Jordan's War - 1861 Page 2

  Chapter 2

  It was just before suppertime when the wagon rolled by the colossal moss covered rock that marked the top of the mountain. From this point, the forest dwindled into shorter deciduous trees that mingled with the already green rhododendron thickets.

  Soon it opened onto spacious fields. The weathered logs of the south pasture fence materialized in the distance and Jordan could see their cattle grazing on hay by the barn. They were only small dots, but he could see them nonetheless. They were home.

  Thank goodness because Jordan was absolutely famished. Ma had packed them some ham and biscuits for the trip but those were eaten before they even got to town. He hoped she fixed something good and a lot of it.

  Otter, Pa’s old redbone hound, sauntered out to the wagon, gave it a couple of sniffs, then let out one solitary yelp to announce their arrival.

  Willow, Jordan’s older sister, waved to them as she walked up the path from the woods carrying two pails that Jordan initially thought was water. He looked closer and saw they were the ones used to collect the maple sap and most likely she’d be making syrup and sugar cakes tomorrow. He found himself licking his lips at the very thought of a sugar cake.

  Willow’s real name was Whisper of the Willows – Grandma named her. But no one ever called her by her real name unless they wanted a good thumping. They all called her Willow. Grandma also named Jordan’s baby sister, Gift of Selah, but everyone called her Selie. She’d always cry when someone said her name too fast because it sounded like “Silly.”

  He’d heard the story many times that the only reason the boys had normal names is because Pa refused to let her name them. Once, he asked if Grandma had picked out a name for him. Without any hesitation, Pa replied, “Boil Needing Lanced,” and nearly cried from laughing so hard. Jordan never brought up the subject again.

  Jordan’s younger brother, Jake, was sitting on the front porch carving another animal with his knife. Ma already had a whole window sill full of the little wooden critters, but Jake still kept carving anyway. He had probably been pouting all day because he had to stay behind and do the chores, but if he was mad he didn’t show it as he ran out to greet the weary travelers.

  “Bout time you got back. Uncle Tate’s been here for over an hour talking about some war and Grandma needs a drink!” he yelled.

  Sure enough, Uncle Tate’s wagon was sitting out front.

  Great. Now Jordan would have to deal with his cousins, Nealy, Isaac, and Henry. Nealy and Isaac were both older than Eamon and thought they could boss everyone around. Henry was a year older than Jordan, but he was all right most of the time.

  Eamon rolled his eyes.

  “Are the youngin’s with him?” Jordan asked.

  “Just Isaac and Henry,” Jake answered.

  “Probably wants to borrow something or invite themselves to supper,” Eamon whispered.

  “Eamon, take the wagon around back to the barn and leave it there,” Pa said. “Jordan, you unhitch the horses and put them in the pasture.”

  “What can I do?” Jake asked.

  “Let’s go see what brings my dear brother all the way over here,” Pa said, and walked with Jake up the steps into the house.

  Jordan watched them disappear through the door then hopped up on the bench beside Eamon, who had scooted over to take the reins. The crickets had begun their usual evening melody and the subtle sparkle of the night’s first stars appeared in the bluish-purple sky.

  “I’m starving,” Jordan said. “I hope Uncle Tater didn’t eat everything.”

  “I’m telling Pa you called him that,” Eamon said.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jordan asked. “You’ve been a grump since we got to town. And you always call him Uncle Tater.”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with me,” Eamon said.

  “Sure don’t sound like it,” Jordan mumbled.

  He hopped down from the bench, un-harnessed the horses, opened the gate to the pasture, and shooed them inside. An odd feeling rushed over him. Something wasn’t right but Jordan couldn’t place it. He walked through the gate and beyond the barn where Eamon was pushing the wagon inside and then out into the middle of the field, searching but still couldn’t figure it out. Something was missing.

  Oh hell! The bullpen’s busted! Jordan looked around but didn’t see the beast they called Gus anywhere. He walked backwards to the gate, his eyes darting across the field from one shadow to another. His stomach dropped as if someone had kicked him and his heart felt like it would burst through his chest with each beat.

