I Was a Revolutionary by Andrew Malan Milward

between. And of course there was the burnt-black soil of his own Delta, that gorgeous floodplain between the Yazoo and Mighty Miss. He imagined the underwater humidity of syrupy summer days, the clouds of cotton dotting the horizon in all directions interrupted only by the occasional stand of pecan trees or bald cypress. When he felt the pangs of homesickness, CK would sit and stare for long stretches, humming to himself.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  ’Twas a long weary night,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  we were almost in fear,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  that the future was more than Nicodemus knew.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  ’Twas a long weary night,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  but the morning is near,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  and the words of our prophet are true.
    On the day before they arrived in Bull City, their wagon came upon a long train of Indians, maybe a hundred or so, making their way across the plains. There were a handful of white men in blue tunics on horses directing the scattered group, as if herding cattle.
    â€œSomething’s wrong with Rachel,” Mil said to CK, whose back was turned as he looked out the small window at the strange scene.
    â€œLook at this, would you,” he said as he chewed on wild garlic leaves to quench his thirst. He’d seen some Choctaws in and around Bolivar County, but these folks were different, and there was something of the spectacle about them now. They were barely clothed—next to naked, by God—with expressionless faces like beaten leather. A wretched lot, if ever CK had seen one. They walked slowly, in no hurry, it seemed, to arrive at their destination.
    â€œYou hear what I say, CK?”
    Still he didn’t turn, just reached a hand back to shake Mil’s leg. The noisome smell of garlic filled the hot wagon and she wafted a piqued hand as she joined him to see what he was fussing about.
    She looked on, punctuating her silence with a little tthit click in her mouth.
    â€œLook at them, would you,” he said. “Ain’t they terrible-looking as anything you ever saw? Where you spose them redmen going?”
    â€œWherever they being put,” Mil said, returning to her spot wedged up against a few large sacks of cornmeal. CK tried to imagine where that might be. Where would you go when forced from your home, not knowing your destination? Would you wander forever? “Baby’s hot,” Mil said, hand to Rachel’s head. “I been trying to tell you.” CK said nothing, still watching as their wagon left the dismal procession behind, thankful his family knew where their journey would end.
    He moved close to his wife, raising two fingers to his daughter’s head. “Fever? You sure?” he said skeptically. He took Rachel in his arms.
    â€œYou think a mama don’t know?”
    He rocked the child gently, inspecting her. He didn’t realize he was smiling until it had eased from his face. He could feel the warmth inside his daughter. Couldn’t be, he thought. Not after what they’d been through. No. He passed Rachel back to Mil. “She feel fine to me,” he said.
    One of the first ordinances they’d come to decide as a community was to outlaw liquor in Nicodemus. Talmen had never been one for more than the occasional drink, but he craved the tang of that Kentucky corn liquor and was glad he’d snuck a bottle in his clothes truck. He didn’t care who knew, either. Damned if anyone was going to say he weren’t allowed a drink after losing Isaiah. The night of the funeral, so besot, he walked through town with the bottle in hand. He made his way to the unfinished schoolhouse and went inside.