Jordan's War - 1861 (2 page)

“Ain’t Charlie too
young?” Eamon asked.

“I’m sixteen,”
Charlie chimed in.

“You got to be
eighteen,” Eamon explained. “That’s what the notice said.”

“They can’t prove
I ain’t,” Charlie said.

“I can’t wait to
kill me some of Yanks,” Avery said.

“What if they kill
you first?” Finnian asked.

“That ain’t
likely,” Avery said and patted his musket. His horse jerked as the gun barrel
poked into its belly.

“Aren’t you
going?” Charlie asked Eamon.

“He ain’t going
anywhere right now,” Finnian interrupted.

“Pa always said
you Sinclairs weren’t nothing but cowards,” Luke chided.

“That ain’t true!”
Jordan yelled and stood up.

“You want to fight
about it?” Luke asked him.

“Sit down Jordan,”
Finnian said.

Jordan sat down,
but kept his narrow-eyed stare fixed on Luke’s face.

“Eamon will join
up when he’s old enough,” Finnian said. “You boys best get moving while you
have some daylight.”

“You too,” Luke
called. “Wouldn’t want the scared yellow-bellies out past dark.”

He gave his horse
a quick kick with his heels and started down the trail. Avery and Charlie fell
in behind him.

Pa clicked his
tongue against his teeth and the horses started walking again. The wagon
lurched a few times then commenced it’s slow, steady decent towards home.

Jordan watched
them until they disappeared in the mist.

“You can sleep
easy boys,” Pa said.

“Why is that?”
Eamon asked.

“The Vanders have
joined the army! Virginia is saved!”

Jordan busted out
laughing. Eamon was howling so loud Ma probably heard him all the way to the
house. Pa just smiled.

The last of the
sun’s warming rays fell behind the summit and sent the temperature spiraling
downward. A chilling wind whistled through the pines and gave Jordan a shiver.

“You know it’s not
too smart to argue with the Vanders,” Eamon said to Jordan when they calmed
down enough to talk. “They might sneak over while we’re asleep and burn our
house down.”

Jordan didn’t say
anything. He was scared and his insides were still shaking, despite Pa’s joke.
Part of him wished he hadn’t said anything to Luke. Another part of him felt
pride and a newfound courage. He’d back-talked to a Vander. Not just any
Vander. It was Luke, the ugliest and the meanest of them all. He wanted to pray
that none of them came back from fighting because Luke wouldn’t forget their
meeting. But praying for someone to die just wasn’t right, even if the mountain
would be a better place without them. Jordan felt God already knew that and it
was all just a big fat test to get into Heaven.

Chapter 2

It was just before
suppertime when the wagon rolled by the colossal moss covered rock that marked
the top of the mountain. From this point, the forest dwindled into shorter
deciduous trees that mingled with the already green rhododendron thickets.

Soon it opened
onto spacious fields. The weathered logs of the south pasture fence
materialized in the distance and Jordan could see their cattle grazing on hay
by the barn. They were only small dots, but he could see them nonetheless. They
were home.

Thank goodness
because Jordan was absolutely famished. Ma had packed them some ham and
biscuits for the trip but those were eaten before they even got to town. He
hoped she fixed something good and a lot of it.

Otter, Pa’s old
redbone hound, sauntered out to the wagon, gave it a couple of sniffs, then let
out one solitary yelp to announce their arrival.

Willow, Jordan’s
older sister, waved to them as she walked up the path from the woods carrying
two pails that Jordan initially thought was water. He looked closer and saw
they were the ones used to collect the maple sap and most likely she’d be
making syrup and sugar cakes tomorrow. He found himself licking his lips at the
very thought of a sugar cake.

Willow’s real name
was Whisper of the Willows – Grandma named her. But no one ever called her by
her real name unless they wanted a good thumping. They all called her Willow.
Grandma also named Jordan’s baby sister, Gift of Selah, but everyone called her
Selie. She’d always cry when someone said her name too fast because it sounded
like “Silly.”

He’d heard the
story many times that the only reason the boys had normal names is because Pa
refused to let her name them. Once, he asked if Grandma had picked out a name
for him. Without any hesitation, Pa replied, “Boil Needing Lanced,” and nearly
cried from laughing so hard. Jordan never brought up the subject again.

Jordan’s younger
brother, Jake, was sitting on the front porch carving another animal with his
knife. Ma already had a whole window sill full of the little wooden critters,
but Jake still kept carving anyway. He had probably been pouting all day
because he had to stay behind and do the chores, but if he was mad he didn’t
show it as he ran out to greet the weary travelers.

“Bout time you got
back. Uncle Tate’s been here for over an hour talking about some war and
Grandma needs a drink!” he yelled.

Sure enough, Uncle
Tate’s wagon was sitting out front.

Great
. Now
Jordan would have to deal with his cousins, Nealy, Isaac, and Henry. Nealy and
Isaac were both older than Eamon and thought they could boss everyone around.
Henry was a year older than Jordan, but he was all right most of the time.

Eamon rolled his
eyes.

“Are the youngin’s
with him?” Jordan asked.

“Just Isaac and
Henry,” Jake answered.

