Yesterday
Almost
everyone thought the lad was his son. They were often seen together back in
Monroe City. That is before the war. But even today, one would have thought the
older was caring for the younger, like a father cares for his son. They in
fact, came in on the same horse, the boy riding wide behind the saddle. They
had been travelling this way fifty miles up the Mississippi. The man had been
seen wiping the boy’s bleeding forehead with a rag wet from the river. You
couldn’t miss his Union cap and blue uniform. The boy though, with blood dried
into his knotted hair, wore a gray uniform. His cap was nowhere to be seen.
The
horse halted approximately twenty-five feet from the outpost where two
shirtless children play along a half-burnt dock. Their giggles felt surreal to
everyone else there. Just a few customers hung out beneath the overhang of the
tin roof shack, a small remant of the original outpost. A drunkard downed a
shot of whiskey purchased with a pearl from his wife’s wedding ring. He handed
a coin to the first drunkard for losing a bet. The bet: Who’d next come up the
trail – Union or Confederate? There was a fifty-fifty chance. They were in Missouri.
The
man who everyone thought was the boy’s father promptly pushed the boy off his
horse. He landed in the wet dirt with a thud and flopped over onto his back.
With bulging eyes, the boy looked up at the Union soldier. He was searching for
the man who had come to their ranch to return a stray goat. Another time he was
returning a hoe. The glance was disheartening, so incongruent it was with his
memories. It’s strange when another lifetime comes crashing into the present.
Sometimes it does not mix well.
“John!”
He spit out a bloody tooth before continuing. “You ain’t gonna leave me here.
Not without tellin’ me. How’s Carrie?”
“Shut
your mouth,” John said as he brushed the dirt from his Union coat. “The only
reason you’re still breathin’, Wesley, is cuz I gone and promised your Pa.” The
Union soldier looked down at the boy and commenced to dismount. He gave Wesley,
whom he had known since he was a child, a swift kick in the side, and walked
toward the outpost.
“You’re
a damn bastard Sir!” Wesley attempted to lift himself from the dirt but his
arms gave out. “Damn Yankee,” he sighed and closed his eyes. He appeared on the
edge of death laying there in the dirt, his face motionless and gaunt.
“What
can I get you Mister?” The owner of the outpost was a widow. Her husband was
shot to death a year earlier when a group of Confederates made their way along
the river. He was shot for refusing to pledge allegiance to their cause.
“Whatever
you have.”
She
poured him a short glass of whiskey. All the while the woman kept an eye on her
small outpost which was within ten feet of a popular dock. Rifle shots rang out
in the distance. She didn’t flinch. Actually, no one flinched. “Mister,” the
woman said as she wiped out a shot glass. “I think your prisoner’s gettin’
away.”
John
threw the whiskey to the back of his throat and slammed down the glass. “I’ll
be damned!” He chuckled as he watched Wesley stagger off into the brush. He
took another shot of whiskey and slapped a handful of coins onto the counter.
Then he casually walked off toward his horse. He stopped once to spit shine his
right boot. He even took out his pocket watch and read the time before stepping
on.
The
two betting drunkards snickered when John mounted. “Think he’ll catchim,” one
said to the other.
“No
doubt,” he answered, “. . . no doubt.”
The
widow scooped up John’s coins. Lifting her skirt, while obscured by the main
beam that held up the outpost’s ceiling tarp, she removed a pistol from her
garter. While securing it into her waistband with one hand, she poured a
customer a drink with the other.
John
rode off into the wetlands, finding little difficulty following the foot length
mounds of mud left by the boy’s boots. “Wesley,” he hollered. “No use runnin’.”
And he kept on after the boy’s tracks, delving deeper into the forest, so close
to the Mississippi now, he could smell it. What a wonder it was to the man who
wore the Union coat. It smelled like swimming in the summertime. It smelled
like his daughter tugging fresh water up from the creek. It smelled like rowing
her across the river to an island picnic. It smelled like trout on a campfire
and rope on a wet raft. No better words to describe the smells, it smelled like
yesterday.
John
reached the gigantic river that meanders through these states and caught sight
of Wesley running upstream, his arms flailing at his sides. “What the heck that
kid doing? Thinks he can run home?”
Gentle
green waters lapped the level shore. The sun began its descent behind a horizon
hidden by oaks. Though he couldn’t see him anymore, John could hear Wesley’s
feet fleeing in the distance. He dismounted momentarily to cut a vine entangled
around his horse’s back thigh. A woodpecker tap, tap, tapped directly above.
“Better
save your energy son!” John mounted and made his way at a leisurely pace. The
river’s bank gradually increased its steepness. The sky glowed pinkish-orange.
