The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp (4 page)

The captain fell to his knees and begged for mercy!

Seeing his obvious advantage, the Sugar Man struck a deal, which he made Alouicious write down, using the captain's own blood as ink.

A deal -I, Alouicious Beaucoup, and all of my heirs hereafter, solemnly promise to protect the swamp, and all of its critters, forever, or else risk the wrath of the Sugar Man.

Signed, A. Beaucoup

P.S. Protection includes protection against a particular sea chantey.

Despite his piratey-ness, Alouicious kept his word. He made sure that the swamp and its critters were protected. Every generation of Beaucoups was forced to read the bloody deal and swear their fealty to it. After all, the big guy had spared their ancestor's life, and they were grateful.

They were merciful Beaucoups.

Of course, that was long ago, and Sonny Boy was no Alouicious. He had no truck with flying pirates and mythological giant furry men. So far as he was concerned, a deal that was struck three hundred years ago was null and void; he didn't care whose blood was on the lines, even though he carried a few small drops of it in his own veins.

The way Sonny Boy saw it, the Sugar Man Swamp was his and his alone, and he could do what he wanted with it. As soon as he inherited it, he started looking for developers, people who would put a business on the property and bring in some income. But aside from Audie Brayburn, who owned and operated the Paradise Pies Café, they were few and far between.

Why?

Well, for one thing, we're talking about a swamp here, not a greeny-green pasture with gently rolling hills and frolicking lambs. We're talking about stinging pricker vines and high-pitched clouds of mosquitoes, of thick, humid air that settles around your neck like a shawl; we're talking
alligators and water moccasins, carnivorous pitcher plants and primeval possums with their primeval possum babies. In short, we're
not
talking about Central Park. Nosirree.

But another thing was surely because of Audie Brayburn's insistence that the ivory-billed woodpecker could still reside there. He even claimed that he had taken a photo of it back in 1949.

Whenever anyone even considered hanging a shingle in the swamp, soon enough they heard Audie's stories, and that was that. Nobody wanted to disturb the habitat of a bird that the whole world longed for, especially after Audie convinced them that the dead trees were perfect nesting spots, that the beetles the bird loved were plentiful, that all of the conditions in the Sugar Man Swamp were just right.

It made Audie Brayburn a thorn in the side of Sonny Boy Beaucoup.

Sonny Boy Beaucoup didn't give a flip about ivory-billed woodpeckers or Audie Brayburn and his crazy stories. Did Audie have the famous one-of-a-kind photo of the bird? No, he did not.

So when Audie passed away, Sonny Boy saw it as an opportunity to take a stand. That's when he agreed to let Jaeger Stitch use two thousand acres of the Sugar Man Swamp for her Gator World Wrestling Arena and Theme
Park in exchange for half of the gate. Never mind what dear old Audie might think. He was gone. And as far as Sonny Boy was concerned, Audie's lease was up too. The only way he'd let the Brayburns stay there was if they came up with a boatload of cash. Maybe.

T
HE
S
UGAR
M
AN ALSO KNEW
about Audie's passing. In the deepest, darkest part of the forest, he stirred in his sleep. There were so many gone now. The passenger pigeons. The black painters. The Carolina parakeets. The mastodons. (You heard me, mastodons.) The pirates. Audie Brayburn.

The Sugar Man missed them all.

I
N
1947
A SCIENTIST NAMED
Edwin Land introduced a camera that could take an “instant photograph.” He called his invention a Polaroid Land Camera. Before then, photographs required a darkroom and a lot of chemicals to develop them.

A pack of film for the Polaroid Land Camera took eight photos. Only eight. The camera was compact, too. Smaller than a shoe box, it could be squeezed into a flat case and carried over your shoulder with a strap.

