Cherokee America, page 7
The postmaster lowered his voice. “Hear tell there’s a stash somewheres. Been looking for a loose board, but ain’t found none.”
Puny looked at the floor again. He pressed a boot against the puncheon in a couple of spots. Then he looked out the door and beyond the trot. Connell was on the lawn, looking like he was in a serious talk. Puny said, “Stash in the building?”
“Can’t say. Maybe. Maybe not.” The postmaster pursed his lips like he’d said too much. He had a white stubble and rheumy blue eyes.
Puny said, “I was thinking about a little drink.”
The man smacked his lips.
Puny said, “Can’t drink alone in the middle of the day.”
The man shook his head. “No. That’d be wrong.”
Puny’s bag was stuffed with old clothes he planned to take to Lizzie when Connell went to Taylor’s to settle up for the month. Lizzie was full with child, and had nothing to wear. Ezell was a much larger woman, and had laid by an old skirt and blouse for a quilt. Puny intended to sneak them back after Lizzie delivered. He set the bag on the table and said, “I believe I may have a little liquor.” He opened the buckle, reached under the clothes and below Connell’s gun. He brought out a flask he’d won off Hugh a couple of nights earlier.
The man’s mouth began to move like a carp’s.
Puny said, “Course, I always like a story to go with my liquor.” He unscrewed the top, held the bore to his lips, and threw his head back. He pretended to drink. Wiped his mouth with his hand. “Mighty good.”
The postmaster’s fingers twitched. “Confederate Indian. Hid solid-gold coin. That’s the story. Not really in here. Out under a tree.”
Puny studied the flask like he was praying over a problem. The postmaster said, “That’s all I knowed. Supposed to be around the headquarters building. Or ’tween it and the river.” His fingers wiggled like worms turned up in spring.
Puny said, “Take a swig.” He held the flask out.
The man said, “Hold on. Can’t drink after a nigger.” He turned to a cubbyhole in the wall and pulled out a tin cup. Puny poured him a drink, but not much.
The postmaster drained his cup. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I started looking down by the rocks. Been working my way up. Got a pick left over from the fort.” He held his cup out.
Puny poured him a little more. “Who told ya that story?”
The man took a gulp, shook his head, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Common knowledge. The Singers probably the only people that don’t know it. Y’alls got money enough.”
Puny thought about saying, “I ain’t a Singer,” but said instead, “That’s right. We’s rich.” He laughed and walked out.
The post office sat on lawn spotted with trees and grazed by horses. Next to it was another double-log building, which formerly had been the fort’s headquarters. Now it was the home of Dennis Wolf Bushyhead and his wife, Alabama. Dennis was who Connell was talking with. Both buildings overlooked the Grand River at a point just northeast of where it flowed into the Arkansas. Puny stood in the post office trot, looked at the smooth lawn and the tall trees clothed in new growth. He thought about the gold, wondered where it could be hidden.
Later that night, he told the story to Ezell. He left out the part about taking her clothes to Lizzie.
The Calm Before
Check wasn’t proud of her conversation with Ezell. Her cook was the only other female she saw on a daily basis. They knew each other well, tolerated each other’s moods, and colluded against the men when they needed to. Check was especially worried Ezell would find out she’d lied to her. Well, not really lied, just concealed the truth. Well, not concealed the truth, actually. Just not said what Puny had been up to. That was merely an omission due entirely to affection, to not wanting to bear bad news, to minding her own business. By the time Check entered the parlor turned sickroom, she’d worked all of that through.
The bed was a mahogany four-poster. Andrew was resting against the headboard, his gown and face made even paler framed by dark wood. His eyelids seemed transparent except for spidery veins. Check took his hand, asked if he wanted a pillow. He shook his head. A breeze fluttered the curtains. It refreshed the air. But Check decided pine candles were needed.
Andrew’s voice rasped, “What’s your day like, my love?”
Check took her chair. “Just the usual. Nothing happening except work. Shall I read from the Bible?”
“You pick this time.”
Check lifted the Bible from the table and turned to Ecclesiastes. The only part she really cared for at all.
