Luther's War: A Different Civil War Story

By Hughlett L. Morris

Sent to live with an aunt and uncle at four, Luther was a farm boy with little schooling and not much future. He joined the Confederate Army in 1861 at 15, and left the War in 1864 at 18. Now an old man, he tells his stories about those years.

Although he rode with the cavalry under the notorious Nathan Bedford Forrest and the daring John Stanley Morgan in their raids in Tennessee and Kentucky, he was never an eager shootin and fightin soldier. He found his place in helping with the sick, the wounded, and the dead. The reality of the War brings him to question its rightful purpose and whether he can in good faith continue to fight for the South and all that it stands for.

When his little red mare was shot from under him, he was forced to join the army of foot soldiers on the arduous march to Richmond. He was then taken mortally sick with the fevers, several hundred miles from home. He decided to quit the War, vowing that ifn Im goin to die, itll be on my way home.

He continues his stories about his journey home to Stewart County in Luthers Women (Xlibris, Philadelphia, 2005).

Dr. Morris is Professor Emeritus, the University of Iowa. His previous published works are professional and scientific. This is his first work of fiction. He is a native of Stewart County, Tennessee, and lives now in Tucson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 2, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469100388

Hughlett L. Morris

Dr. Morris is Professor Emeritus, the University of lowa. His previous published works are professional and scientific. This is his first work of fiction. He is a native of Stewart county, Tennessee, and lives now in Tucson.

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Copyright © 2005 by Hughlett L. Morris.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or

dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

From the Author

1850-1861: Polly Wolly Doodle

1850-1861: Ed

1846-1861: Harriet

Fall 1861: Nadine

Winter 1861: The Clarksville Pike

January 1862: Fort Donelson

1862-1863: Riding with the Cavalry

Spring 1863: Dulciemay

1864: Foot Soldier

Dedication

To my late mother, Mary Lucy Morris Loftis, who was a great story teller.

To my late aunt, Lillian Mathis Francis, who was a guiding force in my young life.

To my late grandfather, Martin Luther Morris, who kept talking to me and would not let me rest until I wrote his stories.

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From the Author

The Luther stories represent a continuation of my personal

and professional interest in people and how they make it through life. The main character is an old man, remembering the events of his life during boyhood and young manhood. The events reflect his physical and emotional development in his coming of age. His approach to sexual maturity is part of that development.

He tells his stories to an unseen listener. They are in the first person narrative: he tells only what he did and observed.

The settings are rural communities in Tennessee and North Carolina. The time is the middle of the 19th century, 1846-1867. The people of the communities are farmers. They are hardworking folks. They live on what they grow in the summer and try to preserve for the winter. There’s not much money, less after the War than before. What money there is goes for salt and coffee and boots and oil for the lamps. They are mostly Scotch Irish in heritage and Protestant in religious practice.

Luther tells of two major events during this period of his life. One is the Civil War (Luther’s War). The other is the journey back home in Stewart County after he leaves the War (Luther’s Women).

Luther’s War is not a historical account of the Civil War, detailing battles won and lost. He is a Confederate soldier, telling experiences in the War as he lived them. His perspective is that of a dog soldier, dealing always with the weather, hunger, loneliness, ignorance, sickness, fear, and death. And above all, he is dealing with the question of what the War is about and what it means to him to be fighting for the South. But he somehow manages to survive.

Luther’s Women is about his journey home after he decides to quit the War. The journey is several hundred miles and two years in the making. It takes him from the battlefield at Petersburg, Virginia, to northwest North Carolina, over the Smoky Mountains into Tennessee, and across Tennessee to Stewart County.

In both books, he tells of the people that are important to him. Some are men: his Uncle Gray, his cousin Ed, and his fellow soldiers Charlie, Joe Dale, and Billy Jones. But mainly, he tells about the women. Some are mother figures: his mother Harriet, his Aunt Polly, Miz Taylor, Miz Collins, and Miz Tinsley. Others are women his age whom he loves: Nadine, Betty Lou Wood, Maybelle, Josie, Julia, and Narcissa. Some return his passion and his love, but with conditions of their love that he cannot meet. What he learns from all of them about the relationship between a man and a woman leads him on the way to adulthood and manhood.

