All Men Fear Me (13 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

“Remember the
Maine

To Hell with Spain!”

—Spanish-American War slogan, 1898

While Robin and Gee Dub were making their way to the shed for the night, Alafair was raking out the stove and preparing it for breakfast in the morning. She had just wiped the ashes off her hands when she noticed Charlie leaning on the doorframe, clad in his nightshirt and ready for bed. His arms were crossed over his chest and his head cocked to one side as he gazed at her with a speculative expression.

She started. “Gracious! You gave me a start. You could have offered to tote in the kindling for me rather than stand there like a post, you know.”

His lips twitched. “I might have, if you hadn't already done it, Ma.”

Alafair dashed the ashes off of her hands. “Something on your mind?”

“Uncle Robin is younger than you, ain't he, Mama? How old is he, anyway?”

She carried the ash bucket to the back door and set it on the floor before she answered. “Oh, let's see, he must be close to forty now! Can that be?”

“Why is it that him and Grandpa Gunn don't get along?”

She sat down at the table, prepared to tell her brother's story to her son, and perhaps to remind herself of why Robin was the way he was. ““Well, honey, he's the oldest boy in my family, and Grandpa kind of hoped that he'd go into the ministry. But from his first breath, Robin has gone his own way. He has sunny ways but he's just marched to his own music from the moment he was able to hoist himself up onto his own two feet. Robin has high principles, but he has never taken to religion in any way that suits our daddy. It's all very well to help the poor, but Robin does carry things to the extreme. Every man's trouble is his own, and every man don't have to be white, or Protestant, or respectable. Or a man.”

“That's a good thing, ain't it?”

Alafair's expression didn't change, but there was a glint in her eye. “I reckon Jesus would think so, but your Grandpa Gunn has his own ideas on how things should be gone about.”

“I remember that he was in the Army, first time I ever knew anything about him.”

“Oh, mercy, that was a right old set-to when he enlisted. He just up and joined when he was about twenty without so much as a by-your-leave. I thought the folks would both have an apoplexy. But he was off to help the poor set-upon Cubans gain their freedom from Spain, and he never came back to live in Arkansas again.”

“How long was he in?”

“Five or six years, I reckon. Never did get to go to Cuba, either.”

“And he never married?”

“Married only to his causes.”

Charlie's questions depressed her a bit, and she didn't really know why. Probably just bringing up all kinds of childhood feelings. How she had always loved Robin. He had been a stubborn and inflexible child, but quite good-natured about it. Like Charlie, she realized with a pang. She had spent much of her youth trying to act as a buffer between Robin and their father, though Robin didn't seem to care whether his father approved of him or not.

After all this time, she expected that Robin and Elder Robert Gunn would never see eye to eye. That fact grieved her, because even though Robin was unconventional in the extreme, he lived his principles in a way most people could not.

Alafair realized that Charlie was speaking to her, and put her reverie aside. “What's that, honey?”

“I said, I like Uncle Robin, but he's dead wrong to talk against this war, and I wish he wouldn't do it. It's unpatriotic, not to mention that he's like to get arrested. He gave her a sidelong glance, worried that she might not take kindly to such harsh criticism of her brother, but her mild expression of interest encouraged him. “I hate to say it, Ma, but I'd just as soon not get tarred with the same brush that he's going to.”

“Charlie Boy, I don't think anybody in all of Oklahoma is going to take you for a pacifist. Now quit standing there in the door in your nightshirt and go to bed.” She turned back to her chores, troubled. She was wishing that she hadn't told him the story of Robin running away to join the Army. Charlie had a disturbing tendency to act first and think later.

Dear Charlie, full of life. Energetic, impish, funny, and desperate to keep up with his adored older brother. Always on the lookout for action. But in spite of his tendency to trouble his mother with his headstrong ways, Charlie had a great heart and Alafair loved him to distraction. In fact, if someone had threatened to drown all her grandchildren if she didn't choose, she might say that as much as she adored every one of her offspring, Charlie was her favorite. Whether he liked it or not, there was nothing she wouldn't do to save him from rushing headlong into trouble.

