Elephants Over The Bridge

By Helen Medley

Sometimes, a child is told a story they remember all their life. The tale helps them cope with the storms faced in life. Ernestine Beckwith used the story her mother told her one stormy night to help her through the chaos and trials of growing up in a frontier town during the Civil War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644710388

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Elephants Over The Bridge

Helen Medley

ISBN 978-1-64471-036-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64471-038-8 (Digital)

Copyright © 2019 Helen Medley

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Prologue

The Storm

Even at her young age, the girl knew better than to question her mother about playing too far from home. Her parents seemed to know the moment they got up in the morning what the weather was going to be like that day. Spring in Missouri was beautiful, but with its arrival came a sense of apprehension. Anyone who had lived in this part of the country for any length of time could feel the stickiness in the air, the color of the sky, and the movement of the clouds. It could be a day for a tornado.

On such a day, the old-timers would constantly watch the sky. The clouds, a mixture of black and gray, came boiling over the Kansas plains into Missouri. The wind would begin to blow, and the trees would moan and bow their limbs to the superior force. When the rain started, it usually came suddenly and would march like an army with each cloud bringing a new wave across the land.

The beat of the rain—first down, then sideways—would gain in force and sound until one was sure that every living thing would be washed away. During the height of the storm, the sky would be so dark the even at midday it would appear as if it were the middle of a starless night. The only light was that of lightning cracking across the sky. The only sound loud enough to be heard was thunder. It roared as it came rolling across the plains and river and softened as it bounced off the surrounding hills in fading echoes.

The young girl stalked down the hallway that was sporadically lit by the flash of lightning showing through the windows in the darkened house. She made her way quickly, avoiding the shadows of ugly beasts that could be hiding in the drapes and corners. Reaching her parents’ bedroom, she quietly opened the door. After the rumble of thunder faded, the only sound she heard was the quiet breathing of the two sleepers. Attempting to not startle her mother, she carefully crept over to her. The woman lay on her side, facing the girl. She reached over and gently touched her mother’s arm.

Mother, she whispered. Mother.

What is it, baby? she asked sleepily.

Lightning flashed across the room followed quickly by the boom of thunder.

Is it the storm?

Yes, the girl said quietly, almost ashamed to answer. May I get in bed with you awhile, just until it’s over? I will go back to my room when it is over. I promise.

Her mother smiled and raised her blanket and let the girl crawl in. The girl curled up and immediately felt her mother’s warmth and comfort cover her, and she began to relax. The mother looked over her shoulder and saw her husband sound asleep, completely unaware of what was going on. The girl was quiet for a moment. Then a large flash lit the entire room followed by the loudest sound of thunder she had heard all night. The woman felt the child at her side coil up like a small creature.

It will be all right, her mother said to comfort her.

Do you remember the gentleman who came in the store the other day? The man who said he had been on a visit to the continent of Africa and was now going to California? Remember he showed us pictures of elephants? He told us how big they were.

Yes, I remember, the girl answered.

Well, let us pretend that we are down in the valley under the wood bridge over the creek. You know the one?

The girl nodded.

You know why we are under the bridge? We climbed under the bridge because we saw elephants coming down the road about to cross the bridge, and we did not want to be in their way. As they cross the bridge, the sound is very, very loud. Then as they reach the middle, the sound is louder still. When they reach the end of the bridge, the sound fades away. Try to think of the sound of thunder that way. In your mind, listen for the noise of the animals crossing over the bridge. And remember your father and I love you and are here to protect you. And after a while, the lightning and thunder will pass.

The mother brushed her hand over the girl’s hair and kissed the top of her head.

The girl waited for the sound after the next flash of light. She forced herself to imagine the elephants crossing over the bridge. It did sound like her mother described. She kept thinking of the elephants until the sound began to fade in the distance. With each clap of thunder, the sound became more distant and softer. Both mother and daughter fell asleep as the last of the herd crossed.

The girl woke up just as daylight began peeking through the windows. She looked over and found her parents still asleep. Quietly, she climbed out of the bed and went to her room as she promised. The rain became more quiet, and the storm was over.

Many memories of childhood fade with the passage of time. Others remain strong and seem vivid as we grow older. Several times in the next thirty-seven years, the girl would tell her own children the elephant story during times of fear. As quickly as a storm came, it was over. Afterward, it was peaceful, and the air was fresh.

As usually was the case, a tornado did not appear. According to the old-timers, the reason for this was the location of the town. It spread up from the banks of the Missouri river and throughout the Black Snake hills. The town was protected from the wind because it followed the river and swirled behind the line of dark hills. But these same old folks who offered this theory still watched the sky very closely for a twister day.

