All That Lives Read online

  “We will play again, but not now, for it is time for us to depart.” Father stopped in the hallway where his guns, shot bags, powder horn and hat were hung on pegs by the door. He opened it wide and we followed him across the porch and down the steps. I took my time ambling down our hill, unused to the clumpy feeling of the cloth between my legs. Fatherinsisted our home occupied an ideal location at the top of the knoll, for drainage was never a problem and the location afforded the most lovely views, but it did make for a strenuous approach and difficult descent. Drewry stopped for a drink at the well beyond our two immense pear trees, and then we carried on, past the horse tie, turning right, toward the stables. Zeke, our stableman, held the horses ready for us outside the door to the barn. I liked him tremendously, for he let me brush the horses’ manes when Father was out on the lands.

  “Morning, suhs, Miss ’Lizabeth.” A smile wrinkled his dark skin.

  “Betsy, you and Drewry may share the double saddle.” Father patted the shining leather of it, inspecting the clever design that allowed two bottoms to ride comfortably on one horse’s back. He was proud to have paid only ten dollars for it after trading tobacco with the saddler in Springfield.

  “And a bright sorrel mare to take yous there,” Zeke hummed under his breath, checking the shoes of the steady girl who wore the saddle. We called her Dipsy, for the long swoop of her back. I was disappointed not to have my own horse, but I did not argue with Father, as it was not a lengthy trip.

  Drewry mounted first and busied himself arranging his gun across his back. Father helped me up and I wondered if Mother had informed him I was a young woman. I grew uncomfortable at the thought, circling Drewry’s waist with my arms. I supposed I would not tell my brothers about it, but I did look forward to discussing it with my best girlfriend, Thenny, when next I saw her. It must not have happened yet to her, or surely she would have told me of it, for it was in her nature to talk of everything.

  We set out, taking the southern path behind the stables so we might walk along the stream and approach the planting fields from behind. I heard the rushing spring water before I caught a glimpse of it, for its bubbling energy filled the woods. Rabbits and birds scattered into the stands of green budding elm, oak and maple, alerted by the farm hounds that raced ahead barking, their noses full of scent. We clopped single file slowly down the path and a family of deer leaped suddenly beside us, hopping over the grassy banks.

  “Look, those deer are an easy mark!” Drewry shifted his rifle to his front and I saw the group stop to drink by a small stand of spring cress and silver bells at the river’s edge. I was surprised they stood so close, usually the deer ran swiftly away, aware of the danger men on horseback posed.

  “Drewry, we have other plans today,” Father cautioned him against shooting, and though Drewry made a clucking sound of disappointment with his tongue, he said no more. I twisted as we passed the band, watching the deer step gently into the water. I wished we could ride after them and allow Dipsy to splash her knees in the shallows, but Drewry held the reins and guided us sure behind Father and John Jr., trotting up the bank toward the fields. I squeezed my arms tighter around my brother, pleased he had moved his gun. I liked breathing in the comforting smell of his wool jacket as we drew alongside Father’s closest field, between the hog pen and the slave cabins. Red and muddy, it spread before us in the early stage of planting.

  The Negro men had hoes and worked the dirt of half the field while the women squatted in the rows, working the other half with their hands, some with infants wrapped across their backs. The women had the job of removing each tiny green seedling from the germination crates, and planting it two hands apart in rows of red dirt made up by the men. Father’s boss man, Dean, sat supervising on the split log fence bordering the field.

  “Make certain the earth is tamped down well about the roots,” Father called from his horse, abruptly cracking his whip in the air to signify his presence. The slaves did not look over, but Dipsy gave a start at the sound so Drewry had to speak to her.

  “There, there …” he stroked her neck. “

  Yes, masta!” Dean jumped down and cracked his own whip, but only lightly and to the side. He was not young but had the appearance of a straight sapling, tall and strong and determined to grow. Father said Dean was worth two men, especially in a clearing, so skilled was he with the ax, the maul and wedge. Dean possessed know-how as well as strength, for Father liked to craft our furniture, rockers, tables, bed frames and chairs and he enjoyed no one as his apprentice better than Dean. He had even bought a brass hatchet for Dean to chop splits for the woodstove, and it served as a great measure of his trust.

