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  POISON SPRING

  A Frontier Story

  POISON SPRING

  A Frontier Story

  JOHNNY D. BOGGS

  Copyright © 2014 by Johnny D. Boggs

  E-book published in 2017 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover design by Alenka Vdovič Linaschke

  Cover art © ETIEN; sonyachny / Adobe Stock

  © ilolab / Shutterstock

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Trade e-book ISBN: 978-1-4708-6152-0

  Library e-book ISBN: 978-1-4708-6151-3

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  For Megan Varela

  and the 2012–13 fifth grade class

  at El Dorado Community School

  Chapter One

  That was the year we had no food.

  The cornfield Papa had cleared lay fallow, as it had for going on two years now. Oh, Mama had a little garden out behind our cabin, but this was the first of April, so we didn’t know if anything we had planted would make it. Winter had been hard, and a late freeze had killed the blossoms on our apple trees.

  Not that we were starving. Not yet, anyway. From last harvest, Mama had put away jars of preserves, and there were still some potatoes and carrots left in the root cellar that hadn’t rotted.

  Besides, we had Miss Mary Frederick for a neighbor, and Miss Mary had to be the richest woman in Ouachita County. She was always bringing us leftovers, plus cakes or cookies or pies. She’d bring us everything but coffee. Mama dearly loved coffee, but that was one product nobody was getting in Arkansas. Even if you could find it, you couldn’t afford it. Well, maybe Miss Mary could have, but she said she never cared much for the stuff.

  That spring of ’64 had been so wet, so miserable that when our baby brother Hugh had walked out into the old cornfield, he had sunk in mud up to his waist. When Edith and I had pulled him out, the thick goo had sucked off his shoes and socks. Baby Hugh hadn’t minded one bit. That boy loved running around barefoot.

  It seemed to be raining all the time that spring. In fact, it was raining the evening when Uncle Willard paid us one of his visits.

  Like Miss Mary, Papa’s brother always brought us things, too. Not food, but money, which Mama always refused, although Uncle Willard would leave it when he rode back to Camden. At first, when we found some state script or gold coin left under the wash basin or stuck inside a coat pocket after he had gone, Mama would throw what Papa always called a “hissy fit”—yelling and breathing hard and moving around, banging dishes, pulling her hair, doing everything except cussing. After two years, however, she had grown resigned to the fact Uncle Willard would leave money behind, and it would wind up in the church collection plate. Taking leftovers from Miss Mary was one thing, but Mama never would accept anything from Uncle Willard.

  All of us Fords could be mighty stubborn, but none ever came close to matching Anna Louella Graham Ford’s mule head.

  Uncle Willard was three years older than Papa, and might have been just a hair less rich than Miss Mary. Miss Mary, why, she had always been rich. She’d let you know that the Frederick family had been wealthy when they had been in Germany, back when they had spelled that name with an ie and an ich, and they had been rich when the Fredericks had settled in Pennsylvania in 1732, and they had made even more money when her side of the family had moved to Virginia in 1785, and her Grandfather Frederick had made a fortune in Cincinnati packing hogs in the early 1800s, and, twenty years ago, when Miss Mary’s father had gotten sick of hogs and had moved the family to Arkansas, they had gotten even richer on cotton.

  Uncle Willard, though, made his fortune another way. He called himself a trader, but what he traded were men, women, girls and boys my age, even younger. He once bragged to me, back when Edith and I were nine years old, that if our skin were darker, if we were colored, he could sell us each for nine hundred dollars. He had laughed when he had said that, kept right on laughing even after Edith and I started crying, until Papa had told him to shut up.

  Edith and I had been born in this cabin thirteen years earlier. My twin sister was older than me by a few minutes, which she bragged about while bossing me around. While we were born in Arkansas, where slavery was a fact of life, we Fords didn’t own slaves. Papa always told his brother that, if he couldn’t do it himself or pay a worker for an honest day’s work, he didn’t want it done, but I think the real reason we didn’t have any was on account of Mama. Mama hailed from Illinois. Once, she had even seen Abraham Lincoln walking down the streets of Springfield long before he was elected president and sent us into war.

