The Pilgrim Song (29 page)

“It’s hot. I want to get cooled off.”

Josh pulled the truck over, and by the time he got out, Dora was already around the truck, her arm in his. “C’mon,” she said, “follow me.”

Josh allowed Dora to pull him along until they reached the stream. It was lined with trees that arched over it, forming a cathedral-like ceiling. The sun came through the green leaves in broken beams, and the clear water did look inviting.

“Let’s go for a swim.”

“Are you crazy, Dora? What if somebody comes by?”

“What if they do?” Dora laughed. She turned to him, her eyes challenging. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been swimmin’ in a crick before.”

Josh returned Dora’s challenging look. “I guess I’ll just wade a little bit.” He sat down and began taking his shoes off, and Dora stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “You must be a preacher’s kid.” To his surprise, she reached down and pulled her dress over her head, leaving on only her thin slip. She waded out into the creek, which was only waist deep, then threw herself into it, rolling over and kicking the water to pull herself along.

Josh sat on the bank, his feet in the water, and watched her. She made a tempting sight, and he knew exactly what was on her mind, for Dora never made any secret of her desires for him. But after that day in her cabin when he had first surrendered to her advances, he had tried to avoid being drawn in again by her charms. He thought of the trip they
had just completed. It was the first time she had gone with him to deliver the bootleg whiskey, and now as he sat on the bank of the swift-flowing creek, he wondered what his family would think if they knew he had become a bootlegger. Josh was not proud of himself for this, but the money he’d made had come in handy, and besides, he was completely addicted to whiskey now. His family knew he drank, of course, but he had convinced them that he got the money for the whiskey by hauling hay and equipment for the farmers or from the merchants in town.

Josh had already imbibed freely of the liquor that day. After the delivery was made, he was relieved, as always, and Dora had encouraged him to drink up—indeed had joined him drink for drink.

The shade was cool, and the alcohol had dulled his senses. He sat there watching Dora until she finally came out of the river, her wet slip clinging to her, her eyes fastened on Josh with a determination he knew he couldn’t resist. She sat down beside him and found his lips with her own. Her mouth was warm under his, and she began to murmur softly. She pulled him to the ground, and Josh Winslow succumbed once again, despairing that he had sunk so low that he could not control his impulses with this backwoods girl. But he had already shamed his family by becoming a drunk and a bootlegger.
So how could this be any worse?
he reasoned. As she clung to him, he threw away all restraints and seized her in a passionate embrace.

****

Hannah chewed her lower lip and stared out of the window. The others were sitting at the table finishing supper, but the meal had been silent. Josh had returned home, quiet and sullen. He had eaten little, and now he sat at the table staring blankly at his plate.

Jenny had fixed pancakes for them all to enjoy with the
honey they had gathered, but no one said much about it as they ate the sweet treat.

Finally Hannah said, “Something’s wrong. Father should have been back by now.”

Clint had been thinking exactly the same thing but had hesitated to speak up, not wanting to overreact. Now he got to his feet and reached for his hat. “I’ll go look for him.”

“I’ll go with you,” Josh volunteered.

“We’ll all go,” Jenny said.

Clint shook his head. “No, it won’t do any good. You’ll get lost in the woods.”

“I can’t wait here,” Kat complained.

“You’ll have to,” Clint said firmly. “Somebody’s got to wait in case he comes back. You women stay. Josh and I can do the looking.”

****

When the men returned, it was obvious that their search had been fruitless. “Didn’t find him?” Hannah asked.

“No, and now it’s getting dark,” Clint said. His lips were drawn tight, a wariness about him. “We’ll have to wait until morning, and we’ll have to have help. Josh, why don’t you go into town and tell the sheriff. See if he can’t get some men to be here in the morning. I’ll go tell Jesse, and we’ll round up all the neighbors we can.”

“All right,” Josh said. He whirled and left the room at once, and soon they heard the truck starting up.

“What could have happened to him?” Jenny asked Clint.

