I Pray the Lord My Soul to Keep: A Tale of the Civil War

By Kenneth Tucker

Who was Jerry Manning? The son of a mad woman? The off spring of wandering vagrants? Or the supposedly murdered son of a wealthy planter and military leader? Would he somehow find the answer upon the battlefields of the War Between the States? And what price would he be willing to pay to learn the secret of his identity? A novel of divided loyalties, dangerous love, violent hatred and a disintegrating society, based upon John Fords Jacobean play Perkin Warbeck.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781449076542

Book preview

I Pray the Lord My Soul to Keep

A Tale of the Civil War

Kenneth Tucker

Based upon John Ford’s Jacobean Play

Perkin Warbeck (c. 1629-34)

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

© 2010 Kenneth Tucker. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 2/8/2010

Editor: Roxane Christ

www.1steditor.biz

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Phone: [phone]

The Turtle then in Palm-trees mourns,

While Owls and Satyrs howl;

The pleasant Land to Brimstone turns

And all her streams grow foul.

Brightness and mirth, and love and faith, all fly,

Till the Day-spring breaks forth again from high.

Henry Vaughn, The Bird

Contents

Prologues

1

2

3

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Afterward

Copyright Information:

Prologues

1 

For years they would talk about the card game and its results. Folks on both sides of the Cumberland: the farmers with weather-beaten skins and calloused hands; the farmwives with unadorned faces, suds-reddened fingers and sun-burned foreheads; the store owners who always delighted in new stories to shorten the slow hours of the afternoon; the drummers peddling their wares from town to town, eager for local tales and gossip; the itinerant preachers who always delighted in hometown yarns after they had said grace over the Sunday dinner provided by the family with whom they had spent the night—almost all people in the nearby Kentucky and Tennessee counties eagerly listened to the tale. They listened to and told of the night when a mean trick played by the weather forced two longtime foes to confront each other in the dining room of the hotel in Dover, Tennessee.

Most folks thereabout thought Wilbur Suggens had the best version of the encounter; he would describe step by step what happened, again and again. Clem Houston had a pretty good version, too. But, as time went on and one or the other of them retold the story, the details got a little different, so that after a while no thoughtful person was willing to swear on a Bible as to exactly what had occurred, but there was no secret about the immediate consequence, and folks were sure that the bad blood between John Manningham and Silas Grigsby would never end.

No one had expected a snowfall so late in the year, but the temperature dipped the night of March 16th and on that Saturday morning of the 17th, the snow began to tumble about like chicken feathers in a wind storm. By ten a.m. about two inches had fallen on the Tennessee side of the river; by two in the afternoon, the accumulation was over a foot. The entire surface of the inn yard resembled the top of a wedding cake.

John Manningham arrived first at the Dover Inn, along with his cousin, Billy Bob Hicks. They had traveled south two days earlier to see about buying some cotton land, down in Tennessee, and had been surprised by the storm. They stabled their horses, took a room for the night, which they were to share with Houston and one other traveler, and ambled into the dining room to sit by the fireplace and catch up on local news from anyone who happened to be there.

Silas Grigsby arrived perhaps a half-hour later, in a small carriage driven by a black slave who accompanied him on trips. Rumor had it that he had been returning from a visit to his sister down by Carlisle.

The snow was still falling vigorously. The shoulders and back of Grigsby’s greatcoat were powdered with whiteness. As soon as Grigsby had signed his John Henry in the register, Will Neumann, the clerk, a small rabbit-like man, leaned slightly forward and whispered across the dark-lacquered counter, I ‘spect it’s only fair to tell you. John Manningham showed up a little while ago with a cousin of hisn. They’re a-plannin’ to spend the night here.

That’s no skin off the back of my hand, Grigsby replied, returning the steel-pointed pen to its holder. A man isn’t obliged to speak with another man, simply because they’re spending the night in the same inn.

Neumann nodded, but then Grigsby insisted that no one else shared his room. I must demand my privacy. I cannot tolerate the thought of spending a night with utter strangers. One can’t be certain what disgusting habits they may maintain, what sicknesses they might be carrying, or how many times they’ll pull forth their stupid watches to inquire about the hour.

Will Neumann tried to explain, with his whiney drawl, that as things stood, he could accommodate Grigsby’s request, but other arrangements would need to be made if a lot of other folks wanted refuge from the storm.

