A Certain Justice

All Rights Reserved © 2004 by Chuck Lewis

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ISBN: 0-595-33655-8

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Contents

PART ONE

1858-1861

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

PART TWO

1862-1864

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

PART THREE

1865-1866

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

AFTERWARD

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Once again for my wife, Pat.

I just want to tell the world how much I love her.

Justice is truth in action.

Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881)

Speech, February 11, 1851

PART ONE

1858-1861 

ONE

THE RAIN pattered softly down through the trees, creating a palsy among the leaves and weighing them down to droop over the moist carpet of the forest floor. A gentle wind was drifting down from Pine Mountain as the storm passed, nodding the heads of the full green hardwoods, making them look wise, as if they knew the bad rush was over. A lowering sun couldn’t fully penetrate the cloud cover and white tendrils of fog wound through every mountain hollow, lying low like unraveled threads of cotton. All was still and quiet, newly cleansed and ready to rest for a night and greet the morning.

The rain whispered to a stop and the greenery dripped softly and the day slid away. The Cumberlands slept. The Cumberland Mountains of southeastern Kentucky, where the earth’s face had been furrowed by deep lines of worry and a desperate struggle for survival that would never end. The region nurtured its settlers with similar characteristics, and they grew hardened, proud, and independent. The mountains would never be less than reluctant to ever surrender to assault, nor would the people who clung to its hills, hollows, and valleys.

Never.

The hills and the people; they were the same. Nature was unforgiving of mistakes, and the people lived or died because of their own. Those who lived watched the others die making mistakes and thought they were immune. They died anyway. Nobody’s immune.

Nobody.

ZEBULON PAYTON stood over his wife, brow wrinkled with concern as she writhed in pain, soaking the rough bedding with foul perspiration. Her hands cradled her bulging stomach and her knees were partially drawn up in an attempt to relieve the pressure and agony that coursed through her body.

Can ya tell me anything I can do, Del? There was desperation in his voice. The crick’s up from the rain, and Aunt Vinnie won’t be able to get here to he’p bring the baby. He knelt next to the bed and took one of her hands in his. I’m sorry, Del, he said hoarsely. I jest don’t know what to do. This ain’t like the other ‘uns I he’ped with. It’s all—it’s all different.

Delphinia Wynn Payton turned her swollen face to her husband and forced a faint smile through the pain. I know, Zeb. It was— and the pain grabbed her, held her, then let up. "It was real clumsy of me to—to lose my feet like that and—uuhh!—fall and end up leanin’ over the fence thataway. That must have wedged and—uuhh!—turned the babe up in there so he cain’t get out." Her tears were lost in the sweat running down her face. She smiled again and her breathing became shallower, but she was still wracked with the rhythmic pains that would not allow her child to be born. She could feel what was coming.

You’ll make do, she whispered. After a long silence she said, We had a good love.

He took her hand and gently massage it. I’m right here, Del, he said softly. He stared at the hand in his and thought of the day sixteen years earlier when they got married. Everybody was always poor and she made a ring for herself from a dandelion stem. She was always thataway, he thought, makin’ do and he’pin’ me and the boys with hoein’ and the leaf-dryin’ when we needed an extra hand, and still doin’ her own woman things here in the house, and always willin’ to go up and down the holler to visit and he’p other folks.

He looked steadily upon those gentle features. The hair that would always be golden to him was now stiff, dark, and pasted to her face, and her blue eyes the color of cornflowers were glazed with pain and approaching death. He was losing her.

Yer a wonder, Del, he whispered. I always loved ya.

He held her hand a long time, until she died, and for a long time after.

A chill crept into the cabin as nightfall came again, and Zeb Payton had to tend to his boys. He was proud of them. Axton at age fifteen, Rush at thirteen, and Adam at eleven, had all been reserved and quiet during their mother’s struggle, passing in and out of the house, capable of their own survival, but now choking on their own emotions. Of their own volition they went to stand at the bedside, to look at her one last time, to each be lost in his own thoughts, to say goodbye.

