Читать книгу Hillcountry Warriors - Johnny Neil Smith - Страница 10

Crewmen worked rapidly to strike the sails and prepare for docking at the port of Savannah. The area was swarming with people. Supplies were being moved from other ships to wagons ready to deliver their long awaited cargo. Breezes rushing across the Savannah River caused sails to flap vigorously and scared the seagulls that had encircled the ships seeking a handout. The sky was filled with screams of distress as they flew in a frenzied search for food. The latest arrival edged slowly to the dock where it was then secured and made safe for unloading. A gust of unanticipated wind caused passengers to grab their caps and bonnets or lose them forever to the muddy, swirling currents of the river. Near the side of the ship a young couple stood quietly, feeling a special joy at the realization that they had at last reached Savannah after long weeks at sea. But this joy was tinted with the uncertainty of what this new country would hold for them.

“Mary Ruth, fm not sure what our future is going to be here in America, but at least it’s a new beginning. They say there is a fresh kind of freedom of expression here which may even keep my spontaneous and unrestricted pen out of trouble,” Jonathan Wilson said, as he placed his arms around his wife and pulled her close to his side.

Mary stared out toward the wharf almost ignoring his attempt to make her feel secure and breathed the reply, “Look at all those people! They are moving like ants and Jonathan we don’t know anyone. Not anyone.”

Jonathan turned her around and, looking straight into her face, reassured her that they did have a contact waiting for them.

“Remember,” he said, “we are to get in touch with a Mister Albert Haskins who will help us.”

Suddenly, Mary’s thoughts were interrupted.

“All right, all you Scotch-Irish, get your belongings and get off this ship unless you want to sail with us to the African coast,” bellowed the Captain. “I guess you’ve probably had enough of this old crate.”

The crowd of passengers gathered their boxes and suitcases and briskly moved down the walkway leading to the pier.

The Wilsons soon found themselves on the cobble-stone street below the ship, surrounded by people disappearing in all directions.

“What do we do now, Jonathan? Where do we go?” Mary asked, as she held tightly to her husband’s hand.

With the clamor of talking, laughing, and carts and goods being moved from one area to another, Mary could hardly hear her husband shout, “Mary, let’s just wait until some of these people leave, and then we will begin our search for Mister Haskins.”

All of a sudden, above the ruckus came the most beautiful sound the Wilsons had ever heard, “Jonathan! Jonathan Wilson! If you’re here, raise your hat above your head!”

Jonathan immediately raised his hat and bellowed in reply, “Jonathan Wilson is here. We are here.”

Through the crowd came a large burly man with a most pleasant smile. “You Jonathan Wilson?”

“Yes indeed, and who might you be?”

“I’m Albert Haskins, and I’ve been waiting for you two. Let me help with your baggage. My wife is expecting you for dinner.”

“Mister Haskins, we are certainly glad to see you, and let me introduce my wife. This is Mrs. Mary Ruth Wilson,” Jonathan said proudly.

Haskins tipped his hat and in a polite manner stated, “Welcome to Savannah and to America. I hope this country is as good to you as it has been to me. Let’s get out of this crowd. I hate crowds. Shall we go?”

They soon reached his wagon and were on their way to the Haskins’ home on Liberty Street, just two blocks from the docks.

Mrs. Haskins was waiting at the door. “Welcome to our humble home. I know you must be completely famished from your long trip. Please come in.”

After dinner while the Haskins and Wilsons were relaxing and getting to know each other, Mister Haskins tipped his glass to Jonathan and almost like a toast said, “Jonathan, tell me about your problems in Ireland; and by the way, I’ve heard some good things about you. Talk straight, you’re in America now.”

Jonathan leaned back in his chair and recounted what had happened during the winter. As a promising young printer and writer, he had become too bold and aggressive. Several of his editorials displeased the local politicians and the Crown, and soon he was without a job or a future. His salvation came when one of his wealthy friends offered to lend him enough money to make the trip to America. The debt would be repaid as soon as Jonathan was financially able. In addition, a contact in America would be made for the Wilsons.