Send them to sleep in there! snapped Grigsby, with a curt nod toward the dining room. Or send them back down the road where there’s some farmhouses. I must have my privacy.

Neumann tried to object again, but the other man slipped a bill into the front left pocket of the clerk’s linsey-woolsey shirt. There! I assume the matter’s settled.

Neumann nodded uncomfortably. Grigsby took the key, and his slave carried a hefty suitcase up the creaking steps. A few minutes later the black man descended the stairs to go to the kitchen, where he would be fed and presumably spend the night upon a pallet. Grigsby ambled down the steps, having shed his greatcoat. He was dressed in a dark brown suit with a swallow-tail coat and a gold brocade vest and went almost nonchalantly, perhaps a trifle arrogantly, into the dining room, where he must have assumed his longtime foe would be.

Of course, word had been whispered about the premises that John Manningham and Silas Grigsby could be spending the same night at the Dover hotel. So conversations ceased and eyes turned as the heavy-set man stepped through the doorway.

The room was fairly large, furnished with several square and circular tables. The few guests that had arrived were huddled along an oblong oak dining table about ten paces from the huge limestone fireplace set into the rear wall. Will Suggens said later that only he, Houston, Grigsby, Manningham, and Billy Bob Hicks were in the room that night; that is, until Tim Taylor came in. Years later, Houston swore that Tim’s brother-in-law was there as well as Buck Peters. Most agreed upon the presence of a stranger in a dark suit, who said little and was supposed to be from New York. Anyway, there weren’t many folks present to watch what followed.

Will Suggens said that as soon as Grigsby had paused a few steps beyond the room’s entrance, Major Manningham had said, Well, well, Grigsby, you’re not exactly a sight for sore eyes. He had been lolling backward in a straight wooden chair, balanced upon its rear legs, at the far end of the oak table, with his shoulders against the far wall, sipping from his glass of whiskey.

I assume I’m a sight you’d rather not see. Grigsby lashed his words at the Major.

Manningham shrugged. Doesn’t concern me one way or another whether I see you or not.

You’re not going to cause me any bad dreams whatsoever, replied his enemy.

Will Suggens threw up a red, winter-chapped hand. Hey, fellas, looks like we’re gonna be trapped here for the night, maybe several of ’em. Can’t you two—and maybe all of the rest of us should—put aside the bad-feelings for the rest of the night. Ain’t no call for you rehashing all that legal stuff now.

Right, said Houston. The lawyers’ll take care of all that come June.

Indeed, agreed Grigsby rather stiffly, after a pause, as though he had been searching for a more cutting word but couldn’t think of any that wouldn’t be too provocative, given the circumstances. I have no objection to remaining in this room, provided that none of you mentions what time it is. His voice faltered slightly, as if what he intended to say was difficult, but he forged on. As some of you may know, I have a nervous infirmity…, one that disturbs me greatly at times. I prefer never to know the hour.

Billy Bob Hicks released a cackling chuckle. Discomfort flashed on several faces. They had all heard of Grigsby’s nervous problems, but no one understood them. John Manningham smiled almost contemptuously. I pledge on my honor, not to even look at my watch. None of us will even mention the time. He chortled.

Momentarily, Grigsby’s black eyes glared at his longtime foe, but he took a chair at a circular table to the right of the fireplace, carefully stepping so that he could avoid looking at the clock upon its mantel.

Will Houston later said he got a mite bit uncomfortable, suspecting the two were on the verge of a shouting match—and maybe even worse.

In them days both John Manningham and Silas Grigsby were a good deal younger and more brimming with spitfire than they became later. Manningham hadn’t a trace of fat about his belly, and his leg of lamb whiskers were as reddish as a fox’s fur. Silas Grigsby was not as thin as he had been in his younger days, but at that time he wasn’t carrying around that mound of fat that hid his belt buckle. Houston thought they could easily get into a fist fight. Echoing Will Suggens’ sentiments, he said, Ain’t no call why we all can’t be neighborly, just for this here evenin’, and all try to have a good time if we can.

Several of the men nodded, so Billy Bob Hicks and Will Suggens started a random conversation; others joined in, even Grigsby did so when the topic turned to the high price of shipments of molasses up from New Orleans. After a while Will Suggens suggested that Grigsby ought to join the rest of ’em at the long table. No sense in him sitting over there all to his lonesome and trying to keep up the jawin’.