They helped Zeb bury her and it was raining again that day and the fog was in the hollows. What were they going to do without the woman they all loved?

THE TOBACCO didn’t look good and wouldn’t get any better, Zeb knew. He stood in the mud behind the cabin, staring glumly across his one acre patch of beaten-down plants. Makin’ a living out of this rocky earth is just too damn discouragin’, he sighed.

He smiled then. Good thing I didn’t say that out loud, he said to himself, or Del would still cluck her tongue at me for cussin’. He took another deep breath and gazed upward to the gray sky. I know yer up there, Del, but you’ll just have to tell God I don’t give a damn anymore!

He waited until later in the evening to tell them, when he and all three boys were eating a somber meal together. They sat and waited expectantly for whatever their father was going to say. As one, they turned their faces to him. They didn’t know they loved their father, they just always liked to be with him, to work with him, to hunt and fish with him, to laugh with him, and to try to always please him because they admired him so much. They knew their father was good to their mother, and seeing their parents together always made them feel good. They loved him, but they were boys and didn’t use that word much.

They waited.

Zeb cleared his throat and scratched the side of his face. His lean figure was stooped forward over the table, and his blue eyes looked dull in his long and bearded face. There was gray in his beard and hair now, but both were thick and always clean and trimmed. The Paytons were always clean, if nothing else.

He circled the table with his eyes, studying his sons. Axton the oldest, now tall, strong, and looking exactly like his father, but with an inner fire burning for unseen and unknown ambitions; Rush, always in the middle in more ways than one, showing a tendency for extra weight, but strong and honest, the only brown-eyed one among them; and Adam—Adam, the youngest, with eyes the lightest of blue and hair like cornsilk, the most sensitive, and the quickest to anger. There was his mother’s goodness in him, but he had a fierce independence even at this age. He was the best at hunting, the best at shooting, and the best at sensing trouble on the way. Zeb could see now that the boy knew what was coming.

Boys, he started, I’m thinkin’ I have to break us up. We lost the tobaccer, we ain’t really got much put aside, and I jest don’t know how we’ll make it the rest of this year.

The boys just sat staring, waiting for him to finish.

He cleared his throat. We always made it alone ‘til now, he continued, and four men should be able to work together to make a livin’ here, but—well—I cain’t—boys, I cain’t stay here no longer.

What’re we s’posed to do, Pa? asked Axton gently. He was the oldest and probably the smartest, and he wanted to help his father resolve this problem. He already felt that the three of them, the boys, didn’t see a problem, but they’d help if they could.

Zeb glanced up at them with sorrowful eyes and wagged his head back and forth slowly. I ain’t thinkin’ too good right now, son, he said, and the boys each instantly thought Pa sounded a little drunk, but they knew he hadn’t touched the corn jug at all for some time now.

Zeb stood up. I’m goin’ outside for a bit, and I’d like fer the three of y’all to talk amongst yerselfs, maybe figger what ya each want to do, or—or where yu’d want to go to make a life fer yerselfs. He took a few steps toward the door, then stopped and turned to stare at his three sons standing there with crestfallen faces and eyes that didn’t know where to look right now. I’m mortified and sick fer feelin’ I cain’t do fer my sons, he said. His voice was low and the boys could hear the anguish in it. He turned and quietly left the house.

The three brothers sat in confused silence for a minute, then Axton spoke up.

I know I’m the oldest of us, and I should make a decision of some kind fer us to stay together, but I don’t know what Pa wants us to do. Why cain’t we just move somewheres else and get a better place with sawl on it that’ll grow somethin’? He shrugged his shoulders. What’re we gonna do?

Well, I feel kinda cut loose right now! Rush burst out suddenly. Ya know what? The hell with it, Ax! I’m gonna make my way up to Lexington somehow. That’s where all the people are, so that’s where the jobs are.

Axton was shocked at Rush’s uncharacteristic pronouncement, and surprised at the rebellious tone in his voice. That wasn’t Rush, but he couldn’t help smiling back at him.

