Out of the Burning

By Ivy Williams Stone

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Chapter Three

The sentence imposed upon Silas Hoggan was indeterminate — one to twenty-five years. There could be no doubt he had had a hand in the kidnapping. Some confederate had taken the child back to the Hoggan cabin in Crow’s Nest. Judge Harrison was positive, even the sheriff suspicious. So the third degree wore on, the judge’s nerves taut, his patience gone. Echo Harrison fluctuated between hysterical consciousness and drug-induced coma. An efficient, motherly nurse came and took complete charge of the young Portia. From the hour of Pamela’s disappearance, the remaining child was never left alone.

“If you don’t return the child, unharmed, I’ll give you the limit,” thundered the judge. “You’ll stay in prison twenty-five years. You’ll die there.”

“’Pears like I nary had ‘nough vittles fer weuns,” mused old Silas. “The old woman ain’t got no time fer babies. She’ll be poor fed when I ain’t thar. She can’t tend no least one. Youns go see.”

“If you return the child I’ll rescind your sentence,” compromised the judge. “Perhaps I was too severe.” Vision of a tortured haby, of a neglected child made him shudder. The baby must be found!

But even the promise of complete freedom brought no confession from old Silas. He reiterated one thought, “Weuns ain’t got that thar least one.” And the old lady echoed after him, “Weuns ain’t never seed that thar baby!”

A posse of citizens combed the country side, swooped down on “Crow’s Nest unexpectedly, searched the home of every dweller. But each home already possessed abundant children. Least ones of varying ages crawled about on the bare floors, lay on blankets or sat in the dooryards and gaped at the visitors. At the home of Steve Turner the stern visaged old mother received her inquisitors with dignified reserve.

Yes, they had a baby, born the night ‘fore the trial. She had cared for the mother, who had almost died. They wanted no babies that (.he Lord didn’t send proper. The farm was too poor, the soil too thin, it didn’t give livin’ ‘nough for the children they already had. Cassie Turner lay in the corner bed, nursing her infant. Wrapped in the half of a drab, worn blanket, wearing a gown shaped from a sack, the baby whimpered mournfully and blended with its environment. The posse, headed by the none too zealous sheriff, glanced at the infant on the arm of the semi-bewildered Cassie, and hastily withdrew. How could mere men distinguish tiny babies? How could they question a mother’s evidence, or a grim old midwife? Besides, witnesses were plentiful that the baby had been expected.

Steve Turner, strangely docile, volunteered to lead them about the mountains. He furnished copious family histories and gave no hint of a secret grudge against Judge Harrison. And while he led the searchers hither and yon, the old mother buried the beautiful clothes and the locket marked “Pamela” under the cellar floor. When she was positive no eye could watch, she made certain the soil lay flat under a large walnut tree, and that dried bark and leaves concealed all evidence of freshly turned earth. And the unsuspecting Cassie held her new baby tenderly; rejoiced in her fine features and promise of beauty, and marveled at the skill of Granny Turner who had saved them both. No need to burden Steve with the price of them fancy doctors. Granny had done so well.

The defeated searchers returned to their routine of life. Rumors of a strange peddler, of suspicious looking tourists, of passing gypsies spread about the town. Judge Harrison grew morose and stern, refused to discuss his loss, ordered Echo to refrain from mentioning the lost baby. But though he might instruct his sister Eunice, it was without avail. She was ever watching, hoping, confident that some day the child would return.

Old Silas Hoggan lost his identity under a number; lost his beloved jug, his faithful dog. But in their stead came the comforting assurance of plentiful food, a bed better than any he had ever known, and weekly rations of tobacco. He puttered about the penitentiary, becoming a small authority on the taming of wild birds. Being naturally indolent, he cheerfully gave the State the responsibility of his support. If he had any regrets about his incarceration, it was to mildly wonder “Ef the old woman war a makin’ it.”

Miss Eunice Harrison never had an opportunity to tell her brother of her fears for his personal safety. James always abruptly changed the subject whenever she attempted it. So, hoping to placate the anger of Steve Turner, she sent his family frequent gifts. Once a month the mailman left a package in their crossroads box. Warmer clothes for winter, gifts for the children. Soft slippers for the old grandmother, a sweater for the growing boy, a fancy dish for Cassie, fur-lined gloves for Steve. The box never failed to arrive, although Steve Turner never gave any comment, either of approval or resentment. Cassie, however, voiced loud praise for the ‘Town Lady’ and reared the children to love her memory. The sting of poverty was allayed for the mountain mother by the generous gifts and the drab monotony of her narrow life was relieved by anticipation. Nearly every box contained a book, and these were laid away with awe and reverence.

