Horrible Harvest

It was the sound of an oar hitting the water that caught me unawares and turnt me off my story. A boat was approaching, making its way through a canal in the marsh. Seen a fella’s hats ‘fore I seen him. When the boat cleared the head-high sawgrass, two fellas made up the boats cargo. One standing at the bow, another setting at the ass steering the boat with an oar.

I could see that Allison was made nervous by their appearance, and she had right to be. River folks ain’t known for their charm and hospitality.

I had shit for protection. Don’t mean I didn’t have any. Just means it was shit. I stepped to the edge of the pluff mud and did my best to remember how to smile at strangers. “Fellas.”

The one at the front of the boat give a nod. “Mister.”

“How’s the day treating you?”

“Like most. Up one minute, down the next. You lost?”

“Most my life,” I said.

He give a half-laugh. “How ‘bout this part of it? You know where you’re at?”

I turnt and looked at the gnarled corpse of my daddy’s farm. “I do.” Back to them I said, “There a problem with us being here?”

He moved a lump a tobacco he’d stuffed between his cheek and gum around with his tongue ‘fore he spit a stream of mud-brown saliva into the swirling waters of the Ashley. “Nah. No problem to speak of. Just ain’t seen a body here since – ever. You thinking of buying it?”

“Is it for sale?”

He shrugged. “Everything’s for sale.”

I nodded. “Reckon there’s something to that. No. I’m just here – Revisiting some of my old stomping grounds.”

He took on a look of wide-eyed wonder. “Revisiting – You a Tennyson?”

I give a long pause ‘fore I said, “I might be.”

“Either you is or you ain’t.”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Who’s asking.”

“Name’s John Clarke Yates. Folks call me JC. Fella in the back there is Morgan Carville Yates. We call him MC. Together we’re the Yate’s brothers. We run cargo up and down the river. Bigger boat than this. This is our come and investigate boat. That’s what we’re doing now. Investigating. On account of – Like I said ‘fore – We ain’t never seen nobody on this land long as we’ve been living.”

I mulled over his name. “Yates – You know a Edgar Yates?”

JC and MC give each other a long stare ‘fore the brother at the bow said, “He’s our daddy. Was, anyhow. Died a number of years ago.”

The smile I’d been faking turnt to a genuine frown. “I’m sorry to hear that. Your daddy was a true friend.”

“You are a Tennyson then?”

“I am.”

“You the good one or the sumbitch?”

The genuine frown turnt to a genuine grin. “Hard to say. Been accused of being both. More sumbitch than good, if you want me to put a fine point on it. Augustus is the name. That’s my friend Allison Weaver Duffy. She’s all good, if that helps.”

JC clutched at his hat and pulled it off his head. “You’re Augustus? Truly?”

“I take it your daddy talked about me.”

“Mister, he wouldn’t shut up about you. Tell ya’ honest, we thought you was made up.”

I laughed. “I am – Mostly.”

“It’s an honor, sir.”

“Yes, sir, it surely is,” MC added.

“It’s my honor, boys. I loved your daddy like a brother.”

JC give a small nod. “He felt the same about you, sir – You folks need anything? We live a couple miles downriver. We got room for you to bed down. Fine food. Drink if you need it.”

I waived him off. “We’ve got all we need. Thank you though, boys.”

He nodded. “Suit yourself. Offer stands as long as you’re here. You follow the game path east, you’ll come up on our property.” He made a half-turn before turning back. “Can I ask you something – about something Daddy said?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

“He said he’d seen Yankees shoot right through you. Like you was a ghost. Seen you ride right into round after round and didn’t a slug leave a mark. A thing like that can’t be true, can it? I mean he swore he seen it with his own eyes, but it’s just made up, right?”

I give his question thought and then said, “I’d never go against Edgar Yates, boys. He was a lot of things, but he weren’t a liar. That’s for damn sure. I will say about a story like that though, what should count for luck and good fortune gets turnt to heroics and legend. A thing like that makes gods out of idiots.”

With that, they said their goodbyes and steered their way back through the marsh.

I turnt to Allison.

“You run at cannons and at musket fire?”

“I run from both, too. More than I run at’em, in fact.”

“You’ve got another story to tell, Mr. Tennyson.”

“Ain’t you story’d out, yet?”

“I rode out into the middle of ass-nowhere to hear your stories, so what do you think?”

“But I ain’t told a pleasant one yet.”

“You ain’t wrong about that, but I figure that a story told true is better than a story told nice.”

“That’s good ‘cause I don’t reckon I got a nice story to tell.” I set beside her and picked a spot in my memory to start.