Martin Luther Morris was my grandfather. My mother was a daughter born to him in later life (age 65). He and I lived several decades apart. There are many connections between his life and mine. I was a boy in the community where he lived and died. Both of us lived in close proximity to Fort Donelson, one of the early major battles of the War. There is oral family history about him. There is also an essay written about him by my older aunt, his stepdaughter, apparently at his dictation. An excerpt of that essay appears below. There is also furniture passed down from him to me.

Most important is a formal photograph of him that I have known all my life (it appears on the cover of both books). As an adult, I have often looked at the photograph and wondered about the stories he might have to tell. Finally, I wrote them. They are in part fact and in part what I imagined about that period of his life.

In writing these stories, I have attempted several themes. I wanted to describe what life must have been for the people in the rural mid South at that time. I wanted to describe him as a boy and young man dealing with his sexuality. I wanted to portray the effects of the War on him, his family, and the people he knew. I wanted to touch upon the mysterious and human aspects of the relationships between the white folks and the colored folks during that time. And I wanted to highlight the lives of women during that time and the limited choices they had in making a life for themselves. It was some of these women that Luther knew, and loved, and told about, that defined his life as a man. I have strong feelings about that message, for I was raised by a family of women, and I have known and loved woman all my life. If I am a man, it is their doing.

These two books are a marked departure from my previous writings of scholarly and technical material about some aspects of speech pathology. They are my first attempts at fiction. I have enjoyed writing them enormously and I hope they bring pleasure to the reader.

Several acknowledgements are in order.

The map of Tennessee is taken from Civil War Tennessee, by Thomas L. Connelly, 1979 (p. 22). His citation is: "A contemporary sketch of the war theater in Tennessee. From Harper’s Weekly."

My thanks to cousin Deanna Nedra Oklepek for her important assistance in matters of Luther’s family history. She is a great grand daughter of Luther and Narcissa. Her grandmother was Myrtle Elvira Morris Page, their oldest child.

My thanks also to Evelyn Lee, for her technical advice and for her encouragement, professional and personal.

My daughter Amy Morris has been a primary guiding influence and contributor during the writing, editing, and design of the Luther books. I thank her with great gratitude and love.

Lastly, my thanks to my good and faithful iMac computer, Tommyrot, without whom I could never have done this!

Hughlett Lewis Morris

Tucson, Arizona

November 7, 2004

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1850-1861: Polly Wolly Doodle

It was in 1850 that our daddy died. I was four years old and

my brother Sam was two. I don’t recollect anything about it. My first remembrance is living in the house with Uncle Gray and Aunt Polly. Sam was there, too. Although it is murky in my mind as to how, little by little I come to know that our daddy had died and our mother had gone away and that was why we lived with Uncle Gray and Aunt Polly. Uncle Gray was our daddy’s brother. Aunt Polly was his wife. We lived with them ’til we went away to the War.

It warn’t ’til I was maybe eight years old that I found out any more. I don’t recollect how. Uncle Gray said oncet that I kept askin’ questions and him and Aunt Polly tried to answer them as best they could. I knowed by then that every oncet in a while, maybe oncet a year, this woman would come to our house. She’d stay a while and talk and then she’d leave. One time she brung us some teacakes. I don’t recollect what was talked about but she’d want us to set in her lap. Sam would do it, but I didn’t want to. One time after she left, I asked Uncle Gray who she was, and he said she was our mother. I recollect I said no, she warn’t our mother. Aunt Polly was our mother. I guess he let it go at that for the time. But some time after, him and Aunt Polly told us how things stood. I recollect that time. He called us together to set in front of the fireplace and told us the story of how we had come to live at their house. The story was that our daddy had died of sickness when we was little boys. Our mother couldn’t take care of us so she brung us to their house to live. They was real happy to have us, since they didn’t have any boys. What the story right then didn’t say was that our mother had married again and had moved away and left us here. All they said then was that the woman that come to our house sometimes was our mother.

