James McBride - The Good Lord Bird

“Maybe we ought to warn him,” I said.

“’Bout what?” Bob said. “About dying for niggers? He made that choice. I ain’t getting into no hank with no rebels about slavery. We’ll be colored when the day’s done, no matter how the cut comes or goes. These fellers can go back to being Pro Slavers anytime they want.”

“If you stealing from the Old Man, I don’t want to know about it,” I said.

“Just keep shut ’bout me,” he said, “and I’ll keep quiet ’bout you.” And with that he got up and headed over to the campfire to eat.

I decided to warn the Old Man about Bob the next morning, but no sooner did I consider it than he marched into the middle of camp and shouted, “We found ’em boys! We found Pate! He’s close by. Mount up! On to Black Jack!”

The men tumbled out of their rolls, grabbed their weapons, and staggered to their horses, tripping over pots and pans and junk, getting ready to roll outta camp, but the Old Man halted ’em and said, “Wait a minute. I got to pray.”

He done it quick—twenty minutes, which was fast for him, sawing away at God for His goodwill, advice, benefit, and so forth, while the men stood around, jumping on one foot to keep warm, which gived Bob a chance to prowl the camp and arm himself with every little bit of foodstuff that was left, which weren’t much. I seen him on the outside of the circle, nobody bothering him, for the Old Man’s camp was full of every abolitionist and colored who needed a gun or a hot meal. The Captain didn’t mind it a bit, for while he was big on stealing swords, guns, pikes, and horses from Pro Slavers, he didn’t mind anyone in his camp helping themselves to one of them things, so long as they was all for the good cause of the abolitionists. Still, Bob rooting around a bunch of rifles lined against a tree while everyone else was looking for food perked his interest, for he thought Bob wanted to arm himself. After his prayer, while the men broke camp and placed pikes, Sharps rifles, and broadswords in a wagon, the Captain marched over to Bob and said, “Good sir, I see you is ready to strike a blow for your own freedom!”

That hemmed Bob up. He pointed to the rifles and said, “Sir, I don’t have no knowledge of how to use them things.”

The Captain thrust a sword into Bob’s hands. “Swinging this high is all the knowledge you need,” he grunted. “Come now. Onward. Freedom!”

He hopped into the rear of an open-back wagon driven by Owen, and poor Bob had to follow. He looked downright unsettled, and set there, quiet as a mouse, while we rode. After a few minutes, he uttered, “Lord, I’m feeling weak. Help me, Jesus. I need the Lord is what I need. I need the blood of Jesus!”

This the Old Man took as a sign of friendship, for he grabbed Bob’s hands in his and jumped into a roaring prayer about the Almighty in the book of Genesis, then washed it down with several more verses from the Old Testament, then throwed some New Testament in there, and tossed that about for a good while. A half hour later Bob was dead asleep and the Old Man was still prattling on. “The blood of Jesus binds us as brothers! The Good Book says, ‘Hold thine own hand to the blood of Christ and you will see the coming of thine own intervention.’ Onward, Christian soldiers! Glorious redemption!”

He got just plain joy hollering out the Bible, and the closer we got to the battlefield, the more redeemed he got, and his words made my insides quiver, for he had prayed like that at Osawatomie when he knocked them fellers’ heads off. I weren’t for no fighting, and neither was some of his army. As we drawed closer to Black Jack, his herd, which had growed to nearly fifty by that time, thinned out just like they done at Osawatomie. This one had a sick child, that one had to tend crops. Several in the column on their horses let their mounts slow-trot till they faded to the back of the column, then turned around and scooted. By the time we got to Black Jack, about only twenty remained. And them twenty was exhausted from the Old Man’s prayer, which he throwed out to full effect en route, and them mutterings had a way of putting a man to sleep on his feet, which meant the only person awake and fired by the time we reached Black Jack was the Old Man himself.

Black Jack was a boggy swamp with a ravine cutting through it and woods sheltering either side. When we reached it, we proceeded to a ridge outside the village, where it sheered off the trail and cut straight into the woods. The Old Man waked the troops in the wagon and ordered the rest on horse to dismount. “Follow my orders, men. And no talking.”

It was hot and broad daylight. Early morning. No night charge here. We proceeded on foot for about ten minutes to a clearing, then he crawled up a ridge to look over the crest to the valley of Black Jack below to see where Pate’s Sharpshooters was. When he come back off the ridge he said, “We’re in a good position, men. Take a look.”

We crawled to the edge of the ridge and looked over into the town.

By God, there was three hundred men swilling around on the other side of the ravine if there was one. Several dozen had lined up as shooters, laying on the ridge that defended the town. The ridge overlooked a creek in a ravine with a small river. Beyond it was the town. Since they was beneath us, Pate’s shooters hadn’t seen us yet, for we was hidden by the thickets above them. But they was ready, sure enough.

After reconnoitering the enemy, we headed back to where the horses were tied, whereupon the Old Man’s sons began to wrangle about what came next. None of it sounded pleasant. The Old Man was keen for a frontal attack by coming down one of the ridges, for they was protected by rocks and the slope of the land. His boys preferred a sneak surprise attack at night.

I walked off from ’em a bit, for I was nervous. I walked out and down the trail a bit, heard the sound of hoofbeats, and found myself staring at another Free State rifle company that galloped past me and into our clearing. There were about fifty, in clean uniforms, all spit and shine. Their captain rode up in a smartly dressed military outfit, leaped off his horse, and approached the Old Man.

The Old Man, who always kept himself deep in the woods, away from his horses and wagon lest a surprise attack come, popped out the woods to greet them. With his wild hair, beard, and chewed-up clothes, he looked like a mop dressed in rags compared to this captain, who was all shined up from his buttons to his boots. He marched up to the Old Man and said, “I’m Captain Shore. Since I got fifty men, I’ll command. We can go straight at them from the ravine.”

The Old Man weren’t keen on taking orders from nobody. “That won’t do,” he said. “You’re wide open that way. The ravine circles them all the way around. Let’s work our way to the side and kill off their supply line.”

“I come here to kill ’em, not starve ’em,” Captain Shore said. “You can work your way ’round the side all you want, but I ain’t got all day.” With that he mounted up, turned to his men, and said, “Let’s take them,” and sent his fifty men on their horses straight down the ravine toward the enemy.

They hadn’t got five steps down that ravine before Pate’s Sharpshooters met them with a hail of bullets. Knocked five or six clean off their mounts and diced, sliced, and chopped every one of the rest that was stupid enough to follow their captain down that ridge. The rest that could make off their mounts hotfooted it up that ridge fast as the devil on foot, with their captain running behind them. Shore collapsed at the top and took cover, but the remainder of his men that got up there kept going, right past their captain, taking off down the road.