Mama would throw a potater at you for usin’ that language, but yer right. I feel the same way, now. He nodded his head decisively. The hell with it, let’s go to Lexington together. I think we need some steady schoolin’, anyway. He turned to Adam, who had been sitting there quietly, like Adam always did. What’d’ya say, Adam? We’ll all go to Lexington. Maybe we can talk Pa into movin’ there.

Eleven year old Adam turned his unnaturally wise eyes to his oldest brother. You two can go to Lexington, he said, but I’m just goin’ south into Virginy. And don’t argue with me, Ax, I’m goin’ and I’ll make it! He spoke lower, then, and showed no emotion as he said, And Pa ain’t wan-tin’ to go nowhere, ‘cause he’s gonna kill hisself.

His two brothers were speechless at his words, and they both turned and looked at the front door.

Don’t worry, he’ll wait ‘til we’re gone afore he does it, Adam murmured. He looked up at the other two. I don’t even want to know about it, he said. We’re bustin’ up and Pa’s lost.

Axton stared at the handsome face of his youngest brother, and Adam looked back over at him. Axton could see the resolve in those pale blue eyes that had always seemed so old, and the cold determination behind them suddenly gave the older boy a chill. Nothin’scares him, he realized. He stared at the kid with a strange new perception. Nothin’scares him, but he’s scary hisself, and there’s no tellin’ where that’ll take him.

We’ll tell Pa when he comes back in, Axton stated firmly. He’ll want to know, even if he ain’t—ain’t goin’ with us. He paused. We’ll go tomorrow, he nodded, and we’ll each take what we want. We ain’t got much anyway, so that’ll be easy, he smiled, making light of it now. I think I just want to work and go to school, so I guess I won’t need to take anything. He looked across the table. How about you, Rush?

Just some clothes. I don’t care. Rush scanned the faces around the table. Maybe somethin’ of Mama’s. And maybe Pa’s. They was good to us.

The other two nodded, just looking down at the table in silence for a second.

Adam?

The boy had his answer ready. Just my rifle gun, he said. That’s all I need.

Outside, the light was almost gone now, and Zeb Payton stared off at the mountain slopes to the west. The trees were thick in all directions, but he and Del had always enjoyed watching the sun go down together.

He gazed around at the rickety drying shed, the house, the small barn they’d built for the two horses they’d had once but had to sell. There was Del’s vegetable garden that always grew in better than the tobacco did. The soil was worn out for the tobacco, he knew; too many years growing in the same place, but it was too rocky here to find good ground. He hadn’t wanted to go anywhere else. This is where he and Del had started. Their three sons were born here, and they were a family here. I’m sorry I put another baby in ya, Del, he lamented to himself. The boys are leavin’ and we ain’t a family no more.

He smiled softly at the glowing sun setting through the clouds and fog that were still coming. But, I ain’t leavin’ya, Del.

Pa?

He turned and saw Axton in the doorway.

We’re done.

Zeb scuffed his way back into the house, the door opening directly into the one main room with its large oak table, the large visiting chairs, the colorful oval rug of tied patchcloth, and the clean rock fireplace. One sizable room for the boys, and one bedroom for him and Del, with the window that always caught the sun. We done pretty good for awhile, Del.

Ax told him what they had decided to do, and that their minds were made up. They’d be leaving in the morning.

Zeb pressed his lips together, nodded, and went into the bedroom.

There wasn’t any sun coming in the window.

THE BOYS were up early like they always were, and fixed themselves a breakfast of fried eggs and corn mush. Zeb was not there. The three brothers put their bowls on the sideboard, looked at each other a second, then went back into their room. They needed to get ready. It was time to go.

They each made up a small sack of their clothes to sling over one shoulder, and they were done. They each wore a knife at his side, but had never been without one, anyway. It was Adam, the youngest and smallest, who carried extra. His rifle gun.

Their father was standing in the open front doorway when they stepped out of their room. He appraised their scanty loads as they came forward. Y’all ain’t got much to carry, he said. Reckon that says it all.

Pa, don’t take on like that, said Axton gently. You always did right by us, but it’s just—just time to go. His throat tightened some, and he said, We was kinda wonderin’ if maybe there was a little somethin’ of Mama’s we could carry away with us.