Don’t mind if I do, said Grigsby, and joined the others, careful as he stepped not to glance absentmindedly over his shoulder at the mantel. He took a chair on the far right side of the clapboard tabletop from Manningham, who still sat at the head of the table.

Well, I’m all for merriment, said the latter. Here, I’ll buy us all another jug of old red-eye whiskey.

So the whiskey was brought. Each man poured some in a tumbler. For a while, Grigsby talked with Houston, who sat opposite him, and Manningham with Billy Bob Hicks and Will Suggens. As the evening drew on, they all rather drifted into a single conversation, even the fellow from New York, whom Manningham, with a sweep of his arm, had invited to join them. Good spirits seemed as contagious as winter colds. Once or twice even Grigsby became red-faced with laughter and gave the New Yorker a friendly slap upon the shoulder.

Will Suggens was glad. Maybe it was too much to hope for, but maybe, getting to enjoy each other’s company, Grigsby and Manningham would let the bygones go, settle up their differences, and be friends. Life was too darn short for grudge-holding. Perhaps nobody at the table knew how the feud between Grigsby and Manningham had begun, not even Grigsby and Manningham.

Some folks said it went way back to when both of them were in their teens and got in a fight over a girl they both wanted to court. Others said the friendship broke up over a loan not being repaid, although who did the loaning and who did the borrowing depended on who was telling the story. There had been a ruckus raised over several stray pigs that each had claimed, and when Manningham had run for state senator, Grigsby had bad-mouthed his enemy over the county, probably helping him to lose. But the big dog bone of contention was the lawsuit over five acres of timber land between Grigsby’s and Manningham’s properties. Grigsby had inherited the farm from an uncle and had no doubt that the land was his, but Manningham had had the land resurveyed and claimed that not only the spread of timber but indeed half the house that Grigsby lived in belonged to him. Hence, the lawsuit that loomed ahead.

Perhaps they would decide to let the bygones go and let the black blood drip out of their systems. At least that’s what Will Suggens was thinking for a while, but then the more he recalled the feud over the property, the more he felt that the black blood would never drip away.

His third two-fingers of whiskey made him a little droopy-minded, so he got to daydreaming about his new shotgun and didn’t pay much attention to the conversation. But suddenly he became aware that Manningham had made a snide remark about Grigsby’s nervous infirmity.

Within a lightning flash, Grigsby’s eyes became knobs of slate and remained so for several ticks. Momentarily, the conversation stopped. But Grigsby allowed a smile to ooze upon his lips.

Sometime later, somebody brought out some cards, and they began hands of poker. Several had left for their rooms, and Manningham, Grigsby, Houston, and Suggens had moved to the circular table nearer the fire, the one that Grigsby had sat at earlier. The man from New York sat nearby as a spectator. At first the stakes were small. Neither Suggens nor Houston cared to wager the next month’s pantry and feed money. Then Grigsby raised the stakes to sixty dollars, and Suggens and Houston threw in their cards. Manningham called for the show, and with a sly grin, his old foe threw down three kings and swept the winnings to his side of the table.

I’ll be damned, said Manningham, and sniggered. Even though his face had reddened, Houston swore later that he didn’t think John was riled up. The two had then played another hand or two, again raising the stakes beyond what their fellows dared to risk, so the game essentially became a contest between Manningham and Grigsby, with Will Suggens continuing as dealer. Perhaps the dare occurred two hands after Grigsby’s first win, but Houston claimed it was the very next hand when, after discarding two cards, Grigsby took a slow draw on his stogy like a man considering closing a bank deal. He smiled almost coyly. John, I reckon you still consider yourself a man of courage and strength.

I’m a man of strength enough to whip your tail any time I like.

Grigsby laughed, just as a body might imagine a snake would snigger if he had a sure fire way of luring a mouse in reach of his fangs. Now I got a damn good hand, not a damned great hand, but a damned good one. Maybe it is a great one. I swear you won’t be able to beat it. Not even with another draw.

Perhaps Manningham’s wilted grin telegraphed uneasiness. So you got a hand that damned good, eh?

I got a hand that damned good!

Again Manningham smiled with discomfort, ran a fingernail back and forth across his lower lip once or twice. Already the pot was a hundred dollars. There’s nothing I can do, then?

Nothing you can do.

Again Manningham ran a fingernail along his lips. Then spun down two cards on the table top. Will Suggens slipped him two others. He took them, his lips remaining motionless.

How about it? You ready to fold? asked Grigsby.