In striking contrast to the other two children’s heavy, black hair, the least one had bright soft curls.

“Weuns oughter call her curly,” ventured Cassie, running her hardened hand through the golden mass. “I never seed sich hair afore. Taint like ourn.”

“My pappy’s ma had hair that away,” prompted the old granny quickly. “Nary a black hair. I aims ter dye that thar least one’s head. ‘Taint purty that away. Buddy’s hev ter get walnuts, and I aims ter mix a good bit o’ dye and fix it up black come summer.”

Thus the infant Pamela grew to childhood, her golden curls losing their luster through frequent “dippings.” She learned the mountain ate its coarse foods, faced its hardships. Bare-footed, she plodded along the corn rows, dropping the seed until her child shoulders ached. Under the direction of the gaunt, vigilant granny, she spread the precious wool on the shed roof to dry. She helped to husk corn and shelled the rough kernels until her little hands bled. She early learned to distinguish between the doty chips and the burnable wood. She toted water from the well up the path to the house. She soon learned to feed the fire under the huge pots when “bilin’ down” sorghum. She became skilled in drying squash for winter, in gathering the vines full of dried beans, which Bud hung from the ceiling rafters. her bare legs became freckled and rough, her feet tough and grimy. She took her turn at the out-door wash tubs, and the delicately moulded body, thus taxed, created an eager appetite. Thus the heavy corn bread, the fat pork, the flour thickened hominy and the sunburned potatoes were like ambrosia to the ever hungry child. But while Bud hoed in the garden with dogged stoicism, and her sister Millie evaded or dallied over allotted tasks, little Curly saw beauty all about her. She saw cause for rapture in the sunset, saw beauty in the flash of a black bird’s wing and fantastic figures in the glowing embers of the outdoor fire. The autumnal leaves were a source of joy, and the rare glimpse of a cardinal repaid days of drudgery.

Toilsome home work through the long hot summer. Nut gathering after the first frost, then school! Blessed sesame to a starved soul! Through the persistent efforts of Miss Eunice Harrison a real teacher had come to Crow’s Nest. the school house had been repaired and attendance was made compulsory. Thus on winter mornings, Bud broke a trail through the heavy snow and Millie, complaining against the hard “larnins” plodded behind him. Little Curly, always hugging one of the precious books which she had discovered I the corner cupboard, brought up the rear. She was unmindful that her feet were often wet. The meagre contents of her lunch box gave her no concern. Wasn’t the Little Lame Prince flying on his magic carpet, or Little Lord Fauntleroy about to find his mother? She learned quickly, displaying a keen brain, and leaving her mountain companions far behind.

She performed her evening tasks with lightning rapidity, then settled before the bright embers of the kitchen grate with a precious book, whose printed message had been so long closed against the family. As she read aloud, with her eager vibrant voice and brilliant eyes, one by one the family joined the circle. The bony contour of the old grandmother seemed softened by the firelight. At the most thrilling chapters she dropped her knitting to listen better. Steve Turner often put up his gun and drew nearer. Bud forgot his whittling. Cassie stood on the edge of the circle, glorifying in the “larnin” of her last one. Only Millie remained aloof. No story ever held her flighty attention. Having attained her growth early, she boasted of physical prowess and exacted service from the delicate Curly from sheer dominance of bodily strength.

Millie disliked the school. “I hate that thar school,” she grumbled. “Them figgers is too hard. Seven times eight is fifty-four.”

“No, Millie,” corrected Curly with infinite patience. “Seven times eight is fifty-six. I showed youns that yesterday.”

“Then six times nine is the same too. Fifty-six.”

“No, Millie! Six times nine is fifty-four. Remember the nines are easy the way Teacher showed you. One less than ten each time. Thirty-six, forty-five, fifty-four.”

“Hound an’ dawg is the same,” persisted Millie stubbornly. “But that thar reader book makes ’em look mighty different. An’ why does they have ter say house an’ cabin? Ain’t they the same?”

“I aims ter quit school,” she complained another day. “I aims ter larn spinnin’. I aims ter marry. Abe Walters is a talkin’ ter me now. He’s a goin’ ter quit too. He ain’t afeared. I’m most fifteen now, an’ Ma war married ter Pa fore she war sixteen!”