  First he heard a snort, then came a steady stomping that shook the ground. Gus was waiting in ambush, hidden behind the barn. Jordan locked eyes with the broad-backed devil for just a second and froze with fear. Gus charged. Adrenaline shot Jordan’s legs into motion and he took off as fast as he could to the fence. He could feel the animal’s hot breath on his heels and the thunder of his hoofs pounding the earth.

  “Eamon!” Jordan cried.

  The animal was right on him and the fence was still about thirty yards away.

  He felt a nudge at this back and then crashed to his knees. The bull raced past him but not before one of his hoofs mashed into Jordan’s side. He screamed.

  Jordan was back up on his knees. Gus was standing between him and the fence, preparing for another charge. The other side of the fence was too far. He’d never make it. There was no other way out. He sprinted right at Gus. The bull ran straight at him. At the last second, Jordan made a sharp left turn just before he ran head on into the raging animal. Gus turned to run him down. Jordan lunged over the fence. He fell to the ground and rolled down a small bank. A savage pain ripped through his side and he curled his knees into his stomach, writhing in agony.

  Gus turned around and trotted back towards his pen as if nothing had happened.

  “He could’ve busted through that fence if he wanted to,” Eamon said.

  Jordan rolled on his back and saw Eamon leaning on the fence about ten yards up, chewing on a piece of grass. His vision got blurry as he was gasped for air. His hands were trembling, his heart was racing, and his stomach and side felt like they were on fire. There was a roaring in his ears as the bile traveled up his throat and blew from his mouth to the ground. He gave a couple more heaves before wiping the spittle from his chin with his shirtsleeve. He stood up despite his weak knees and limped over to Eamon.

  “Why didn’t you help me?” Jordan cried. “He could have killed me!”

  “Aw, he was just playing with you,” Eamon said.

  “Eamon this really hurts.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Jordan pulled up his shirt and tried to twist around to look at it, but the wound was on his back and side, and it hurt too much to move. He cringed when Eamon touched the burning flesh.

  “Wow,” Eamon said. “Gus split the skin wide open when he stepped on you. It’s still bleeding so you better hold your shirt real tight against it. I can see your bone right there. It could be broken. Dang, that looks like it hurt real bad.”

  Jordan pulled his shirt down and took off in a half limp, half run to the house. The wet blood turned cold in the brisk evening air and his knees were starting to buckle. As he reached the yard, the salty aroma of fried deer steak wafted past his nose and visions of it smothered with gravy with steaming biscuits slathered in melted butter lessened the pain.

  Willow’s chickens scrambled to get out of his path as he stumbled up the porch steps and fell down. Eamon came behind him and picked him up.

  “Ma, Jordan’s hurt,” Eamon hollered.

  Jordan sat in the floor by Grandma’s chair, too bloated to move. He had to sit by her because she was the only one who could stand the smell of the poultice that was now tied to his back. It was only a flesh wound, albeit a deep one and he had to wear the stinking concoction for a few days to draw out any infection. That suited Jordan much better than the maggots Jake got a couple of years back for an infected sore on his shoulder that wouldn’t g
o away. At least there were no broken bones.

  Eamon got a good talking to after Jordan told them what happened and had to apologize. Ma said Eamon had to help him do his chores until he got better. Eamon shot Jordan a devious smile when no one was looking and after that Jordan wasn’t real clear on which one of them got punished.

  Getting hurt didn’t bother Jordan’s appetite one bit. He ate seconds of everything, even the vegetables and had to loosen the string around his pants just to breathe. He even ate the scraps Willow had left on her plate. He looked for Selie’s plate but Willow had already scraped it into the slop bucket.

  Grandma was sound asleep, but not snoring too loud. Ma said she slept a lot because she was old. Jordan didn’t agree. He was sure her sipping moonshine had more to do with it than her age.

  Jordan glanced over at Isaac and Henry as they sat by themselves in the corner. They didn’t talk much anymore. Not since their ma died last summer. No one knew what took her. Aunt Ginny was always frail and sickly, to hear folks tell it. She’d been ill for a long time and not one of Grandma’s herbal potions or secret root tonics could save her. Eventually her skin turned a blotchy purple and she couldn’t get out of bed. Then one day she died.