Looking back, at that time that was a common thing to happen. A family couldn’t take care of their children, other people could, so the children was moved. For sure that happened a lot when a man died. Most country people farmed and a woman couldn’t do the farming by herself, unless the widder’s children was old enough to help out. Most likely she married again and as soon as possible. She did it for her own good and the good of her children. Same way a widder man left alone needed a woman to keep house so he could spend his time working the farm. If he was left with children, he’d need a woman to take care of them. If both the widder and the widder man had children, chances are when they married, they made one family, if’n the farm raised enough to feed everybody. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn’t. If it didn’t, maybe some of the children were sent to kinfolk to live.

There was bound to be children done wrong by their mama’s husband or, for that matter, their daddy’s wife. Anybody might be apt to treat their own children better than the other ones. A boy or girl could be done wrong by whipping for not minding and not doing their chores or back talk. They could be done wrong too by just made to feel like nobody wanted them around, eating too much, wanting things they couldn’t have. I knowed of families back then having that kind of trouble. There was one of the Smith families over in Kentucky. People said Mr. Smith was just naturally mean to his wife and his children. He whipped the children, even the little ones, with a cane switch. They’d come to the Mill black and blue. Nobody never saw her. I guess she was scared to leave the place. The word was that the boys left home as soon as they could. The oldest girl hired out to take of a sick woman and never went home again. One day, when I was maybe 14, somebody at the Mill asked if’n anybody had seen him. Nobody had. Somebody went out to the place in a week or two to see about her, and she was gone too. A old hound dog and a few chickens was all that was left and there was what looked like a fresh grave in back of the house. People wondered but no one did anything about it.

Uncle Gray was always good to Aunt Polly and us boys but he had a bad temper. I seen it mostly with the mules. Mules can be ornery. Sometimes they don’t want to do what you want to do. Old Dick was a big mule, bigger’n most, and he could be so ornery you couldn’t hardly stand it. Uncle Gray would get real mad at him and whip him until he was wore out. Old Dick wouldn’t move, even if’n he was in the middle of a corn field. It didn’t make no difference. It didn’t happen much. After it did, he wouldn’t say anything about it, but I could tell he felt sorry, getting all het up like that over a dumbass mule. But he never laid a finger on any one of us. Fact is, he was always real good to Sam and me, like I guess a daddy ought to be. He was allus takin’ time to tell us things but never pushed it on us. He learned me how to hitch up a team to a wagon or a mule to a buggy when I wasn’t hardly tall enough to reach. Old Dick never give me much trouble that way. Tom did. He wouldn’t hold still. But I learned to get the job done. Along the way Uncle Gray must of showed me a lot about farming. When I started to hire out, the men I helped was allus glad I knowed how to do things. Even if’n I was so young.

Sometimes he would tell Sam and me stories about him and our Daddy. When they was boys. How they went to the woods. Dogs they had. Mules they had. What the old farm place was like. Seemed like he didn’t know much about our Daddy when they growed to be men. At least he didn’t talk about that much. I don’t know if’n they had a falling out. He never said. But I think maybe he had a falling out with his mama about something. We’d go over there sometime but not much. She’d give us teacakes or a fried apple pie. But she never set down to talk to us much. Seemed like she didn’t know what to say. Like our mama that way. I didn’t mind, so long as we didn’t stay long. I don’t remember Granddaddy Morris. I guess he died afore that. There was two colored people that lived with Grandmama Morris. They was Cele and Tom. Looking back, I don’t know how the work on her farm got done. Old Tom the colored man was too old to do much. Maybe there was families around that share cropped for her. Funny I don’t know any more about that.