Zeb knit his eyebrows. We buried her with her good glass beads, she did always dote on those, but she didn’t dwell on having too many pretties. There’s another set in—in our room that was the only other thing like that she had. They’re jest little wooden things I made her a long time ago.

That’d be twice as good, Pa, Axton managed to get out.

Their pa came back out with the beads and they all had seen them before. Just simple little things carved into hickory balls with delicate abstract designs on each one and strung on a thong. But it was just right. They cut it into three equal lengths of about eight inches each and tied their ends together again into shorter strands.

They went outside. The sun was finally shining, and they stood there in the light looking at each other. Then Axton turned to his father and held out his hand. G’bye, Pa.

Zeb nodded and grabbed the young man’s shoulder. Do good, son. And don’t ever try to make a livin’ growin’ anything from the ground. He licked his lips. Axton.

Rush did the same, but his eyes were glistening from a little wetness. Zeb shook his hand and smiled at him. Rush, take care of yer big brother. Sometimes he knows more’n he’s s’posed to.

Yes, sir. G’bye, Pa.

The three brothers squeezed each other’s shoulders, not knowing what to say, just looking at each other. Axton fixed Adam with a grin. Yer the youngest, Adam, and I fear fer ya, but there ain’t no stoppin’ ya. His grin widened. Don’t forget yer brothers.

Axton took a deep breath. Let’s go, Rush, he said, and the two of them turned and walked up the wagon road that went out and crossed the creek and went up the hollow.

Adam had stood there silently through all this, hanging onto his small bundle and not really wanting to leave. Some of his bravado from the night before had left him, but he knew this was how it had to be. He was going, and he had to go now or he wouldn’t go at all.

I gotta get goin’, too, Adam said, and he felt a slight catch in his throat. He looked expectantly at his father without knowing what to expect.

God, yer only eleven years old, Zeb croaked softly. He was fascinated by the grace and ease the boy showed as he reached over to the side of the house to retrieve the old rifle that he had leaned there. It was a perfect Mississippi rifle, a percussion single shot firing a .54 caliber round bullet, and a lot of gun for a boy.

I remember when I got that rifle gun from Silas Mims, he said with a faint smile. He sure got unhappy later ‘cause—

’Cause the pig died! finished Adam. They’d all heard the story of how Zeb had traded two pigs to Silas for the rifle, and a week later one of the pigs died and Silas wanted his gun back.

Zeb looked briefly at the gun and realized it was only about a year ago that he had given the piece to the boy who wanted to learn how to shoot. The length of it was pretty good, having been a cavalry model, but still oversized for the boy. He hadn’t cut the stock, though, thinking the boy would soon grow into it. But Adam quickly adapted to it and developed an amazing skill as a rifleman. He became the family hunter. He was a natural shooter.

Got powder, and caps, and balls and such? he asked the boy. The boy, his youngest son, going off alone now, with a rifle.

Yes, sir, Adam answered. He stuck his hand out like his brothers had. ’Bye, Pa.

Zeb shook the smaller hand and watched the boy turn away. Adam headed for the woods. To go south he’d have to go that way through the woods to find Virginia.

The boy was suddenly gone, gone into the forest, and Zeb couldn’t see him anymore. He stood there in the sun in front of his house with the fickle rocky soil beneath his feet, not believing that his wife was gone, or that his sons were now gone.

Were they ever here? Where are you, Del?

He stood there in the warmth of the sun a while longer, then turned and went inside to be with Del.

TWO

ADAM PAYTON made a bold show of walking away from his life and into the forest, to be gone for good. His legs felt stiff at the knees and trembled slightly, but he kept moving, had to keep moving. He knew these woods for a mile or two around, but ahead was new country that would be strange to him, and he was alone and he didn’t know what was ahead at all. He was alone and could never go back.

He started trotting down the slight trail that he knew went south and wound around the ridges and between the mountains. He ran to give his legs some work to do, and he kept his eyes always forward, always ahead down the trail, always away. His chest heaved and his eyes stung. So he ran.

