Battle of Lookout Mountain Page 3

  Later that morning Tom brought Esther, wearing only a diaper, out into the yard. He wanted to keep her out of the sun, and they lolled under the spreading walnut tree. Looking at the baby, he remembered his mother, and it was with a pang that he saw how much Esther was like her. Memories flowed through Tom’s mind—he did not think of the future. In his mind, his life had ended when the shell shattered his leg at Gettysburg.

  A cheery call came from the road, and Tom looked up to see Pete Mangus slide off the blue-nosed mule he called Clementine. Pete talked to her constantly as he rode the hills of Kentucky delivering the United States mail.

  “Now, you wait here, Clementine. I’ll be right back.”

  Pete was a small man with sandy hair and blue eyes. He did not have a tooth in his head and refused to get false teeth. He somehow managed without teeth—could even eat steak, “gumming,” he said. But being toothless made his speech a little difficult to understand. His cheeks were sunken in, and his chin almost met his nose where his face was collapsed.

  But he was a cheerful fellow. “Hi, Tom. Letter for you.”

  Tom tucked his maimed leg back under the other in an automatic gesture, as if to hide the injury. He took the letter and said, “Thanks, Pete. I think there’s some lemonade in the house. No ice, but it’s wet.”

  “That sounds good!”

  Pete watched Tom unfold the letter. He might not have teeth, but he had a tremendous curiosity, and now he waited to get a report on what was inside the letter. His bright blue eyes were sharp, and as Tom read he inquired, “Good news, I hope?”

  The letter was neither good nor bad. Looking up at the mailman, Tom shrugged. “A letter from my father.”

  “Oh, in Virginia! What’s he say the Confederate army is going to do? Is Bob Lee going to come out and fight again?”

  Tom could not help smiling at the man’s curiosity. “Well, I don’t think General Lee gives my father all his plans, Pete.” He felt the eyes of the mailman on him as he finished reading and put the letter back in the envelope. “Not much news,” he reported, managing a smile. “Sorry not to have more gossip for you.”

  Pete drew his thin shoulders together. “Well, I don’t care!” he said and stomped off toward the house. He knocked on the door, and Leah met him.

  “I bet you’ve come for some lemonade, Pete!”

  “Well, now,” Pete mumbled, grinning toothlessly, “I reckon that would go down pretty easy.”

  Pete Mangus sat on a stool watching Leah peel potatoes. He gossiped about the neighbors up the road and down the road. Knowing everyone in the county, he kept up with all the local news.

  “And how’s that young fellow you’re so interested in—Jeff Majors?” he asked.

  Leah was accustomed to Pete’s ways. “He’s fine, Pete. Back in Virginia now.”

  “I’ll bet he’s right jealous of that young Ezra working around here. Which one of them do you like the best?”

  “I like them both, Pete. Would you like some more lemonade?”

  The mailman nodded and noisily guzzled down another glassful. Then he said, “What about Sarah? Is she fixing to marry young Tom out there? Even if he ain’t got no foot?”

  Leah gently answered, “I suppose that’s their business. They don’t tell me everything. Well, I’ve got to go to work,” she said, hinting strongly that it was time for Pete to leave.

  He finished his lemonade and walked out to the yard, where Tom was tossing a small ball toward a chortling Esther. “Got to go on my way, Tom. Be back to see you in three or four days.”

  “So long, Pete.”

  As Pete Mangus mounted Clementine and went plodding on, raising clouds of dust, Tom thought of the letter he had received. The lack of hope in the letter surprised him. His father had always been opposed to the war on general principles. But he believed that states had a right to choose their own government, even though he was not a slaveholder himself. Now, however, Tom could tell by the tone of the letter that Pa had pretty well resigned himself to the fact that the South could not win.

  Somehow this did not surprise Tom. He himself had come to this conclusion some time ago; and now that he knew he would no longer be in action, the war and secession seemed even further distant.

  A door slammed, and he looked up to see Sarah coming.

  She had brought a fresh diaper, and she smiled down at Esther. “I think she needs changing!” Despite the baby’s protests, she held her down and carried out the job. “There. Now you’re all dry again!”