“I think he’s probably just gotten lost. He’s not that much of a woodsman.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”

Hannah felt her legs go weak. She knew Clint was not saying all that he was thinking, and she herself did not want to put words to her fears. She saw Kat looking lost and noted that the youngster’s lower lip was trembling. Hannah went to her sister and put her arms around her, saying, “It’ll be
all right, Kat. We’ll find him. Don’t worry.” She wished she could take this advice herself, but she knew there would be no sleep for her that night.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Longest Night

Lewis awoke when the sun touched his eyes. He had spent a horrible night in the gully. He knew now for certain that his leg was broken, and he also knew that it was useless to try to crawl to get help. He had made several attempts, and on the last one he had fainted from the terrible pain. He had dragged himself up close to the sheer wall that rose up from the river, but now the sun had spanned the ground, and he felt it touch his face with a heat that would only get worse.

His lips were dry and cracked, and his tongue felt swollen. He had not thought to bring water, for he knew the river was ordinarily close enough. Now, however, a raging thirst gripped him, but there was nothing he could do about that. After a time he pulled himself up and leaned back, gritting his teeth against the searing pain in his leg. He had pulled his pants leg up and was relieved to see that the bone had not punctured through the skin. He was, however, filled with a foreboding. He thought back to the time he had gone charging up San Juan Hill in Cuba with Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. He had been afraid then, but it had been a clean fear, for he had known that death would either come quickly or, if he were wounded, there would be somebody to care for him. All through the night in the gully, long fingers of fear seemed to come down and touch him, chilling his heart. To die of thirst alone was a frightful thought, but he knew it could happen. More than once during the long night, he had berated himself for not sticking to his plan to go south. Now
Clint and his family would not have the foggiest notion that he had turned in the other direction. He tried to guess the time, but without a watch, the best he could do was guess that it was midmorning.

He picked up the rifle, chambered a shell, then counted the ones that remained. “I’ll shoot one off every two hours,” he said to himself. “I can only hope that somebody will hear me.” He fired the first shot, which made a puny popping sound to his ears. He then croaked out in a voice as loud as he could, “Help! Somebody please come and get me!”

The thin echo of his own voice came back to him, and Lewis was overwhelmed with the immensity of these Georgia woods. A man could walk for hours and see nothing. He sat there helpless, his hat pulled down to shade his face, and did the only thing a man could do in his place. He began to pray.

****

By that evening Lewis had only two bullets left. In desperation he cradled one of them in his hand, having lost hope that anybody would come. He chambered the shell with numb fingers, lifted it upward, and put his hand on the trigger. Once the last shell was fired, there would be nothing else he could do. He could not possibly cry out loud enough for anyone to hear.

When he pulled the trigger and heard the sound of the shot echo, the last vestiges of hope drained out of him. He let the rifle drop, closed his eyes, and felt the tears running down his cheeks. “Take care of my children, God.”

At that very moment he thought he heard a noise, and a faint hope returned. With trembling fingers, he awkwardly inserted the last shell and fired the gun. He cried out hoarsely, “Here! Come! I’m over here!” He waited . . . but heard nothing. He flung the rifle away from him with a sob.

****

The song echoed through the evening air as the woman singing it sat on the seat of a two-wheel cart.

She glanced back into the bed of the cart and nodded with satisfaction. “You just mind your business there, turtles,” she said, and a smile crossed her broad face, which was smooth and unlined. It was a strong face, as was the body outlined beneath the men’s pants and khaki shirt. Her black hair showed beneath the floppy hat she wore, and as she looked at the turtles, she spoke, her voice breaking the silence. “Nothing I like better than good ol’ turtle soup. When the cravin’ comes on me, nothin’ to do but go down to the river. So, you turtles, you’re gonna be et, and that’s what God made you for.”