Several minutes passed without hearing signs of the boy when John came upon a
Confederate coat tangled in the brush. An envelope lay on the ground a few
inches away.
John
scooped up the letter, instantly recognizing his daughter’s handwriting. He
shoved it, a letter written to a Confederate soldier, into his Union pocket. He
then yanked the boy’s coat from the limb and yelled out something
unrecognizable before flinging the treasonous coat into the river. The letter
remained hidden in John’s Union pocket for a good half mile, while his horse
galloped at a slant. He felt for the envelope occasionally, just to make sure
it was real. “How dare she?” he grunted. “The whore.” And then he wept. Not
fully at first -- just a tear, perhaps two.
An
image flashed into his mind, one of him cradling his only child. He grumbled
incoherently for the next mile, his mind drifting in and out of history. He
recalled riding out to Monroe City hoping his wife’s letters had arrived. Those
were tough times, his wife expecting a child on the east coast, too ill to make
the move. Absentmindedly, he tugged at his daughter’s letter. Another tear fell
from John’s eye -- it was a wish that his wife had lived to know their grown
daughter. She was smart; she was able. She was the spittin’ image of her
mother. So, John wiped another tear, and in the dim sun setting light he read.
My
Dearest Wesley,
Too
many moons have come and gone since our lips last parted. I pray always for
your safe return. I stopped in to see your Ma, and she is holding up
heroically. She treats me like her own and is the only one I have been able to
confide our secret. Your Pa, on the other hand, I’m afraid to say, does not wish
to talk of you in my presence. I can see in his eyes though, his deep devotion
to you remains.
Misty
gave birth to a litter last week. Your Ma gave me the pick. She’s an adorable
black and white pup that sleeps by my side nightly. She will be a wonderful
companion to our child, Wesley. My prayer is that you will return to greet our
baby into this world.
Praying
for you, my love. Please return to us safely.
My
deepest love,
Carrie
John
crumbled the letter and held it in his fist for the next half mile. “I will
kill you boy,” he hollered. “I can see your tracks. You don’t think I can’t
catch a rat? Rat!”
The
wind blew a cold breeze as the sky turned dark blue. A flock of ducks took off
from the great waters, headed for the island a quarter mile across the river.
His coat buttoned closed to ward off the cool breeze, John rode onward. More
tears fell. His baby girl would soon cradle a baby of her own. Not too far
away, the father of that child not yet born, staggered forward, practically
within grasp of the man he feared. And then night fell and suddenly, a waning
moon sat low on the horizon.
Both
men wept that night. But tears were not out of fear. They were not out of
anger. They were tears for Carrie only.
John
woke a half hour before dawn. The letter still crumbled in his fist, he kicked
dirt over the campfire that he had let burn all night. With aching limbs, he
mounted his horse. And he rode. He didn’t realize when he stumbled upon the
boy’s camp. He didn’t smell the smoldering fire, didn’t see the lad sleeping
next to the embers. What brought John to his senses was the rustling noise of
Wesley stumbling to his feet and scrambling upstream.
John’s
hand flew to his pistol, but kept it holstered. The river lapped at his horse’s
legs as the wind picked up. He could hear summertime, as if children were
splashing along the river’s edge. Birds screeched above and an army of tadpoles
swam at his toes. In the distance he could make out the sound of a rifle
firing.
With
bloodshot eyes, Wesley peered back at his captor.
John
yanked his pistol from its holster and raised it slightly. He noticed a gash in
the lad’s left arm which had left a trail of blood soaked into his torn shirt.
A flock of birds rustled the gigantic trees over on the island. Then the smell
of yesterday overcame John as Wesley dove into the river. John aimed for the
boy’s head while trying to reconcile the smells. His finger was flush against
the trigger, yet John did not move. Then suddenly he relaxed his fingers. There
were a few moments there that actually seemed like many more, as he took in the
sounds -- splashing water, the whisper of leaves . . . sounds of yesterday.
Before he knew it, Wesley was a good fifty yards out.
He
never planned to tell anyone that he lowered his pistol. Only the boy would
know, if God help him, the boy was able to indeed run all the way home.
Standing there on the bank of the Mississippi, John dismounted and sunk his
feet down in the mud. He watched the boy continue to swim across the great
river, out to the island. And then the sun finally peaked above the horizon --
the emergence of a new day, not yesterday, but at least a day not worse than
the last. On his way back up the bank, John stopped to retrieve the crumpled
letter that Carrie wrote. He smoothed it out, folded it in four and placed it
in his coat pocket before riding on.
