The Pilgrim Song (28 page)

For the next hour he alternated between moving as silently as he could through the woods and pausing to allow the squirrels to show themselves. He saw no other game but spotted the signs of deer. “Next time I’ll come back with the deer rifle. We could use a fat buck,” he murmured.

Soon the woods had thinned out and he found himself on the edge of a deep gully, rimmed by scrub brush. Erosion had eaten away at the gully’s steep walls—too steep to cross over, he figured, though the woods on the far side looked promising. He wondered if there would be a better place to cross farther downriver but then decided it was too late. He made a half turn, intending to go back home, but as he did, the ground gave way beneath his feet. He swung his arms wildly to regain his balance but to no avail. He made a complete somersault and then scrabbled at the low bushes to try to stop himself from falling into the gully. He dropped his rifle and slid downward, hitting the rocky ground beneath him with a jolt. He cried out at the tearing pain in his right leg. He flipped over one more time, striking his head against the shale, and then, with a tremendous blow, landed on his shoulders. The force of the fall drove the breath out of him, and he lay gasping as the rubble bounced down the steep gully wall, splashing into the river several seconds later. As he regained his breath he tried to sit up, then cried out again, for his leg felt as if it were being cut off.

Gritting his teeth, Lewis slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. He looked down at his right leg, dreading to see what was causing so much pain. “What’ll I do if it’s broken?”

He tried to move the leg, but the pain was too great. He searched the area frantically, starting at the river far below then moving up the steep gully walls, knowing there was little hope of climbing back up. His only hope was to crawl laterally until he found a grade he could manage. His rifle
lay five feet away, half covered by the rocks that had fallen in the slide. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself over with his hands, keeping his leg as straight as possible. By the time he got there, he felt weak with the pain that flooded through him. He picked up the rifle and then glanced up and down the river. He could not see any possible avenue of escape, but he knew he had to do something. Slowly, grabbing the rifle by the end of the muzzle, he scooted back and pulled himself along. After traveling ten feet he tried to get up and use the rifle as a crutch, but the pain was unbearable. With a gasp he lowered himself again and looked up at the sun. “It must be three o’clock or later by now,” he muttered. “When I don’t come home by sunset, they’ll come looking for me.”

Then it dawned on him that he had gone the opposite direction he had planned. “I told Hannah I was going down toward Tennie’s place. They’ll never think of coming north.” Fighting off despair, Lewis tried to think rationally. “There’s bound to be somebody who lives close to here.”

The thought did not comfort him much, for the woods had been thick and deep, and the land he was in now was not fit for farming. He lifted his rifle, fired a shot into the air, and called out, “Help, somebody, help!”

Only silence rolled back after the echoes had faded. Lewis counted the shells. He had left home with a dozen, shot three squirrels, and had just fired one. He counted the eight shells again and wondered what would happen if nobody heard any of them.

Deciding to save the shells for now, he started crawling along the dirt, dragging the rifle beside him. The pain sickened him, and he could go no farther than thirty feet before he lay flat on his back, gasping under the full rays of the sun. Sweat ran down his neck, and he trembled all over from the brief exertion.
Got to do something, but I don’t know what.
He rested for a time, then tried to move again, but finally had to give up. He pulled his hat over his face and lay still as the sun continued on its steady course across the sky.

“Well, this is the last of the jam Tennie gave us.”

Hannah set the almost empty pint jar of blackberry jam down on the kitchen table in front of Clint. He shoved it over toward Kat and said, “Here, you eat it. Young’uns need their strength.”

Kat took the jar and fished out a small amount with her knife, spreading it on half of a biscuit. “That’s all I want,” she announced.

Hannah and Clint exchanged glances, certain that the girl was not telling the truth.

Clint shook his head vigorously. “I’ll sure be glad when that sorghum gets ready to harvest. We won’t run out of syrup then.”

“Is it hard to make sorghum, Clint?” Kat asked.