“Mister Haskins, you are going to help us, aren’t you? You can help us?” inquired Jonathan, as he once again reached for Mary’s hand.

“Yes, Jonathan, I think I can be of help if you think you can put up with my cantankerous ways. I run a little printing and newspaper shop here in the city, and I need someone who is somewhat spirited. You know, that’s exactly what sells papers here in this country. How about it?” Mister Haskins questioned with a tilt of his head and a twinkle in his eyes.

Jonathan moved quickly out of his chair and rushed in excitement to embrace Mary. He picked her up as effortlessly as if she were a feather, then spun her around and around.

“Mary, can you believe I’ve—I mean we have employment. Can you believe it?”

“Jonathan let me down this minute so you can shake this gentleman’s hand,” exclaimed Mary.

Shaking hands in Ireland was the way men always sealed an agreement. Jonathan reached eagerly for Mister Haskin’s hand as Mary thanked him and Jonathan accepted Mister Haskin as his employer.

The year was 1807. Jonathan enjoyed working for Mister Haskins, and he slowly began to prosper. It seemed this new country was everything a hard-working young couple could ever want. They soon repaid their debt, made a down payment on a house, and Jonathan was prepared to offer Mister Haskins a bid to buy into the business.

One afternoon when Jonathan came in from work, he found an arrangement of flowers attached to the front doorknob. Entering the house cautiously, he found Mary waiting for him in the hall with a most unusual, but pleasant expression on her face.

“Mary, what is the occasion for the flowers? I’ve never received this kind of welcome.?”

“Sit down my love—we have plans to make,” Mary said, as she led him to his favorite chair.

“All right Mary, what is it?”

She placed her hands in his and softly whispered, “There is another Wilson on the way.”

Jonathan was flushed with excitement as they began to prepare for the welcomed addition. The first son, Lott, was born in the fall of 1808, and two years later, a second son whom they named Jeremiah.

Life, in general, had been good to the Wilsons, but in the winter of 1812, a massive epidemic of influenza struck the city claiming over three hundred lives. One was Jonathan Wilson. The death of Jonathan was devastating to Mary and her two young boys.

Mister Haskins did all he could to help the Wilsons, but the war with England had made it impossible for him to remain in Savannah. During the past revolution, he had sided with the colonist in their struggle to separate from the Mother Country and once the British had seized Savannah, his newspaper articles had endangered his life. He had been beaten twice by a group of Loyalists, his shop had been almost destroyed, and the safety of his family had been threatened on several occasions. He felt he was too old to go through this kind of ordeal again.

Mister Haskins knew he must warn Mrs. Wilson about the danger that existed for him and his wife if they remained in Savannah. Mary had been working in his business since Jonathan had died and always helped him clean up the shop each afternoon before closing. Telling her he was leaving Savannah was no easy task, and day after day, he procrastinated until he knew he could wait no longer.

One afternoon as they were about to close for the day, he knew he could put it off no longer. “Mary, I’ve got something to tell you, and I don’t know exactly how to begin.”

Mary quietly stopped her cleaning and sat down. “Mister Haskins, just tell me what’s on your mind,” replied Mary. Tm a good listener.”

“Mary, I must leave Savannah. If the British take the city, my life could be in danger.”

Then he told her his dilemma and that since his business would be closed, she would be without a job.

“Mister Haskins, what am I going to do?” she breathed, as she slowly stood with fingertips on her temples and the palms of her hands over her eyes. Then she ran her fingers backwards through her unbounded hair and said, “How will I support my boys?”

Mister Haskins reached for Mary’s hand and gently held her. “Mary, you can go with Mrs. Haskins and me to the Carolinas where my oldest son lives. We’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you, Mister Haskins, but I can’t do that. You have your own family to support. We would be just an extra burden to you. I’ll trust the Almighty God to take care of us.”

Mary was eventually forced to give up their comfortable home and move to an apartment near the Savannah River docks, a section far from respectable. To support her family, she worked during the day at a textile mill; and during the evenings, she was employed to cook and help maintain a kitchen in one of the local taverns located on River Street. Even though the food was the best in the neighborhood, the establishment often became a roughhouse late at night.

