Looking to the heavens he asked, “Dear God, what would you have me do?” He gazed across the field. Seeing several buzzards land in the hanging tree, he had his answer.
Buckus left Hattie where she lay. He ran to the tree and threw small fieldstones, hitting one vulture on its breast. Reluctantly, all the birds gave up their roost and flew to a nearby fence rail. He reached in his pocket for his knife, opened the blade and placed the handle in his mouth. Climbing to the hanging limb, he cut the ropes. Amos and Pap, a father and son, fell the nine feet to the ground, one at a time. The thuds sickened him.
He climbed down and walked back to where Hattie lay. He covered her with a blanket he found on a rocker near the back door. With Hattie safe from the gathering buzzards, he returned to the oak tree. With all his strength he picked up Amos and carried him to the barn. He laid the young man gently on the barn floor, brushed dirt from his hair and said another prayer. He returned for Old Pap. Finding strength he didn’t know he had, he dragged or carried the rest of the ten bodies, one by one, down the cotton rows and into the barn. He could only imagine the terror his freedmen had suffered as they tried to flee from the marauders through the barren cotton fields. He had known these men and women all his life. A sob caught in his throat as rage boiled inside him. There would be no seed planting this March or perhaps ever, the songs of their voices silenced.
He grabbed a shovel and walked to the corner of the barn. He lifted an old rug and threw it to the side, then began the task of digging up a large strongbox that contained the family’s antebellum gold and silver. His thoughts went to his younger brother Tyler, a Red Shirt, a confederate sympathizer. He was certain his brother had participated in the raid. He dragged the strongbox to his buckboard, opened it and removed the gold and silver bricks, which allowed him to lift it into the bed of his buckboard. He then placed the fortune back in the strongbox. He would leave no gold or silver to support his brother’s beliefs and hateful actions. He presumed it was God’s will that he, Buckus Del Henny, put the money to a better use than killing freedmen and women. The Civil War was not over in Vicksburg.
Buckus hitched his mules to the wagon and tied his horse and cow to the rails. He placed the old carpet from the barn over the strong box and began to place items around it. He loaded half his wagon with the necessities for travel: food, warm clothing, a pan, a few utensils, a bedroll, lantern, a canteen, more hay and his Bible. Placing his shotgun under the seat, he returned to Hattie and rolled her body in an old tarp. He carried her and placed her gently in the wagon bed on a cushion of straw, and then covered her with hay.
Buckus waited for the sun to set, hoping the Red Shirts and his brother would not return. Under the cover of darkness, he poured kerosene around the barn and struck a match. He stood for a moment saying a prayer for all the freedmen’s souls. Jumping on the seat of the wagon, he snapped the reins and headed up a back country road to the north. He planned to bury Hattie in a beautiful place away from here, a place secure and safe. A place where nothing could hurt her. If he’d been home when the Red Shirts attacked, he would have fought to his death. He would have died with Hattie and their unborn child. As the barn crackled behind him, Buckus slapped the reins and began a journey north.
After a few days on the road Buckus neared the town of Yazoo City. He had an errand to run. Just outside of town he visited the Old Livery Mercantile and saw a five-foot-long pine toolbox. It appeared that the box was not being used, so Buckus inquired about it. “You know, I could use that box. It for sale?”
“Yep. Don’t have no need for it now.”
“How much?”
“Seems you need it and I don’t. You got three dollars? Real money. Coin is what I want.” Buckus nodded, produced the coins from his pants pocket. The two men lifted the old box behind Buckus’s seat and secured it to the rails with rope.
Later that day, Buckus made camp and reorganized his belongings in the wagon bed. He pulled the pine box from its roost and placed Hattie’s shrouded body gently in the makeshift coffin. He took a loose photograph and envelope from his Bible. Thumbing through the well-worn pages he found a verse and tore it out. He carefully placed it, along with the photo in the envelope, at the top of the coffin. Then he set the lid on top and covered the box with hay. The task caused his knees to grow weak. As he fought back tears and feelings of anger, images of that horrible day combined into a terrible truth that tore at the fiber of his being. Hattie, his child, and his happy future were gone. An image of Hattie appeared in his mind, her smile warm, her laughter engaging. In that moment, as tired as he was, Buckus found renewed strength. Breathing deeply, he returned to the business of bedding down for the night.
Weeks passed, and Buckus Del Henny, exhausted and cold, neared Springfield, Missouri. As he sat on his wagon, he raised the collar on his coat and blew warm air into his cold hands. He remained motionless and