  No food. No sawmill. Just a war. And rain. Nothing made sense to me any more.

  How come it was Papa who was fighting with Slemons’ cavalry while Uncle Willard stayed in Camden to trade slaves and get richer? Papa wasn’t a soldier, or hadn’t been before the war. Jokingly he would sometimes tell us he wasn’t a farmer, either. He was a furniture maker, a carpenter, but mostly a sawyer, yet, for two years now, we hadn’t heard the whining at Papa’s mill. Still, Papa had joined of his own accord, although I guess he didn’t have much choice. Not after the spring of ’62, when the Confederacy had enacted a Conscription Act, meaning any man between eighteen and thirty-five years old, and later from seventeen to fifty, had to serve in the army for three years.

  At first, you could hire a substitute, someone to fight for you, but that was later outlawed in December of ’63. Uncle Willard, however, was exempt from service on account that he owned more than twenty slaves. The closest Uncle Willard got to fighting came on his weekly patrols, when he and some other grown men who hadn’t joined the Confederate Army rode around the county looking for runaways or slaves, as Uncle Willard said, “up to some cussedness.”

  Which is what had brought him by our cabin that rainy day on the first of April.

  Nobody in our family cared for Uncle Willard, not even Baby Hugh, who wasn’t a baby anymore, but going on seven years old.

  When the war broke out, back when I was just a kid ten years old, Papa hadn’t run off to enlist. He had told Uncle Willard that he ran a sawmill and was not a soldier. Besides, the South would have the Yankees whipped in six months, if not sooner.

  That, of course, had not happened, and with Yankees pressing their cause up in Missouri and over in Tennessee in the early spring of ’62, and with the Conscription Act about to take men and boys from their homes and jobs, a new rallying cry went across Arkansas for more troops, more soldiers, more fighting men. So Papa had mounted Nutmeg, his brown mare, ridden off to Hampton over in Calhoun County, and joined up with a cavalry company a fellow named Alexander Mason was organizing. Later, they had gone to Memphis, Tennessee, and became part of General William Slemons’ command. We hadn’t seen Papa since.

  He had written, of course, from camps in Tennessee and Mississippi. Not that his letters revealed much, though Mama would read them over and over till the pages got so smudged that you couldn’t tell what Papa had written. Even then, she would still sit in her rocking chair and pull them from their tattered envelopes and read them, from memory now, again. By April of ’64, however, letters had become more scarce than coffee. The last we’d heard from Papa had been during the previous summer, when he was riding with the Second Arkansas Cavalry with Major General Nathan Be
dford Forrest.

  Arkansas had not escaped three years of fighting unscathed. In 1862, the Yankees had defeated the Confederates at Elkhorn Tavern, Prairie Grove, Hill’s Plantation, Arkansas Post, Fayetteville, and other places now forgotten. Bluecoats controlled the port city of Helena on the Mississippi River. They had captured Fort Smith on the western edge of our state, and in September of ’63 they had taken Little Rock, forcing the state government to retreat and set up a new capital down south in Washington.

  To a thirteen-year-old boy, all this became hard to comprehend. Connor Ford, sergeant, Company A, Second Arkansas Cavalry, was fighting for the South, or at least, Arkansas. Yankees were the bad guys. Yankees were the invaders. How could my father, could we, be losing this war?

  War was not supposed to come to Ouachita County, but Uncle Willard came to tell us that it was coming here. Real soon.

  “It’s darkest before the dawn,” he said, then rubbed his rough hands in my hair, tangling my long locks and pulling that dark mane of mine till I squirmed. “But we’ll whip ’em curs, give ’em tyrants a taste of buck and ball, drive ’em back to Springfield, and leave that city in ashes and ruins. Ain’t that right, Annie Lou?”

  Mama pretended she had not heard. Springfield had been her home before marrying Papa. Her name was Anna Louella. She hated anyone to call her Annie, let alone Annie Lou.

