chilled to the bone. I got myself to a grove of mossy-footed oaks and huddled there, waiting for the shaking to stop. Shag crouched beside me, and I realized why I was shaking. It was James’s voice I heard.
He was shouting at some of the Feaganses’ cows — three scraggly cattle that now found their way blocked by James, Cabbie Simpson, and Montgomery Watkins. The boys were waving knives, yelling at the cows, and herding them toward the small smoking shed where the Feaganses keep their curing meat. Those cows were looking all spooky, the whites of their eyes showing like the petticoat that always pokes out of Granny Bits’s dress. They could take out that shed in a heartbeat — no lie, Miss Anderson — and there’d be hell to pay then, sure enough. The beating I took at the order of Mr. Feagans was nothing to what he and the law would do to three black boys causing trouble.
I was still shaking like when I had that scythe fever, but I felt like I had to stop things. I gave Shag a command to come by, and together we moved out of the stand of trees. I took to one side of the cows and sent Shag to the other, but I can’t tell you what exactly happened after that. I gave commands and I saw Shag follow, but I heard shouting and calling in my ears, muffled — things all blocked up in my head, like when I had the cold settle there last winter. My hearing wasn’t the only thing blocked. I moved, but it was like I was walking though molasses and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop those cows from hitting the shed. I don’t know if it was that I wasn’t sure of what I was doing; I don’t know if it was the boys getting between Shag and the cows. I simply don’t know what went wrong.
At the last minute, I had the presence of mind to call Shag out of the way, and she pulled out right before the shed would have collapsed on her. The cows just hit the shed and sheered off as the shelter collapsed. Their bawling cries filled the air, so loud, shaking the sky, and it seemed like people should have been able to hear all the way into Bedford City and downtown Lynchburg. I looked back and thought I could see between the slats of the shed as it fell, see the meat falling into the pit where the fire is kept stoked, see a winter’s worth of food lost. I heard shouts and cries from far and near, and I rushed to the safety of the trees with Shag called to my side. I know I must have imagined this seeing — I couldn’t really have seen between the slats — but I would have sworn on a month of Sundays that I’d seen it. It is that vivid in my mind: hams hanging, falling down, down into a pit, while screaming cows slam into falling boards as they hit the ground.
The cattle continued to mill about, stomp the ground, and moo loudly, but the act of knocking the structure down seemed to have taken most of the scare out of them. Suddenly I saw Frank Charles in the middle of the cows. Where had he come from? He was calming them, easing them, and then he looked me straight in the eye. I wish I could make this a clear scene for you, but I lived it and I cannot make it clear for
me,
so I don’t see how I can make it clear for you — it is a jumble of moments, a mass of minutes that happen like blinks of an eye, one and then another and then another. I don’t know what happened to James, or his friend Cabbie or that Montgomery Watkins, but after I heard their shouts and saw them start the cows toward the building, I didn’t think of them again, so sure was I that Shag and I could stop things.
But we didn’t. I didn’t do anything but risk Shag at that building collapse. I think I might have made things worse.
Mr. Feagans rushed up, and I pulled my head back into the bushes and gave Shag a signal to be still. My heart felt like it was pounding through my chest, and my mouth went dry like after I’ve run my hardest.
“Gol darn, boy, who’s messing with my cows?” Mr. Feagans yelled, pushing a hand through his hair.
Frank Charles
He was shouting at some of the Feaganses’ cows — three scraggly cattle that now found their way blocked by James, Cabbie Simpson, and Montgomery Watkins. The boys were waving knives, yelling at the cows, and herding them toward the small smoking shed where the Feaganses keep their curing meat. Those cows were looking all spooky, the whites of their eyes showing like the petticoat that always pokes out of Granny Bits’s dress. They could take out that shed in a heartbeat — no lie, Miss Anderson — and there’d be hell to pay then, sure enough. The beating I took at the order of Mr. Feagans was nothing to what he and the law would do to three black boys causing trouble.
I was still shaking like when I had that scythe fever, but I felt like I had to stop things. I gave Shag a command to come by, and together we moved out of the stand of trees. I took to one side of the cows and sent Shag to the other, but I can’t tell you what exactly happened after that. I gave commands and I saw Shag follow, but I heard shouting and calling in my ears, muffled — things all blocked up in my head, like when I had the cold settle there last winter. My hearing wasn’t the only thing blocked. I moved, but it was like I was walking though molasses and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop those cows from hitting the shed. I don’t know if it was that I wasn’t sure of what I was doing; I don’t know if it was the boys getting between Shag and the cows. I simply don’t know what went wrong.
At the last minute, I had the presence of mind to call Shag out of the way, and she pulled out right before the shed would have collapsed on her. The cows just hit the shed and sheered off as the shelter collapsed. Their bawling cries filled the air, so loud, shaking the sky, and it seemed like people should have been able to hear all the way into Bedford City and downtown Lynchburg. I looked back and thought I could see between the slats of the shed as it fell, see the meat falling into the pit where the fire is kept stoked, see a winter’s worth of food lost. I heard shouts and cries from far and near, and I rushed to the safety of the trees with Shag called to my side. I know I must have imagined this seeing — I couldn’t really have seen between the slats — but I would have sworn on a month of Sundays that I’d seen it. It is that vivid in my mind: hams hanging, falling down, down into a pit, while screaming cows slam into falling boards as they hit the ground.
The cattle continued to mill about, stomp the ground, and moo loudly, but the act of knocking the structure down seemed to have taken most of the scare out of them. Suddenly I saw Frank Charles in the middle of the cows. Where had he come from? He was calming them, easing them, and then he looked me straight in the eye. I wish I could make this a clear scene for you, but I lived it and I cannot make it clear for
me,
so I don’t see how I can make it clear for you — it is a jumble of moments, a mass of minutes that happen like blinks of an eye, one and then another and then another. I don’t know what happened to James, or his friend Cabbie or that Montgomery Watkins, but after I heard their shouts and saw them start the cows toward the building, I didn’t think of them again, so sure was I that Shag and I could stop things.
But we didn’t. I didn’t do anything but risk Shag at that building collapse. I think I might have made things worse.
Mr. Feagans rushed up, and I pulled my head back into the bushes and gave Shag a signal to be still. My heart felt like it was pounding through my chest, and my mouth went dry like after I’ve run my hardest.
“Gol darn, boy, who’s messing with my cows?” Mr. Feagans yelled, pushing a hand through his hair.
Frank Charles
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