  “I could do that!” Tom said.

  “Well, I know,” Sarah said quickly. “But I just like babies so much. It’s been so nice to have one to fuss over!” She sat down across from him and watched Esther crawl about in the grass. “I hope she doesn’t eat a bug or a worm or something!”

  “I don’t guess it would hurt her,” Tom remarked. Sarah was looking very pretty, he thought. She had on a yellow dress that was particularly attractive. It had small white flowers embroidered on it, and he knew she had made it herself. Her cheeks were rather flushed from the heat of the house, and as she sat watching Esther, he could not help thinking, She’s the prettiest girl I ever knew.

  “Did I tell you I got a letter from Uncle Silas not long ago?” she asked. Silas was her father’s brother, who lived in Richmond. “He’s doing very well, but he misses Leah and me.”

  “Why doesn’t he come here and stay with you?”

  “I guess all of his friends are there. When you get to be his age, it’s hard to make a move.”

  “It’s hard at any age,” Tom answered shortly.

  Sarah gave him a thoughtful look. “It was hard for you to leave your home and move South, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Seeming to recognize that he did not want to discuss the past, Sarah changed the subject.

  Still later that morning Ezra crossed the yard to the walnut tree. He had been working in the garden, and his face was red from the heat. His overalls were damp with perspiration. He looked very tall and lean, and his curly brown hair stuck out from under his straw hat.

  Throwing himself down beneath the tree, he poked at Esther with a finger and smiled when she laughed aloud. “Sure is hot today, ain’t it, Tom?”

  “Yeah, I reckon it is,” Tom replied. He watched Ezra play with the baby, and he thought, I bet Pa would like to see Esther. I wish he could.

  “How about a game of checkers?” Ezra suggested. “I’m going to wait until it cools off before I go back out there.”

  “All right.”

  The one activity that Tom engaged in was a series of checker games with Ezra. They were evenly matched and had developed a fierce rivalry.

  Ezra went into the house and brought out the checkerboard. For a while they moved the red and black disks about the board. Ezra won one game and then Tom two.

  When they had played the last game, Ezra said rather self-consciously, “Tom, I still been thinking about what we talked about—about getting you a new leg made.”

  Tom did not respond, keeping his eyes on the board.

  But Ezra was encouraged even by his silence. “I tell you, I think it wouldn’t be too hard. I’d like to tackle it.” Ezra loved any sort of work with wood, and for a while he explained what he thought he could do.

  “Of course,” he said, “I don’t know that much about this sort of thing, but I could find out. Why don’t you and me—”

  Tom looked up from the checkerboard, his dark eyes half shut. “Ezra, we talked about this, and I told you—I don’t want to do it. Now just leave me alone!”

  Ezra could not understand the anger in Tom. It seemed logical to him that a man should do what he could to help himself. Still, he could not go against Tom’s will.

  “All right, Tom,” he said quietly. “It’s your say.”

  After Ezra had picked up the board and left, Tom sat thinking. He did not understand himself. Life had changed so terribly since he had been injured. Before, he had always been excited, lo
oking to the future. But now there seemed to be nothing for him. Nothing at all.

  4

  Bare Knuckles

  The pleasant aroma of hair oil and lotion filled the barbershop. Rosie sat down in the chair, and the barber put a white cloth under his chin.

  “Be right careful with that razor, Shorty! I can’t spare to lose no blood.”

  Shorty Masters, who stood over six feet four, was indignant. “It ain’t my habit,” he grumbled, “to cut my customers up.”

  Rosie looked up with his innocent expression. “Well, I’m a little more particular than most, Shorty. See, I’m taking a special blood medicine I imported from Chicago. It’s stuff that cost five dollars a bottle, and I can’t afford to spill none of it.”

  Drake Bedford, who was waiting his turn, laughed aloud. “You spend every dime you get on those patent medicines, Rosie. You ought to invest your money wisely—like I do.”

  Rosie lifted his head and gazed at his friend. “I don’t call that white lightning you drank last night a good investment.” He wagged his head despairingly. “It could rot your insides. I keep telling you, Drake.”