It would take many more days of sunshine before the rain damage done to the streets of the Western section of the city would dry. Wagons rolled down the streets with thick liquid earth dripping from the wheels. Horses and mules, with some effort, pulled their hooves out of the sucking mud as they walked. People moved precariously along wooden planks placed along the intersections of the streets. This method of crossing the streets did not seem to be very effective. Most had traces of mud on the bottom of their clothing. But this was part of the way of life in the Western part of the town, and no one really cared. The rain had passed and the people who lived around the riverfront, the stockyards, and market square were out enjoying the sun, mud or no mud.

Chapter 1

The Frontier Tavern

James Whittington sat on the boardwalk at the corner of Market Square and Second Street. Every day since his arrival in 1857, he had engaged in his occupation of ferrying people across the sea of mud on his back. It was his chief means of employment, and he was a specialist at the job. He had been one of the California ’49ers but never made it past the town.

Since that time, drink had dulled his mind a bit. But his back was as strong as a mule. Because of this, he thought of himself as the most reliable of the carriers. He had not dropped anyone in the mud for at least three years as far as he could remember.

Whittington took off his soiled and battered wide-brim hat and dusted it with his arm. He examined a hole in the elbow of his sleeve, running his finger around the hole. The corners of his mouth turned down. Letting the sleeve go, he ran his fingers through his long unruly gray hair. He put the hat back on his head and rubbed the three-day growth of beard on his face thinking, Better get to work or there won’t be anything to wet the whistle today.

He put his hands on his knees and began scanning his surroundings again. His light gray eyes moved up and down the street. They stopped at the tavern opposite the corner when he spotted his next passenger coming out. This one must be from the eastern end of town from the look of his clothes. He wouldn’t want to get those fine boots and fancy breeches dirty, mused Whittington. Lifting himself, up he walked across the narrow wooden planks until he was in front of the tavern. He approached the young man who, from his looks, couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.

Want a carry, Mister? bellowed Whittington.

The young man put his wide brim hat with a shiny silk gray ribbon around it on his head as he gazed at the ragged man. I want to go up to Eighth Street. How much will it be? he replied.

Two bits, Whittington answered brightly.

The young man took a pair of gloves out of his pocket and looked down while he pulled them on. Do you think you can make it without dropping me? the young man asked doubtfully.

Whittington turned his back and squatted. Climb aboard! he said, dismissing his customer’s mistrust.

The young man put his arm around Whittington’s neck. He then wrapped his legs around the man’s waist. The older man stood with a grunt. With the only skill that Whittington ever mastered, he stepped from the boardwalk onto the planks in the street and maneuvered from board to board.

As they progressed, most of the onlookers took no notice. However, some people, obviously from the surrounding farms who had never seen such a sight, openly gawked.

Whittington trundled onward until he reached his assigned destination at Eight Street. He stopped and unloaded his cargo where the pavement began. Whittington’s boots were covered with mud, but the young man’s were unsoiled and clean.

A quarter isn’t it? inquired the young man.

Whittington nodded cheerfully and watched as the boy reached into his coat pocket and took out a coin. He flipped the money to Whittington. Without another look, he turned and walked away.

Whittington regarded his departing back for a moment thinking, If somebody like him was caught in our part of town in my day, we would have shot him on sight. But after a moment’s contemplation, he chuckled to himself, But then if they had caught me on their side, they would shoot me too. Turning, Whittington flipped the coin in the air and said out loud, This is all I care about.

He missed catching the coin on its way down, and it fell to the pavement with a ping. Eastern people and their bricks! he muttered as he bent to retrieve the coin. Rain just pours down their bricks to our part of town. He looked up to the Blacksnake hills, the east section of the city. He tipped the coin in mock salute. Then he turned and lumbered back down the street.

Whittington worked his way over the planks toward his favorite saloon. Standing at the corner of Second Street, he looked to the opposite corner at the Frontier Tavern. The sign above the building read:

Frontier Tavern

Duke and son—Owners

D. Bradford—Manager

In the past few months since the saloon opened, Whittington had blessed it with all his patronage. Some of the other saloons did not always welcome his appearance. So far, this was not the case at the Frontier. When he had the money, he paid his way. If he didn’t, he could secure a free drink from a stranger. Whittington aimed to take advantage of the situation as long as it lasted.

Each visit, however, meant he would have to face the red-haired bartender who also happened to be his ex-friend and brother-in-law. The man blamed Whittington for his sister’s death. But how was he to know how hard the winters would be for a young pregnant woman? He had done all he could to save her when she developed pneumonia. She was too weak to fight off the illness. He lost his wife and their unborn child that terrible season. The bartender had never forgiven him just as he had not forgiven himself. Their joint quest for California ended that sad winter. The love of liquor began for Whittington soon after.