  “Jake bring me my mandolin,” Pa said. “Bess, you up for some song? How about a little Turkey in the Straw?”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful,” Ma said.

  Jake ran back with Pa’s mandolin. Tate reached out and grabbed him by the waist, pulled him back and took the instrument out of his hands.

  “There’s no time for music Finnian,” Uncle Tate said. “We got to talk about this war.”

  “Oh hell Tate,” Pa whined and snatched the mandolin away from him. “There ain’t even been any fighting yet and there’s always time for music.”

  Uncle Tate tried to argue but Pa just smiled and strummed the strings.

  Pa was one of the best pickers around and he was always invited to play anywhere there was music. The mandolin had been his pa’s and his pa’s before that. No one was ever allowed to play with it but he’d teach them a few chords if they asked.

  “Eamon, how about a little Wayfaring Stranger?” Pa asked.

  Eamon nodded.

  Jordan heard others play this song before, but none better than Pa. He added his own personal twang to each note.

  Eamon sprang into song on Pa’s cue. He voice sounded just like one of those visiting singers at Church meetings, but Jordan would never tell him that.

  Ma sat straight up in her chair, closed her eyes, and swayed with the melody. Jake was sitting on her lap. Willow sat in the floor next to her, stroking Selie’s hair. She fell asleep not long after supper and her head was resting in Willow’s lap.

  Jordan leaned back against the leg of Grandma’s chair and closed his eyes. The music swept over him like a warm ray of sun. A feeling of peace settled in the room as if God himself had come to listen to Eamon sing. It was over too soon.

  “You want to hear another?” Pa asked.

  “Finnian, Tate wants to talk to you,” Ma said.

  “I suppose we’ll have do this another night,” Pa relented and laid the mandolin at his feet.

  “I’m taking Selie and going to bed,” Willow announced through a wide yawn. She scooped the child in her arms. She kissed Ma and went into the back room.

  “Jake, you go on with Willow,” Ma said.

  “I’m not sleepy,” Jake whined.

  “Go on now,” she said.

  “Goodnight everybody,” Jake said, and followed Willow.

  “Alright,” Pa said. “What’s so all-fire important?”

  “We got to talk about what we’re going to do.”

  “What do you mean?” Ma asked.

  “Nealy’s heading out to Lewisburg in a few days to sign up. I figured he’d be pretty good sharp shooter,” Tate said.

  Sharp shooter! Oh hell, Nealy missed an eight point buck last fall when it was standing less than twenty yards from him. Nealy threatened to beat Jordan up if he ever told anyone. He blabbed it anyway.

  Jordan looked over at Eamon and smiled. To his surprise, Eamon smiled back.

  “I figure he’d go now and in a few months, we could ride over with Eamon and Isaac.”

  “Now hold on just a minute,” Pa interrupted. “Eamon ain’t going anywhere until he’s eighteen. I just had this same talk with that damn Luke Vander. God willing, this horrible war will be over and forgotten by then.”

  “Amen, Finnian.” Grandma said. Jordan hadn’t noticed she had woken up. Or maybe, she was only pretending to be asleep. She was a tricky one.

  “Of course he’s going. All the boys are going. You want folks to think he’s yellow?”

  “I don’t give a fiddle-fart what folks think of him,” Pa said. “I ain’t sending my boy off to die for something that don’t concern us Sinclairs.”

  “Oh, he ain’t going to die,” Tate reasoned. “It’ll all be over in a couple of months.”

  “President Lincoln ain’t going to let this happen,” Pa argued. “You just can’t up and leave a country.”

  “What about the notice?” Tate asked.

  “It don’t mean nothing to me,” Pa said.

  Tate didn’t say anything but his bottom lip quivered. Jordan had never seen him look so angry.

  “All I got is this here land and my family,” Pa continued. “No one is going to take it from me. You can have your war. I don’t want no part of it. You’d be wise to think about this for a while big brother.”

  “You can’t turn your back,” Tate said. “Folk’s tired of it.”

  “Tired of what?” Pa asked, raising his voice just a little. “Working the land? Those working the land ain’t starting all of this. It’s them slave owners. Hell, they ain’t never done a hard day’s work in their life. I don’t respect a man who don’t work his own land and my sons sure as hell ain’t dying for him.”