Meanwhile, the years passed quickly, and the family managed. Mary kept her job in the tavern and even found satisfaction in cooking there.

One day, a rare surge of cold weather dropped the temperature below freezing, but the kitchen of the High Step Tavern, was warm and comfortable. The tavern was called the High Step Tavern because of the steep steps that led up to the front door off the main street. These steps were an immense hazard to the intoxicated.

This day, Mary stood over the woodstove stirring some of her savory stew listening to the murmurings of people enjoying their meals, but with each passing minute the restaurant’s patrons became more lively and boisterous.

“Mrs. Wilson, we need four more servings right away!” shouted Ed Jenkins, the tavern’s owner. “People are waitin’ and are hungry!”

“It’s about ready, Ed. Be patient,” exclaimed Mary.

Lott, Mary’s oldest son and now a young man, was sitting near the wood box laboring over his schoolwork. Hearing Mister Jenkin’s tone of voice, he slammed his book to the floor in anger and hurled his pen at the door barely missing Mister Jenkins.

“Mother, how can you stand to put up with these people and their rude behavior? I hate this place. Why don’t you quit this filthy work? We don’t need the money that much.”

His mother stopped what she was doing, carefully placed her stirring spoon down, and angrily addressed Lott, “Young man, we do need this job if we are going to survive. Without the money I take in, you ladies couldn’t stay in school. I don’t want to hear any more about it. You just keep studying.”

She turned quickly from Lott and looked around the kitchen. “Where is your younger brother? He is supposed to be doing his work, too.”

“Mother, you know Jeremiah doesn’t like to do schoolwork. He hates school. He’s probably in the big room entertaining the men. They like to tease him and make him do silly things. He likes all that rough house and racket in there. His language is getting as profane as theirs. Some of them men think it’s funny to hear him cuss.”

“Son, you go get him out of there right now and make him do his work. I don’t want him in there with that crowd. You keep him out!” ordered Mary as she returned her attention to getting the food ready.

“Yes ma’am. I can get him back in here, but I can’t make him learn,” Lott said, as he stomped toward the door in defiance and, in a few moments, returned dragging Jeremiah by the collar.

Once again, Mary stopped what she was doing to address her boys, “Jeremiah, I don’t like for you to be around those men when they are drinking, and I don’t want you in there. You hear me, young man? And that cursing has got to stop.”

Jeremiah looked up at his mother and with a smile that could charm the Queen, reassured her he would never do it again.

“You boys settle down and get to work. We’ll be going home soon. Your schoolwork is important. One of your late beloved father’s dreams was that you boys would be educated, no matter what the cost.”

“Mother,” interrupted Lott, “Professor Johnson wants to talk to you.”

“What about, Lott? It’s hard for me to get to the school and work at the same time.”

Once again Mary stopped what she was doing. “It’s Jeremiah, isn’t it? What trouble is he in now?”

Suddenly their mother’s face turned red in anger, “Jeremiah, who have you been fighting with now? Has it been those McCarley boys again?”

Jeremiah hung his head and in a whisper said, “No Ma’am, I haven’t fought in a long time, Mamma. I don’t know what Mister Johnson wants.”

Mary took great pride in the fact that her boys were able to attend school. Very few boys in the backwoods area could read and write and most of the boys in Savannah were unschooled. With the help of her Presbyterian minister, she arranged for Lott and Jeremiah to attend their church school for boys.

“I’ll tell you one thing, Mister Jeremiah Wilson. We will get to the bottom of this by tomorrow afternoon, and you had better not be in serious trouble.

The following afternoon as soon as Mary finished her work at the factory, she hurriedly made her way to Saint Andrews School for Boys and Mister Johnson’s office. A secretary opened the door and directed her to a seat next to a large desk positioned in front of the most massive windows Mary had ever seen.

“Mister Johnson will see you soon. He is up the hall taking care of a problem. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

It wasn’t long until Mister Johnson, a tall thin man in his early thirties, came storming down the hall and entered the room unaware of Mary’s presence.

