves, had fallen to the earth to rot in dull
obscurity. The clear little streams that in Summer-time murmured
musically down the slopes, under canopies of nodding roses and
fragrant sweet-brier, were now turbid torrents, brawling like churls
drunken with much wine, and tearing out with savage wantonness
their banks, matted with the roots of the blue violets, and the
white-flowered puccoon.
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