  “Each man to his own poison,” Drake said.

  Rosie leaned back.

  Taking the brush, Shorty lathered his face with thick white soap. Then he took a straight razor and expertly stropped it several times. He began to shave Rosie. “What kind of blood disease you got?”

  “I don’t know exactly if there’s a name for it,” Rosie mumbled through the suds. He waited until Shorty raked all the shaving cream off the left side of his face and had rather roughly turned his head the other way. “The ad said this here medicine would rejuvenate an Egyptian mummy, and it also promised that anyone who took it on a regular basis would never die of no blood disease.”

  “Five dollars a bottle—that’s a pretty expensive way of staying alive!”

  “I know,” Rosie agreed. “But I ain’t worried about it. I think my heart will give out before my blood quits. That is, if my lungs don’t stop working first.”

  A laugh went around the barbershop, for Rosie’s ailments were well advertised.

  Soon talk turned to the war, and one customer awaiting his turn said, “Looks like Rosecrans is going to take the whole Union army down to Chattanooga.”

  “I don’t reckon they need them anymore in Vicksburg,” Shorty answered. “Now that Grant’s whipped the Rebels down there, we can get on with this thing.”

  “I don’t see how those Rebels hold out!” another customer observed. He laid down the paper that he had been reading. “They just keep on losing men they can’t replace. They ain’t no quit in them, is there?”

  Rosie waited until Shorty finished shaving his upper lip. Then he said, “That fellow Grant, I seen him once. He looks like all sorts of a feller!”

  “What does he look like?” Drake asked curiously. “Can’t tell much by his pictures.”

  “Well, he’s just a little feller, but he’s got kind of a stubborn look,” Rosie observed. “To me he looks like a feller that’s just decided to lower his head and run it through an oak door. Whatever he sets out to do, I reckon he’s going to do it.”

  “Well—” another customer, a Southern sympathizer, grunted “—he may have won a battle at Vicksburg, but he never run into Bobbie Lee and his boys yet. It’ll be different when he does.”

  Shorty finished shaving Rosie, doused strong-smelling lotion over his hair, and then parted it exactly in the middle, as Rosie liked it.

  “Now,” Shorty said with satisfaction, “you look good enough to go to the opera!” He took the coin that Rosie handed him. “Drake, you’re next!”

  Drake Bedford undraped himself from the cane-bottom chair that he had tilted back against the wall. He sauntered over and plopped himself down in the barber chair.

  “Just a little off around the sideburns. Do a good job, Shorty!” He grinned, and his white teeth flashed against his tanned face. “I’m going courting tonight, and I want to look good. And don’t put any of that French perfume on me like you baptized Rosie with!”

  “Why, that’s the most expensive stuff I got in the house!”

  “Well, it smells like perfume. Don’t use it on me!”

  Shorty carefully worked on the haircut. Drake had crisp brown hair that took a cut nicely. “You going to the box supper tonight?” the barber asked.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Why, at the community hall. The parson got it up. The gals are all coming, bringing box suppers, and all the bachelors get to bid for their supper, and they get to eat it with the gals.”

  “What are they going to use the money for?” Drake asked idly.

  “Oh, some missionary in Africa, I think.”

  Drake’s eyes brightened. “I just might go to that!” He smiled around at the other customers. “The rest of you fellas might as well not get in the bidding on Miss Lori Jenkins’s box. I kind of got her staked out for myself.”

  Grins went around the barbershop, and Shorty said, “I don’t think you’ll get much competition out of this bunch. The way you pounded Darrell kind of tipped off the rest of the fellas. I don’t reckon Miss Lori’s had another gentleman caller since you done that!”

  As Rosie and Drake left the barbershop ten minutes later, Rosie said, “I think I’m getting some kind of a disease in my brain, Drake. Maybe I better go see the doc about it.”

  Drake laughed at his friend. “Just give me the money you’d pay him, and I’ll treat you as well as he could. Save your money for that box supper. You’ll want to buy you a good meal with that Reilly girl you’re so sweet on.”