He stood before the Frontier Tavern. It was a square two-story yellow brick building. A row of tall windows lined the upper floor. The corner of the building sat on the front of Second Street. The structure seemed to end abruptly at the side and a doorway stood at its end. Above the doorway was a small porch cover coming from the side. It sat on poles that rested on the end of the boardwalk. The shelter was far too small to offer any protection from the elements, but it did an adequate job of letting people know it was the entrance.

As Whittington approached the entrance, he noticed for the first time the colorful stained glass window above the double doors. It seems out of place, he thought. A church, maybe, but this place? Whittington stepped up on the porch. He tugged the doorknob and went inside.

Expecting to see a crowd, he was surprised to find the tavern deserted. The assorted odd chairs were neatly arranged around well-worn tables in patient waiting. There were no cards being passed across them, no ladies making rounds about them. On the right side of the large room, the ornately carved wood bar was empty. A large painting behind the bar provided an alternative view to the otherwise abandoned tavern. No feet were propped up on the brass rail that ran its length. No music came from the coal-black upright piano that sat on a small stage at the other end of the vacant room. Whittington glanced back at the entrance, seeking a Closed sign on the door. Finding none, he weaved his tall lanky body around the tables and stepped up to the bar.

He impatiently looked around the tavern and waited. There was no sign of life.

His patience at an end, he pounded his hand on the bar. Hey! Anybody here? he shouted. No one answered. Hey! You got a customer here, he shouted again. After a moment, he heard clumping of footsteps coming from beyond the door to the left of the stage. The sound grew louder until a man appeared in the doorway. It was Jack O’Brien, his former friend and keeper of the bar. For a long moment, Whittington stared at him and O’Brien stared back.

Was that you yelling up here? asked O’Brien in a deep voice. Well, what do you want? he continued without waiting for an answer to his first question, and not really desiring an answer to his second.

A beer, if this place is open, challenged Whittington.

O’Brien walked from the door to the end of the bar without comment. He carried a small barrel of beer hoisted on one shoulder. He bent over and placed his burden along the side of two others and turned to face Whittington.

O’Brien tugged on one side of his red mustache that perfectly complimented his neatly groomed hair. His white shirt bulged at the seams. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows and revealed his muscular forearms. The bartender straightened the crisp white apron at his waist. He stepped behind the bar through the opening at the end and, with deliberate slowness, traversed the length of the bar until he stood opposite Whittington. Let’s see the money, O’Brien demanded.

Feigning shock, Whittington reached in his pocket and tossed the quarter on the bar. The bartender crossly regarded the coin and then Whittington. Reluctantly, he picked up the quarter and stepped over to fill a glass from the draught. He made change from the change box and put the beer in front of the other man and tossed the change on the bar.

Whittington stared at him. I’d like to throw this in your face! But it would be a waste of good beer, he failed to say.

O’Brien coldly stared back. Don’t push me or I’ll toss you across the street, the bartender also failed to say aloud.

O’Brien disengaged and walked back to the end of the bar and took a rag from a bucket of water and began wiping the thick finish of the bar top. Whittington took slow small sips of the beer, savoring it as long as he could. He tried to forget the other man by studying the painting behind the bar, a large landscape of hills and trees and cattle and more cattle. From the picture, his eyes moved around the room. Once again, the emptiness of the tavern caught his attention.

How come you ain’t got no business, O’Brien? Poisoned somebody lately? Whittington jabbed.

The Irishman stopped mid-swipe and sent a bone-crushing stare in the direction of the other man. O’Brien straightened up and flipped the cloth in his hand. He walked the length of the bar with menace.

Just joking, O’Brien. Can’t ya take a joke? Whittington said quickly.

O’Brien stopped a few feet from the other man, his face reddening. His angry retort was cut off, however, as he stopped mid-breath and came to attention as he saw the manager of the Frontier coming through the door.

Whittington turned his head in response to O’Brien and smiled in relief when he saw David Bradford enter.

Bradford stood with his hands in his trouser pockets. He looked around the room as if expecting to see something not there. He turned and walked over to the bar. Taking off his bowler hat, he wiped the sweat band with his handkerchief. Whittington had seen the manager many times before, but never this close. He shifted his weight uncomfortably as he grew self-conscious of his worn clothes in comparison to the well-tailored coat and trousers of the man now standing next to him.

You’re James Whittington, aren’t you?

Yes, sir, Whittington replied, a little surprised.

Bradford turned sideways and rested his elbow on the bar. Whittington turned slightly, still not quite relaxed.

Folks around here tell me that if a fellow ever wanted to do any hunting or fishing, you are the man who knows the best spots.

Whittington smiled broadly and rocked on his heels. He turned his head shyly until he faced O’Brien. His smile faded quickly under the bartender’s unfriendly glare, and he turned quickly back to Bradford. I’ve done some hunting and fishing in my time. And I do know a few spots where creatures are as thick as fleas on a dog’s back, Whittington said, his smile returning.

"The next time you are out and have any game