Birthright

1877 - The Fields

The handles of Tull's horse-drawn hoe wheedle in my grip. The three fingers left on my hand make steadying the plough an arduous task. I could leave it for Luther to learn, but he is busy leading the pull horse. It is a chore he quite enjoys, and I am wont to let him. He and the horse have formed a bond, and the beast may well follow him to the ends of earth, given the choice. Alas, it also allows for me to set aside the whip. There is no need to bear suffering upon man or animal with undue cause, God knows many of us will find it in our own ways.

Especially the working man, I think as my gaze turns back to the leather gloves, empty where they should be firm.

"Daddy, why didn't you fight in The War of Northern Aggression?" Luther asks, seemingly from nowhere. Rather, I know the boy's close friend, Henry Willobaugh, has been regaling him with tales of the battles and Rebel heroics. The poor child lost his father in Antietam, when he was but a newborn. Now his world turns on that great spindle, trying to compromise grief with valor.

"T'weren't a war worth fighting. And don't call it that. There's a great many political principles that you don't understand. But leave it to say that one of them was regarding holding a man as property. And it don't matter which way you cut it, that trade was immoral, and one we will never practice again as Cartwrights."

"You mean slavery?"

"That'd be it. You know we either pay or provide for the men who work our fields. We take care of their families too. It's the Christian thing to do."

"Does that mean Henry's dad was a bad man? For fightin' in the war?"

I sigh, Luther's questions becoming an existential burden I was not ready for at this hour. But he is coming into his own. Attaining the age of reason and accountability. So I answer, "I didn't rightly know Henry's father. Aye, I knew the man, but that don't always tell his morals and will. Asides, it is not my place to judge, only God's."

"But if he was fightin' for an immoral cause, doesn't that make him evil?"

"Sometimes even good men commit wicked acts. And sometimes what seems like the right thing to do turns out to be wrong. Things aren't always as simple as good and evil. God and the Devil."

The sound of something solid hitting and scraping the plough blades rousts me from my conjectural reverie. I tell Luther to goad the work horse in reverse as I wiggle the hoe back from the trough it has dug. A large stone hinders the path, buried deep enough into the soil that the plough has only managed to uplift it, not remove it entirely. I could attempt to drive through and uproot it, but there's no sense in dulling the blades. There is still much land to work.

I bend down to lift the rock, intent on rolling it away from the field, when something strikes through the leg of my trousers. A long, brown streak slithers through the grass beside me.

"Dad, are you alright?" Luther asks as he sees me drop to my seat.

"Grab my hunting knife, but keep your eyes on the ground. There's a copperhead nearabouts," I warn, already fumbling at my waist to unbuckle the belt there, in order to tighten a makeshift tourniquet below the knee. Hopefully, it will slow the venom from returning to the heart. Rolling the cuff of my pants up as Luther hands me the knife, I steel myself for the cuts I have to make.

I carve an "X" shape into the side of my calf, one cut slicing across the two puncture marks. Screams emanate from between my teeth, which hold the belt taut as I squeeze the leg to induce greater bleeding.

"Should I suck out the poison?" Luther asks with panic in his voice.

"No! You'll just get the venom in your mouth. Go get Peter or the foreman. Tell 'em fetch Doc Pallin."

Luther just stands there, rooted in fear.

"Go!" I yell at the boy, still squeezing the muscle as he breaks into a run.

                                                                     ***

"An old pioneer remedy," Doc Pallin says, applying a poultice of ground bark and gunpowder. "As healthy as he was before the bite, I doubt it would have killed him. Still, Joshua may have done more damage by cutting to rid himself of the poison. Now we'll have to watch for infection. A bit of a trade off, I'm afraid."

"He's running fever, Doc," Olivia's troubled voice pierces my fog-filled mind. "How long until we know he's better?"

"Two days at most, I should think. Just make sure to clean the wound and change his dressing every so often. It will help stave off infection. I'll retrieve some ammonia from the office, if that would help ease your mind."

"Thank you doctor. Any extra treatments you think would help are appreciated." Her voice is so sincere that I almost smile. But my thoughts are engulfed by images of the manor, flickering and pitching as it goes dark one second, only to reappear the next. Marching inexorably forward to those grave oak double doors.

"Then I'll take my leave. Fare well, Missus Cartwright."

I vaguely hear the sound of the cottage door closing. Olivia runs a hand through my sweat-slicked hair, keeping the saline from stinging my eyes. Every touch is a needle in my fever dreams.

"Peter...." I call out.

"He's not here, my love," Olivia answers. "He's off to see Charles Wyler about his daughter, Bonnie." She trails off a bit before continuing, "And his tobacco farm."

Her words don't resonate with me at the moment. I'm still back at the manor, useless in my attempt to stop the robed men from taking my brother. Doc Pallin grins as he wields his terrible scalpel.

"Peter," I cry. "I'm so sorry, Peter. I'm sorry... Peter..."

I'm unable to do anything but call out his name.