“Probably wants to
borrow something or invite themselves to supper,” Eamon whispered.

“Eamon, take the
wagon around back to the barn and leave it there,” Pa said. “Jordan, you
unhitch the horses and put them in the pasture.”

“What can I do?”
Jake asked.

“Let’s go see what
brings my dear brother all the way over here,” Pa said, and walked with Jake up
the steps into the house.

Jordan watched
them disappear through the door then hopped up on the bench beside Eamon, who
had scooted over to take the reins. The crickets had begun their usual evening
melody and the subtle sparkle of the night’s first stars appeared in the
bluish-purple sky.

“I’m starving,”
Jordan said. “I hope Uncle Tater didn’t eat everything.”

“I’m telling Pa
you called him that,” Eamon said.

“What’s wrong with
you?” Jordan asked. “You’ve been a grump since we got to town. And you always
call him Uncle Tater.”

“Ain’t nothing
wrong with me,” Eamon said.

“Sure don’t sound
like it,” Jordan mumbled.

He hopped down
from the bench, un-harnessed the horses, opened the gate to the pasture, and
shooed them inside. An odd feeling rushed over him. Something wasn’t right but
Jordan couldn’t place it. He walked through the gate and beyond the barn where
Eamon was pushing the wagon inside and then out into the middle of the field,
searching but still couldn’t figure it out. Something was missing.

Oh hell! The
bullpen’s busted!
Jordan looked around but didn’t see the beast they called
Gus anywhere. He walked backwards to the gate, his eyes darting across the
field from one shadow to another. His stomach dropped as if someone had kicked
him and his heart felt like it would burst through his chest with each beat.

First he heard a
snort, then came a steady stomping that shook the ground. Gus was waiting in
ambush, hidden behind the barn. Jordan locked eyes with the broad-backed devil
for just a second and froze with fear. Gus charged. Adrenaline shot Jordan’s
legs into motion and he took off as fast as he could to the fence. He could
feel the animal’s hot breath on his heels and the thunder of his hoofs pounding
the earth.

“Eamon!” Jordan
cried.

The animal was
right on him and the fence was still about thirty yards away.

He felt a nudge at
this back and then crashed to his knees. The bull raced past him but not before
one of his hoofs mashed into Jordan’s side. He screamed.

Jordan was back up
on his knees. Gus was standing between him and the fence, preparing for another
charge. The other side of the fence was too far. He’d never make it. There was
no other way out. He sprinted right at Gus. The bull ran straight at him. At
the last second, Jordan made a sharp left turn just before he ran head on into
the raging animal. Gus turned to run him down. Jordan lunged over the fence. He
fell to the ground and rolled down a small bank. A savage pain ripped through
his side and he curled his knees into his stomach, writhing in agony.

Gus turned around
and trotted back towards his pen as if nothing had happened.

“He could’ve
busted through that fence if he wanted to,” Eamon said.

Jordan rolled on
his back and saw Eamon leaning on the fence about ten yards up, chewing on a
piece of grass. His vision got blurry as he was gasped for air. His hands were
trembling, his heart was racing, and his stomach and side felt like they were
on fire. There was a roaring in his ears as the bile traveled up his throat and
blew from his mouth to the ground. He gave a couple more heaves before wiping
the spittle from his chin with his shirtsleeve. He stood up despite his weak
knees and limped over to Eamon.

“Why didn’t you
help me?” Jordan cried. “He could have killed me!”

“Aw, he was just
playing with you,” Eamon said.

“Eamon this really
hurts.”

“Let me see it.”

Jordan pulled up
his shirt and tried to twist around to look at it, but the wound was on his
back and side, and it hurt too much to move. He cringed when Eamon touched the
burning flesh.

“Wow,” Eamon said.
“Gus split the skin wide open when he stepped on you. It’s still bleeding so
you better hold your shirt real tight against it. I can see your bone right there.
It could be broken. Dang, that looks like it hurt real bad.”

Jordan pulled his
shirt down and took off in a half limp, half run to the house. The wet blood
turned cold in the brisk evening air and his knees were starting to buckle. As
he reached the yard, the salty aroma of fried deer steak wafted past his nose
and visions of it smothered with gravy with steaming biscuits slathered in
melted butter lessened the pain.

Willow’s chickens
scrambled to get out of his path as he stumbled up the porch steps and fell
down. Eamon came behind him and picked him up.

“Ma, Jordan’s
hurt,” Eamon hollered.

Jordan sat in the
floor by Grandma’s chair, too bloated to move. He had to sit by her because she
was the only one who could stand the smell of the poultice that was now tied to
his back. It was only a flesh wound, albeit a deep one and he had to wear the
stinking concoction for a few days to draw out any infection. That suited
Jordan much better than the maggots Jake got a couple of years back for an
infected sore on his shoulder that wouldn’t go away. At least there were no
broken bones.

Eamon got a good
talking to after Jordan told them what happened and had to apologize. Ma said
Eamon had to help him do his chores until he got better. Eamon shot Jordan a
devious smile when no one was looking and after that Jordan wasn’t real clear
on which one of them got punished.