  “We be done wit’ this field by evening, suh.” Dean bent to stroke the back of a hound that curled against his legs, but kept his head tilted to Father, respectful.

  “ ’Tis good, for we have an early spring this year.” Father bent way forward in the saddle, inclining his head to Dean. “We also have whiskey fresh from the doubler,” he smiled. “Come down to the still at sunset and we shall sharpen our ideas a touch and you might take a jug back to the cabins.”

  “Yes suh, masta Bell.” Dean looked well pleased at the thought of this reward at the end of the day.

  “Make certain each plant is well watered,” Father said as he straightened, giving him an obligatory caution before turning his horse and snapping his whip again, leading us trotting down the muddy path past the slave cabins toward the further fields.

  Two ancient women, whose names I did not know, sat on their stoops at the cabins. Everyone else was out at work. The elderly two were engaged watching three toddling children, too big to be carried on their mothers’ backs and too small or too ignorant to work, at play in the mud of the road. The old ones stood as we clopped past and bowed their heads to Father, while the little children stopped their game and watched us without moving. I stared back at the small brown faces wondering what imaginary lives they were creating in the muck, but then Father’s horse let loose its bowels and my attention, along with the children’s, shifted to the pile of steaming horse waste left oozing on the road. Drewry laughed and Dipsy delicately stepped over it as we rode on.

  When we reached the planted fields I saw the young green tobacco there was already arranged in tight rows and all the slave children, dressed in white, squatted behind the plants, making a pattern greatly resembling Mother’s woven checked tablecloth. Their hands worked quickly and, above the sound of water rushing at the southern boundary of the field, I heard the sound of stones, irregularly clapped together.

  “We are here to look for worms,” Father informed us of our purpose as he dismounted and tied up his horse under the budding elm on the edge of the field. “You know how.” He dismissed John Jr., who had already tied his steed and turned his back. I watched him walking away, toward the far side.

  “Come with me, Drewry, Elizabeth, I will learn you the method.”

  We dismounted and I allowed Drewry to go ahead of me, following Father. The mud was sticky beneath my feet and, holding up my skirts, I walked unsteadily. The ride had jarred my insides a little more than I’d expected and my stomach was cramping again, but I tried to regain my poise. Father stopped at the top of the first row, empty of children, and I listened attentively while he described the task at hand.

  “The young tobacco plant is delicate and tasty to a fat white worm, as you can see.” He bent down and without a long inspection pulled three slimy round white worms off a wide green leaf. He dropped them from his gloved hand and squished them against a stray stone in the row with the heel of his boot. “They make our soil the richest in the district,” he said. Behind his shoulder I noticed the slave children casting uneasy glances in his direction and I could tell they were frightened of him, though I did not immediately guess why.

  “ ’Tis of utmost importance every worm be plucked out of hiding and killed with a stone, for if there is carelessness, the worm will crawl back and eat and eat and eat, that is his purpos
e.” He paused, gazing out across his field as though distracted. “Our purpose is to educate those ignorant of the proper technique.” Father glanced with squinted eyes in my direction but before I could discover his meaning he turned and walked quickly to the next row where there were children picking worms. Drewry and I followed, finding it easy to keep up with him as he stopped often, bending to peel apart the new green leaves in search of the fat white worms. I looked beyond his figure to the backs of all the children and I saw that the clapping of the stones was the killing of the worms and it seemed to me the tempo had increased since our arrival.

  “See here,” Father stood and held again in his gloved hand a pile of the wriggling pests. He advanced to the closest child picking, who happened to be Little Bright. She was our housemaid, Chloe’s, youngest daughter and we had played together for years until Little Bright was put to work in the fields and Father disallowed our friendship. I had been extremely fond of her, but I had not seen her for some time. I noticed her breasts had developed more than mine. Our eyes met and I saw she was afraid.

