The Good Lord Bird

Well, that kind of talk goes down fine when you giving orders to a Negro. But them men was white, and there was some grousing from them about not knowing exactly what they was supposed to attack and so forth. The Old Man’s army was brand new, I found that out. They hadn’t been in a war before, none of ’em, not even the Old Man. The hell-raisin’ they’d done was mostly stealing food and supplies. But now the game turned serious, and he still wouldn’t tell ’em where they was going to fight. He ignored ’em when they asked. He never gived out his plans to nobody in all the years I knowed him. Then, on the other hand, looking back, maybe he didn’t know his own self, for he was prone to stop on his horse in the middle of the afternoon, cup his hand to his ear, and say, “Shh. I’m getting messages from our Great Redeemer Who stoppeth time itself on our behalf.” He’d set several minutes, setting on his horse with his eyes closed, meditating, before movin’ on.

After he announced the attack for the night, the men spent the day sharpening their broadswords on stones and getting ready. I spent the day looking for a chance to run off, but Fred was on me. He kept me busy tending the fire and learning to sharpen broadswords and clean rifles. He wouldn’t give me two minutes on my own and kept me close to him. Fred was a good teacher in them things but a pain in the neck, for he had adopted me, and it pleased him to see his little girl catch on so quickly riding a horse and ignoring the mosquitoes and being so adaptable, he said, “almost like a boy.” The dress itched me something terrible, but as the days wore into the cold nights, it growed right warm and comfortable. And I ought to say it here—I ain’t proud to report it—it also kept me from the fight. Somebody was gonna get their head blowed off, and I had no interest in that business.

Afternoon turned to dusk, and the Old Man announced, “The hour is near, men.” No sooner did he say it when, one by one, the men begun to peel off and make excuses to quit. This one had to tend to his livestock. That one had to cut crops. That one had a sick child at home, another had to run home to fetch his gun, and so on. Even Ottawa Jones begged off at the last second, promising to meet us later.

The Old Man let them go with a shrug. “I’d rather have five dedicated, trained fighters than an army of frightened ninnies,” he scoffed. “Why, take Little Onion here. A girl and a Negro besides, tending to her duties like a man. That,” he pointed out proudly to Fred and Owen, “is dedication.”

By evening, the company of twelve had whittled down to eight, not counting yours truly, and the pep had gone out of them that stayed. There was a new color to the thing now, for it growed serious, and hunger struck again. The Old Man hardly ever ate, so his needs for food wasn’t great. But them others was dying of hunger, as was yours truly. Seemed like the closer the hour came to mounting the attack, the hungrier I got, till midnight rolled past, and the hunger changed to fear, and I forgot all about being hungry.

Well into the wee hours, the Old Man gathered what was left of the Pottawatomie Rifles ’round him to pray—I’d say on average he prayed about twice an hour, not counting meals and including the times when he went to the privy, for which he uttered a shortie even before he ducked into the woods to remove his body’s impurities. They gathered ’round him, and the old man rousted it up. I can’t recollect all what he said—the terrible barbarity that followed stayed in my mind much longer—though I do recall standing in my bare feet while the Old Man called on the spirit of Jesus with an extra long spell of Old Testament and New Testament workings, hollering about the Book of John and so forth. He barked and prayed and howled at God forward and backward a solid forty-five minutes, till Owen called out, “Pa, we got to roll. It’ll be light in three hours.”

That rousted the Old Man, who came out his spell grumbling, “Course you would interrupt my reckonings to our dear departed Savior upon Whose blood our lives rest,” he said, “but I reckon He understands the impatience of children and is partial to their youth and recklessness. C’mon, men.”

They gathered in a wagon with horses tied to follow, and I hoisted myself aboard. There was but eight souls left aboard now from the original Pottawatomie Rifles, and only on the wagon as we rolled did I come to the knowledge that five of those was the Old Man’s sons: Owen and Fred, course, then Salmon, Jason, and John Jr., plus one son-in-law, Henry Thompson. The other two were James Townsley and Theo Weiner, the Jew.