A growing smile on Manningham’s face revealed whiteness.

Suppose I raise you five dollars?

Consider it done. Grigsby reclined in his chair, took another look at his cards, and then said, If you’re so cocky, let’s go for the really big game.

Meaning what? asked Manningham, his brows furrowed.

Meaning we play for the timberland, the farm. If I win, you withdraw your lawsuit. If you’re the one who’s lucky, I’ll make the farm over to you.

Manningham took another swallow of whiskey. Silas, he said, that’s a mighty tempting offer.

Bosh! You can’t beat what I have, never in a million years.

How are you so damned certain I can’t?

Hey, fellas, said Houston, ain’t no sense in playing for them type of winnin’s.

Yeh, agreed Suggens. Let’s put the cards away.

No! Grigsby yelled. I got a hand he can’t beat. I want him to put up or shut up!

You sure you want to do this? Make me the official owner of that fine farm, Manningham said, a smirk on his lips.

Hell’s bells, you won’t win it.

Okay, let’s see if you’ve still got both nuts.

I’m giving you fair warning.

Half of Will Suggens’s mind had been suspecting that Grigsby wasn’t serious and was just playing a trick. After all, the landowner was known to play pranks. But a stare in to the large man’s eyes dispelled that ill-considered speculation. Again, Suggens tried to dissuade them. Both were already adamant. All present said they would be witnesses. The New Yorker even provided his address, should he need to be contacted.

All right, I’ll call for the show," Grigsby declared. He spread down four nines, with an eight high.

Well, well, well, said Manningham, it does look as though Lady Luck is your sweetheart tonight, but— He suddenly leaned further over the table as if to make certain of the cards in the candlelight, then drew quickly back. His right elbow sent his glass of whiskey over the edge of the table to shatter on the floor. Immediately he was upright. Houston had risen half-way from the chair.

It got on my trousers, Manningham shouted, reaching under the table as if to pick up bits of the glass.

Here, I’ll get the broom and get it up, said Houston helpfully.

No, no! cried Grigsby. We’re finishing this hand first! Show what you have.

Manningham rose, set five cards on the tabletop and revealed a royal flush.

Grigsby’s face became as white as schoolroom paste. That can’t be, he blurted with the agony of a stuck hog. It’s impossible! The odds are too great.

But he’s got them, Suggens exclaimed, and immediately wished he hadn’t, recalling how that Manningham was fancy and handy with cards, performing a lot of magic tricks with them to entertain school children.

But this can’t be! Grigsby repeated, casting his eyes about for the face of someone who agreed with him; then he focused them upon Manningham. They were as hard as rifle balls. You knocked that glass off the table. You did so to divert our attention.

Manningham had bent over the tabletop to gather his cards. He stopped in mid-motion. What in thunder!

I say you cheated me.

Dammit, Silas, no man questions my honor.

You fellas saw him. He knocked that whiskey glass over, so he could look down and bend over, so he could slip those cards in from somewhere, Grigsby spluttered. Let me see your royal flush. I want to see the backs of those cards.

Manningham picked up the cards that he laid down and those that Grigsby had spread. You’ll do nothing of the kind. I’ll be a son of a bitch if body’s gonna examine these cards as though I was a scoundrel. He whirled and threw the small rectangles into the blaze. Almost immediately, he grabbed most of the remaining cards and hurled them into the fireplace. Only a few spun safely to the floor. If there’s anymore card playing, we’ll use another deck.

You ain’t oughtin to have done that, Houston hollered.

No man’s going to accuse me of cheating, Manningham growled at the astounded company.

Goddamn you! barked Grigsby.

Shut your damned mouth, or I’ll shut it forever, Manningham threatened, glowering.

Again Grigsby’s face whitened, but his lower lip trembled. Both Houston and Will Suggens suspected that Manningham was going to challenge Grigsby right then and there to a duel, but anyone who knew Grigsby knew that meeting a man at an appointed place and time was a deed he would never perform. Even a wounded sense of honor could not provoke him to do so.

For nearly a minute no one spoke. Then Grigsby said, You’ll have the deed within the week. May your soul be scalded inch by inch in hell!

