Black Kettle

Kettle whistled as he made his way up the path–the same that had brought water to the house for over one hundred years. He was already crouching from years of beatings and even as a young man he was starting to show wear. Eighteen years a slave had taken not only his spirit, but also any chance at a normal life. With nothing but a couple of rolls and two squares of salted meats, he set out into the night with hopes of freedom. He hadn’t traveled more than two hours before he found himself strapped to a wagon and headed back to the plantation. With eyes swollen near shut, he could hear the trackers—a name for vigilante locals who had a pension for gratuitous violence. The sound over the cicada hummed loudly above the murder of their plans for me. The first thing Kettle heard was “let’s just kill this son-of-a-bitch!”

Sam: “Shut up Bill, this boy cost me nearly $800!, “I told you I’d give you $60 if you helped catch ‘em.”

Bill: “Yeah Sam, but that bastard scratched the shit out of me. Look at my face!”

Sam: “You will take your $60 and go the fuck home!”

Bill: “Whatever. Just gimme me my goddamn money.”

Sam, still with a shotgun in his lap, lifted his hip and squeezed his hand into his pocket exposing three wadded $20 bills. He tossed them down from the wagon. Just as they were hitting the ground Bill jeered, “You’re a fucking asshole, good thing you are family.”

“We are starting up around 6:00 tomorrow”, Sam asked. “I’ll be here at 7:00. We’ll have plenty of time to get those cattle moved.”, replied Bll. And off into the night he went.

Kettle, still lashed to the wagon, grunted with pain only to feel the butt of a shotgun strike the back of his head. From then on, only silence. 

When Kettle woke the next day, he found himself back on his mat in the cabin. There was a pain in his feet. He looked down and winced. This was followed by a howl. The tears sprung and a howl turned to an angry yell.

He could bear to look down. He knew the root of the pain. His now half-swollen eyes peered at two kerosene soaked rags situated around his ankles. He felt the pain focused on the gashes behind his heels. They were cut. He didn’t have to see them to know. This age-old tactic had been practiced in front of him many times before. Once, Sam had made him perform the same task on a runaway slave. Sam had handed Kettle a knife and said, “Boy, you do me or him, and you do me, you're a dead motherfucker tomorrow.” After a life Kettle had lived, there was no chance he would stab his master, and Sam knew it. Kettle, skilled with a knife, made two quick slashes and his cousin never ran again. 

With his foot, Sam kicked the door a jar and yelled, “you fucking owe me sixty-goddamned-dollars and are gonna pay me back every fucking penny!”

Kettle sat silent. 

Sam screamed, “You get three days downtime and then your ass is back to cutting cake, so heal the fuck up!”

Kettle’s silence continued. All that was heard was the crushing of pebbles under Sam’s feet and in a moment, it too, had lost its sound.

No sooner than Sam’s fleeting footsteps brought silence, a barrage of gunfire was heard in the distance. It was followed by cannon fire and soon the sound of madness made its way to our farm. He drug himself to a corner and covered in a blanket, peering through a broken slat in the wall.

Kettle watched as men in blue raided every corner of the farm. They had bayonets drawn and were dropping to a knee to fire upon everyone, or so it seemed. He saw Mrs. Claire take a bayonet to her face and cringed as the soldier used his foot to extract the weapon from her skull. Somehow, they had half-way stripped down Mr. Sam and we’re toying with him on horseback. One of the soldiers even shot hit with an arrow. Not really knowing what was happening, and still assuming he might be the next to die, he was comforted to know the last thing he might see was Mr. Sam running around with an arrow hanging out of his bare ass!

Kettle could see that things were starting to settle and witnessed bodies everywhere, but none were black. During the ruckus, everyone that staffed the little plantation had vanished. Their yells quieted and the little black dots in the green canopy were no more” 

Kettle heard the door creek as the soldier came into the cabin. He lay motionless and silent. Terrified as he was, he still couldn’t shake the image of Sam and that damned arrow. This gave him the calm he needed for silence. But it wasn’t enough. With a quick tug, Kettle was exposed. His body lay curled in the fetal position and his hands covered his face. The soldier, startled, drew his weapon, and screamed, “Who the fuck are you?”

Kettle replied, “I ain’t nobody, and can’t hurt nuthin’. I got my heels cut just last night for running.”