  “We shall not tolerate worms on our green livelihood,” Father said.

  I watched with horror as he bent and stuffed the live worms from his hand into her mouth. “You must pick off every one,” he warned and stepped back, waiting, making certain she chewed and swallowed. My hand flew to my mouth and I felt an uncomfortable knot rise in the back of my throat, for I could easily imagine the worms there. I shut my eyes so I might not witness her punishment further.

  “Open now.” On his command to her I was compelled to open my own eyes and watch, as he pulled her red tongue out with his gloved fingers and peered down her throat. Satisfied the dreaded grubs had disappeared, he patted her head and continued his walking inspection, but I could not follow. I wanted to sink to my knees in the mud and comfort Little Bright, if there could be any comfort. I wished to hold her or offer my clean apron so she might wipe her mouth out, but I was too frightened of what Father might do to me. Whenever I behaved not as he wished he took me out to the barn and whipped my bottom with his riding crop to impart the right true path into my mischievous heart. I feared to upset him. A sudden nausea I could not contain wrenched my insides and without looking at Little Bright I turned, tripping my way back down the muddy row toward the tree where the horses were tied. I leaned my forearm against the smooth bark of the elm and took deep breaths of the clean spring air to prevent myself from vomiting. I heard a rumbling whisper rising above the clapping of the stones.

  “Pick-’em-all-off, Pick-’em-all-off, Pick-’em-all-off!” the slave children chanted fearfully.

  I was afraid Father would be angry with me for abandoning the task, but when his inspection was complete he returned to where I waited near the horses and hugged me close.

  “I know this teaching may be hard for you to understand. It may seem harsh and low-minded to you, dear Betsy.” He pulled gently on my braid while patting my back, almost allowing me the time to release the tears gathered in my eyes and throat, but before I could, he carried on. “Yet, this is the most efficacious method and by it the new plants are thriving in the field.” He lifted me up onto Dipsy, avoiding my eyes. He turned away and mounted his horse and I saw him nod with satisfaction at the quick moving hands of the slaves.

  “His crop is the finest in all of Robertson County,” I said softly into Drewry’s back, resting my head against his jacket. I wished to look at the billowing white clouds of the sky and not at the little Negro children at play in the mud on our way back past the cabins.

  That night I was awakened, shortly after retiring, to the same tapping I had heard the night before. I stayed in my bed listening, and I heard it in regular intervals, tap-tap, tap-tap. It struck the windowpane, then moved along the wall of my room. What was it? It was as if someone floated outside and knocked for entry, but I knew that could not be. It had to be the wind, a bird or rodent, as Mother had suggested. I pulled the quilt up to my ears and lay still, listening, immobilized, afraid as if I’d wakened from a horrible dream and found it to be real. TAP-TAP, the sound came louder and sharper and I tensed my body, for I thought my window glass had cracked.

  “What is that noise?” John Jr. appeared in my doorway, a lit candle in his hand. He did not wait for my reply but crossed firmly to my window and opened it, looking out.

  “How does it seem to you, dear brother?” I was much relieved to see him and his presence allowed my curiosity to prevail over my fear. I threw off my covers and went to stand beside him, finding the wood floor painfully cold under my bare toes.

  “I see nothing, but I heard something, and it came from here.” His thick eyebrows twisted downward, much perplexed. He shut the window and immediately it came again as we stood watching.

  TAP-TAP! TAP-TAP!

  For certain there was no visible explanation for the sound. The glass shivered in the candlelight when struck, but no twig or wind or animal did appear. We stepped quickly back away from the glass, afraid it might shatter as the noise came again, louder and more insistent.

  TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP!

  This time, it did not immediately cease.

  “How can this be?” John Jr. looked at me and I could see the disbelief I felt mirrored in his eyes, flickering in the candlelight, disturbed by our quickened breathing. I shook my head.

  “I know not, but I heard it last night as well.” I shifted from one foot to the other, nervous and cold.