He whirled and stormed off to his room. No one saw him for the rest of that night. But people heard him, walking back and forth, back and forth in his chamber above, the floor boards sagging and creaking with his ponderous steps. Twice folks called on the clerk to tell him to quit walking and to get some sleep. Other people wanted some rest. Each time Silas Grigsby said he would comply, but he didn’t. Finally, about three a.m. someone heard the springs of his bed sag and then no further pacing. Evidently he had drifted to sleep, but he was up before the cocks, at four a.m. He awoke his colored man in the kitchen and had him hitch the horses to the buggy; then he roused Neumann so that the bill might be paid.

But thar ain’t no sense in yore leaving like this. It’s dark, the snow’s deep, and it’s a cold as a bear’s hind end out there.

I’m not staying in the same house with him, Grigsby told him.

But you got miles ahead through the snow to your farm. Your buggy won’t make it.

I’ll make it all right! He paid the reckoning and glared at the very air before him. His face was as white as new candle wax, and his jaw shook. After he had whipped a flintlock pistol from a side pocket of his great coat, he said to Neumann, You tell him I was but an eyebrow’s length from going into his room and putting a bullet in his goddamn head!

He slammed the door behind him and waited in the snow until his slave had readied the buggy. Later Neumann was not surprised. Grigsby didn’t get far. Snow drifts out by the road looked like huge pillows. He and the slave got across the bridge into Kentucky, but then just before sunup the buggy got caught in a snowdrift, and the horses fell. Luckily, farmer and Mrs. Hoskins lived near by and took the travelers in or they would have frozen their tailbones off. Folks say, though, that Silas Grigsby was so mad that, after he crawled out of that stuck buggy, he took to beatin’ a nearby oak with a black snake whip.

Anyways, several days later when the snow had melted, they made their way to the farm that was no longer Silas Grigsby’s.

When Manningham came down the steps that morning after his enemy’s departure, he laughed about Grigsby’s face and hotter-than-hell behavior. Later, as he was sawing a bit of country ham with a knife, he remarked to Billy Bob Hicks and Neumann, that maybe he would have let ole Grigsby off the fishhook if he had agreed to split the land with him, but since Neumann had told about Grigsby’s ravings and the pistol, then let Grigsby be damned.

Within the week, Silas Grigsby had a lawyer make over the deed and had it delivered to Manningham. He was in such a hurry to get out that he didn’t even inquire what possessions were still rightfully his. In fact, it took nearly a year of negotiations to figure out what he could claim and deliver the belongings to him. But he left alone in that buggy. The black driver now belonged to Manningham. Rumor said Grigsby went northwards a bit up to Morganfield, Kentucky, where his brother had a good-size farm.

2 

Sometimes the moon moaned. Sometimes she moaned. Sometimes they moaned together. She rolled over on her stomach, but she kept her eyes closed because she didn’t want the moonlight to tell her when the time had come.

She lay on a pallet, in her cabin.

She lay amid the hissing darkness.

Outside the rattlesnakes were hissing and the bugs were hissing and the bats, too. No doubt the spiders in the corner cob-webs would join in the hissing, and she suspected that the fat, filthy cockroaches beneath the floorboards of her cabin were hissing. Would they all try to stop her from doing what the moon was telling her to do?

She didn’t want to see the moonlight crawl higher upon the wall and tell her that the hour had come. She lay in the hissing darkness. She was afraid of it. But she wouldn’t light a candle or start a fire in the chimney. She didn’t want no white people to sneak up to the winder and see her face wet, blubbered, full of tears. Her heart was throbbing and throbbing inside her. If she got to breathin’ hard, she would look silly.

Why did she, Martha Jane Mingo, have to be born!

She moaned and rolled over on the pallet, her face pressed against the once soft, now hard, feathers of the worn pillow. If only Jake were here, he could tell her what to do, but he run off before the baby was born, up somewheres in Indiana, to be free, and the baby had come and now the baby was gone, and she moaned.

But the moon would help. Some of the old folks said that in the native land the moon was a powerful goddess, and the moon would help her against enemy, the Missus. The Missus with her dainty silk gowns, cordials, and toast and tea! The Missus with her manners and her la-de-da! The Missus had murdered Martha Jane’s son, Martha Jane’s own little Zeb. And the moon would make sure the Missus suffered pains like no other woman ever suffered before.

Oh, the Missus cried and sighed and said she was so sorry and if there was anything that she could do. But the Missus had killed her baby by giving him that medicine the Missus was always cooking up on the stove, always claiming her stuff would cure the slaves of their sore throats, their colds, their flus and whatever else. But if the Missus’ white baby had been sick, the Missus would of sent Willy lickety-split with the wagon for the white doctor in town, and he would of come with his satchel and medicines and the white baby would have had rosy cheeks and been smiling. But the Missus had waited too late to send for the white doctor, and now little Zeb was under that little mound behind the cabin.

