Читать книгу Poor Banished Children of Eve - Welby T Cox - Страница 5

I REMEMBERED WITH FONDNESS THE DREAM I HAD THE NIGHT BEFORE.

It was about my missing son, a living child of God in the womb taken by his natural mother, a prehistoric flower child, born fifty years too soon. A lost spirit with an attitude and the weed of choice on her breathe, and some vision of life with no responsibility, fame and fortune.

It is true that slavery was not unique to the South: Both during the colonial era and after independence, slavery existed in areas that now comprise what we consider “Northern” states. But the suggestion that “many Northern civilians” owned slaves at the time of the Civil War is flat out wrong. All of the Northern states, with a single arguable exception, had (by law or by practice) ended slavery within their borders long before the Civil War began.

Where did legalized slavery still exist in the North in 1861? Only in Delaware, a state which was far from being undeniably a “Northern” state: depending upon the criteria used, one could justifiably have pegged Delaware at the time of the Civil War as being Northern, Southern, Mid-Atlantic, or some combination thereof. Either way, even though legislative efforts to abolish slavery in Delaware had been unsuccessful, by the time of the 1860 census 91.7% of Delaware’s black population was free, and fewer than 1,800 slaves remained in the state — hardly a condition supportive of the notion that “many” Northerners owned slaves.

Although Missouri, Kentucky, and Maryland never formally seceded from the Union, they were not “Northern” states in either a geographic or a cultural sense. All were home to substantial pro-Confederate elements and contributed significant numbers of troops to the Confederate side during the Civil War. Kentucky and Missouri were both claimed as member states by the Confederacy and were represented in the Confederate Congress, and Maryland remained in the Union primarily because U.S. troops quickly imposed martial law and garrisoned the state to head off secession efforts. (Maryland had to be kept in the Union by any means necessary, else the United States capital in the District of Columbia would have been completely enclosed within Confederate territory.) The state of New Jersey was something of an outlier. Although the New Jersey legislature passed a gradual emancipation measure in 1804 and permanently abolished slavery in 1846, the state allowed some former slaves to be reclassified as “apprentices for life” — a condition that could be considered slavery in all but name. Nonetheless, the 1860 census recorded only 18 slaves in all of New Jersey.

On this day, in the dream, there he was in a small deli, cooking my favorite dish in the microwave; fried rice with chopped onions, bell peppers, eggs, saffron, ginger, olive oil, summer sausage and mackerel from the can. Not just a meal…it was a feast.

Now it was morning! The sun had not begun its slow accent; in fact, it would be two hours before the penetrating rays presented themselves in the eastern sky over British Columbia, a Province of Canada on the Pacific coast. The most mountainous province of Canada crossed by the Rocky Mountains on the southeast, forming the boundary with Alberta. British Columbia, also known as B.C., is the western most province of Canada. In 1871, it became the sixth province of Canada. British Columbia is also a component of the Pacific Northwest along the United States border of Oregon and Queen Victoria, the other virgin queen, selected Washington State, the name of the province in 1858. It reflected its origins as the British reminder of what was left of the District of the Hudson Bay Company. The powerful, for profit entity, which helped, originate the colonies in America, principally as the founder of the New York colony. Its Latin Motto was Splendor Sine Occasu ( Splendor Without). Without what taxes, slaves?

B.C. has a geographic area around 365,000 square miles and it capitol is Victoria, naturally.

Its chief river is the Frazier; the favorite watering holes for wildlife in the central and southern part, in the southeast are the Columbia and headstreams. In the northeast, the Liard and Peace rivers and tributaries, each a part of the McKenzie River System runs from its Pacific shores. There are many islands, notable Vancouver and the Queen Charlotte Group. Briefly, the history of the country is ... it was inhabited by indigenous peoples, among them Coast Salish, Nootka, Kwakiutl and the Haida when first visited by Europeans, most likely the Spanish in 1574; followed by the English mariner, Sir Francis Drake in 1578 and then Captain James Cook.

Several explorers thereafter including Meriwether Lewis explored what was once known as New Caledonia and formed part of the Hudson Bay Company’s concession; partially claimed by the United States. Gold was discovered in the Frazier River Basin in 1857, nine years after the discovery of gold in California and it was established as a British Colony in 1858. It was then united with Vancouver in 1866 with the northern boundary extended to become a province of Canada in 1871.

I had come here to rest my wounded soul, do a little duck hunting, and drink a little booze while enjoying a good book and the roaring fire in the evening at the hunting lodge. We enjoyed a meal consisting of the “catch of the day,” most likely salmon, at this time of year. It mattered not what they fixed to eat so long as we had plenty of Scotch whiskey with icy cold water.

