The Good Lord Bird

“Hold these things, and may they bring you good fortune till you come along and meet the soul that shows you the way of the Maker, Onion. For the prophet may cometh in the form of man, boy, or a woman-child, as in the case of you, and each person must attain his wisdom of the Almighty when they meets their own prophet maker of the word who holds the sign to redemption at the ready, and that includes you, Little Onion.” Then he throwed in there, “And may you meet another Little Onion in your travels, so that she might be your good-luck charm and thus rid you of these baubles and make you truly free like me.”

Here he produced the last from his pocket, an odd, long black-and-white feather, and throwed the feather in my head, tucked it right in my curly napped hair, then paused a moment, reflecting, staring at that feather in my head. “Feather of a Good Lord Bird. Now, that’s special. I don’t feel bad about it neither, giving my special thing to you. The Bible says: ‘Take that which is special from thine own hand, and giveth to the needy, and you moveth in the Lord’s path.’ That’s the secret, Little Onion. But just so you know, you ought not to believe too much in heathen things. And don’t stretch the Great Ruler’s word too much. You stretch it here, stretch it there, before you know it, it’s full-out devilment. We being fighters of His righteous Holy Word, we is allowed a few indulgences, like charms and so forth. But we ought not take too much advantage. Understand?”

I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but, being he was a lunatic, I nodded my head yes.

That seemed to please him, and he thrust his head toward the sky and said, “Teach thy children the ways of our King of Kings, and they shall not depart from it. I hear Thee, oh great Haymaker, and I thank Thee for blessing us every minute of every day.”

I don’t know but that God said to him aye-aye and proper, for after that, the Old Man seemed satisfied with the whole bit and forgot about me instantly. He turned away and pulled a huge canvas map from his saddlebag. He clopped to the canvas lean-to in his worn boots, plopped down on the ground under it, and stuck his head in the map without saying another word. As an afterthought, he motioned for me to sit on the ground next to him, which I done.

By now the two other riders had dismounted and come up, and by the look of it, they was the Old Man’s sons, for they was nearly ugly as him. The first was a huge, strapping youth about twenty years old. He was taller than Dutch, six feet four inches tall without his boots. He had more weapons hanging off him than I ever seen one man carry: two heavy seven-shot pistols strapped to his thighs by leather—that was the first I ever saw such a thing. Plus a broadsword, a squirrel gun, a buckshot rifle, a buck knife, and a Sharps rifle. When he moved around, he rattled like a hardware store. He was an altogether fearsome sight. His name, I later come to know, was Frederick. The second was shorter, more stocky, with red hair and a crippled arm, a good bit older. That was Owen. Neither one of ’em spoke, but waited for the Old Man to speak.

“Water these horses and scare us up a fire,” he said.

The Old Man’s words got them movin’ while I sat in the lean-to next to him. I was frightfully hungry despite being kidnapped, and I must say my first hours of freedom under John Brown was like my last hours of freedom under him: I was hungrier than I ever was as a slave.

The Old Man settled his back against the wall under the canvas tent and kept his face to the map. The camp, though empty, had been used heavily. Several guns and effects lay about. The place was odorous, downright ripe, and the smell brung mosquitoes, which swarmed about in thick black clouds. One of them clouds settled on me and the mosquitoes had at me right away something terrible. As I swatted at them, several mice scurried about in a rock crevice on the wall behind the Old Man, just over his shoulder. One of the mice fell off the rock crevice directly onto the Old Man’s map. The Old Man studied it a moment, and it studied him. The Old Man had a way with every animal under God’s creation. Later I was to see how he could pick up a baby lamb and lead it to slaughter with kindness and affection, could tame a horse just by gently shaking and talking to it, and could lead the most stubborn mule out of mud stuck up to its neck like it was nothing. He carefully picked up the mouse and gently placed it back in the rock crevice with the rest of its brother mice, and they set there quiet as pups, peeking over the Old Man’s shoulder as he stared at his map. I reckoned they was like me. They wanted to know where they was, so I asked it.

“Middle Creek,” he grunted. He didn’t seem in a talking mood now. He snapped at his boys, “Feed this child.”