“O Millie, youns wouldn’t quit the teacher! The law makes youns go.”

“I ain’t afeared,” boasted Millie, with a toss of her black, thick hair. “I aims ter set up with Abe. Youns needn’t ter tell Pa. I ain’t a comin’ ter school no more.”

“O Millie, you wouldn’t!” Curly’s quick brain and constant practice in reading was fast adjusting her speech to that of Teacher.

“Youns better keep ter mountain talk,” cautioned Millie. “Pa will take youns outer that thar school. Youns air gettin’ too much larnin’.”

“Ter morrow,” continued Millie, “I’m agoin’. I’m startin’ ter school, same as you an’ Bud. I aint’ agoin’. I aims ter go nuttin’ with Abe. Weuns fetch some more walnuts, so Granny kin dip youns’ head agin.”

“I don’t want it dipped!” protested Curly. “I want it gold! Ef you ain’t ter school, Bud’ll tell Pa.”

Millie, towering above her smaller sister, raised a threatening hand.

“Bud he’d best ter hold his tongue. Ef youn’s tell, I’ll wallop yer!” Then seeing no sign of weakening in the smaller girl, she cast about for better means of enforcing her threat. “Ef youn’s tell Pa, I’ll burn them thar books! An’,” she continued, triumphant that her last threat had struck home, “I aims ter have that thar yellar dress what the Town Lady sent an’ the red shawl too. Youns kin tell Granny youns give ’em ter me. Youns kin hev the book and both the tooth brushes. A snuff pick is fancy ‘nough fur me!”

The next morning Granny Turner inspected the crown of Curly’s head critically. A line of bright hair made sharp contrast with the black ends. “I aims ter dip that agin,” she commented.

“O Granny, leave it be,” protested the meek Cassie. “Et’s that purty!”

“Youns ma’s ma hed hair that away,” the old mouth set in grim lines, “An’ she died young. Folks need thick, black hak ter live long. That thar gold riair makes risins too.”

After Curly’s hair had been dipped until the gold line had completely disappeared, Granny set Curly to feed the fire under the huge pot of sorghum.

“Youns aim ter keep et abilin’,” she admonished. “When et biles right smart, ets sweeter, et is. Don’t feed them thar doty chips. Watch et smart.”

Curly’s intentions were good. She really wanted to please old Granny. But a cardinal, a beautiful fellow, colored like the shawl Millie had appropriated, flew past. She had to find out where he nested. Quickly she cast about for means of preserving the fire for a few minutes. Doty chips would kill it. She saw two fair sized, blackish rocks protruding from the ground. With a great effort she pried them loose and placed them on the fire to hold a stick of hickory wood in place. Then she gave chase to the elusive bird.

An hour later she returned, breathless and fearful over the fate of the pot of sorghum. Had the kettle boiled over, spilling the precious sweet? Had it ceased to boil? Granny would be that angry! Certain of punishment she ran around the corner of the house and came upon a startling scene. Granny was down on her knees on one side of the fire. Steve Turner was similarly stooped at the other side. Cassie was standing nearby, eyes bulging, mouth agape. Bud bad hurried in from the garden, hoe in hand. Even Millie seemed interested. The stick of hickory wood was entirely burned, but the kettle continued to boil — an even, clear bubble. The two rocks were afire — burning, emitting a bright, warm glow!

“Whar youns get that thar black rock?” demanded Steve.

“Over yonder.” Curly pointed a shaky finger at her find.

‘Them thar rocks is a burnin’ like good wood,” added Granny. “Better’n wood; better’n hickory.”

“O Pa, et’s coal! Teacher told us. She showed us in a book, how folks digs it outer the ground!” Bud dropped his hoe and ran to the spot Curly had indicated. ‘There’s more Pa — lots more!”

“This hyar farm is mighty poor fur crops. Et’s got coal. I heerd tell of that thar stuff. Weuns has got rich!” Granny got stiffly to her feet.

“No more hickory ter fetch!” Bud threw his dilapidated cap into the air.

“No more doty chips,” beamed Cassie, her broken, decayed teeth becoming super prominent. “That war lucky youns chased that thar purty bird, Curly.”