Chapter Thirty-two

“The brick industry has made rapid strides in Oklahoma…and the opportunity it offers for profitable investment of capital can hardly be equaled…”

—
Oklahoma Almanac and Industrial Record
, 1907

The Francis Vitric Brick Company, located less than a mile northeast of Boynton, backed up to a range of small hills that were rich with an excellent quality of clay, perfect for making a sturdy, durable brick for paving and building. A spur of the St. Louis-San Francisco railroad line that ran through town reached up to the plant like a finger. Several times a week an engine hauled boxcars full of finished brick destined for the Army training camps that were springing up all over the country. Some Francis bricks would even travel to Europe for the use of the French Army,

Charlie had been curious about the plant since he was a tad, and had always wanted to go onto the grounds and have a look. But he'd never been able to convince his father that it was a good idea to ask for a tour. Charlie knew that the two enormous, solid brick towers that could be seen from the road were used for an overhead crane. He could hear the roar and grinding of machinery when he passed. He was acquainted with the steam shovel operator, Mr. Frasier, a friend of one of his uncles. Maybe he'd try to have a word with him if they crossed paths. Charlie would love to have a go at operating the giant steam shovel that excavated the clay from the hill behind the plant.

Charlie's first day at work was a full shift, so his introduction to wage earning was something of a baptism by fire. Literally, since Charlie was put to stacking bricks fresh out of the kiln, alongside a young man from Texas by the name of Henry Blackwood, who had only been at the plant a few days himself. The newcomers were under the supervision of Jack Cooper, a hefty, dark-visaged man with more muscles than Charlie had ever seen on a single individual. In spite of his intimidating appearance, Cooper was a mild-mannered and indulgent overseer who spent quite a bit of time giving his young worker advice on the proper way to lift and transfer pallets of brick. Back and legs, back and legs, as much as you can, and save your arms.

When the whistle blew for lunch, Charlie and Henry moved away from the long kiln in hopes of picking up a breeze, and flopped onto the ground beside the rail spur. In spite of Jack Cooper's good advice, Charlie felt like the bones in his arms had liquefied, leaving nothing on which to hang his trembling muscles. He could barely lift his lunch bucket to examine the contents. He glanced at his companion, hoping that Henry's condition was as alarming as his own.

If it was, Henry didn't show it. “I packed me up some of the squirrel stew with dumplings that my uncle made last night. I miss my ma's cooking. Eric isn't a very good cook, but this is tasty!” He looked up at Charlie with a grin. “I swear I could eat a rhinoceros!”

“Me, too. I'll tell you, I'm going to have arms like tree trunks by the time this war is over.”

“I hope you won't have time to develop those tree trunks, Charlie. I'd just as soon the war would come to a speedy and honorable end and Mr. Ober won't have need for extra hands.”

Charlie almost missed the comment. The slab of pie that his mother had placed on top of his lunch had captured his attention. He had taken a bite before it dawned on him what his companion had said. “Are you against the war, too?” He tried not to sound accusatory.

Henry's blue eyes widened. “I hope no person of goodwill wants war.”

Charlie sighed. “Well, no…” he said, though he wasn't entirely sure he meant it. “But it wasn't our fault that we had to get in it.”

Henry's gaze slid away and he shrugged. “I hope it's over soon, whatever it takes. I did register for the draft so if my number gets called I'll go if I can. Though when I tried to volunteer they wouldn't take me because I got the asthma.”

Charlie gave his companion a critical once-over. Henry was a good-looking young man, tall and well grown, older than Charlie by maybe eight or ten years. “You afraid of getting shot?” Charlie asked.

Henry didn't look up from his squirrel stew. “Naw. I been shot at before. I just don't fancy living in a mud hole for months on end with a passel of overripe soldiers.” He shot Charlie a sly glance. “Of which I would directly be one.”

“Who shot at you?”

Henry shrugged. “Some Mexican. Sometimes the Mexicans like to take a little target practice across the border. Or maybe some drunk Texican. Who knows? It was just a rough Saturday night in Brownsville. A bullet whizzed by my ear and I hit the dirt. Never did know where it come from. Didn't have my name on it, though.”

“You ever shoot back at the Mexicans?”

