Howard Byng stayed with me all that season--about eight months, and
was a constant surprise. I helped him a little and taught him to read
a newspaper and got rid of some of his negro dialect. He was faithful
and true--a willing slave if such a term could be applied to a
free-born man.
Wonderful in woodcraft, he knew just where to pitch camp to get water
and avoid it. One bee meant a bee's nest nearby, and we had wild honey
all the time. He knew just where to go and pull a 'possum out of a
tree, we had wild turkey, and occasionally a young bear or deer. And
work--he was worth any two men I ever had. He developed like a
starving crop fertilized and watered. In the clean-cut, powerful,
willing, cheerful "axe-man" no one could have recognized the Georgia
Cracker I found hauling turpentine sap with a mule eight months
before. Well barbered and tailored he would have presented a handsome
appearance. I was sorry enough when the time came to part with him.
At that time we were on the bank of the Altamara river. All of the
other men had been paid but I kept Howard to pack up. The tent and
outfit were to be shipped to Savannah. One day I queried:
"Howard, what are you going to do with your money?" He had asked me to
keep his monthly vouchers and give him spending money as needed.
"How much money have I got coming, Mistah Wood?" he asked, coming near
where I sat making out my final reports, using the mess table in the
center of the big tent for a desk.
"You have more than a thousand dollars," I replied without looking up.
"A thousand dollars--sure enough money?" he exclaimed with delight,
yet astonished and a little bit doubtful.
"Yes--you can go to any bank and get it in gold, if you desire."
"Why--a thousand dollars--I never expected to have that much money in
my whole life--ah--ah reckon I'll let you keep it fer me, Mistah Wood.
I got no use for money now."
"I'm afraid I can't keep it for you, Howard," I replied. "I am going
back to Washington, and will enter another branch of the service."
"You can't keep it for me, Mistah Wood?"
"No--that wouldn't do, you must learn to take care of it yourself."
"What can I do with ut?" he finally asked, troubled and thoughtful, as
I mentioned going away.
He amused me with his simplicity. Half in jest I said, "Buy up some of
this stump land--it will make you rich some day."
"If I had some of this good-for-nothing land what would I do with ut?"
he asked, feigning astonishment and going over to the edge of the tent
which had been opened all around. Looking out as far as he could see
was a scraggly growth of pine among stumps as thick, black and
forbidding as midnight in a swamp of croaking frogs.
"This land's no better than the turpentine country--what would such
cussed stuff be worth if I had ut?" he asked again. "Why, they ain't
a house for miles--all of it is God-fo'saken," he insisted before I
could reply.
"Howard, you must use your imagination--those stumps are full of
turpentine and rosin, and after you get them out you have river-bottom
land that will raise cotton as high as your shoulders for a hundred
years--and right out there is deep tide-water, to take it to any part
of the world."
"Yes, I know, but how you goin' to get the stumps out?" he asked
quickly, still looking out.
"Blow them out with dynamite--pull them out, that's easy."
"Yes--but how am I going to get the turpentine and rosin outen the
stumps after I blow 'em up?" he came back at me.
"Boil it out, and then sell the wood or make paper out of it. You
ought to be able to work that out," I replied, smiling.
Howard Byng looked out a little longer and without replying resumed
packing the dishes and kitchen outfit in a big chest, while I went on
with my writing. Finally he came opposite the table and surprised me
by saying:
"Do you heah them little frogs yapin'--and do you heah them big
bullfrogs bawlin', and do you see them buzzards flyin', and doan you
know them stumps is in water where it's full of rattla's? This ain't
no good country fur a white man where dey is bullfrogs and little
frogs, vermin of all sorts and buzzards, and where you got to eat
quinine three times a day."
"Think it over, Howard, it may be better than you imagine."
We finally got a boat as far as Brunswick. Howard insisted on going
with me to Savannah where I would turn in my camp outfit. He had never
been out of the woods before. His surprise and delight at being in a
city for the first time was refreshing. This nineteen-year-old
turpentine woods boy had never been farther than a country store,
never had seen a locomotive, and to him cities had been mere dreams.
To him the one, and only, three-story block in the place was a
skyscraper. He saw big steamers and sailing ships for the first time,
and acres of long wharfs loaded with naval stores, sawed timber and
cotton he could scarcely believe as real until he actually touched
them with his hands.