  “Let us get your candle lit and fetch Father. He must witness this.” My hands shook as I took the flame from John Jr.’s candle for my wick. I had a feeling the tap-tapping was something quite out of the ordinary and unpleasant and I did not relish waking Father to tell him of it. As it happened, I did not have to, as we heard his step on the stair and he entered my room.

  “What is wrong here?” His voice was gruff with sleep, though he looked sharp enough.

  “Hear it! Our sleeping is interrupted by rapping at the window, but we cannot see its cause.”

  TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!

  The knocking started up again like metal on the glass and Father was attentive. He cocked his head listening a moment before striding toward us and the window. His legs were long and bare beneath his nightshirt and he pushed up on his toes and leaned far out to ascertain the source of the noise, but as we had done before him, he saw nothing there.

  “What could it be?” Father was genuinely puzzled and my concern deepened, as he usually had a quick solution to most problems.

  Tap-tap.

  “Perhaps a shingle has come undone. It is difficult to see.” He turned away from the window and looked at me, accurately assessing my fear in one glance. “Betsy, sleep in Jesse’s vacant bed, if you like.” Jesse had married his girlfriend, Martha, months before and had moved to his own property further down the Adams―Cedar Hill high road, so his bed beside John Jr.’s stood empty. Having dispensed this advice Father shrugged his shoulders and left the room, communicating that whatever tapped on my window gave him no cause for great concern. John Jr. did not look at me, nor I at him, but I believe we both knew it was not a shingle in the wind, though we pretended it might be, as we silently retired together to his room.

  We knew for certain it was not on the following day when a detailed inspection was made of our roof. Though we had planned a day at the schoolhouse, Mother allowed us all to participate in the examination of our home and the sun cooperated, shining strong on our backs, though it was still early in the spring. The tallest ladder was brought from the barn and Father and Dean and the boys climbed everywhere about the roof, but found no loose wood shingles, no stray branches, and no sign of rodent infestation.

  “May I sleep in John Jr’s. room again?” I requested this permission shortly before the hour to retire when Mother had finished braiding my hair and the Bible reading was accomplished. I’d found Jesse’s bed plenty comfortable the night before.

  “You may not.” Father shook his head and frowned. Disappointed, I looke
d away. I had suspected Father would not allow it, for having found conditions satisfactory in the structure of our house, he did not intend to alter our regular routine.

  “What shall I do if I hear it again?” I was most discomfited by the thought of what had knocked against my window.

  “Be reassured,” Father stroked my undone hair with his heavy fingers, “God made the darkness and called it night, but also He did make every moving creature, and called them good.”

  Despite his comforting words, I found it difficult settling into sleep and I twisted about in my bed. The moon was nothing but a sliver of God’s thumbnail behind the glass of my window. My ears felt stretched with listening and there was mostly silence in the house. John Jr. snored lightly in his bed down the hall and from the younger boys’ room I heard the regular breathing of Drewry and Richard, while Joel made a precious little sucking sound as if he were still a baby, nursing in his sleep. Without knowing it, I did fall asleep, but wakened suddenly with the sense someone had touched my shoulder. Rapidly I looked about but I saw no one in my room. The sliver of moon was gone and out in the pure dark I heard a sudden loud flapping, as though a great flock of birds beat their wings against my walls. I cried out and pulled the quilt above my head, squeezing my face between my elbows for I knew their beaks would break the glass and my room would shortly be invaded, whereupon I would be pecked to death.

  Drewry and John Jr. came running and I heard their bare feet rushing to my window. They looked outside and declared in unison, “Betsy, there is nothing there!”

  “There is! A flock of birds!” I refused to take the covers from my head and my speech was muffled through my quilts.

  “It would sound so, but it is not!” John Jr. was upset.

  “What is this grievous disturbance?” Father entered my room carrying a lit candle with Mother right behind. I felt her bottom sink against my hip as she sat down on my bed and gently removed the quilts from off my face. Gathering me into her arms, she spoke to Father over the thunderous flapping of wings.