After Andrew fell asleep, Check quietly left for the dining room. She rummaged through the hutch. Found the candles she needed, unwrapped them from cloth, and tiptoed back to the sickroom. She removed the candles they’d been using from their holders and stuck the two new ones in. She lit both, and hoped, when Andrew awoke, he wouldn’t notice they were burning during daylight. He’d understand what they were for. That would embarrass him, and make him melancholy.
After the first blow of the diagnosis, Andrew had stayed even-keeled. Or so Check reckoned. They hadn’t discussed his sickness directly; only the changes it would bring, what Andrew could or couldn’t do for himself, who would pick up what tasks. The name of the disease wasn’t mentioned. But it didn’t have to be. They’d seen it in Andrew’s mother, and in others. Its effects were awful. Its conclusion certain.
When Check felt sure Andrew wouldn’t wake, she left for the back porch. Otter, Clifford, and Jenny were playing on the planks and minding Paul. Check settled Paul into a cradle and took a seat. She sent Clifford for the writing slates and chalk. When he returned, she told the children they were going to write out the names of animals. From where they were seated, they could see several. Clifford would write a name in English, Jenny in Cherokee. Then they would write each other’s words and supervise Otter’s writing them both.
Check felt smug with her system. It would give Otter a head start. Strengthen Jenny’s English skills. And, in one fell swoop, keep Clifford engaged in learning during his break. Cliff didn’t need to be in the fields; he wasn’t going to be a farmer. She wasn’t yet sure how to direct Otter; he was too young and strange to decipher. But time and close observation would reveal his nature. She’d take his natural abilities and hone them. Jenny would pick up writing English quickly. The skill would channel her mind into a more confined course. Check congratulated herself. One thing, at least, was going correctly.
She pointed to a chicken. Clifford scratched “chicken” on his slate. Jenny wrote “ᏥᏔᎦ.”
The children showed their slates to each other. They all started writing again. When Otter was finished, Check directed Clifford and Jenny to look at his letters. When they agreed he’d produced them correctly, she pointed to Booty. Jenny wrote “ᎩᏟ.” Clifford wrote “dog.” Jenny put down “dog,” too, as did Otto. Then Clifford chalked “ᎩᏟ.” Things were progressing nicely. Ezell came out of the kitchen and said she was cooking. She was civil. Check decided there was a chance Puny had gone searching for the stash. She sighed, expelling some of her worry into the air.
She was contemplating dusting off her own Cherokee language skills when she gazed off into the fields. It was a fine spring day. A breeze rippled the potato leaves. The horizon was clear. A small, dark dot was moving towards the house. Check’s distance eyesight wasn’t what it’d been. She squinted. The dot was bigger than a wolf or a dog. It looked like a bear. But bears stayed on the mountain. Or down by the river. And the dark dot didn’t move like a bear. It moved on two legs. It was getting closer.
Check sat up straight in her chair. “Clifford, take Otter and Jenny to the barn. Play horseshoes. Don’t leave the lot.”
Clifford looked up at his mother, startled. So did the other two children. Cliff said, “What about dinner?”
Check rose abruptly and headed for the door. “Do it now, Clifford! Have a good time. Watch for snakes. I’ll bring your food.” She shut the door behind her. Walked the hall in a hurry. Scampered up the stairs to the bedroom she’d shared with Andrew. There was an empty spot where their bed had been removed. She stood in that spot, to the side of the window, to look out. A dark brown girl was striding over mounds of potatoes. She was headed straight towards the house.
Panic and Prevarication
Check recognized danger was coming. The last time she’d felt real panic had been the morning of a loud banging of the knocker at her in-laws’ house in Columbus. She’d heard Andrew answer the door. Heard low tones of strange voices in the foyer. Her mother-in-law’s quick steps, the swish of her skirt. Heard unusually high tones of familiar voices. Heard her own name. Check had been at her mirror. She jumped back into bed, took her dressing robe off under the covers, pushed it with her feet to the footboard. She waited, one ear on a pillow, the other as alert as a dog’s. Andrew eventually climbed the stairs and opened the bedroom door. He said, “Darling, soldiers are here. It seems John has escaped.”