Getting hurt
didn’t bother Jordan’s appetite one bit. He ate seconds of everything, even the
vegetables and had to loosen the string around his pants just to breathe. He
even ate the scraps Willow had left on her plate. He looked for Selie’s plate
but Willow had already scraped it into the slop bucket.

Grandma was sound
asleep, but not snoring too loud. Ma said she slept a lot because she was old.
Jordan didn’t agree. He was sure her sipping moonshine had more to do with it
than her age.

 Jordan glanced
over at Isaac and Henry as they sat by themselves in the corner. They didn’t
talk much anymore. Not since their ma died last summer. No one knew what took
her. Aunt Ginny was always frail and sickly, to hear folks tell it. She’d been
ill for a long time and not one of Grandma’s herbal potions or secret root
tonics could save her. Eventually her skin turned a blotchy purple and she
couldn’t get out of bed. Then one day she died.

“Jake bring me my
mandolin,” Pa said. “Bess, you up for some song? How about a little Turkey in
the Straw?”

“Oh, that would be
wonderful,” Ma said.

Jake ran back with
Pa’s mandolin. Tate reached out and grabbed him by the waist, pulled him back
and took the instrument out of his hands.

“There’s no time
for music Finnian,” Uncle Tate said. “We got to talk about this war.”

“Oh hell Tate,” Pa
whined and snatched the mandolin away from him. “There ain’t even been any
fighting yet and there’s always time for music.”

Uncle Tate tried
to argue but Pa just smiled and strummed the strings.

Pa was one of the
best pickers around and he was always invited to play anywhere there was music.
The mandolin had been his pa’s and his pa’s before that. No one was ever
allowed to play with it but he’d teach them a few chords if they asked.

“Eamon, how about
a little Wayfaring Stranger?” Pa asked.

Eamon nodded.

Jordan heard
others play this song before, but none better than Pa. He added his own personal
twang to each note.

Eamon sprang into
song on Pa’s cue. He voice sounded just like one of those visiting singers at
Church meetings, but Jordan would never tell him that.

Ma sat straight up
in her chair, closed her eyes, and swayed with the melody. Jake was sitting on
her lap. Willow sat in the floor next to her, stroking Selie’s hair. She fell
asleep not long after supper and her head was resting in Willow’s lap.

Jordan leaned back
against the leg of Grandma’s chair and closed his eyes. The music swept over
him like a warm ray of sun. A feeling of peace settled in the room as if God
himself had come to listen to Eamon sing. It was over too soon.

“You want to hear
another?” Pa asked.

“Finnian, Tate
wants to talk to you,” Ma said.

“I suppose we’ll
have do this another night,” Pa relented and laid the mandolin at his feet.

“I’m taking Selie
and going to bed,” Willow announced through a wide yawn. She scooped the child
in her arms. She kissed Ma and went into the back room.

“Jake, you go on
with Willow,” Ma said.

“I’m not sleepy,”
Jake whined.

“Go on now,” she
said.

“Goodnight
everybody,” Jake said, and followed Willow.

“Alright,” Pa
said. “What’s so all-fire important?”

“We got to talk
about what we’re going to do.”

“What do you
mean?” Ma asked.

“Nealy’s heading
out to Lewisburg in a few days to sign up. I figured he’d be pretty good sharp
shooter,” Tate said.

Sharp shooter! Oh
hell, Nealy missed an eight point buck last fall when it was standing less than
twenty yards from him. Nealy threatened to beat Jordan up if he ever told
anyone. He blabbed it anyway.

Jordan looked over
at Eamon and smiled. To his surprise, Eamon smiled back.

“I figure he’d go
now and in a few months, we could ride over with Eamon and Isaac.”

“Now hold on just
a minute,” Pa interrupted. “Eamon ain’t going anywhere until he’s eighteen. I
just had this same talk with that damn Luke Vander. God willing, this horrible
war will be over and forgotten by then.”

“Amen, Finnian.”
Grandma said. Jordan hadn’t noticed she had woken up. Or maybe, she was only
pretending to be asleep. She was a tricky one.

“Of course he’s
going. All the boys are going. You want folks to think he’s yellow?”

“I don’t give a
fiddle-fart what folks think of him,” Pa said. “I ain’t sending my boy off to
die for something that don’t concern us Sinclairs.”

“Oh, he ain’t
going to die,” Tate reasoned. “It’ll all be over in a couple of months.”

“President Lincoln
ain’t going to let this happen,” Pa argued. “You just can’t up and leave a
country.”

 “What about the
notice?” Tate asked.

“It don’t mean
nothing to me,” Pa said.

Tate didn’t say
anything but his bottom lip quivered. Jordan had never seen him look so angry.

“All I got is this
here land and my family,” Pa continued. “No one is going to take it from me.
You can have your war. I don’t want no part of it. You’d be wise to think about
this for a while big brother.”

“You can’t turn
your back,” Tate said. “Folk’s tired of it.”

“Tired of what?”
Pa asked, raising his voice just a little. “Working the land? Those working the
land ain’t starting all of this. It’s them slave owners. Hell, they ain’t never
done a hard day’s work in their life. I don’t respect a man who don’t work his
own land and my sons sure as hell ain’t dying for him.”