The shoulder, standing with blood spatter on his face, broke into a giggle. “I ain’t killing you boy. You’re free dumbass. You think we came here for the pie?”, said the soldier. Kettle, a bit confused by the soldier’s pie comment, simply replied, “Oh.”  That was the end of the conversation. The soldier turned around and walked outside and yelled “We got a live one in here! Leave him be, the poor fucker can’t even walk. They cut his heels for running!”

It caught the ear of two soldiers and one asked, “He got anything worth taking?”

“Hell no.” The other soldier scoffed. 

“Piss on him. Let’s just go. I’m not gonna carry his broken-down ass back to the unit”, he said. 

The wagons were loaded with anything of value. Parades of sheep, a few heads of cattle, and all the horses were corralled and pointed back to camp. That was it. It was over. Kettle sat up and listened for any sounds of danger. All was quiet except for one calf that had escaped and kept bleeting incessantly for its mom. You could smell the char from all the outbuildings torched. In the corner of the cabin sat a walking cane that Kettle’s grandfather said had magical powers. He claimed one time he saw his father use it and it shot a lightning bolt into the sky and down came the rain. And another time, he supposedly used it to cure a man who was stabbed near to death. For now Kettle was just hoping for it not to collapse under his weight. He grasped it with both hands and made my way to my feet. 

“Well”, said Kettle, “I guess I got my freedom?” 

His heels, still dripping small drops of blood, quit hurting. His usually slouched posture straightened. He was a man anew. Using the staff, he made his way back to the porch of the main house. Kettle situated himself in the chair his master enjoyed in the afternoons. He then reached over and snatched the half drank glass of bourbon from the little table and splashed it down his throat. He immediately poured another and in an instant, it too was devoured. The stale smoke from the ashtray reminded him that Sam enjoyed fine cigars. He knew that sorry bastard kept a box of them somewhere on the porch. The box, partly hidden, was under a lazily tossed field hat. He couldn’t help but think that whomever had tossed that hat would have been in line for about ten lashes—but not today. He reached over and grabbed the hat and put it on. In a moment one of the fine imported cigars made it to his lips and he had his first pull. He coughed heartily. He had never tasted such a tobacco. The richness and draw took him by surprise. And a few minutes later the calf no longer bleated. The day was over. 

Ten years had passed. As best he could tell, Kettle figured his age at about thirty-eight. The first few years weren’t kind. Somehow his newfound freedom brought him three years of hiding in cellars and stealing scraps from farms. He hobbled nearly a thousand miles from his Louisiana home. He crossed mountains, and then a desert, and found himself at rest near the foot of the Rockies. He often felt as though he was a character from the Bible and had made it across a vest desert and found his promised land.

A couple there had taken him in and let him do chores for food, shelter, and a small amount of pay. This bode him well. Even though they paid him a sum, he would usually hold on to it for any hard times that crossed the Pikes. As not to bring any trouble, Kettle stayed out of town and kept to himself. Most of his spare time was spent tending to whatever whim little miss Katie had on her mind. He has been around since her birth. She actually learned the name, Kettle, before mom and dad. Kettle loved that story but he knew it was just because his name was so close to hers. Both by name and heart, they were inseparable. 

With a tune, Kettle would sing, “Better let it be just you and me, because a third k will find me a tree”. 

Katie never understood the tune, but would grin and twirl every time he sang it. Her father, being a proud and cautious man, never enjoyed it but let it pass. He cared not for a political argument that consisted of a tug-of-war with a man’s soul. All Mr. Pike knew was that the good lord made men both black and white and no damned politicians were going to change his mind. 

Kettle and Katie were taking their usual weekend stroll down the creek. Kettle would listen in awe while Katie recited the names of the plants and animals, and even the bugs, that she learned in school. 

Clouds were rolling in and Kettle sent Katie back to the main house. He had just planted some marigolds and was going to snatch a bucket of water from the creek. With the pale in one hand and his grandfather’s staff in the other, he clumsily made his way behind her. Kettle felt a tickle and then a twinge in his neck. It brought him to his knees. Lightning had hit him. Instantly, he heard a scream. Katie, witnessing what happened, and with tears in her eyes, sprinted towards Kettle. Again he felt that tickle before the twinge. He leapt forward and just before the lightning started to fall, he grabbed Katie and stabbed the staff into the ground—then silence. Katie began to come around and checked Kettle. He groaned and pursed his lips to let out a breath. Kettle opened one eye and glared across at Katie and with a smile, whispered, “Well, Mrs. Katie, I guess that ole staff was magic after all.”