“Well, there’s some work in it,” Clint admitted, “but it’s worth it. I’ve been thinkin’. If we could round up some jars to put it in, we might go into town and sell some of it for a little cash.”

Hannah smiled, but she knew that Clint’s hope had little foundation. No one in Summerdale had any cash to spend on frivolous items like sorghum molasses. The depression had struck the area with a vengeance, and the farmers felt it most keenly. From time to time the Winslows got a newspaper from the Cannons, a few days old, and the stories all sang the same woes. The country had had to accept the breakdown of Coolidge-Hoover prosperity. It had been a bitter pill for the Republican Party to swallow, and Herbert Hoover, who had once delivered confident speeches about the abolition of poverty, felt it more keenly than anyone.

President Hoover had tried to fix the economic mess. He had promised to reduce taxes and he had bombarded the American people with promises that conditions were sound. “I’m convinced that we will reestablish confidence,” he said
in one fashion or another during the beginning of the new decade.

During the first three months of 1930, the stock market did seem to revive, but it quickly sickened and faded again. The country faltered and staggered, and one could hardly walk a block without seeing the changes that had come to America. Women’s clothes reflected the depression as skirt lengths became lower along with the stock prices. Defenders of the knee-length skirt protested, but the new styles won out. Bobbed hair was losing favor too, and frills and ruffles and flounces were coming back in again. The minds and hearts of American women had changed since the depression began. No longer was it their ambition to simulate flat-chested, spindly-legged, carefree adolescents in children’s frocks. Decorum and romance had begun to return to America.

One ritual that united most Americans occurred every evening at seven o’clock with the radio voices of Freeman Gosden and Charles Correll, better known as Amos and Andy. Andy’s troubles became real to most American families, and phrases such as “I’se regusted!” became the currency of speech. But regardless of Amos and Andy’s cheerful outlook, the country was in trouble, and the long lines of men waiting at the rescue shelters for a meal and a bed were a visible reminder that times were bad.

Clint stared at the remaining traces of blackberry jam and said with a vein of stubbornness, “Well, by gum, we’re gonna have something to eat on biscuits and pancakes.”

“What are you talking about, Clint?” Hannah said.

“Well, I’m not waiting for any sorghum. There’s honey out there, and I’m gonna get us some.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“I’ve never robbed a hive, but Jesse has. He’s been after me to go with him, and I think today’s the day.”

“Can I go too, Clint?” Kat asked excitedly.

“Sure, we’ll all go. It’ll be better than going to the grocery store. It’ll all be free.”

“But won’t the bees sting us?” Kat demanded.

“Oh, we may get a sting or two, but what’s that compared to having plenty of fresh honey?”

****

Jesse Cannon’s bright blue eyes sparkled. “Don’t nothin’ please me better’n goin’ out after honey. I need to find me a fresh batch—need it for my arthritis.”

“Is eating honey good for arthritis?” Hannah asked. She was wearing a pair of overalls, as Clint had suggested, and a straw hat shaded her face.

“Eatin’ honey is mighty fine, but that ain’t what helps arthritis. I’ll show you, missy.”

“How do you find the bees?” Kat asked.

“Well, you just watch, honey, and I’ll show you that too.”

The amateurs watched as Jesse put the lid from a fruit jar down on a flat stump near the river. He had told them, “Always get close to water to find bee trees. The bees need water just like we do.”

Now they watched as Jesse pulled a bottle out of his pocket and poured a dark fluid into the lid. “This here’s the bait. Gotta be made just right, you understand. A little honey and some vinegar and warm water. You stir it all around, and you just watch what happens.”

For a time nothing happened, and the four sat around waiting, Kat doing most of the talking. Suddenly Jesse interrupted her. “Look, there he is!”

“Hey, there’s a bee drinking out of that lid!” Kat exclaimed.

“Pretty soon he’ll make a beeline for the hive,” Jesse said.

“What if we lose sight of him?” Kat said. “He’s hard to see.”