A serious photographer knew that every shot was one of a kind because there was no negative. Each Polaroid was a unique print—it couldn't be reprinted. So, the shooter took extremely good care of every photograph. As soon as they took the shot, they would pull the photo out of the back of the camera, gently tear it on the perforated lines in order to separate it from the camera, then wait for a full minute or two or three while the shot developed in its paper wrapper. Those were a long few minutes. When the
waiting was over, it was like opening a Christmas present. Would it be as wonderful as you thought it would be? The photographer never knew until he or she peeled the back of the film from the photo and, holding it between thumb and forefinger, waved it until it was dry. The last step was to cover it with a gooey tube of coating material and wave it again. The photo was “fixed” forever . . . so long as it was kept high and dry.

That is why, if a photographer was smart, they'd place the photo in an air- and watertight container . . . such as a .30-caliber ammo can, which could be purchased at your local Army/Navy Surplus store. In addition to the photographs, campers could use these cans for storing things like matches and socks. They kept everything dry and safe.

Audie Brayburn loved his Polaroid Land Camera. But he lost it. Along with his .30-caliber ammo can. Along with his DeSoto. Lost them all in the Sugar Man Swamp, which, even though it was a good place to hide, was not a good place to lose something.

I
N THE MEANTIME, WE CAN
'
T
forget our Scouts. When last we left them, J'miah was worrying at the foot of the longleaf pine tree, and his brother Bingo was perched at the very, very top of that same tree. J'miah squinted some more. But Bingo reveled in his discovery of Blinkle. In fact, he was having his own little jubilation moment, when . . .

Rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble!

The pine tree shimmied. Bingo tightened his grip.

“Bingo!” J'miah's voice rose in pitch. The worry level was now at the scared level.

Rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble.

The tree shook. Bingo held on as tight as he could, but as he did, the top branch swayed left, then right, then left again. Bingo heard a
ccrrreeeeaaakkk
, followed by another
rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble.

Sway

Rumble.

Sway.

Rumble.

Sway.

There are any number of things that can make the earth tremble enough to shake a large tree and simultaneously create waves in the Bayou Tourterelle. An earthquake. A stampeding herd of buffalo. A major explosion from, say, an oil refinery.

But were any of those a factor in our story?

We can say definitively that they were not.

I
T WAS A TENSE MOMENT
at the top of the longleaf pine. In fact, just about the only thing that Bingo could think about was the terrible fate of Great-Uncle Banjo and how the same winds of that fate seemed to be blowing in his direction. Bingo had to wonder: If climbing trees was part of his genetic makeup, was falling out of them part of the deal? As if to make the point, a breeze pushed against the pine and made it sway again.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Bingo looked down at the bayou. Should he fall, its surface looked quite a bit friendlier than the ground. Then again, there was that whole alligator issue. He knew that if he fell into the water, he would likely live through the dive, but would he live through the jaws of the raccoon-eating alligators? It wasn't a happy thought. Bingo gripped the tree
a little harder. He was clearly up a tree without a parachute.

“Bingo?” His brother's voice again. The tree swayed, the long leaves rattled. It was a message from the universe: Go Bingo! And with that, our masked tree hugger quit hugging, and with his face pointed south, he may have set a record for making it to the ground.

Once there, Bingo pulled on J'miah's paw, and together they hit the trail as fast as their stout little legs would carry them. As they ran . . .
Rumble-rumble-rumble.
The rumbles were everywhere.

Bingo had felt rumbles from thunderstorms before, but he had never felt rumbles like these, not rumbles that shook the trees, not rumbles that made waves on the bayou, not rumbles that skittered up his toes, into his belly and made his ears buzz.

With both hearts pounding like mad, he and his brother found the entryway and dodged into the cozy interior of the Sportsman. Home. Safe.

Rumble-rumble-rumble.

In a very tiny voice, J'miah asked,
“What is that?”

Bingo swallowed hard. He did not have an answer. All he could do was hunker down as close to his brother as possible. The old car creaked and rattled. Bingo tucked his paws underneath his chin and stared into the darkness.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the commotion stopped. Bingo climbed over the seat and perched on the
bottom of the steering wheel. He stared at the dials and numbers on the dashboard, and hoped for some Intelligence to issue forth. He stared for a long time, but nothing happened. The Voice only spoke when there was thunder and lightning. Right now, it was as clear as could be.