“This old heating system and these rowdy youngsters are going to get the best of me,” he mumbled, as he walked past the desk and peered through the window that overlooked the campus below. “Why do I stay in this profession?” he sighed.

Mary cleared her throat.

Mister Johnson quickly turned in surprise to see who had witnessed his moment of aggravation. “Oh, please excuse me. This has been a most difficult day. You must be Mrs. Wilson.”

“Yes sir, I’m Lott and Jeremiah’s mother, and I’m here to talk to you about Jeremiah.”

“Lott and Jeremiah,” He seemed unable to remember the exact intent of his appointment. “Oh yes, I know now. It’s Jeremiah, not Lott, that I’m having some trouble with. Actually, I’m having a lot of trouble with that young man.”

“What kind of trouble, Mister Johnson?” questioned Mary, as she quietly pulled her chair closer to his desk.

“Mrs. Wilson, you have two very different sons. Lott loves to study and is always reading and completing everything assigned to him and he is especially sharp in mathematics. But Jeremiah is quite a different story.”

“What do you mean, Jeremiah is a different story?”

“Mrs. Wilson, I’m going to be honest with you. Jeremiah doesn’t seem to like school, and he doesn’t seem able to sit still long enough to perform his school tasks. His mind wanders off to fantasy lands or somewhere, and he simply is not passing his work. In fact, he’s not passing anything.”

Tears began to ease down Mary’s cheeks. “Mister Johnson, I can help Jeremiah do better. He’s just a restless lad.”

“Mrs. Wilson, I told you I was going to be honest with you and I must. The truth has got to be told. Jeremiah is basically a good, friendly child, but he has a quick and violent temper that at times is uncontrollable.”

“Mister Johnson, I know he has a temper, but...”

“Mrs. Wilson, please let me finish. Jeremiah is quite a bit larger than the other boys his age, and the older boys are endlessly encouraging him to fight with someone. If he’s not in a fisticuffs with the older boys, then he’s defending some other younger boy who’s being aggravated.”

“Is it wrong for my son to defend himself?” questioned Mary in an attempt to justify Jeremiah’s actions.

“It is when he fights almost daily, Mrs. Wilson. He must learn self control. He should have come to me when he had problems with the other boys. Then I could have helped him.”

“Mister Johnson, Jeremiah is large for his age and with unruly red hair that stands straight up, those boys call him names and make fun of him.”

With tears now streaming down her cheeks and in a tone of anger Mary once again defended Jeremiah, “Mister Johnson, I’ve told him to take up for himself. I’ve told him to fight and to be proud of his appearance. I’m the one who told him to fight.”

Mister Johnson, feeling the anguish and pain Mary was experiencing, gave her his handkerchief and spoke softly. “Mrs. Wilson, this isn’t pleasant for me either, but there is more.”

“How can there be more, Mister Johnson? What more?” sobbed Mary.

“Mrs. Wilson, this is the part of my job I detest, and there is no easy way to tell you,” he said.

“Go ahead and tell me. What more can there be?”

“The Board of Directors has met and Jeremiah has been expelled -I mean asked to leave the school. They feel that since he is not passing his work and is constantly causing problems, it is to the school’s best interest that he not remain a student here.”

“Do you mean he can never come back? Mister Johnson, he is only in the sixth grade. What is he to do?”

Mary slowly rose, not knowing what else to do. She placed her hands on the edge of the desk as if to hold herself upright and pleaded, “He’s only a boy, Mister Johnson. Why didn’t you call me in earlier? I could have done something. I could have tried.”

“Mrs. Wilson, I am truly sorry our board has taken this action, but they feel they must make room for other students who genuinely want to learn. You probably know I’ve only been serving as headmaster for four months, and I wish I could have helped your son more. I wish I could have known him better.”

Down deep Mary knew that Mister Johnson was right. She could recall how she had tried desperately to get Jeremiah to study over the years, but nothing worked. He loved to run, tussle, and play with the boys on the streets. He cared nothing for books. His education was her dream, not his.

But, Lott was different. Learning seemed to be stimulating and challenging for him. There was always a new book to read and knowledge to be gained.

