SNAKEBIT

By John Poniske

The term SNAKEBIT is described in the opening book of the series as the political madness growing in our disunited states over the imminent election of President Abraham Lincoln. The Garrett family, and their neighboring family the McCunes, guide the reader through the madness, through the historical events that begin with secession proceed thro

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indulgent Wife Enterprises
• Release date: Aug 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578970158

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Snakebit

Snakebit:

Prelude to War

By John Poniske

© 2021 by John Poniske

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

I have long associated my creative work with

my pseudobusiness moniker,

Indulgent Wife Enterprises.

I dedicate this work

to that same indulgent wife,

Linda Jensen, for her patience, encouragement,

and ever-ready red pen!

United States and Territories 1859

Table of Contents

March 1859—Snakebit

April 1859—Valentine’s Family

June 1854—Valentine

August 1859—Market Day

September 1859—Newspapers

September 1859—Frog Giggin’

October 1859—Rolling Holy

1851-1854—Inside, Behind, Just Out of Sight

October 1859—The Greatest Trial of the Century

December 1859—Popular Sovereignty

January 1860—Home of the Free

February 1860—Distant Disclosure

March 1860—Boonsboro Home Guard

April 1860—Ten Days in Charleston

June 1860—Cracker Barrel Decisions

August 1860—A Heavenly Sign

October 1860—Equality of Rights

November 1860—Botheration

Author’s Notes

Bibliography

Chapter 1

March 1859—Snakebit

Geoff had been fishing with his father, Valentine. They’d walked down this same path, talking. A heavy stringer of sunfish hung on a stick between them. Then came that all-too-familiar rattle. Valentine pushed his son back. He dispatched the creature with indifference, smashing its head into the earth and slicing it off with his bowie knife. He recalled his father picking up the critter’s dismembered head and squeezing its jaws open to display its fangs.

See ’em, Geoff?

Young Geoff nodded. He saw them, twin glistening ivory needles. Ain’t much other’n a mama bear guardin’ her cubs more dangerous. Valentine told him. Geoff bobbed again.

Valentine held the snake’s open maw out to him, turning it from side to side, then pitched it into the brush.

You been bit before, Pa? Geoff asked.

Naw.

Geoff snatched up the snake’s body to toss after its missing head, but Valentine stopped him.

Hold on.

Geoff stopped.

His father took the limp thing from him and slung it over his shoulder. ’Swasteful. Snake tastes mighty good. Valentine picked up his musket, hauled up their catch, and strode off toward home. Geoff scrambled to catch up.

Sometime later, he saw Valentine smile. Naw, I ain’t been bit. Seen others to it though. Some as died… His words trailed off, but he continued walking, leaving images just hanging there for Geoff to ponder, for what he considered a very long time.

Some didn’t? Geoff asked. His father rubbed his neck.

Sure’n they wished they did. Point is, they weren’t…They weren’t never the same after bein’ bit.

A ten-year-old can think of a lot of things when it comes to never the same. Geoff had to ask. Never? What happened? What happened to ’em?

Turned ornery. Valentine looked deep into his son’s eyes to ensure that he understood. Turned plum crazy. Such like to turn the air blue over the littlest thing. Had me a dawg ’fore you was born that got snakebit once. Don’t know how he survived, but he did. Weren’t never the same.

Many more steps were taken in silence as Geoff waited for Valentine to continue. Growled at the sun, he mumbled. Snarled at the moon. He stopped to stamp his foot for emphasis. I seen him bark his fool head off at a rock in the road once—a rock! Weren’t no critter, no bug, no bird about. He just set to hatin’ that there…rock.

Abruptly Valentine picked up the pace again. Geoff struggled to keep up.

’Ventually he like to bit yore mother. That’s when I put him down…Snakebit! He made the word a curse.

Back in the present, Geoff mused how the chatter about town didn’t seem natural. Wasn’t the kind of squirrel chatter that you’d expect raining down from the forest trees but an unnatural, unsettled muttering washing over the community the way a muddy creek overflows its banks.

Some of the talk told and retold the circumstances surrounding the lurid Washington, DC, murder of Philip Barton Key II, son of the famous Francis Scott Key. Word was, the New York Democrat Daniel Sickles done it. Shot his wife’s lover in broad daylight. Outside the White House? Madness. Yet even that lurid crime had been overshadowed by the conversational infection folks called secession.