Bingo drew in a deep breath. Soon enough dawn would arrive. It was time to sleep. But in that dark moment, he realized that he had never gone to bed without his parents right there with them. He sniffed the air of the quiet car and tried to smooth his tuft. This wasn't the way that freedom was supposed to feel. As if to drive home the point, he heard a quiet sniffle coming from J'miah. Oh no, not the sniffles again. But there they were, and all at once he missed Little Mama and Daddy-O like crazy. What would they do in this situation?

Of course, Bingo knew the answer. Little Mama would clean their ears, then tuck them into their bunks and kiss them, and Daddy-O would sing a song,
Fais dodo, fais dodo.
And soon enough they'd be sound asleep. Bingo felt his own little sniffle start to waft into his nose, but he swallowed hard and pushed it back.

Nope, he was not going to sniffle.

He was a Scout.

An Official Information Officer.

He gave a small salute toward the quiet dashboard. First thing in the evening, he would:

• open his eyes

• put his ear to the ground

• lift his nose to the air

He and J'miah would figure out where those rumbles were coming from and who or what was making them.

“J'miah,” he whispered, not sure that his brother was awake. He continued, “Tomorrow night we have a new mission.”

“We do?” J'miah's voice was a little trembly.

“Operation Rumble-Rumble-Rumble.”

There was no reply.

Bingo didn't need an answer. He was filled with resolve. Then as he stretched out in his bunk, another thought popped into his head. Only this one wasn't a worry. It was a memory of looking out at the wide, starry sky from the top of the pine, a memory of the blinking red star that he, all by his little self, had discovered.

Blinkle.

Another yawn crept over him. Stars are for wishing, he thought. As soon as he woke up, he would climb another tree and make a wish on Blinkle. He wasn't sure exactly what he would wish for, but this time he'd talk J'miah into climbing with him, so that
he
could make a wish too. All at once, Bingo couldn't wait to show Blinkle to J'miah. . . . And somewhere in all this thinking about wishing and stars and his father's songs . . . he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

C
HAPARRAL
B
RAYBURN DIDN
'
T KNOW ANYTHING
at all about Daddy-O's nighttime songs to the raccoon brothers. But he did know about the canebrake lullaby, the one his grandpa Audie had taught him.

“Whatever you do,” Grandpa Audie told Chap, “don't ever try to cut the cane without singing that song.”

We're not talking about any old sugarcane. We're talking about muscovado sugar, sweeter than honey, sweeter than maple syrup, sweeter than candied apples. As soon as Chap's hand was large enough to grip the machete, his mom taught him how to cut the cane, just like Grandpa Audie had taught her. It was hard, sweaty work, but it was important work too. At first, Chap had felt clumsy as he hacked his way through the thick stalks, but his mother was a good teacher. She showed him how to swing and chop, swing and chop, until he felt the rhythm of it roll up from the blade of the machete to the muscles in his neck.

After a couple of years, he was fast enough at it that his
mother turned the task over to him. “You've earned it,” she said. Chap stood taller than ever, proud to be the family's “chief chopper.”

“Just don't forget the lullaby,” said Grandpa Audie.

Back in the day, the cane grew so thick, it made a canebrake in the bayou. That in turn made for a perfect home for rattlesnakes,
Crotalus horridus
. Canebrake rattlers. They could hide in the canebrake and wait for an unsuspecting lizard or mouse or frog to hop by, and
snip-snap-zip-zap
! No more lizard or mouse or frog.

One day, back in Aught One, when the world was still new, the Sugar Man strode his way up the banks of the bayou and reached over to grab some of that delicious cane.
Zap!
A rattler struck out and bit him on the hand.
Ouch!
And before the Sugar Man knew what was happening,
snip-snap-zip-zap
those rattlers were chomping down.

“Ooooowwwwwwwiiiieeeeee!”
he yelled. And with his enormous hands, he started flinging rattlers left and right. That didn't stop the rattlers. They just kept on keeping on until soon there was a whole lot of thrashing and splashing going on in the middle of the Bayou Tourterelle.