In Lott’s spare time, he worked for Albert Haskins, who had now returned to Savannah. It was there that he met Cyrus McCorkle, a state surveyor, who was looking for a young man to help him survey property in the surrounding area. McCorkle needed someone good with keeping figures and healthy enough to carry his gear through rough country, when necessary.

McCorkle was a short slim man who walked with a slight limp caused by his being thrown from a horse when a boy. He was intelligent but at the same time fatherly. Lott had grown to respect and admire McCorkle and called him Mister Mac.

Although Lott was a somewhat younger than Mister McCorkle’s expectations, Lott impressed him with his ability in mathematics and his pleasant personality. During the following months, McCorkle depended on Lott to travel outside Savannah to survey land for the state.

Lott was immature physically for his age, but was becoming a strong, handsome young man. He stood at almost six feet tall and was slim. He had thick black hair and blue eyes that seemed to always sparkle. People who knew his father felt Lott was very much his image. In the meantime, life continued to present Mary Wilson with more hardships than she felt she could bear. Supplying the basic needs for two growing boys while sending one of them to school and worrying constantly about the future of the other, was beginning to bring moments of depression. She prayed nightly that God would send her relief.

Mary’s prayers seemed answered and life did improve for the Wilsons. Lott graduated at the top of his class and, at the same time, gained valuable experience as a surveyor’s assistant. The extra money helped to support the family.

As for Jeremiah, he continued in his rough and tumble ways and eventually found work on the docks loading and unloading cargo. In the evenings, when Mary was working at the High Step Tavern, Jeremiah worked clearing and cleaning tables. Due to his strength and size, he also often served as the establishment’s bouncer.

At fifteen, Jeremiah was already over six feet tall and weighed approximately two hundred and twenty pounds. He rapidly gained the respect of patrons because of his ability to survive a tough scrap and seldom lose a fight. When he was only fourteen, Jeremiah had a dispute with a well-known ruffian and with one punch to the chest, had sent the unfortunate character sailing across the floor, shattering the solid oak entrance door.

Because of Jeremiah’s questionable reputation and hard drinking binges, Preacher Amos, a local Methodist minister, who was a frequent visitor to the High Step and a friend of Jeremiah’s gave him the nickname Jake. When testing the spirits one night, he directed his mug of ale to Jeremiah and in a tone of religious nature toasted, “Jeremiah, you are too wicked for an Old Testament name. You drink, cuss, and fight, the same. So from henceforth, Jake will be your name, and I don’t give a damn who you blame.” The High Step erupted with laughter and cheers, and from that night on Jake was his name.

New Year’s Eve of 1826 found Mary still working in the High Step kitchen, and this evening Lott was sitting in the kitchen keeping his mother company.

“Mother, let me know when you need help. This is going to be one long and lively evenin’. They are gettin’ loud mighty early.”

Suddenly, a thunderous crashing sound caused Mary to drop a plate of food and rush to the door to see what was happening.

But, before she could reach the door, Jeremiah poked his head in and with a big smile reassured her that everything was all right. “Mamma, it’s just Mister Amos. He’s drinkin’ again and knocked over a table. Everything is going to be fine. I ain’t in no scrap.”

“No scrap. No fight. I hear it every night it seems. Lott, you have got to get your brother out of here...out of Savannah. One day he’s going to get hurt,” pleaded Mary, as she began to clean up the pieces of broken dish and food that was strewn on the floor.

Lott knelt down and began to help. “Mamma, how can I change what he’s like. I do good just to take care of myself.”

Lott paused for a moment, wondering whether or not to say what he was thinking. “It seems to me I am always taking care of him now. What more can I do?”

“I don’t know, Son, but you and I have got to come up with something. We have got to help that boy.”

The evening grew louder and louder. Around one o’clock, when things seemed to be slowing down, a loud shot rang out and a few seconds later, two more bursts of gunfire. Mary ran toward the door as she had so many times before, only to be stopped by Lott.

He pushed her back toward the stove and said, “Don’t go in there. I’ll go. It could be dangerous.”