Steve Turner rose slowly to his full height and leaned upon his gun. “This hyar farm is wuth money,” he mused. “I mind how that thar jedge wanted et. I seed coal a burnin’ down ter that thar Court House. This hyar farm’s his’n. Taint our’n.” He glanced toward his mother and the same defiant, unconquerable motive marked both their faces. ” ‘Fore that thar jedge gets this hyar farm, he’s agoin’ ter pay plenty,” he threatened. “Hyar, Millie. Quit alookin’ in that thar lookin’ glass. Youns and Curly fetch this coal ter the stove!” Shouldering his gun he marched off; erect, defiant, revengeful.

That night the circle gathered close about the glowing hearth, with Curly and the new book as the center.

‘This hyar ramrod’s a right smart cleaner.” It was the first praise Steve Turner had ever made of any of Miss Eunice’s gifts.

“That fire’s some purty,” muttered the old grandmother. “Weuns alivin’ right side them black rocks always, and awishin’ they was gone!”

“Youns kin tote et in when youns wants et,” Bud was elated over his relief as a wood gatherer. “I aims ter quit cuttin’ hickory now.”

“Whar’s Millie?” Steve spoke up, quickly suspicious over her absence.

“She’s poorly,” Cassie’s defense of her absent daughter was over eager. “She ain’t lookin’ pert nowadays. She’s got risins on her neck, she has.”

“That thar Abe Walters needn’t ter come hereabouts,” muttered Steve ominously. “Curly, youns kin read some more. That Prince sure had his troubles.”

The story progressed until Steve Turner raised an authoritative hand. He strode to the water bucket and rattled the dipper against the empty pail suggestively. Bud paid no heed, Cassie continued to pound her dough, the old grandmother took up her knitting. Curly dropped her book, and grabbing the bucket, went out into the night. The old grandmother raised a “hush finger” and a sonorous, rollicking song drifted in:

“I traded my calf and got me a mole
An’ the blooming thing run in its hole!”

Granny followed Curly out of the house. Standing in the shadow she heard the creak of the windlass and the splash of pouring water. She waited for Curly to appear, but a startled, muffled cry came instead. Like a creature of the wilds, old Granny Turner dashed down the slight incline and struck sharply at the dark form that was forcibly embracing Curly.

“Abe Walters, youns leave that thar least one be,” she commanded. “Whar’s Millie? Youns been a settin’ up with her.”

“I aims ter marry Curly,” sulkily the young man admitted his motive. “Weuns kin get married termorrow.”

“Youns best marry Millie. Curly ain’t fur youns.”

“Millie’s over smart. She hit me — she did.”

The old woman gave the youth a violent shove into the dark. Taking the bucket in one hand and the frightened Curly by the other, she disappeared into the house.

The others were abed. “Youns go ter bed,” she directed. “In the mornin’, crawl out early. I’ll push youns. Put on yer best things. Youns is agoin’ fur a right smart walk.”

The bewildered, frightened Curly followed her Granny’s instructions. She did not undress. They always slept in their clothes. She did not even dare to use the precious toothbrush. She crept in beside Millie, who turned toward her with a stifled sob.

“O Curly, I wisht I nary went anuttin’ with Abe,” she whispered. “I’m afeared ter tell Pa.” Finally Millie fell asleep but mumbled troubled thoughts all night.

“Seven times eight is fifty-four,” she muttered, and later, “Abe ain’t so good. He’s afeared too.”

Before dawn Curly felt her Granny nudge her. She rose obediently, dressed in her best as ordered, ate the food thrust upon her. Together the two went outdoors into the chilly dawn. Down in the cellar Granny pulled and twisted at a rock in the floor until she loosened it. Then she drew out a tin box and handed it to Curly. She also thrust a ragged piece of paper into her hand. “This hyar’s the name o’ that thar Town Lady. Youns go thar and give her this hyar box. Youns stay thar always. Don’t youns never come back hyar.”

Curly stood transfixed until the old grandmother gave her a little shove toward the distant town. “Youns go down the holler, past the mail box and the spring hole, and keep agoin’. When youns gets ter town, ask whar the Town Lady stays. Right smart folks will tell yer. Hyar’s vittles.”

Torn between loyalty to the unhappy Millie and affection for the foster child who had “larnin’,” the old grandmother gave the trembling child a scant, meagre kiss. And Curly Turner, carrying a portentous tin box under one arm, and a generous supply of corn bread and fatty pork under the other, passed out of Crow’s Nest forever.

(To be continued)