  He let go of my hair, and spit tobacco juice into a tin cup.

  Thunder rolled, and Uncle Willard left me to my McGuffey’s Reader, went to the window, pushed back the curtain, and stared outside at the gray skies. Rain kept falling, as it had for most of the day, but I guess my uncle wanted to make sure that sound had indeed just been thunder and not distant cannon.

  Satisfied, he turned back toward us. “Old Pap has his boys in Camden,” he said, “just waitin’ for ’em Yanks to dare show their faces on this side of the Ouachita River.” Old Pap was General Sterling Price of Missouri, hero of Wilson’s Creek and Lexington. “Old Pap has whipped the Yanks ever’ time they dared clash with his boys.”

  Uncle Willard moved over to torture Baby Hugh. My uncle must have forgotten the battles of Elkhorn Tavern, Corinth, and Iuka. Like every other Southern general, Price lately had been losing battles and men. The mention of Price’s name, however, stopped Mama from peeling potatoes.

  “Price?” Lowering the knife, she looked at Uncle Willard. “Price is in Camden?”

  “Yep. The city again is awash in butternut and gray.”

  “Is Connor with him?”

  He spit again, wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve, and shook his head. “I doubt it, Annie Lou. Ain’t seen him, nohow. Reckon my brother’s still busy ridin’ rings ’round the Yanks with Bedford Forrest.” With a smile, he turned back to me. “I ever tell you that I know Bedford Forrest?”

  Only a million times, I thought, not looking up from the The Eclectic Fourth Reader.

  “Did some tradin’ with him at his business on Adams Street in Memphis. Quite the speculator, and quite the businessman. But I got the better of ’im in all my deals.

  “But, Annie Lou, the Yanks will be marchin’ this way. Pret’ soon. If I was you, I’d move these young ’uns to Camden. I got plenty of room. I can load y’all up right now, fetch you to Camden. It’ll be safer there, and you won’t have to work so hard to scratch out a livin’ if you ….” He stopped himself, but I knew what he meant. If you could call this living.

  “Thank you, Willard, but the children and I will make out fine here.” She went back to her potatoes.

  “How?” Uncle Willard spit again. This time, juice dripped and darkened the brown stains of his prematurely white beard. “You got no mules to work that bog you call a cornfield.”

  Last summer, scavengers or deserters or runaway slaves had stolen our two jennies.

  “You got one old milch cow … is she still givin’ any milk, Travis? … and I bet your chickens ain’t even layin’ no more,” Uncle Willard went on. “You won’t let me take over Connor’s sawmill. Why, with my slaves, I could turn y’all a tidy profit. Lumber’s one thing that ain’t scarce in these parts.”

  He paused, waiting for Mama to say something. Uncle Willard had made his pitch to operate Papa’s sawmill with his slaves many times before. Like his money, Mama wouldn’t take that offer, either. She went right on preparing supper.

  After dribbling more juice into his spit cup, Uncle Willard said: “You’re alone here, Annie Lou, a good-lookin’ woman with three kids. Nearest neighbor’s five mile down the road, and that’s a crazy ol’ biddy who ain’t got a lick of sense. They be deserters, Yanks and Southern trash, scavengers. And they’s plenty of contraband. Runaway slaves, headin’ north to Little Rock to escape their masters.” He swore underneath his breath, but not loud enough for Mama to hear.

  “As you always say, Willard,” Mama said, “it’s darkest before the dawn. Thank you, kindly, but I am not moving my family. This is our home.”

  “Yanks get here, you might not have a home no more. Best remember that.”

  Instead of answering, Mama asked: “Will you be staying for supper, Willard?”

  “Need to be gettin’ back to Camden. Just stopped by after our patrol to see how you and the kids is farin’. You sure I can’t take y’all home to Camden?”

  “We’re fine. Thank you.”

  He sighed, shook his head. “At least let me send you some slaves to work that mill, Anna.” We knew he was serious. He hadn’t called her Annie Lou to irritate her.

  His answer was the patter of rain on the roof.

