Mopping sweat with his bandanna, he mused, “This ornery cuss is out to get me. “ Jack McCartie was seventeen and six feet one inch in height with broad shoulders, narrow hips and weighing in at 185 pounds. The thick curly auburn hair was in sharp contrast to his blue eyes set in a ruggedly handsome face. Sinewy hands and biceps that bulged under the cotton shirt revealed unusual strength for such a young man. In Paris or Rome, perhaps he would be a model for some artist; in North Carolina, he was only a farmer’s son.
Working the dusty red clay fields of the Piedmont since sunup, Jack as always looked forward to his moms' cooking and a cold glass of milk from the crock in the springhouse. He stood with the lines draped over his shoulder, while Red with head hanging and eyes closed, shifted from side to side.
As Jack contemplated lunch and a respite from the sun, a horse fly settled on his shoulder and drew blood. Swinging a hand to shoo the fly he accidently flicked the lines with a loud pop, across the broad rump of Red. The mule bolted pulling the lines from Jack’s hands.
Dad, will kill us both, thought Jack as he chased the mule across rows of destroyed corn. His dad appeared in the wagon at the edge of the field just as he grabbed the lines.
Bellowing like a wounded bull William McCartie was running across the field toward Jack. The veins in his neck pulsating like giant worms beneath the skin.
William ignored Jack’s attempt at an explanation. Instead, his dad was reaching for and unsnapping the trace chain from the harness, with the intent of landing a blow across the back of Jack. However, the force of William’s swing turned him around causing him to fall face down in the dusty field. Jack knew it was not funny but he laughed anyway. William got to his feet and swung again with more fury than ever. Being young and agile, Jack stepped behind the mule and Red took the brunt of the attack. Jack took off at a brisk pace toward the house and Red ran toward the barn destroying more corn as he went. William meanwhile was ranting about his son’s ineptness.
Arriving at the house, Jack drew a bucket of water from the well and started to wash the red dust from his face and hands. His mom, Belle, stepped out on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron said, “Lunch is almost ready.” Shaking from anger and fear, he considered the incident in the field. He thought as he was drying hands and face. “Staying here is out of the question, I have to leave home, today.”
Taking the last bite of apple pie and gulping the cold milk, Jack heard his dad roaring with renewed vigor as he walked into the kitchen. Belle McCartie not saying a word came into the kitchen and looked with her piercing blue eyes at her husband.
William stopped, clenched
his fists, and turned swiftly stomping toward the front porch swing, his usual
place of retreat.
As was the habit after lunch, Jack did not return to the field but went to his bed in the loft. He knelt and pulled a well-worn knapsack from under the bed. Opening the large trunk, which held his belongings he began packing. Three pair of socks, three pair of underwear, two pair of pants, two shirts and several bandannas and his packing was completed.
Money, clothes, and jobs had really been scarce since October 24 of last year. The stock market crashed that day. A day we now call Black Thursday.
Downstairs he heard his mom and dad talking, Belle
in a soft gentle voice and William rumbling like thunder through a hollow log.
Without faltering, Jack walked into the room saying, “Mom, Dad, I need to go
away.” “Where will you go,” asked Belle, a quiver in her voice? “He is not going anywhere Belle, he is just a
hothead like me,” said William.
Jack said, “Yes, I am like you, but it is time to
see more than Cotton Grove. I think I will be going west maybe I will go to Missouri
first. There may be work there and I know there is plenty to see.” Humph, said
William, making a snorting sound through his nose.
Jack turned and walked from the kitchen, through the hallway and out the front door. Belle ran after him and said, “I do not want you to go, but I know you cannot stay home forever. Promise me you will write.” “I will Mom, I will,” said Jack hugging her.
Turning toward the road he heard his youngest sister say, “Bye, bye Jack, see you later.” Jack waved a hand but did not look back. He did not want her to see the tears welling in his eyes. His other four sisters were not at home and he was glad, they always asked too many questions. With long strides, he headed for Linwood and the rail yard hoping to catch the next train going west.
He had walked about a mile when he heard a wagon coming along the road. Turning, he was surprised and worried to see William McCartie driving his team of Belgians at a trot. Jack, unsure if he should run or stand decided on the latter.
William stopped the team saying; “Come on son, if you are leaving at least let me take you to the rail yard.” Jack climbed into the wagon; William slapped the lines along the flanks of the team and the wagon moved smoothly along the road. As was usually the case, neither Jack nor William said anything during the ride.
Arriving in Linwood, Jack jumped from the wagon and headed for the rail yard while William tied the horses. He found an empty boxcar and tossed his knapsack inside. Ready to climb into the car, he heard approaching footsteps, glancing back he saw his dad; hurriedly he ran to William and hugged him. His dad gave him all the money he had in his pocket, a dollar and a half. “Jack,” he said, “I am sorry and, in a broken voice said, I love you.” William had never said those words to him before that he could remember. The engine whistle blew and the cars started with a jolt, Jack scrambled into the open car, stood quickly, and waved to his dad as the train gathered speed.
Jack stood, watching Linwood and his dad fade from view. He turned from the door, shook his head, smiled, and said, “I am going west, thanks to an ornery red mule.”