But it must be time now, she said to herself and to the shadows. But she didn’t want for it to be time; she didn’t want to go to the Big House, but she knew the moon was urging her to go. This was the night, the only night it could happen. She rose, opened her eyes, and the way the moonlight was on the wall showed her it was getting time for her to go. She rose, looked at the moon through the open window. Yes, the goddess moon was high enough so that it must be time to relieve Dolly. Breathing heavily, feeling the mad butterflies inside her stomach bumping and colliding about, she moved to the door. The night air was cool. She threw a shawl about her shoulders and stepped out into the indigo darkness and began hastening along the pathway that led up from the cabins to the Big House.

The stars asked, Martha Jane Mingo, what are you going to do?

She stopped, glared up at them. I ain’t gonna stop to button my shoe.

Martha Jane Mingo, what are you going to do? asked the clouds.

"Do you think I won’t tell you true?’

Martha Jane Mingo, whispered the grass on the sides of the path. Are you sure this is what you want to do?

Of coase, I’se sure! she said, looking at the grass beside the road.

Are you? hissed the things crawling in the night.

Yes! Six weeks ago a black baby died in that Big House. And tonight the Missus is gonna cry and cry.

Are you sure? asked the clouds and the stars and the grass and spiders and the roaches and the snakes.

Yes. And she ran up the path to escape the hisses of the night.

She knocked on the back door of the large three-story farm house and waited without patience, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, listening for steps beyond the door, fearing to hear the steps of something hissing behind her. The night itself cackled with nasty laughter. Then, through the opening between the hanging rose-embroidered curtains, she saw Dolly’s face slowly bobbing toward her through the shadows.

As the other woman opened the door, she cast a glance over her right shoulder. Perhaps the moon was looking down to make sure of what she would do.

Land sakes, said Dolly, a slightly plump woman with skin the color of well-creamed coffee and a round face recalling a Christmas tree ornament, you look sort glum!

I been sleepin’ badly, she said.

Why I ‘spect you is! My, you do look glum. I guess it was wise of the Missus to let you look after her son. She knows you need some cheerin’ up. After all what you been through. Well, you ready to take over from me?

I’se ready.

Come then.

Dolly took her up to the second floor and ushered her into the nursery; a small room containing a baby bed on rockers as well as a rocking horse, several balls, and a set of wooden soldiers—relics from the older son’s childhood that the baby was, of course, too young even to notice. Dolly took a candle from a window table and held it so that both women could look at the slumbering child.

Ain’t he just precious, Dolly said. He’s gonna grow up to be a fine geniman like the Colonel some day!

Yes, he’s precious.

My, but you don’t sound jolly.

I’se tahed!

Dolly ignored her remark with a shrug of her ample shoulders and reviewed some instructions. She then handed the candle to Mary Jane, threw a shawl over her own shoulders, and then, bidding her good-bye, hurried down the creaking steps and into the night.

She stood by the infant’s bed, held the candle aloft, and stared at the white child.

Could she do what the moon was asking her to do?

She began shaking in her insides and had to sit in the chair beside the bed.

If the young Master, the older son, was in his room, then she could make him bleed. But no, he was with the Colonel and the Missus.

Perhaps she could take the baby and run away with it. Tell people it was her baby. But it was white. Better to do what the moon told her to do in the first place.

She hastened down the stairs and went outside to the stone kitchen-house. She entered it—she had the key…, and took a butcher knife. She placed it behind the sash that that held her apron about her. She returned to the room, raised the sleeping child from its covers, wrapped it in a soft blue blanket. It wasn’t crying. But no one else was in the house to hear it. It squirmed a moment, and she held it to her breast and hummed a tune her grandmother had taught her. The small form in her hands relaxed.

She stepped quickly from the nursery, padded down the steps, and went outside and hurried past the kitchen. The moon was still high amid the mellow dark blue sky, and a few clouds were creeping along with it.

The clouds said, Martha Jane Mingo, are you sure of what you want to do?

I’se sure!

Really sure? asked the bugs in the grass.

I’m really sure. Now you go on home!

But are you really sure? asked the moon.

