He told me that he went up to the church and sat there in the dark, wondering what he should do. He wasn't even ten years old at the time. He said the church smelled like horses and gunpowder and it smelled like sweat. (In those days they didn't have bullets like the ones we have, so they'd have been using the time to load up their weapons with powder and shot.) They'd pushed the benches and the communion table against the walls to make room for the animals. No doubt the men had slept on the benches. Certainly the wounded man had, because there was a good deal of blood on one of them, 105
and on the floor beside it. My father said, "That was the first thing I saw when the light began to come."
So he dragged that bench out back of the church and stood it on end so it would fall into the deep grass on its side. That was to trouble the surface of the grass as little as possible. Then he took a shovel and a broom and cleaned up after the horses as well as he could. He got a bucket of water and a piece of soap to scrub down that bloodstain, but that just made it bigger. So he ended up sloshing water over the whole floor to make that spot less conspicuous. His thought was that if the men who slept in the church were being pursued, their pursuers might come at any time and they would be looking for
things like mule droppings in a church or blood on a pew. And of course they were things that would have to be seen to in any case, and especially since that was a Saturday.
But those same pursuers would surely be curious to find him scrubbing out a church before the sun was well up. Then it occurred to him how unlike his father it was to leave at such a time, making no arrangements whatever for putting things right, leaving no instructions whatever for how they should be put right, leaving him to wander from his bed into this ridiculous situation, in which it seemed there was no right thing to be done. He was thinking these things and lugging a bucket of water up into the church, and he saw a man in a U.S. Army uniform sitting there in the twilight on a bench against the wall, with his hat in his hands and his gun lying on the bench beside him.
"You've got it looking right nice in here," the soldier said. Then he plucked at the ripped knee of his trousers and said, "My dang horse bolted on me. An owl hooted or something, and off she went. You folks wouldn't have a horse I could requisition. It would only be for a day or two."
"You'd have to speak to my father." 106
The soldier said, "Your father isn't here. I'd guess he's ridden off somewhere on the very horse I was hoping to borrow." Then he said, "You heard of Osawatomie John Brown?
Of course you have. Everybody has. I can see you're a fine boy. Don't worry, I'm not going to make you go telling lies right here in a church, little brother. You know the kinds of things John Brown has been up to."
My father said he had heard stories.
The soldier nodded. "There are decent folks around here who'd help him any chance they got. Ministers of the Gospel. They'd let him bring his old mule right into their church if he asked them to. They'd deem it an honor. I find that remarkable. Those fugitives would come in with their weapons
and their wounds and their dirty boots, they'd come in bleeding on the floor, and that would be just fine. Then a soldier of
the United States government comes along looking for them, as he is paid to do, and nobody even offers him a cup of coffee."
My father said, "We have coffee. I'm pretty sure we do." The soldier stood up. He said,
"My platoon left me about
two miles from here and took off east. They knew where those fellows would likely be off to next as soon as the moon was down. They didn't have to find those road apples you left out there on the front step to get a general sense of the situation. So if your father's gone with them, he might be seeing a world of trouble right about now." He said, "I thought I should tell you that before I drank your coffee."
My father said his lips were so numb he couldn't move
them to speak. The soldier said, "I'll just get myself a drink at your well." And he walked out of the church and got his drink and walked away up the road, favoring that one leg a little. My father hated to believe he was the man my grandfather shot, but he did believe it. I don't mean to suggest that he killed him 10 7
outright, but in those days in that place a man could die of a whole lot of things besides a bullet wound.
He had walked to the next farm and requisitioned their horse and taken off in the general direction he thought his platoon had gone, though, if it was the same man, he drifted somewhat to the south of it. Brown and the others had circled back and to the south, knowing they would be followed and making for the hills.