Even if’n Uncle Gray had a quick temper, I figure he was a good man. He never went to church much except when Aunt Polly made him go. I don’t know if’n he was ever baptized into the church. I bet he warn’t. But he believed in certain things and I guess I believe much same as him. Their farm was good size for one man to farm. He said he never wanted any more land. He allus said he couldn’t farm it anyway, since it’d be too much for one man. I think maybe he had bought the farm from Aunt Polly’s family, but I don’t rightly know how he paid for it. He must of got money from selling some cattle or mules. Or maybe when his little tobaccer crop sold. There warn’t much else cash crop back then. He worked sun up to sun down, six days a week, but he spent Sundays around the house. On Sundays and in the winter time, he tended to the stock, mended harness, sharpenin’ his tools, and cleaning up around the place. That’s when I was around him a lot, after I got big enough to help out. Even when I got older, I didn’t hire out much in the winter. But winter or summer he was allus up and out early. At breakfast, Sam would start to ask a question. What you going to do today?

He’d tell him some things. Keep on plowing that far field if it ain’t too wet. Round up all the calves and see which ones to sell. Too cold to do much. Maybe work around the barn. You goin’ to school today? That was just something to say. He knowed aforehand if’n Sam was.

I didn’t go to school. I guess they could pay the price for just Sam. He’d look at me. Want to help with the calves?

Yessir, I shore do. I loved to work around the cattle and the mules.

He never had a horse while I lived there. He allus said mules was better as a team. I figured he’d like to have one, seeing how he acted around a good looking horse when he saw one over at the Mill, but he never did at that time. Oncet a year he would take a jenny jackass to a farm to see if she would breed with a horse. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Old Dick and Tom was no good for that.

He was a right fair cook, I guess. After Aunt Polly died he did the cooking with any help Sam and I could give. Both of us knowed how to soak and cook the dried beans. And we could stew white taters and and bake sweet taters. I could cook side meat. I did that more’n Sam. Uncle Gray was afraid he’d spatter grease on him. The cook stove was on blocks so it was a little high for him to reach. That’s much of what we had to eat. That and things from the garden, like corn and beans and maters and squash, when they was in season. We allus had some kind of meat, like smoked meat and sausage from the smokehouse. Sometimes somebody would bring some rabbits or squirrels they had killed and didn’t need. Uncle Gray was never a big one to hunt. He had a gun, though, and learned me and Sam how to load, aim it and fire. That come in hardy when I joined the army. I never liked to do it much. Sam liked guns more’n I did.

Uncle Gray was not a big man. But he looked strong and he was strong. When he washed hisself in the kitchen in the winter or when we went to the creek in the summer, I could see that he had big arms and legs. After Aunt Polly died he never was shy being nekkid around the house if it suited him. So Sam and me felt the same way. Seemed like it bothered some of the boys to be nekkid when we all went to the creek. But it never bothered me. Thinking back, he was a clean man. Maybe Aunt Polly made him be when she was living. But he tried to wash hisself regular and tried to keep on clean clothes. Keepin’ clean is hard to do farming in the dirt and the barn yard full of cow pies but he tried. Made us do the same. After I went to the War, it bothered me that I was filthy dirty all the time. It seemed like I couldn’t never get clean.

None of us had many clothes. Afore Aunt Polly died she sewed a lot. She made our shirts and pants and drawers. Sam and me had to wear drawers always except in the hot weather. Then we wore pants with some kind of s’penders to hold ’em up, and nothing else. Maybe even Uncle Gray went that way too. She made cold weather coats for us, too. She never spun the cloth herself but got it from the store at the Mill. Sometimes Grandmama Barrow would send winter coats with Ed, when he come. She was Aunt Polly’s mama. Ed was Aunt Polly’s brother. They lived in Clarksville where they had a store. Keeping warm in the winter was hard, especially if you was outside and not working. Shoes was always a problem. A man down at the Mill made some but they hurt your feet ’til you got used to them. And his sewing come undone quick. So mainly they had to be bought. Every fall Ed brought shoes from Clarksville for us. Sam got my old ones if they warn’t worn out. Uncle Gray tried to get boots so they would wear a long time.