With my help he bought a good suit of clothes, shoes and hat, the
first he ever owned. The barber did the rest and his delight knew no
bounds. His raven hair and skin were perfect, and he would have been
taken for a college athlete until he talked, his speech being a
distinct shock. During these two or three days he seemed transported
and almost forgot I was about to leave him.
When the time came his sorrow was distressing. He took no pains to
disguise it, and lapsed into the Cracker boy, timid, and out of his
element. He breathed hard and struggled.
"Mistah Wood, you leavin' makes me want to run back to the pine woods,
and I guess I will," he said, standing on the wharf looking up at my
steamer.
"Howard, every man must work out his own problems," said I. "For me to
attempt to advise would be to rob you of your own inspiration. You
will know what you want to do before long, but don't take too big a
jump at once. I believe there is good metal in you which will soon
show itself, if you don't force it." I was sorry for the boy and
thought for the moment I had made a mistake in bringing him out of the
woods. I didn't believe anything could be accidental; his meeting me
was not, I felt certain.
"Ain't there somethin' I can do to be with you? You know I'm willin'
to do anything," he asked in a distinctly broken voice.
"No, Howard--for two reasons. I am going into another department and
am uncertain where they will send me, and such a move, were it
possible, might be harmful to you. Go to work at something here, and
read--study for five years, then you may be able to go in the big
world, and become somebody."
"Do you mean I must go back to the turpentine country?" he asked, with
moistening eyes, as though asking that sentence be passed upon him.
"It doesn't matter where you go, Howard, or what you do, honestly, if
you will get a lot of books to read and study them. Read the lives of
Lincoln and Horace Greeley, who started out of the woods. Books and
study are the keys to the great outside world. If you would be more
than a laborer with your hands--study, my boy," I advised, putting my
hand on his broad shoulders.
"I'm goin' to do it, suh--I'm goin' to do it sho'," he repeated as he
followed me to the gangplank.
And there he stood on the end of the wharf until the ship was out of
sight, occasionally waving his arms. For a time I was actually
disturbed by the pathos of the boy's conduct. I knew that in our
country there were still thousands more like him not yet reached by
our woeful educational system, especially in some parts of the South.
My work in the Excise Department was new to me and kept me very busy
for the next five years. Howard Byng had practically passed out of my
mind. One day the chief informed me that there was a lot of
"moonshine" whiskey coming down the Altamara River in Southern
Georgia, that the still was in the center of an immense cut-over
swamp, and anyone approaching it could be seen from far away. Also
that revenue officers usually came away hurriedly with bullet holes in
their hats and clothing, and without the Swamp Angels who had formed
the habit of not paying the federal tax on distilled liquors. He
wanted to know if I would undertake to bring them in, saying that, as
I hadn't many failures to my credit I could afford to stand one. But
what he really meant to convey was that the case had become a stench
to the department's nostrils, and that I must go well prepared to
clean things up.
I found the county was as big as Rhode Island and without a railroad;
the county seat a village, and the sheriff a picturesque character. He
said he could give minute directions to locate this "still," but so
far as he was concerned "pussenly" he had just been re-elected and
wanted to serve out his term, "sheriffing" being the best paid job in
the county, and that his family needed the money. He was strongly of
the belief an attempt on his part to capture the gang would be a
direct bid for the undertaker and a successor.
"But, now suh, don't misunderstand," he continued. "Those three or
four fellows up there in the 'cut-over' ain't no _friends_ of mine."
The "still" was up the river about thirty miles, and then off three
miles, in a creek that was almost dry, except at high tide.
He helped me procure a flat-bottomed rowboat, to which I attached an
electric propeller which I thought would send it along quietly--oars
are much too noisy--and I started out at night, expecting to get at
the mouth of the creek at high tide, which would be about midnight.
After going up the river some twenty miles, I saw a light ahead on the
left bank that soon grew into a row of lights,--and electric lights,
too. I thought it must be a packet coming down, but packets on that
river were small, primitive affairs and again, as I drew closer I saw
that the lights were not moving, but located on the bank that raised a
little at that point. I thought it strange the sheriff did not mention
this landmark. As I came abreast of it, I could see it was some kind
of a factory, but decided to look it over, "if I come back," which the
sheriff had cast doubt upon.