  “You’ll regret those words Finnian,” Tate warned. “Come on boys, let’s go.” He stood up and put on his hat.

  “Tate, it’s late and the boys are tired,” Ma said. “You can bed down here and go home in the morning.”

  “I’d rather sleep in a ditch than spend the night in this house,” Tate said and stormed out the door.

  Henry and Isaac followed him, but not before giving their Aunt Bess a kiss on the cheek and their Uncle Finnian a firm handshake.

  “I think he means it this time,” Eamon said, and grinned.

  “He means it every time every time he says it,” Pa said. “I suppose we’d better turn in too.”

  Chapter 3

  Jordan opened his eyes and little by little they adjusted to the early morning darkness. His stomach churned and bubbled, sour from too much rhubarb pie the night before. He sat up and found his breeches lying in a crumpled heap beside his bed. He pulled them on and tied them around his waist, careful not to disturb the tender scab on his back. It had been healing pretty well all week, but if it bled anymore he’d have to wear the poultice again. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and felt around for his shirt, careful not to wake up Eamon or Jake. It was lying not far from his pants.

  Familiar shuffling noises told him Ma was already up and busy in the kitchen. He knew it was her and not Willow because she had a peculiar way of walking on the same floor boards and their groaning and squeaking kept cadence with her stride. It wasn’t that she was heavy, because she barely weighed a hundred pounds soak and wet. It was mainly because the floor was old and rotted. They had been that way for a few years and no one really paid much attention to it until Ma gathered up the rugs and took them outside to beat the dirt out of them. Every time she did Pa would say, “need to fix them floor boards,” but then she’d put the rugs back down and he’d forget all about it.

  Jordan stumbled into the kitchen and rubbed more crust from his eyes. He loved first morning – being the first one up, staring at the amber glow from a single candle, and drinking his hot coffee in the quiet moments before dawn.
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  He grabbed the ladle and scooped a big drink of water out of the bucket. He swirled it around in his mouth and then opened the kitchen door to spit it out. An image of Luke Vanders black teeth rushed through his mind. He took another drink and rinsed again.

  “Here’s your coffee,” Ma said and handed him a cup. “Sugar’s on the table.”

  “You need some more wood?” he asked and set his cup down beside the sugar bowl.

  “I suppose it could use a few logs.”

  Jordan walked out to the back porch, picked up a few small pieces from the wood box, and went back inside.

  “Ouch!” he cried. The metal poker was hot and clung to the rough skin of his palm. It clanged on the stone as Jordan rushed to let go. The wood he held fell to the floor.

  He blew as fast as he could on his palm, but it did nothing to cool the burning, red flesh.

  “I’ll get some lard,” Ma said and stuck her fingers in a jar of white congealed grease that sat on the edge of her cooking table.

  A watery blister had already bubbled up by the time she smeared the warm fat over it. Jordan fought back tears as his skin sizzled. He was almost a man now and men don’t cry. She wrapped it up with a piece of cloth and tied it up.

  “I’ll get the wood. You sit down and sip your coffee.”

  She picked up the poker using the edge of her apron so she wouldn’t get burned, stoked the fire, and put the wood on top of the stack. Tiny embers flew from the fireplace like a million fireflies.

  “Is Pa up?” Jordan asked.

  “Yep. He’s over with the horses getting them ready to plow.”

  Jordan leaned over and looked out the window, towards the barn. The sun was just rising and caste a shimmering blue light against the dark morning sky. He didn’t see Pa though.

  “Anybody else up?”

  “Nope.”

  Jordan both enjoyed and dreaded planting time. He loved the smell of the fresh turned earth, the straight furrows which would eventually grow into straight rows of green, the bright sunshine, and best of all, heading down to the creek after they were done for the day and jumping into the cool, crisp water. He hated walking behind a horse for hours, strapped to the plow. It was exhausting work. Last year was the first year he worked the plow and even though he was sore for a week, he was proud he was at last old enough. Selie and Jake got to drop the seeds and hoe them under, which used to be Jordan’s job.