Geoff heard it everywhere—the market, the general store, the smithy. Seemed even God was forced to listen to it in church. Secesh this, secesh that. People gone plum crazy over secession. For and agin, didn’t much matter. Ruminating as he trudged along the trail, Geoffrey Garrett set his jaw. Ain’t right t’be so het up over other folks’ business. Valentine wouldn’t like it, ’less it was t’lend a hand. Geoff’s eyes welled. His mind slipped back down one of those past roads, the one leading to Valentine’s dying day. He watched that giant of a man draped across the kitchen table, huge feet spilling over one end, the right one missing two toes. Was akin to a great buck waiting for the butchering. Valentine would’ve liked that comparison. Geoff’s mind’s eye transformed the scene to the great man lying peacefully asleep. Times were more peaceful then.

But he was a shaver then. Now he was older, taller, stronger. He carried Valentine’s musket and a brace of coneys. Heading home to dinner, he tried to shake away the memory cobwebs. Reverie on the trail is a dangerous thing. Had he not snapped a twig, fate would’ve claimed him. Geoff froze. Sunning on a flat rock not three feet away, a four-foot coil of timber rattlesnake furiously shook its rattle at him.

Fixing each other with cold, unblinking eyes, both dared the other to make a mistake.

Nature paused.

Cawing crows went quiet.

Even the breeze sputtered out.

The serpent’s devil tongue slipped in, slipped out, testing the air, seeking the aroma of fear.

In that one paralyzed moment, Geoff set aside the venom currently washing over his neighbors to deal with the venom before him. Poison, he whispered. Now Geoff’s reaction had little to do with courage. It was second nature. The rattler reared to strike. Geoff let go his dead rabbits. The snake’s head darted forward. Geoff’s long gun crashed down butt first, smashing the snake’s head into the dirt in midstrike. The desperate creature flailed and thrashed, no longer the threat, now the victim. Geoff pulled a bowie knife with his right hand and sliced off the critter’s dangerous end.

The decapitated serpent bucked a bit, then gradually melted back down onto the rock.

Geoff wiped his blade on his britches, inspected it, wiped it again, then sheathed it. He squatted down, picked up the severed head, and tossed it, just as his father had once done. He imagined Valentine squatting beside him, the same weapon his father had held now resting across his thighs. He tilted his head toward him and mouthed the word Valentine used to say whenever he had trouble deciphering human nature—Snakebit.

Geoff sighed. Snakebit, he muttered to himself. This town…this county, the state, hell, this whole goddamned country, it’s all been snakebit.

Now a young man of nineteen, Geoff always had been a serious soul. Elder brother, Gabriel, proved more worldly, perhaps a mite cleverer, but he was a dreamer. Gabe left the family to travel west, leaving Geoff provider and protector. Granted, he relished the responsibility. Was as it should be. He was bigger, more powerful, a better wrestler, and a far better shot than Gabriel. He smiled. That was why Valentine had favored him. Gabe talked crazy, stargazed, fantasized. Geoff picked up the slack. He did what needed to be done. He never shirked. Didn’t mean Gabe shouldn’t be here. But troubled times required vigilance.

Geoff settled back against a tree. He nudged the limp carcass with the barrel of his musket. Shore miss you, Valentine, he thought. Times was easier with you around. Eventually, he grabbed the snake’s tail and slung it over his shoulder, snatched up the coneys and his musket, straightened up, and traipsed home to Mother, Sam, Becca, Notnot, and Valentine’s ghost.

Chapter 2

April 1859—Valentine’s Family

People roundabout called her Mother, out of respect. Friend, stranger, and family alike. She was not fancy. She was hard nosed and plainspoken, yet she seemed to reach out and touch the soul in folk. It was what Valentine loved about her. She was a tall woman at six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. She wore her auburn hair tied back in the day but loose at night. Her wardrobe was entirely made of gingham.

Samuel, her youngest and on the verge of becoming a man, didn’t quite get her. She was rummaging in her ramshackle henhouse midmorning when Samuel stampeded across the yard hootin’ and hollerin’. The henhouse door slammed open and sent unsettled birds to flight, showering her with feathers. His gleeful message was initially drowned beneath a chorus of raucous cackling.