For a few miles above something about the contour of the bank puzzled
me for a time. I was conscious of the fact that memory and geography
are often linked together. Unerringly I could think of a hotel by name
when I reached a town, not having thought of it before in years. Even
a telephone number I could recall when the geography was right. Having
discussed this mental phenomena with others I found I was not alone in
possession of this freak of the brain.
After passing that factory I reclined in the bow of the boat, lulled
by the rhythmic, noiseless motion of the little screw propeller; the
left bank suddenly became familiar. Then, as though a door in my
memory had suddenly opened I knew it was here, on this same Altamara
River, that I broke camp five years before, and the memory of
forgotten Howard Byng stood before me, with the vividness of
yesterday. I had expected to hear good things of him some time. I
could recall his broken voice asking me to take him with me, feel his
wringing hand-shake, bidding me good-bye; perhaps I magnified the
abandon in his last wave of the hand as he stood on the end of the
wharf watching me leave, disheartened and disconsolate as a lost
soul. Then like a wave of nausea came the thought that he might be
with this very gang I was going after. I believed he would be a force
wherever he was. The time and place synchronized.
But here was my landmark to enter the creek, calling for extreme
caution. I had ample notice that this gang was bold and would shoot to
kill, if necessary. I didn't mind the danger much, but I did fear
failure. The creek was as crooked as a ram's horn and the "still" was
at the very end of it, in a dug-out on a little knoll in the low land.
I felt I was near the end of it when the fog came, making the dark
night almost black. I had to feel my way in the slough creek that had
narrowed now to six or eight feet through high grass.
I knew when I had reached the end, for I drew alongside the scow-like
boat described to me, and often seen on the river, but there was
neither sound, light, nor sign of life. I took my time and was
careful. I sat very quietly in the boat for a few minutes, listening
and going over again my plan of action, then I felt about their boat
cautiously. It was motor-driven and might carry a ton.
Stepping out on the oozy bank, I began to crawl through the wet and
clammy fog in the direction given by the sheriff, but could see
nothing and was forced to feel my way along. My rifle and bag, slung
over my shoulder, made progress slow and I noticed the ground was
rising a little, further identifying the locality.
When I came up to a big stump the oppressive graveyard stillness was
broken for the first time by a sound like a man breathing. I crawled a
little more and listened. Surely it came from human lungs. There could
be no mistake. It was the stuporous breathing of a drunk.
I hitched forward again and vision became clearer. The noise came from
inside the stump evidently hollow. Straining my vision I learned that
it was about four feet high and one side of it missing. Then I made
out the dim outlines of a man sitting inside. I cautiously felt for
his form with my hand, then quickly jerked back and away.
I had touched a naked foot, a human foot--but the heavy breathing
continued. It was their lookout, their sentinel--of whom I had been
warned--and he was evidently stupified by the product from the
"still," a moonshiner's great weakness.
I could trace the long-barreled squirrel rifle standing close beside
him and I waited cautiously for other signs of life. None came. I
touched his foot again. No move. Ready to throttle him on the instant,
I pressed the foot again slightly, and then the other one. The "swamp
juice" was squarely on the throne. The fellow was inanimate.
I was able to manacle his feet without awakening him, then took away
his rifle and began to manacle his hands and his feet. Soon they were
ironed--and he still slept.
My success emboldened me. One man was harmless even if he made an
outcry but I still walked cautiously, trying to locate the "still"
house in the cave. I was confronted with a collection of uprooted
stumps, a circular barricade, but in a moment I caught the slightest
flicker of light. I was sure then, and moved silently along toward the
layout. I knew there must be an entrance, and I now plainly detected
the fumes of charcoal and the mash tub. The next thing in order was to
get inside.
Following the circle of stumps I came to the entrance, a ditch that
led down to the floor level of the place. Time was speeding and I was
afraid the stupified sentinel might awaken and give an alarm. Silently
I worked up to a narrow door crudely made of upright board planks. Big
cracks enabled me to see the interior. There were two men. The older
was sitting asleep against the wall, the younger man moving about. I
could see his outline plainly by the light of a candle. His figure
seemed familiar. He opened the furnace door to put more charcoal under
the still--I could see his face. Howard Byng! His hair was long
again, his face, smooth when I last saw it, was now covered with a
bushy black beard. God only knows how I regretted the work ahead of
me. If I had only declined this job! The thought brought a cold
sweat.