  With nobody giving him any attention, he rose without another word, fetched his wide-brimmed hat and India rubber poncho off the antler horn on the wall, dressed, and left, hollering out the door for one of his slaves to help him to his carriage. His last words to the house were: “You’re as mule-headed as that hard-rock brother of mine, Annie Lou!”

  “Mama!” Baby Hugh had gotten up to peer through the window. “He left two of his boys out in the rain. Why did he do that, Mama? His boys might catch cold.”

  “They are not boys, Baby Hugh,” Edith pointed out. “They are slaves older than Uncle Willard.”

  “He calls them his boys,” our brother pointed out.

  “He calls them a lot worse, the sorry old ….” I hadn’t intended for Mama to hear, but she did. Once, Papa told Mama: “Anna, you could hear Miss Mary drop a pin while she’s darning socks in her parlor during a thunderstorm.” I should have kept my thoughts to myself. I didn’t have to like my uncle, but Mama certainly would not tolerate a thirteen-year-old showing disrespect to his elders.

  “Travis Connor Ford,” she barked, and I knew I was in trouble on account that she’d called me by my full name and not just Travis. Closing my Reader, I stood up, and her angry eyes stared me down. For a moment, all I could hear was pounding rain. Baby Hugh and my twin sister stared, holding their breath, waiting to see if I got a switching or scolding.

  Instead, I got neither. “Travis,” she said, her tone softer now. “Go to the barn. Milk the cow. Bring in some more firewood.”

  Just my normal chores. I felt lucky.

  As I put on my coat and Papa’s boots he had left behind, Edith shouted: “Mama!”

  Uncle Willard had left $100 in Arkansas bills on the seat of his chair.

  “Leave it on the table, Edith,” Mama said, without looking up. “We’ll give it to the Reverend White the day after tomorrow.”

  Chapter Two

  Our home lay in the woods just off the Camden-Washington Pike. It was only a dogtrot cabin, two rooms separated by a covered breezeway, which, coupled with the shade from the pines and oaks, kept the house cool during the summer. The east side was the kitchen, where we had been talking with Uncle Willard while Mama prepared supper. Although Papa had bought a cook stove from Mr. Kroger’s mercantile just before he left with the Confederate cavalry, Mama s
till did most of her cooking in the fireplace. You walked through the breezeway to get to the bedroom. Mama slept downstairs. Edith, Baby Hugh, and I bunked in the loft. There was a fireplace in that room, too. Two rooms. Two fireplaces. A covered porch with a slanted roof of wooden shingles. Windows with wooden shutters on the east and west walls next to the fireplaces. Front doors to each room, as well as the doorways through the breezeway, which we usually kept open when it turned hot.

  That was it. Nothing fancy. Nothing to brag about, the way Miss Mary often talked about her vast brick house with the white columns and two stories and the porch swing and the verandah and gazebo and whitewashed picket—not split rail, she’d remind you—fences. But, to us, the cabin, those woods, always felt like home.

  While we certainly weren’t rich, the roof usually did not leak, the fireplaces kept us warm during the winter, and the cabin was solid. The furniture, what little we had, Papa had made himself. He was proudest of the rocking chair, which I heard squeaking on the front porch the morning after Uncle Willard had left. I heard something else.

  Birds chirping. No rain.

  Baby Hugh and Edith still slept, and it must have been an hour past dawn. Usually we were doing chores by that time of day. Hurriedly I dressed, came downstairs, through the breezeway, and found Mama rocking away, staring down the path that led from the road to our house. Staring at nothing.

  Papa had dug the well in a little clearing in the front. The water was cool, refreshing, with not a taste of iron. Behind the house stood the barn and chicken coop, and a lean-to filled with firewood and hay, though the hay pile kept getting lower. Off to the west stood the cornfield, which now stank of mud, the run-down corncrib, and Mama’s garden, where the first sprouts had just started to pop up through the soil. Or had been before the big rains came. For all I knew, last night’s storm could have washed everything down to Poison Spring.