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.