He was soon gulping air and he had to slow to a walk. He felt some trembling in his legs, but he was sure it was from the running now. He felt better, and the sudden interest of unfamiliar landmarks distracted him now, and he set his jaw and walked. He needed to think about what was ahead now, not behind him. He would never go back.

HE WALKED on, shaded by the forest around him, the hickory and black walnut trees, the ash, maple, elm, and beech, and he strode through stands of chestnut, poplar, and sweet gum, yellow pine, and more hackberry and sycamore. He loved it, and drank in the sight of it all as he also drank from countless flowing streams.

He saw deer, but knew that to kill one would be too much meat to take and too much of a load to carry. He would not waste powder and ball on the smaller game, either, but did not yet worry about his immediate survival. He stopped and had some ‘pone from his pack and washed it down with fresh spring water. He rolled the rest of the cornbread back up into his pack inside the light blanket he carried, and continued on.

The walking was rough and exhausting sometimes and easy at other times, but he was young and strong and managed well. He was large and sturdy for his age and knew he would soon turn twelve. Mama had told him he had been born when the trees were turning color for the fall coming, so he knew he’d see the moon full a few more times before he could say he was twelve.

He had trekked several miles when he suddenly came to a wider trail that looked like it was sometimes used by wagons. It was late afternoon and the track did not wind away in a true southerly direction, but it made for easy walking. It drew him on and he trudged it until dusk.

He found a likely looking spot to leave the track and get back into the woods for the night. He had to be cautious of thieves and cut-throats, and he went far back in. He did not light a fire. He ate another ration of his crumbling cornpone, had a drink, and wrapped himself into his blanket. He stared up at the stars, but could see some clouds coming in. The woods moved softly with life around him, but he was not afraid.

He opened his eyes early the next morning, and felt different even before he moved. He was alone in the forest, on his own, and that’s what he needed to think about. Everybody and everything else was gone. He knew he was young, but he suddenly felt old and he knew what he was doing.

He sat up, alert, feeling the air around him on his skin and in his mind. He was going to be alright from now on. Maybe I’m not a kid anymore, he thought.

He stood, checked the gray sky above him, and made deliberate moves to get started again. He stepped away and relieved himself. He ate the last of his ‘pone, and sucked fresh water from the nearest stream. He picked up his rifle, checked its load and primer cap, and trotted back out to the trail.

The wagon road did turn south and he was pleased with that. He hoped he was doing right by going down into Virginia. They lived close to the border and he’d heard talk of good farms down there, and well-to-do folks from old families with money. Maybe he could get a good job there, letting others pay and feed him. He remembered some of his Pa’s last words, and vowed never to try to be a farmer or try to grow anything from the earth. There must be other things to do.

He silently padded down the road and kept at it all day and the next and into another. He was down to eating some nuts, now, and had eaten the three potatoes he’d been carrying. Berries weren’t out for eating yet, and he still didn’t want to take a deer. He still had cornmeal, too, but had forgotten to bring any kind of pan with him. He wasn’t concerned yet, and only laughed at himself.

He was surprised that he hadn’t met anyone on this road, even as primitive as it was. It must have first been an old, little used Indian trail between the Kentucky country and Virginia. The woods were opening up somewhat, but still beautiful, green, and sheltering to a man. On this late afternoon he broke into a trot again, pelting forward to more unknown vistas.

His rifle was still a heavy burden. He had never carried it all day before, and it was different now. He changed it from right hand to left, and walked with it over his shoulder. The piece was heavy, but not quite as heavy as Pa’s Kentucky long rifle, but he noticed, however, that it was getting a little lighter each day. And he tried to keep it clean and dry, and every morning he drew the load and reloaded fresh. The rifle became the single most important thing in his life. He knew it made a difference and meant salvation.

He jogged around a sharp turn in the road and immediately saw the small camp set up about twenty yards back in the woods from the track. He halted instantly, not even aware that his rifle had come up to a ready position.