  “Ain’t sure I’ll live through the day!” Rosie moaned. He looked hale and hearty to Drake in the fresh morning air, but he insisted on stopping by for his almost daily visit to the doctor.

  Drake arrived early at the community hall, a building also used at times for voting and for meetings of the county board. He saw that several musicians had brought their instruments. He borrowed a fiddle, and soon music filled the place.

  Rosie wandered about, looking over the young ladies that had come with their box suppers, and encountered Sarah and Royal.

  “How are you, Miss Carter?” he asked. He eyed the box in her hand and said woefully, “I’d like to bid on that box you got there, but I done spent all my money at the doctor’s office. Besides, a pretty gal like you, that box will probably go for fifteen dollars. My loss!”

  Royal was smiling happily. He had missed this sort of thing in the army, and the music and the voices of happy people sounded good. “I’ll be glad to lend you some money, Rosie, but you may be right about Sarah here. The last time we had a box supper, the boys got into a bidding war before I even left home. I think Clem Judson and Ira Feathers just about busted themselves—it took ’em six months to work themselves out of debt, but Clem told me it was worth it.”

  Royal put an arm around his sister and gave her a squeeze. “Just to eat your fried chicken, Sis.”

  Sarah smiled back at him but said, “You go ahead and bid, Rosie. I’d be glad to have supper with you.”

  Royal searched the room until his eyes lighted on Lori Jenkins, talking with two other girls. “I guess Miss Lori’s got my supper ready.”

  Rosie lifted both eyebrows. “You ain’t aimin’ to bid on Miss Lori’s box?”

  “I sure am!”

  Rosie shook his head. “Don’t reckon that would be the wise thing to do. You know what the Good Book says—‘A wise man looketh well to his going.’”

  A puzzled look came over Royal’s face. “What do you mean? That’s what this is—a box supper. You’re supposed to bid!”

  “Was I you, I think I’d pick some other girl. Look over there at that one, the redhead. Now, she would do right well. Her name’s Irene Campbell, and I can tell you she’s a good cook. I et with her folks once, and she done the cooking. I’d advise you to bid on Irene’s box.”

  “Rosie, I’ve got my mind made up to eat with Miss Lori.”
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br />   Rosie scratched his head, and his homely face was mournful. “Wouldn’t be very healthy!”

  “You mean she can’t cook?”

  “I don’t know about that, but the truth is—well, Drake’s got his head set on eatin’ with her. He kind of hinted that it wouldn’t be prudent for anyone else to try to buy Miss Lori’s box supper.”

  A stubborn look came over Royal’s face, but he only said politely, “Well, it’s for a good cause, and if Lori offers a box supper, anybody’s free to bid.”

  Now Sarah looked troubled. “They’re lots of pretty girls here, Royal!” she said. “Just choose one of them.”

  “Nope, it’s Miss Lori for me!”

  Ten minutes later, the mayor, Alvin Buckley, stood on the low platform and called for silence. “It’s time for the bidding here. I know you young fellas are hungry, and these girls have got some delicious suppers packed. Now, who’ll start out?”

  He waited until a young lady blushingly came and stood beside him. Then he said, “I suppose you all know that Janie Hart here is famous for her fried chicken and apple pie. Wouldn’t be surprised that’s what’s in this box. Ain’t a man in the house that wouldn’t like to join Miss Janie for supper. Now what are my bids? One dollar—two dollars—four dollars!”

  Janie was soon claimed by a short, pudgy young man, who paid six dollars for the privilege of eating supper with her. He came forward for his prize, the two went off, and the mayor started the bidding for the next box.

  Royal stood quietly beside Sarah, watching as girl after girl stood by Mr. Buckley. Finally Lori Jenkins came up, and the mayor said, “And now, here is our visitor from Tennessee. What are my bids, fellas? Come on—start high!”

  “Five dollars!”

  Every eye turned toward Drake Bedford, who was standing slightly away from the crowd. He was wearing a light gray shirt, dark blue trousers, and highly polished boots. He looked very handsome and confident.

  The news of his warning had evidently gotten around, for there were no further bids.

  And then Royal said, “Ten dollars!”