She had a warm voice, lower than most women’s, and when she lifted her voice again to sing, the powerful sound filled the air. She took off her hat and let her hair fall down her back almost to her waist. “My, but that’s a mournful song. I can do better than that, Lord.” She began to sing “I Am Bound for the Promised Land,” and as the cart bumped over the trail between the oaks and pines, she suddenly pulled the mule up. “Whoa, Mazie.”

She sat very still . . . waiting, listening . . . and finally she called out, “Is anybody there?”

She waited and jumped when the sound of a distant shot came to her.

“What in the world could that be?” She leaped out of the wagon with an agile movement and said, “You stay right there, Mazie.” Then she ran as quickly as her large size would allow. The sun was down behind the line of trees, creating long shadows, but when she emerged into the open, she stopped and looked around. “Is anybody there?” she called loudly. She paused and turned her head slightly, hearing a sound she could not identify. She ran over the broken ground until she came to the edge of the deep gully. She had hunted deer here from time to time and knew of this gully. Now she called again loudly, “Speak out! Make yourself heard!”

Again there was a faint sound, which seemed to come from beneath her feet. She looked down and saw nothing at first. Then as she turned to her left and looked again, she spotted a man lying flat on his back down in the gully.

“Lord, help him!” she whispered. She ran quickly to the point directly over him and called out, “Are you all right, mister?” She saw him twitch, but there was no answer. “Still alive,” she muttered, making a quick decision to find a way down to him. She ran along the edge, and before she had gone a hundred yards, she found that the gully wall tapered and the ground was more solid. As she ran down, she was thinking,
I can get the cart down here to haul that feller out if he don’t die on me.

She hurried along the river until she was beside the man. She knelt and lifted his hat and saw that he was bright red with sunburn. She put her hand on his forehead and found that he was burning up, probably with the sunburn and possibly fever as well. “Can you hear me?” she asked. She put her ear by his mouth and was relieved to note his warm breath on her cheek. Then she turned and saw the leg. “Oh, my Lord! That’s a bad one.”

Resolutely she got to her feet. “I’m gonna have to get that cart down here. There ain’t no other way to get this poor man up to the top.” She turned and quickly made her way back along the gully wall and then back up to where she had
left her cart, praying all the while in a loud voice, urgently and without restraint.

As she unhooked the mule from the cart, she spoke to the turtles. “Looks like you’re gonna have some company back there.”

****

Lewis came out of unconsciousness when he felt hands on him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that there was very little light filtering down into the gully. Someone was moving him, and he cried out as his leg sent a fiery pain through him.

“Sorry, I know your leg is bad, but we gotta get you out of here.”

Lewis tried to speak, but his dry, swollen tongue would not allow it. Then he felt an arm around his shoulder and something cool touching his lips. It was a jug, and as he grasped at it he heard the voice saying, “Take it easy, now. Not too much.”

Lewis was tortured by thirst, but he managed to gasp, “I fell.”

“I see you did, and you broke your leg. I’m gonna have to pick you up and put you in this here cart. I can’t carry you out.”

Lewis could not answer, and the next few moments were bad. He cried out when he felt himself lifted up and then he lost consciousness momentarily as his leg seemed to be on fire.

He was not aware of the passage of time, but soon he knew that he was in a wagon being trundled through the woods. By twisting his head he could see the back of his rescuer. When he said, “Please, where am I?” the figure turned around, and he was surprised to see it was a woman. Her hair fell out from beneath her floppy hat, and it was a woman’s voice that answered. “You be right still there. We’re almost to home, but I can’t go too fast with it almost dark. I’ll have to get you inside, and that’s gonna hurt. But it cain’t be helped.”

Lewis lay still, gritting his teeth against the pain. Finally the mule stopped and the wagon shifted as the woman got down.

“You wait right here while I get a bed ready.”

Lewis lay still, his thinking fuzzy and confused. The woman was gone for a short time, and when she came back she said, “I know you cain’t put no weight on that leg. I’m gonna have to carry you. Do you think you can straighten up and stand on your good leg—and then fall over my shoulder?”