A sheet of canvas rose up from the ground to form a simple lean-to, and the lone man kneeling in front of it jerked up in surprise and fear. Then he relaxed when he saw the boy, and he quickly glanced farther back up the road for more travelers.

The boy remained motionless.

The man stood up. He wore a dirty shirt, a heavy brown vest, and a black sack coat. Dark trousers were tucked into high black boots, and a shapeless narrow-brimmed black hat was atop his head. He raised a hand in greeting.

Howdy, boy, he called out. If you’re on the move I don’t mind sharin’ what vittles I got here. I’m alone and on the road myself.

Adam slowly approached the camp, studying the details of what he could see. A beautiful bay horse was tied to a nearby tree and he saw only a small heap of miscellaneous belongings under the fly. He saw no rifle. A small fire was burning, but it smoked some in the damp air. A small pot was warming on a nearby rock.

Name’s Barty Hogan, said the man, and held out a hand.

Adam ignored the hand, and still stood off a few feet. He nodded and said, I’m Adam Payton. His voice sounded funny; he hadn’t talked for awhile.

Sit an’ have somethin’ to eat, Hogan invited, and knelt back down to tend the fire. Only got a little ham an’ ‘taters, but it’s hot, he chuckled. He cast an eye at the Mississippi rifle. A fine, fine piece, looks like. Out huntin’?

Adam loosened up a little. No, he replied. Just going to Virginy.

Hogan smiled and stirred his pot with a wooden spoon. Run off, huh? He stirred and nodded. I run off myself when I was a boy, only I must say I was older’n you. he still grinned up at Adam. Sit an’ eat. We can talk later.

Adam didn’t sit yet, but walked over to the horse. It sidestepped a little as he got close to it. He’d never seen such a fine horse, strong and sleek like this, with alert eyes and a shiny coat. He could see the animal was a stallion, usually too much of a handful for the average man to keep for pleasure, but this one seemed of a good nature. He rubbed its muzzle and crooned nonsense to it like people usually do. The horse quieted.

Adam stepped away from the horse and moved toward the fire. He squatted opposite the fire from the man and briefly studied the flushed face with a potato-like nose in the middle of it. Is he hard to ride? he asked.

Hogan glanced toward the horse. Him? Naw, he’s easy to sit and he’s strong. Good temper and easy to lead. That’s why I took him. He then quickly hummed an explanation.

"Mmm, why I bought him, I mean. He was easy to handle fer a stud like that. He snorted out a laugh. Cost me all I had, too. Don’t have no saddle, no nothin’ He looked over at the horse again. Hope the son-of-a-bitch is worth it. I’m gonna try and sell him for more’n I give fer him."

Adam was shocked to hear a man say such words. Cursing like that was something neither his mother or father would practice or tolerate. A ‘hell’ or a ‘damn’from Pa would send Mama into fits, he told himself, but nothin’ like this.

I can only offer another cracked bowl for some of these eats, said Hogan, and spooned some of his dinner out of the pot and handed it over to Adam. Adam took it cautiously with a nod of thanks, and finally put his rifle down on the ground next to him. Hogan stayed where he was. Maybe he ain’t bad, thought Adam. I’m just kinda skittish of people right now.

Where ya headed, Mister Hogan? he asked, just to be polite.

Hogan chewed on a piece of ham that was in there with the potato. Oh, I jest go where I go, buyin’ and sellin’ things that folks want or need. I do purty good. He chewed some more, then innocently asked, Would you sell me that rifle gun of your’n?

Adam stopped eating, and felt the fear. No, sir.

I ain’t got no guns to sell right now, and that’un ‘ud bring me a good penny.

Hogan stood up, and Adam scrambled backwards, pulling his rifle with him. He watched the man closely, and was aware of his size, and that he was an adult, and Adam wasn’t.

Hogan made a wry face. A boy don’t need a gun like that, nohow. I’ll give you fifty cents fer it.

No, sir, Adam said again, and wanted to run.

Hogan laughed. "Well, I’m sure you ain’t ready to shoot that thing, anyways. You prob’ly been walkin’ around unloaded and unprimed in this dampness. I could jest take