Sam’s shrill voice outshouted the cacophony. A lettah! I brung a lettah! A lettah! At times Sam, who was nearing fourteen, appeared to be on the infant side of eight.

Mother rose to her full towering height, fixing Samuel with a glare that would melt butter. Small for his age, Sam stretched up on his toes to stand even with her bosom. He was a happy lad, mischievous, but with a reputation of being a mite dull witted. Straw-colored hair sprouted off his pate in every direction, porcupine like. Mother tried to introduce him to a comb a few times, but that was a losing battle in which she had long ago surrendered. Samuel dressed as always in brown trousers, an unbuttoned shirt, and a straw hat Notnot made for him. Oblivious to the chaos he created, Samuel hopped from one unshod foot to the other, waving his letter in the air, his enthusiasm undaunted by Mother’s stern countenance. Mother returned to egg gathering just to hide her grin.

Parson Codget left this over t’Billy’s. Didn’t leave them nuthin’. Samuel continued dancing across the straw-littered floor. Onliest one’s for you! Saw Notnot out’n the yard. Where’s Geoff? Billy’s mom say nobody writes… A pack of hound dog pups interrupted his banter as they rushed through the open door, sending the hens back in the air.

Mother rolled her eyes, snorting, Samuel! Without turning, she spoke evenly to the wall. Boy, you get them hounds outta this henhouse and shut that door!

Samuel had been told that his mother had eyes in the back of her head. He sincerely believed it, though try as he might, he could never locate them. Yas’m. He snatched up two struggling pups, who took to licking cookie crumbs off his face, which caused him to giggle, which caused him to drop one on top of a third, which yelped, which sent the hens to flight a third time.

Mother turned, struggling to smother a laugh yet still managing her stern voice. Boy, you go to Billy’s without me knowin’?

Samuel’s shoulders sagged, as did his enthusiasm. Yas’m…but only a little. He shoved two pups out the door but held on to the third.

I tell you t’tell me afore you go.

Yas’m.

Mother crossed her arms. You do it anyway?

He gazed up in awe. Even at thirteen years old, Sam still saw her as an avenging angel. Try as he might to go his own way, he still saw her as the ultimate arbiter of right and wrong. He saw retribution writ large in every crease and crevice of her work-worn face. Her shapeless gray dress billowed out when she whipped around like the sail of a warship he’d once seen in a picture book. He watched her eyes closely because sometimes they’d dart about for a hickory stick. His mind raced to seek out the right answer.

So you disobeyed me, Samuel Raphael Garrett?

Samuel mumbled a weak, barely audible No, followed by an unintelligible explanation. Then like a hound spotting a squirrel, he changed direction, raised his bowed head, dancing back over to her, waving the soiled envelope. He considered it his flag of truce. B-but I brunged you a lettah. He waved it around some to make sure Mother saw it. See!

"You brought me a letter," she corrected.

Yeah, he replied. I broughted it f’um Billy’s.

Her face unchanged, inside she was busting a gut. Who from, boy?

Sensing her softening, Samuel jabbered on. Dunno. Don’t say. Pastah picked it up inna town. Dropt it off at Billy’s. Tol ’em to see it got to us. Could be f’um Gabe? Might be? Could be?

Mother finally smiled but blinked away an unborn tear.

F’um Gabe. Could be f’um Gabe. Open it, Mother. Open it. Read it on out.

Mother placed a firm hand on his shoulder to still his wriggling. Be still! she ordered. The birds fluttered but did not take flight. Samuel stopped bouncing but continued to waggle the envelope. She accepted it reverently. A letter. Glory be. A letter was a rare and precious thing. She knelt right there on the floorboards midst the drifting feathers, straw, and bird droppings.

Could be, she said gently, then smiled.

Relieved, he smiled too. Together they opened the letter and unfolded the papers inside. Mother gathered in her young son and read the letter aloud.

Dear Mother,

I hope this finds you, my brothers, sister and Notnot in good health and good spirets. Is Geof providing meat for the table like I told him? Is Able keeping up with chores? Is Sam up to his ears in mischiff? Did Sam pay you back what he owed you? Are Becca and Sharp (he ain’t no good) any closer to hitchin’?

I hope the dear Lords been good to you in my absince. How come the melons? How tall is the corn? Did Mable have her pups? Is Notnot sayin’ much these days?