That morning, the other boats bows, which had gone across to the canal, had plowed and broken the ice. My guide stood in the stern of the boat with his long oar reaching out, handle side into the river and pushing it forward in a heavy action to move the boat along in the winter going. I sat on a shooting stool fastened to the top of a box, which contained my lunch, shotgun shells and two other guns.

There was a sack with two live Mallard hens, and a beautiful German Pointer by the name of Heinz who shivered at the thought of the icy water (so I imagined) or perhaps it could have been the flapping of the wings of the birds, making him nervous as they passed overhead in the darkness. He was bred to hunt and to kill, and he caught the scent whether they walked, flew or crawled on their bellies… something we had in common. Imagine the character, the discipline ... it takes for a dog trained to retrieve these birds, having them flapping their big wings and chattering away in bird pig Latin. The big bodies peering down through the mist, speaking of the dummies sitting in cold boats, just out of range of natural projectiles shot from big bottoms.

The elegant birds filled me with thoughts of the sound of her as well, as the sight of the milk white cast of her long neck. The sweet fragrance of the Lu Aire de Temp in her hair. I could still taste the salt from her tears the night I left her on the tarmac. The dark blue dress, which hugged her body, had a large white collar and a wrap splitting the front of the dress blowing open in the wind from the propellers of the King Aire waiting for me to make up my mind to go or stay.

The moment, etched into my mind at fifty years of age…and she, my Lolita, soon to be twenty-one, was going back to college, and I to fish and hunt…for a life.

Six boats had already made their way to the canal, turning south into a shallow lagoon and now, there was no broken water. It was ice, newly frozen during the sudden, windless cold of the night. The water was black and not-so-tolerant against the prodding of the guide. Then, the ice would break as sharply as a pane of glass…but the boat was very nearly motionless. The fissure of the ice as it broke from the hull of the boat made a crackling sound. The dog was set into the breach of a well honed position ever ready to respond to the masters’ call.

“Give me an oar” I said, standing to brace myself. I could hear the ducks passing in the darkness like the wide-bodied bombers approaching the target over London, Paris and into the heart of Europe.

“Be careful you don’t tip the god-damn boat over.” The guide barked at me as though I was his dog.

“Mind your manners, boy…I’ve owned and operated boats for more years than you have lived.” I took the oar the guide handed me and used it to punch a hole with the handle side down into the ice as though it was the face of my arrogant guide and I could feel the bottom of the lagoon.

I pushed with all my weight on the top of the oar and then poled it back toward me as the boat passed over its center. The guide kept his eyes riveted to the dark water and drove the boat forward toward the broken passage.

“Where is the shooting barrel?” I asked.

“Off there to the left, in the middle of the next bay, should I turn for it now?”

I thought his tone sounded better coming from this surely bastard; if he is not careful, the Canadian authorities will find his ass floating up in the frozen river, a casualty of friendly fire, or collateral damage.

“Sure, I responded. Is there sufficient water to carry us there?”

“The tide is low, who knows?” The guide said.

“Well it will be daylight if we don’t shag ass,” I said in a voice, which was icy, and the guide did not respond. The surely bastard must have had a bad night, I thought, but I knew we were going to make it with only a third of the way to go.

“Get your back into it!” I yelled.

“What?” He answered in French.

“I said, let’s get the hell out of here, it will be light soon.”

Of course I was correct, before we reached the oaken staved hogshead sunk in the bottom of the lagoon, the light began to show. The guide swung the boat carefully up to the sloping rim of earth planted with sedge and grass. He lifted the shooting stool and shell box out of the boat and handed it to me. I took it and planted it in the bottom of the barrel, which stood in the lagoon ready for a hunter to step inside.

I was wearing hip boots and my old combat jacket made by the prison industry, which had a patch sewn to the shoulder, which no one except my platoon understood. The guide carefully handed me the two shotguns, which I sat against the wall of the barrel, pointed to the clearing sky. I hung the shell bag on the hook built into the wall of the sunken barrel, and then I leaned the two guns against the shell bags in one deft movement ... demonstrating I had been there before.

“Is there water?” I asked the guide.

“No water,” he replied.

“Can you drink the water in the lagoon?” I asked, knowing full well the answer was no.

“If you get thirsty enough, you can drink your piss!” He said with a sneer.

I felt the anger rising on my neck ... the stupid bastard had not followed the time worn detail of the professional guide by not providing the water to drink…water ... I now needed. However, I let the slight go and asked instead, ‘Do you want help in breaking more ice and getting the decoys out?’

‘No!’ The guide said and shoved the boat out savagely into the thin ice, which cracked and ripped as the boat pulled up onto it. The guide splashed the oar into the ice and then started tossing the decoys, two at a time into the murky water.

He’s in a beautiful mood, I thought, little mind on broad shoulders. I could not believe how I had worked like a mule coming out here and this goof ball isn’t prepared. What is bothering him? After all, this is what he does for a living, isn’t it…maybe he is gay and I have paid him no mind?