It seemed like we was always getting’ in wood. Always. We was never done. It seemed like something had to done at the wood pile every live long day. Uncle Gray was good with the ax. Aunt Polly was too. She could split a block of wood with one swing, if’n it was the right kind of wood. A hard wood, like red oak, was harder to split. Gen’lly, Uncle Gray and another man or two would take to the woods to fell the trees in the fall or winter, when the sap was down. They’d use axes or a two man saw, one on each end. They could make the tree fall the way they wanted to most of the time. But they always worried somebody would get in the way, and get hurt. Maybe they’d fell 20, 25 trees in a day’s time. Then they’d trim ’em up if there was time afore dark. Next day or two, they’d go back with the team. And hitch ’em to the logs and drag them out of the woods, down to the road into the wood lot. Then they’d chop or saw the logs up into blocks whenever there was time, maybe on a drizzly day when they couldn’t do anything else, or after the days work was done. Then they had to split the block. That took a real knack and I couldn’t do it much until I got bigger. Aunt Polly would come out and watch me try. She’d laugh and tell me I warn’t man enough to do. But then she’d take the ax and show me how to hit it at the grain, with a sideways twist—just a little—to make it split. Boy, was she good at that. She loved to do it too. She said it made her feel good to see that wood split.

Me and Sam’s job was to tote the wood in to the house. Her and Uncle Gray did that too. The back logs for the fireplace in the front room had to be big and heavy. Sometimes even he had trouble with them. It was hard work. Still is. There’s a old sayin’, getting wood makes you warm twice, oncet when you’re burnin’ it and oncet when you’re gettin’ it. There was only two warm places in a house, then and now. There was the kitchen, warmed by the cook stove, and standing right in front of the fireplace in the front room. It takes a good fireplace, well built, to throw out enough heat to warm that room and give a little to the next one. I’ve lived my life that way. I hear tell that in the cities, they have put another cook stove, kind of in the front room. That’s a right good idea. I wonder why we never thought of that.

Like I say, Aunt Polly was mighty good to Sam and me. She couldn’t of been better if’n she was our real mother. She allus seemed more at ease with us than our real mother did. I guess that’s natural, under the situation we was all in. She was always giving us a hug, even me, nearly 12, when she took sick. She was allus worrying if’n we had enough to eat and enough clothes. We allus had enough to eat, such as it was. There was white beans, stewed taters, cornbread, butter, side meat, sweet milk, buttermilk, ‘lasses, syrup, jelly, preserves, fried pies, applesauce cake. Sometimes we had egg custard pie. And there was sweet taters, baked or boiled, with butter in ’em. Sometimes rabbit or squirrel, somebody brought to the house. Uncle Gray had a gun, a muzzle loader, but I never knowed him to use it. There was fresh meat in the fall, at hog killin’ time. That winter, there’d be cured meat, smoked or brined, from the smoke house. At Christmas time or special time, we had ham from the smoke house. And there was chicken oncet, twicet a month, on Sunday, gen’lly. She could fry chicken so good. Anyway, having enough to eat was not a problem. None of us got fat, but we got along fine. Come to think of it, we still have the same kind of eating except now women can put vittles in a can more than they used to, vegetables and fruit.

She made most of our clothes. A woman at the Mill had a sewing machine she let other women use. They held together better, I guess. Ed brung us all some clothes from the store where he worked, when he come, especially coats and shoes. We all was careful to thank him. I think he liked to do that for the family, bein’ that he had no family of his own.

It was plain that Aunt Polly and Uncle Gray thought a lot of each other. They was allus smilin’ at each other, telling little stories to each other. One of ’em would reach out and touch the other one. It made you feel good just to see it. And lots of nights there was commotion in their bed in the front room. Next morning they’d be a lot smiley to each other. I come to figure that was what love was and I always tried to be that way with my wives. Looking back, Narcissa was a lot like Aunt Polly. I don’t think I noticed that first but I did later on.