“We’ll just wait right here. Before long he’ll be back and bring a bunch of his relatives with him. They’ll make a line we can see.”

Jesse’s prophecy proved true. Within thirty minutes a
number of bees were gathered around the bait. They would fill up and then take off.

“C’mon,” Jesse said. “Bring that ax and saw. We’re gonna need ’em.”

The party followed the bees with little trouble, and finally Jesse stopped and pointed up into a tall tree. “See that knot-hole up there? See them bees goin’ in and out? That’s what we’re a=-lookin’ for. Chop that tree down, Clint. That’s a job for a young feller.”

“All right,” Clint said. “You women better get out of the way, though. I wouldn’t want you to get stung.”

Clint was a good axman, and he made quick work of chopping a huge notch in the tree. When the tree began to totter he jumped back and hollered, “There she goes!” They all watched the tree as it fell with a crash, and Jesse rubbed his hands together. “Now we’ll see about that honey.”

Hannah was nervous about the bees swarming around the fallen tree. “You stay here, Kat.”

“That’s right,” Jesse warned. “You womenfolk stay right where you are. Me and Clint’ll get that honey.”

Jesse slipped the straps of his overalls off his shoulders and unbuttoned and removed his shirt. He saw Hannah staring at him with big eyes. “Now I’m gonna get my arthritis treatment,” he said. “You just watch.”

Hannah watched with shock as Jesse walked right up to the section of the tree that contained the bees. She saw them lighting on the old man and whispered, “Clint, what’s he
doing?
”

“Jesse claims there’s somethin’ in a beesting that’s good for arthritis. I don’t see how he stands it, though. I’d go crazy.”

Jesse looked back and saw them staring at him and laughed. “Ain’t nothin’ to it. Once you been stung a few times you don’t feel the rest of ’em. Give me that ax, Clint. We’re gonna get us some honey.”

Clint cautiously advanced, flinching as the bees attacked him.

“A feller’s gonna get stung a bit,” Jesse admonished Clint as he swatted at the insects. “If he wants honey, he might as well get used to that.”

Clint moved back and brushed the bees away as best he could, watching while Jesse split the grain expertly with the ax.

“Ah, we got us a good ’un here. Go bring them buckets, Clint.”

Clint ran back to where Hannah and Kat were waiting. He grabbed up the four buckets, and Kat said, “Your face is all swollen, Clint.”

“Can’t be helped. You stay back now, Kat.”

Running back to where Jesse was clearing out a section of the tree, he put the buckets down. He watched as Jesse reached inside and began to bring out pieces of the broken comb. “You need help, Jesse?”

“No, you stay back, young feller. I’ll take care of this.”

Clint was willing enough to pay heed to that. He did not see how the old man could stand it, although he noticed that the bees were swarming less. He finally went forward and got two buckets and saw that they were filled with broken comb and splintered wood. He carried them back to Hannah, and Hannah and Kat stared down into them. “We’ll have to clean it all out, but just taste a little of that.” Clint reached down and broke off a piece of the comb and shared it with Kat and Hannah.

Kat squealed, “That’s so good! I want some more!”

Finally the buckets were full, and Jesse came back, his face swollen and knots all over his body. He grinned crookedly. “That feels good. Amazin’ how quick a little beesting or two will take away a feller’s arthritis.” He reached down, broke off a chunk of the comb, and stuck it into his mouth, ignoring the honey that ran over his chin. “This ain’t as good as sourwood honey, but it’s plenty good enough. C’mon, let’s get along home.”

As they started on their way, Jesse said, “I’ll tell you what
we’ll do, Clint. We’ll start our own hives. We’ve got to find a queen to get us a good hive goin’, but it’d be a lot easier next year to have our own hives rather than goin’ out in the woods and findin’ one.”

****

“Stop here by the crick, Josh.”

“What for?” Josh glanced over and saw the line of trees marking the creek that followed the road.