In what seemed to be an hour, but in actuality was only a few minutes, Lott burst back into the kitchen exclaiming, “You had better come in here. Jake’s been hurt.”

Mary began to cry as she ran into the tavern searching for Jeremiah. She pushed people aside and struck others who got in her path as she worked her way through the crowd. Over and over she screamed, “Where’s my laddie? Where’s my Jeremiah? Get out of my way. You are all nothing but drunks, thieves, and murderers.”

Suddenly, the crowd cleared and she stood staring at what she feared to be the dead body of her beloved son, but instead was a still-alive Jake sitting on the floor holding a pistol in one hand and pressing his other hand to his forehead near his hairline. Blood was streaming through his fingers and down his face, and a gaping hole in his shirt revealed where a bullet had ripped into his side.

Mary knelt down, not knowing whether to touch him or not. “Son, what have you gotten into now? Lott, go get a doctor. Get him quick!” shouted Mary.

“Mother, the doctor has already been sent for. He’s on the way,” reassured Lott. “Just calm yourself. You ain’t helpin’ Jeremiah at all actin’ the way you are. Please, just calm down.”

Jeremiah was now sitting in a chair with a handkerchief over his scalp wound and sipping ale as though nothing at all had happened.

“Mamma, how about settling down and quit makin’ such a fuss about this. I ain’t going to die, and if I do, it will be the Lord’s will. Somebody’s going to have to shoot me with something bigger than that pistol,” mumbled Jeremiah.

The Wilsons were Presbyterians and avid believers in predestination. They believed that the Almighty God had a plan for every believer and what happened to one was God’s divine will.

“Son, how did this happen?” questioned Mary, as she cleaned the blood from his face.

“It’s all right,” reassured Lott. “Mister Liddle saw the whole thing. Jeremiah is not at fault. He says Albert Brewer had been drinkin’ too much and pulled his pistol on Joe Langley. He claimed Joe had been makin’ advances toward his wife. Mamma, Jeremiah grabbed the pistol out Mister Brewer’s hand to stop a shootin’. From what they say, the first shot hit Jeremiah in the side and when he pulled the pistol up in the air, the second shot hit his head. The third went into the ceiling. Mamma, this ain’t Jeremiah’s fault,” reassured Lott.

Doc Haley soon arrived and examined Jeremiah and dressed his wounds. As he finished, he sternly addressed Jeremiah. “Jake, the Lord was with you tonight, young man. You are indeed lucky. That first shot appears to have cracked a couple of ribs but did not penetrate your ribcage. I found what was left of the bullet down in your shirt. Must have bounced right off of you. And for the other, it only grazed your scalp. It’s a damned good thing you got such a hard noggin. If you take care of yourself, you’ll be fine. But, you might have a permanent part in your hair from here out,” joked Doc Haley. The whole crowd broke into laughter and cheers.

Peace was soon restored and Jeremiah was moved to a bedroom upstairs above the kitchen. Mary and Lott sat by Jeremiah’s bedside and together thanked the Lord for saving his life. Doc Haley had given Jeremiah a strong sedative and soon he was sound asleep.

For hours the two stared at Jeremiah and at each other without a word. Finally Mary broke the silence, “Lott, we are going to get Jeremiah out of this city. I don’t know how, but we are. We’ve got to.”

Lott reached for his Mother’s hand to get her full attention. “I think I have a way, but it’s going to take us a long way from here. The bad thing about it is we won’t be near you in case you need us.”

“I don’t mind son,” Mary interrupted. “Tell me what it is.”

“Mister McCorkle has asked me to go with him into the Creek land in west Georgia to help him survey the area for the government. It’s a long way from Savannah. They just moved the Indians out, and we have a big job ahead of us.”

“But Lott, what has this got to do with your brother?”

“Mother, Mister McCorkle wants me to find someone else to go with us, and that someone else can be Jeremiah.”

“But Lott, what if Jeremiah doesn’t want to go?”

“He’ll go. I’ll think of something. He’s got to leave. If he stays in Savannah, somebody is going to kill him.”