“Sometimes. They don't much like us gringos, and us gringos return the favor.” Henry didn't sound overly concerned that citizens of the two countries made a habit of taking potshots at one another. “I think America should be more worried about Mexico than Germany, though. They're a lot closer and hate us a lot more. I don't think Germany wants to tussle with us.”

If there was anything Charlie loved, it was arguing about the war. “Well, then why—?”

Henry did not feel the same way about debate. He cut Charlie off. “Hey, what do you think about old Win Avey getting his throat slit like that?”

He could not have chosen a better topic to distract Charlie. “Ain't that something? My ma says Avey was always knocking heads with somebody and it's no surprise that he came to a bad end.”

“He worked here, you know. He was one of the supervisors on this very shift. My uncle is of the same mind as your ma, that Avey was a scoundrel.”

“He was a Council of Defense man, though,” Charlie said. “And I heard he was starting up a branch of the Knights of Liberty around here. So it's mighty suspicious what happened to him. Scott thinks he ran afoul of the socialists and they killed him. He got in a fight with one of them the very night before he died.”

“So is Sheriff Tucker kin to you?” Henry seemed more interested in Charlie's familiarity with the lawman than in Win Avey's demise.

“Yeah, he's my dad's cousin. His daddy and my grandpa were brothers.”

Henry grinned. “So y'all must know all the dastardly deeds that happen around town and who all did them.”

“I wish we did, but Scott plays it close to the vest. Besides, we live so far out in the sticks that sometimes I think we're the last to hear anything.”

“Sometimes it makes life easier if you don't know what's going on.”

“Is that why you came up here to nowhere from all the action in Texas? So you wouldn't have to know what's going on?”

“Well, young'un, I came up here because, like I said, I probably can't get into the service, so my uncle Eric Bent said he could get me some useful war work here at the brick plant.” Henry's tone was teasing, but Charlie took the hint.

He felt his cheeks heat up. “Sorry. I didn't mean to act like I think you're a slacker.”

“You can't tell a fellow's situation just by looking at him, Charlie. You never can tell but what he's making some important contribution to the war effort in secret.”

Charlie's eyes lit up. “Wouldn't that be crackerjack? To be a secret government agent on the lookout for fifth columnists here in America? Or to go over to Europe and be a spy?”

“Might end up on trial for your life that way, like poor old Mata Hari.” The exotic dancer was still on trial for espionage in Paris, but according to the sensational accounts being published in the papers, her prospects for acquittal were dim.

Charlie's bottom lip jutted out. He liked the look of Henry Blackwood and had hoped to make a new friend, but Henry seemed to enjoy making sport of everything Charlie said. Henry caught the look of hurt that passed over the younger man's face, and he gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “I don't mean nothing. It's just my way to josh with my pals. I'm a mite put out because I can't get into it like all the other fellows my age. But we do what we can, don't we?”

Charlie's mood lifted and he smiled. “We sure do, Henry. We do whatever we can.”

***

“Hey, is that Charlie Tucker?”

Charlie wiped the sweat out of his eyes and turned around to see who had called him. Billy Claude Walker was passing by the clay pit on his way to the machine shop. Charlie gave him a wave.

Billy Claude grinned. “Why, it sure is! Nice to see one of your bunch working a proper job for a change.”

“Just doing my bit for the war effort,” Charlie called.

“I figured you for a German sympathizer, what with that krauthead your sister married. Glad I was wrong.”

Charlie's mouth dropped open, blindsided by the comment. He glanced at Henry, who was shoveling clay into the dump car alongside him. Henry glared at Billy Claude. “Leave the young'un alone, Walker,” he hollered. “He ain't the only person in the world with a German in the family.”

Charlie found his tongue. “Kurt can't help where he was born, Mr. Walker. He came to this country to get away from Germany. He's a loyal American now.”

Billy Claude laughed. “A loyal American, is he? Well, we'll see about that. Enjoy your digging, boy!”

Henry stabbed his shovel into the dirt and straightened. “You don't need to defend your kin to the likes of him,” he said in an undertone.

Charlie nodded, but didn't reply. He went back to his digging, his good mood gone.