As these thoughts went through my mind, I arranged the shooting stool to give maximum range to swing the gun from left to right. Next, I opened a fresh box of shells, filled my pockets, and dumped another box into the shell bag so all I would have to do would be to reach in easily without dropping the shells into the bottom of the barrel, which I could not reach.

In front of me, the lagoon lay glazed from the ice and the darkness, which crept beneath it in the first light while the black boat with the tall heavily built guide smashed the oar at the ice and tossed out the wooden decoys as though he was ridding himself of something obscene.

It was getting lighter by the moment and I could see the low line of the near point across the lagoon and beyond the point where I knew two other shooters were posted. Far beyond this point, lay the marsh, and then it was on to the sea.

I loaded both guns and once again checked the position of the boat while placing the colorful Mallard decoys someone had carved with great love and attention to the finite detail, making one wonder why so much care? Did they really think the big birds would know the difference if one feather was out of place. Now it would be another kettle of fish if it were women we were placing to attract another woman…to lure them into our sights. They would know the difference; legend has it, women dress for other women. It must be true because all men, except the weirdo’s who love women’s feet, could care less if the toes were painted.

Then the moment I was waiting for began to happen. From behind me, faint at first, I heard the incoming whisper of the wings. I crouched, took hold of my right hand gun…and looked up from under the rim of the barrel. I then stood to shoot two ducks, dropping down; wings set to break, like the flaps of a bomber, coming down dark in the gray dim sky with a hint of red on the horizon, slanting toward the decoys parked on the lagoon.

My head was low. I swung the gun on a long slant. Down, through my right eye I could see the second duck, then without looking at the result of my shot, I raised the shotgun smoothly, up, up, ahead and to the left of the other duck, which was climbing to the left, and as I pulled the trigger, I saw the bird fold. I could see as well the boat with the guide was far to my right and out of the line of fire. It was as perfect a double shot as I had ever seen or made. I had done so with complete consideration and respect for the position of the guide and I felt great as I reloaded my shotgun.

“Listen.” The guide yelled from the boat. “Don’t ever shoot toward this boat again, ass hole!”

“I have had all your attitude and miserable way you have handled this job, and I demand you get your ass over here and take me back to camp.” I commanded in no uncertain terms.

“It is more than Ok with me, I’ve had all of you I can take and I’m not happy guiding someone who shoots at the guide.”

“Listen, you bastard, I kill for a living, if I had wanted to kill you, I would have killed you.” By now, the large black boat was at the barrel in which I stood and I caught its bow. I chose to lay my shell bag on the floor of the boat and then to carefully check the safety on the guns. Next, I leaned them against the shell bag. I took the shooting stool from the bottom barrel, pushed it with all my power from my chest (as though I was bench-pressing the weight of a child), and flung it toward the ugly guide. The action caught him off guard as he was reaching for the shotgun. He had no time to catch the stool and it hit him square across the bridge of the nose. The guide yelled out in pain, lost his balance and pitched into the black water, breaking the ice as he splashed while attempting to grab hold of the side of the boat. But his thrashing from the effort and heavy clothing drug him down into the deep causing the wake to push the boat further away.

By now, I had seized the side of the boat were I stood in the shooting barrel and I easily swung my leg over the side and into the boat, pulling my right leg in behind me. I turned and peered into the pitch-black water and could see nothing but the churning of the water. I grabbed one of the oars, flashed the bright beam of the flashlight were the guide had gone into the water. There was no sight of the guide, only the stillness of the murky deep, ice cold of the water with the decoys heads bobbing to and fro as if to point out the general direction of were the guide had gone down.

Across the bay, the other hunters had not yet suspected there was a problem in the last boat. I picked up one of the shotguns, empting its chamber into the still morning air, and began to call out loudly, “Help! Help! Help!” Then I used my flashlight to signal the international code for help, SOS, in the hope one of the hunters would see it and understand the code.

I was in luck, both of the boats fired up the small engines took flight, the sound of the whining engines gave comfort as they made their way toward me hastily, arriving in a matter of minutes.

“What is the matter Colonel? Where is Sed Maze?”

“He lost his balance and fell into the water.” I replied. All three boat occupants began to frantically skim the frozen water, breaking the ice with the oars but careful so as not to further injure the fallen guide. The water was even murkier and there was no sign of the guide or his body or the dog Heinz.

We had now spent more than twenty minutes looking for the body and the sun began to make its way into the center of the eastern sky amid a color scheme that could only be described as awesome. The guide in the first boat suggested I return to the dock and report the accident since I was the only witness to the accident…and Heinz could not speak wherever he was.

It took me half and hour to get back to the dock, another fifteen minutes to reach someone at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who promised an officer would be along shortly to investigate. I hitched a ride to the camp to make a personal phone call.