She lifted her head slowly. Her lids were half closed. “What? I’ve gone back to bed feeling woozy. I may be in a family way again.”
Andrew’s eyebrows unfurrowed. His frown spread to a grin. “That’s wonderful!” He stepped towards the bed, temporarily forgetting the officers in the foyer. Then he remembered. Grasped the knob again. “I’ll tell them you’re indisposed. But you’ll have to talk to them later. They’re quite unpleasant and official.”
“Did you say John escaped? He wasn’t shot, was he?”
He hadn’t been. Not then.
The Federal authorities searched the entire house, the basement and attic, and then the cellar. They found nothing of interest beyond jars of plum jelly, which Mrs. Singer pressed upon them. In the late afternoon, when they came back for questioning, Andrew’s father provided them brandy. He wanted to stay. The officers forbade that, but allowed Andrew to remain with her. John Hunt Morgan had escaped, two men with him. Their guards had been asleep, or drugged, or something. The questioning had been a grilling for Check. But Andrew’s family were well-known abolitionists. That protected her from being removed from the house.
This time, however, Andrew’s parents were dead, and Andrew couldn’t be a buffer. Or could he? Check turned from the bedroom window. Flew from the room. Held her skirt high, sped down the stairs, and checked the back porch to be certain the older children were gone and Paul was asleep. Then she slipped into the study, pulled a revolver from the desk, and came out again. She took an apron off a peg in the winter kitchen and flew into the parlor where Andrew was napping. She drew the apron on, tucked the gun in its pocket, and sat down by the bed. She was winded. She touched Andrew’s arm.
He stirred and smiled. He realized his wife was at his side. Check was a comfort. He couldn’t’ve asked for a better spouse. She was feminine and small. But strong enough to bear healthy children. And brighter than any woman he’d ever met. The Lord had provided him a wonderful mate. He was a man blessed among many. He said, “You’re my angel.”
That heightened Check’s alarm. Was Andrew seeing angels? Then she realized that as a silly fear, brought on, no doubt, by the panic she already felt. She said, “Andrew, I want you to know that whatever happens, I’ve been perfectly happy with you.”
Tears welled in Andrew’s eyes. They weren’t hard to come by. He was in pain and knew he was dying.
Things Get Sloppy
Lizzie came into the yard from the fields just as Ezell stepped from the summer kitchen carrying a bucket of slop for the chickens. The girl looked at Ezell and said, “I’z here fer my baby.”
Ezell said, “Whose blouse has you got on?”
Lizzie looked down at her breasts. Back up at the woman with the bucket. “My own.”
Ezell stepped closer. She looked Lizzie over head to toe, toe to head. “Who is you?”
Lizzie straightened up as tall as she could get. “Puny’s wife.”
Ezell stepped back. Her eyes widened. Her mouth flew open. She took a deep breath, then clenched her jaw. Her eyes narrowed to slits. She put a hand to the bottom of the pail. She swung her arm back.
Check heard the screams clear in the parlor. Andrew did, too. He said, “What—?” Check interrupted, “It’s one of the children. I’ll be back.” By the time she got to the porch, the women were on the ground rolling over each other. Check fired a shot in the air. Paul woke up screaming.
By her nightly meeting with Connell, Check had had a difficult day. Connell handed her a small glass of whiskey. He said, “Or would you rather have brandy?”
“I’d rather drown myself in the river.”
Connell chuckled. He’d run to the house when he’d heard the shot, Hugh close on his heels. They hadn’t gotten there in time to see the two women wrestling, just growling at each other. Connell said, “It was the best standoff I’ve ever seen.”
Check grunted. Drummed her fingers on the desk. Lizzie’s mother had remained with hers until her death. She couldn’t send Lizzie away now, not even to Alabama. But the bunkhouse was full of men, and she couldn’t keep the girl on the back porch, either. Ezell could attack her in the night without anybody hearing. Until she could come up with a better solution, she’d have to put Lizzie on a pallet on the front porch under Andrew’s windows. The weather was warm enough, and in the height of summer, when the heat was unbearable, often they all slept out there.