And she hurried on. She should have brought a shovel from the tool shed. But no matter; she would go back and get it later. What about a lantern? But someone could see it from a distance. Besides, she knew the way to where she had to do it, and the moon had made everything bright, so wasn’t that proof of what the moon wanted her to do?

But are you sure, Martha Jane Mingo? whispered the glowing globe above her. In your heart, are you ready?

The nasty night cackled again.

She entered the fringe of the woods and made her way along the narrow path. Let the insects hiss at her in the darkness. They couldn’t stop her. Once, twice, she wandered from the path, but she easily found her way back. Once the child cried, and she stopped, held it, sung to it, until it was again asleep.

The sound of the water led her, the sound of the stream, the murmurs of the watercourse breaking down from the high rock and flowing along the rocky bed through the woods.

But what if it wasn’t the moon telling her what to do? What if it were Satan? No! It was her friend, the moon. It was guiding her, telling her.

She emerged into the brief clearing about the woodland falls and waded into the water so that it ran inside her shoes. Ahead, she saw it. A flat slab of rock rising amid the stream. It must have fallen from above ages ago. It rose about three feet from the surface of the water.

She placed the sleeping infant upon the rock, then stepped back, and pulled forth the butcher knife. Tears began to burn in her eyes. Moon, tell me what to do? she wailed.

No immediate answer came.

She stepped forward, raised the blade above the twitching infant. Moon, tell me? Is this what you want me to do?

Still silence. But soon the moon would speak; soon it would whisper.

Suddenly everything inside of her began to get sick. With the back of her hand pressed against her lips, she stifled a yowl.

She had to get control of herself. She couldn’t disobey the moon!

She stepped toward the stone, again raised the knife above the whimpering, wriggling being.

She raised her eyes over her shoulder and looked upward for her answer. She stood stock still, fighting back the crying that was trying to come out of her, wondering what the Moon would tell her to do.

3 

The world was green about him in the time they called summer.

He could not understand why the sky was not part of the world. The woman told him the world was all about him. Wasn’t the sky about him? Why wasn’t it part of the world?

But the world was green about him in the time they called summer. And it was pleasant to be outside in the summer warmth. The world included the house where he and the woman lived, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins’ farm up the road, the farmhouse where the widow woman lived, and the church over by the Ohio River. But he understood that the world was even bigger than that. Other people lived far away from the valley where they lived. He had seen a lot more people at the church, people he had never seen before or anywhere else. So they lived somewhere else in the world. The world around him seemed to be all the same place, but it must have stretched way far away.

He lived in the house with the woman and her dogs. Hardly anyone visited him, the woman, and her dogs. People called her the dog-woman and Crazy Annie and said that she was weird. He wasn’t certain what that word meant, except that it meant she did strange things. She simply called him Boy. She said he didn’t have a name.

But the dogs had names, or most of them did. How many were there he didn’t know. He could only count to twelve, and there were more dogs than that. There were tiny dogs and huge dogs and dogs of a size in-between. There were white dogs, brown dogs, gray dogs, dogs with colors mixed, and, of course, black dogs. They scared him most. Crazy Annie said that they were of the color of the souls burning down in hell. Some of the dogs lived in the yard; some dogs lived in the house. Most jumped in and out of the open windows, so that it was hard to tell where they lived. Sometimes they slept on the sofa, on the kitchen table, or with Annie in her bed. Sometimes they pooped and peed on the floor, and Annie wouldn’t always clean the messes up, so the farm house sometimes smelled. Often she would get her deer rifle, go out in the woods, and kill a buck. She would cook part of it for him and her. She would throw bloody gobs of the rest of the meat into the yard, and the dogs would snarl and fight over them.

The dogs could be mean. Sometimes the smaller ones would yip at him and bite him on the finger or on the leg. And he would kick them. But she told him never to do that to any of the real big dogs like Napoleon, Buster, and Black Devil. Sometimes Black Devil especially would growl at him and reveal nasty yellow teeth. She told him never to aggravate Black Devil or the other big ones. One time she had to lock him in a bedroom because Black Devil started running at him. After he was in the room, he would hear Black Devil growling outside and ripping his claws up and down on the door. Thereafter, she locked him in the room whenever she was away or out working in the garden so that Black Devil and the other mean dogs could not get him.

Crazy Annie had a round face and wore a kerchief tied up over her dark hair. She wore long dresses that dragged through the dust out by the hitching post. Sometimes she went bare-footed, even in the winter; sometimes