Like I said, she died when I was 12 and Sam was 10. It was in October. She died sudden like. Nobody had any warning, at least me and Sam didn’t. When I was older and thought back, I recollect that she sometimes had what she called a achey head, but that was all she said about it. She never said she had dizzy spells or anything like that. I recollect the day afore she died. I had hired out that day. Sam had gone to school. Uncle Gray was working in the barn. Sam was home afore I got there. He met me at the door. Aunt Polly’s layin’ down.

She feel bad?

I guess so. Mighty bad.

Does Uncle Gray know?

I went and told him. He said he’d be at the house as soon as he could.

I went in the front room to see her and to see what she might want. It’s me, Luther.

Bless your heart, honey. Are you tired from working all day? She lay on top of the covers, propped up with both pillows. She smiled at me, and reached out to hold my hand. I sat on the side of her bed. Sam come in, sat next to me. She held both of our hands at the same time.

Can I take off your shoes?

Yes, that’d be good. He got one off, and struggled with the tie of the other one. Her and him laughed as he tried to get it loose. Luther, would you and Sam go get me a cold wash rag to put on my head? Sam said he’d get the rag. I got the wash pan, put a dipper or two of water in it. Sam got the rag good and wet, wrung it out. It was still drippy but I guessed that didn’t matter.

When we got back to the front room, Uncle Gray was there, sitting on the bed, holding both her hands in his big ones. Does it hurt bad, sweetheart?

She opened her eyes. No smile, she just nodded. Right bad.

Can I get you some more medicine?

I guess not. She closed her eyes agin. I took twice the amount as it is. Everybody was quiet. He was watching her. The wet rag was on her forehead. She moved it down to cover her eyes. I guess you folks will have to get your own supper. There’s white beans and cornbread in the warmer. And fried apple pies in the safe.

We’ll manage. Now, Luther. you and Sam go fill up the wood box. I’ll set her with her a little longer.

We did that, then we come back in the front room. She was resting, seem like, with her eyes closed. He hadn’t moved. He was still on the bed by her, holding her hands with his big ones. I whispered to him. I’ll go feed. You stay here with her. He nodded. It took us some time to do everything. When we got done, and back to the house, it was near dark. I’ll start a fire and light a lamp?

Uncle Gray nodded. So I lit the lamp first, and put it on the table. Sam put out the plates and the knives and forks and the things to eat. I stirred up the fire. There was still some coals from morning. I got a good blaze goin’. I’ll sit with her. You go eat with Sam.

She stirred, opened her eyes, and moved her hands still in his to her bosom. Do that Gray. I’ll be all right. She smiled up at us. You boys do me a favor. Sing me a little Polly Wolly Doodle. Would you do that for me? That was a song she’d allus sung for us at special times.

I can still hear us boys tryin’ to sing. Our voices was quavery, as we set on the bed by her. Oh I come down south, for to see my gal, sing Polly Wolly Doodle all day. My gal she is a sassy gal, sing Polly Wolly Doodle all day. Fare thee well, fare thee well, fare thee well, my fairey gal, for I come to Loosiana, just to see my Susyanna, sing Polly wooly Doodle all day. By that time, Sam was cryin’ and I was tryin’ hard not to. She looked like she was asleep. I heard Uncle Gray on the back porch washing his hands. I wondered if there was enough water. In the hurry of everythin’. I had forgot to go get it from the spring. Does your head still hurt bad?

No, seems like it’s eased some. But I can’t get my breath good. Hand me those pillows from Sam’s bed. I noticed right away that seemed like she warn’t talking right. It was kind of like she had something in her mouth. She sounded funny, not like her. I got the pillows, and she raised up, or tried to. I got one of ’em behind her neck and shoulders, but she fell back afore I could get the other one fixed. That’s good. Luther, you and Sam are good boys. Always have been. I thankee for singin’ the song. She smiled that sweet smile of hers. I’ll never forget how she looked, layin’ there. Uncle Gray and Sam come in. They set on the bed by her, one on each side. She took one of Sam’s hands and Uncle Gray took her hand. I think I can sleep now. Luther, you go eat.