Connell said, “What’re you gonna do?”
“You are going to find Puny.” Check emphasized “you.” She wasn’t about to do the finding, or leave it up to Hugh. He’d lately taken any excuse to leave the farm. He was up to something.
“You should’ve told me about this sooner, Mama.” Connell scrunched his face to appear pained.
Check grunted again. She wasn’t accustomed to being corrected by her grown children. And didn’t think she could get used to it. “You know his haunts,” she said.
“I don’t know where he is now.”
“I thought you said he was hunting for gold.” She looked directly at Connell. Cocked an eyebrow.
“I made that up.”
“Lying to your mother?” Her voice pitched low.
“I wasn’t lying. Puny did tell me that.”
“You misled me into thinking you knew what he was up to. That’s a deception. You’re supposed to honor your father and mother.”
“Imitation is an honor.” Connell raised his eyebrows. Smiled without parting his lips.
Check smiled back. She didn’t think Connell had any way of knowing about her conversation with Ezell about Puny. But she recognized he was old enough to have insight into her ways. That wouldn’t do him any harm; she’d gotten along well enough in the world, and intended for him to do the same. But at the moment, that was neither here nor there. She shook her head. “Maybe Puny took off to Braggs Mountain, looking for Sanders and his baby. If he’s carrying your gun, somebody could kill him.”
Connell knew that only too well. “I can go up there. Or Hugh can.”
“No. I need you and Hugh here. Get Coop to do it. Lend him The Bay to ride. He’ll know exactly where to go.”
“The Bay?” That was his father’s horse.
“Yes. He needs to be ridden. He’s lonesome and restless. I saw him in the lot yesterday.”
Connell shook his head. He winced.
“I know,” Check said. “But somebody needs to ride him. He’ll go into mourning. You can ride him yourself. Give Coop your horse.”
Connell considered that. The Bay, a gelding, was sixteen hands high, the finest horse on the farm, and the only thoroughbred close around. Connell admired him every day. But wasn’t ready to take his father’s horse to ride. Not yet. He bit his lip.
Check saw Connell fighting tears. She said, “You decide.”
Connell composed himself, changed the subject. “Do you think Coop can get Puny to come home?”
Check sighed. “I don’t know he’s up there for sure. But tell Coop to tell Puny we need him to come home. But don’t tell anybody Lizzie’s here. If Puny finds out, he’ll lay out even longer. Or not come back at all. And ask Coop to find out what Sanders did with the baby. Lizzie has a right to know. I worry about telling her the baby’s dead without knowing for certain.”
Having Studied the Ways of Animals
In the gray dawn of the next morning, Check, awake on her cot, was listening to Andrew’s breathing when Lizzie screamed from the porch. Assuming the yell was provoked by Ezell, Check shot up, rushed to the door, and flung it open. Lizzie was jumping on the planks, shouting, pointing to the lawn. Ezell was nowhere around. But three yards from the porch, a polecat was dancing on its hind legs. It lurched forward and backward. Dropped to four feet. Twisted its rump, raised, and shimmied its tail. Check grabbed for Lizzie’s arm. But Lizzie weaved and darted. Check reached again, but then got a whiff of the skunk following its nature. Check turned and slammed the door in time to escape the spray. Like sunlight without shades, the smell invaded the house through the windows.
The boys pounded down the stairs. Hugh scrambling first, carrying Paul, who was crying. He handed Paul to Clifford. Then he and Connell—at Check’s direction, while stretching her arms through her robe—lifted Andrew from his bed and carried him out the back door to the porch rocker. The boys, in various states of undress around their papa, shifted from foot to foot and yelled about the smell. Ezell, in the kitchen brewing coffee, saw the family group and caught a whiff of the odor. She said, “Good riddance,” and closed the door.
Check was the last to leave the house. She counted heads on the porch, and realized Lizzie wasn’t with them. She started to go back in. But instead, turned again and walked down the steps and around the house to the front. There, she found Lizzie running in a circle, screaming. Check used a voice her father would’ve admired. “Stand still!”