Now you know I’d write this myself, but I had me an altercashun with a mule and my writing arm is lamed up. I am having Chance scribble this fer me. Chance sends his greetings to Rebecca and asks permission that he might write to her if it be all right with you. He sincerely hopes that it is. Chance is a real fine fellow and he wants you to know what a fine fellow he is. Think kindly on him. He don’t think too kindly of Sharp and says you should keep an eye out on him. He told me to tell you you’d be better off settin’ your eye on Chance than Sharp, Blake even, but Chance if he had his druthers. Sure would.

Well we traveled West and North clean to the Mississippi and Saint Loois City. Everywhere we go, fokesr buzzing like angry hornets. Question on slavery got em all riled. Every so often some stranger asks us if we sound on the goose. Didn’t know what that was. Now we do. They was askin if we was for or agin ownin slaves. Mother, we played it smart and tole them we was for whatever they was for.

Long the way you ain’t never seen so much villages and towns. We passed through big Kanetucky cities the likes of Lexington and Looeyville and itty bitty ones the likes of Mount Vernon in Illinoy, not the one down Virginia way. Guess these boys hear couldn’t think of a name on their own. That Lincon feller you heerd so much about? Seems hes a lawyer and he did some law thereabouts. Seen alla that afore we come to Saint Loois.

And Mother, these big cities, every one of em had moren three mills and might be a dozen Genral stores or more. Saint Loois is the biggest one a all. Big and busy and smelly and noisy. I gess it must be like Valentine used to say bout Philidelfia. Stink so thick you could cut it with a nife. And the boats. Swarms a riverboats we seen. Done took my breath away.

Much of the land we seen up to here was bumpy hilly not high as back home in Appalacha but dreadful high enough when you climbing up em in the pouring rain. Fokes in Mount Vernon say up in central Illinoy land is flat as a lily pad far as the eye can see. You imagine that? And just like we heerd it was the country is covered in a blanket of trees here to kingdom come. But Mother everywhere we been, fokesr fast logging to uncover it.

Chance say his fingers hurt (they does) so this is goodby. Tell Sam, TJ is getting on just fine. Helped tree us a coon just last night. We figure to strike out for Larence Kansas tomorrow. Figure to be threw Missery into Kansas in two weeks time. Tonight we have a long rest up. By the time you read this me and Chance will have staked us a claim as bonyfide landowners. My love to all, Mother. You tell Geof to keep meat on the table or I will whup him (We all know that aint gonna happen).

Your son, Gabe

Mother! Becca’s shout shattered her reverie.

Samuel leaped up and shot through the door. The birds clucked and stirred but otherwise cheered his absence. Through the open door, Mother heard her son relaying his version of the news. Becca! Becca! Got us a lettah f’um Gabe! Come by way of the parson. He done…

Seventeen-year-old Becca took after Mother in a big way. She stood at a similar height and displayed a strong will, long, ruddy blond hair, the eyes of a drill sergeant, and the skin of a newborn fawn. She attempted edgewise words. Where is he?

As usual, Samuel heard her but rambled on. He done tol’ me to bring it on home. He been to a hunnert cities. He done seen Lincum. He choked on smoke. He had him a ride on a steamboat, an’ Chance say he likes you, an’ you shouldn’t like Sharp.

Mother emerged from the henhouse, missive in hand, just as Becca’s hands flew to her hips. Striking her best stern Mother pose, she berated her brother. Well, he ain’t got no say in it, does he? She noticed Mother approaching, and her grimace turned to a grin. Got a posting, Mother?

I toldja already, Samuel snapped. Ain’t you listened?

Quiet, Becca snapped.

Samuel screwed up his face, angry as spit. I will not.

Samuel Raphael, Mother intervened. Yes, you will!

Samuel’s face went slack. Got chores to do. He spun about and raced to the cabin.

Becca gestured to the missive in Mother’s hand. That it?

Mother handed it over. From Gabe, sure enough.

She accepted it. He healthy?

Mother closed her eyes. Valentine keeps an eye on him. She then opened them. Washing done?

Devouring Chance’s scribbles, Becca waved her off. She snorted once, and Mother knew it was a response to the references about her.

Ain’t none of his business who I see an’ who I don’t see. He ain’t my papa, and Chance ain’t family.

He ain’t, but he might as well be, Mother reminded her. "’Sides, Blake’s off to the capital, and I hear he’s