I put another good stick on the fire, and left them there like that. I recollect it was a purty picture in the firelight if I hadn’t knowed she was sick. And I thought then this warn’t no common head achey that she had sometimes. Her talking funny made my innards turn over. Everything was quiet then. She went to sleep, I guess. I et some supper. Sam and me cleared the table, washed the dishes, put ’em away. We went out back to piss. She gonna be all right?

I don’t know, Sam.

She’s talking funny.

You heard that?

Yeah.

Did Uncle Gray?

I reckon so.

He mention it?

Not that I heard. There was a part moon and some stars and some clouds. I heard a mule whinny. And a dog bark faint. It must of been up on the ridge.

We went back in the front room. As best I could see by the fire light, Uncle Gray had helped her off with her dress, I guess. She had on her night gown and was under the covers, still propped with all the pillows. He was half settin’ half layin’ by her, holdin’ her hands. They looked real purty in the light of the fire. It was real hard for us to leave her and him, but I knowed we should. So I put some more wood on the fire, and we went to bed. Mostly Sam slept in the other bed in the front room with them. But tonight without saying anything about it, he come with me to my bed in the other room. Luther, I don’t feel good.

I know. Let’s try to get to sleep. That’s the thing to do.

A rooster crowing got me awake. I got up, put on my pants and shoes, and went outside to piss. Then I went into the front room. The fire had burned out but it was getting daylight. They hadn’t moved since we went to bed. Both of ’em looked asleep. It looked real peaceful. But I seen that her eyes were half open. I thought maybe she was half awake. I reached out to touch her arm. It felt cold, and I had a bad feeling. Uncle Gray.

Huh? He stirred. He looked over at her and touched her arm, and whispered. Polly? Oh Polly, wake up! Oh Polly, sweetheart, wake up!

Uncle Gray?

He looked at me, and back at her, and back at me, and back at her. And he reached over and closed her eyes with his hand. And he moaned, a God awful moan. Luther, she’s gone. I nodded. I couldn’t say anything. Go get Sam up. Tell him. Go saddle Old Dick and you and him ride over, tell Miz Taylor what’s happened. Ask her to come.

Leave you here alone?

I want to be alone with her just now.I did what he said. Sam had come into the room and heard it all. He kissed Aunt Polly on the cheek, then the same to Uncle Gray. His lips were trembling and his eyes was wet. He was trying hard not to cry. And he didn’t, ’til we got to the barn. Then while I was catching and putting the harness on Old Dick he sat down by the fence and like to cried his eyes out. I myself was trying so hard to do what we had to do and to keep from crying. I didn’t put on a saddle. I helped Sam up on Old Dick and got Dick by the wood pile so I could get on behind him. We went to the Taylors.

It warn’t far to go, maybe three mile. The sun was up a fair piece by the time we got there. Sam held the reins, and I got off. Miz Taylor come to the door. In looks and manner she warn’t much like Aunt Polly. But she was always kindly to Sam and me. Good morning boys. You out pretty early. Everything all right at the house?

No, mam. And I felt myself startin’ in to cry, and I rubbed my eyes and my face to try to stop. Aunt Polly. She died. Uncle Gray sent us to see if you could come.

Oh my. I didn’t know she was ailin’! ’Course I can come. You boys go harness a mule. I don’t care which one. Saddle up, too. I’ll ride. That was surprisin’, and not, that she would ride a mule to our house. Not many girls or women did that then. No woman then wore pants so they had to have a big skirt to bundle the legs around the saddle. It warn’t so surprising that Miz Taylor would do it. Lots of ways she was as good as a man. Tall, thin, kept her hair tight high on her head. Lemme go