The Jordan Gang

CHAPTER 1:

Andrew Jordan at Hog Killing Time Mountains of Western Virginia, Fall of 1859

The air was cold. A bone-chilling wind blew over the ridge and down the hollow to where Benjamin Jordan stood outside his family’s cabin. Winter was his favorite time of year; there was no farming to do and he could go hunting most of the time. He enjoyed slipping through the uncovered trees. Their leaves had fallen off, leaving the stark, gray trunks. The mountains seemed sad at this time of year, especially with the wind moaning as it swept through the hollow and hills.

He thought he might go squirrel hunting, but the fallen leaves would require him to take his dog. The leaves would make a big racket under his feet. He would have to make the dog run ahead of him barking and the squirrels would keep the tree between them and the barking dog so it could not be seen. This way they would come into Ben’s field of vision and then, Bang! They would get a load of shot from his shotgun. He was proud of how fast he could reload the firearm by pouring the powder down the muzzle, then a wad of paper, then a load of shot, and then the last wad of paper. Then he’d place a pinch of powder on the flash pan and let the flint fall and, Bang! He had fired again! The boy had heard people talking of war clouds gathering and saying that there might be a war right here. He wondered what it would be like to hunt people that could shoot back. Not much fun … then again, it might be.

Ben was bothered by a dream he’d had the night before. In a drunken rage, his dad had killed his hound with an ax, but first he had broken its back to hear it howl. He stared at the ax and was content to see that there was no blood on it … yet. Andrew had not killed the hound, even if he had warned Ben he would if it ever woke him up barking at the moon.

Ben walked around the tiny log cabin and judged the weather. He could feel a chill in the air. He longed to take his dog out in the woods and shoot a few squirrels with the old flintlock shotgun. This was something eighteen-year-olds truly enjoyed and always looked forward to. Hunting gave him a reason to be away from his pap. Suddenly, something upset all his plans. His pap came out of the cabin and called him. Hey, what do you think you’re doin’? the tall, baldheaded man hollered at the boy.

I was gettin’ ready to go squ—

The intense man cut the boy off short, Oh no, you ain’t. Ya’re goin’ to kill that hog while it’s cool. He pointed to a hog lying in a mud hole a long distance off from the cabin. The boy had not known anything about the hog. The man snapped, I stole it last night. The boy knew better than to complain to his pa in any way, so he simply nodded.

The previous night when the old man had come home, his wife and son had hidden from him, fearing he might have been in a drunken rage. He hadn’t been, and had only cursed them and gone to bed. They were both glad he had not had a jug of corn whiskey. Corn whiskey made the ol’ man dangerous to be around—more so than usual.

The man demanded of his son, Have ya seen th’ ax anywhere? This startled Benjamin, for he remembered the dream he had had the night before. The boy did not doubt his pap would kill a dog that way; it was only a question of, did he want to? The ax was not bloody at that time. The timid boy answered, hesitantly, I reckon it’s behind th’ cabin.

The man walked around the cabin till he found the poleax and laid it over his shoulder. Tote that f’arwood out there to th’ pot, the man gruffly commanded. The boy grabbed an armload of wood and immediately started toward the black cast iron pot, which was covered with a wash pot to keep rainwater out so it wouldn’t rust. Ben started arranging the wood under the pot. He worked at this chore rapidly, not wanting to give the man any cause to be upset. The boy talked very little—he had learned long ago that talking upset the old man.

While he worked getting the fire hot enough to bring the water to a boil, the man prepared his accouterments. There was a stick, sharpened on both ends, with an iron ring in the middle. A rope was tied to it. The old man grabbed a rope and the ax and started toward where the hog was wallowing in the mire. He called for the boy to join him; his voice echoed back from the hills nearby. He handed the ax to the boy and said, Kill it. The poor boy was repulsed at the idea, and said, Let me get th’ gun and shoot—

The old man flew into a rage and screamed, Knock it in th’ head with th’ ax, or, by God , I’ll hit you with it.

The boy knew better than to doubt him in this state of mind. He took the ax and fragilely struck a blow at the hog’s head with the blunt side of the ax. It hit the hog with so little force that the animal didn’t even squeal. This infuriated the man to the point that he screamed, Can’t you do nothin’, gump? He slapped the boy till he was spun around where he stood. The man yelled at the trembling boy, Ya got no common sense! Ya wouldn’t know whether to scratch your butt or wind your watch. The man laughed at his own joke. The boy had nothing to laugh at.

The boy still held the ax but made no threatening gestures to his father or the wallowing hog. The man grabbed the ax and swung the flat side against the brute’s skull with sufficient force to crush it. The hog fell, screaming very loudly and sounding very much like a human in agony. The boy looked at the man with repressed anger, yet his face showing nothing.

The man cruelly looked on as the animal kicked; he grinned a grin that made the boy want to throw up. The man drew a butcher knife from his belt and stabbed the hog in the throat. The hog gushed blood profusely and made a gurgling sound as it kicked more faintly. The man laughed at the spectacle, blood dripping from his knife and hand. What’s the matter, gump? Don’t ya like butcherin’?

The boy looked at the countryside and felt there was no beauty there to behold, not now as he considered the pig lying in its own blood, both hind legs kicking, trying to push away death. He and his pap worked at preparing the hog in an atmosphere so thick the boy feared to move. This caused him to make mistakes, which made the man scream at him even more. They finally dragged the hog to the pot and poured boiling water on it and began to scrape its hair off with the man’s razor-sharp knife.

When the beast was scraped, the man took his knife and cut the back of the hog’s hind leg so that he was able to push one end of the sharp stick between the Achilles tendon. He did this to the other leg and then threw the rope from the ring over a tree limb; together they hung the hog in this manner.

He told the boy, Get a tub and hold it! The man started a hole at the animal’s anus with his knife and split its belly. They caught the intestines as they fell and the old man tied a string around the end of the large colon. The smell almost made the boy puke, but the old man did not seem to notice it.

They worked rapidly to beat the sun and flies. They kept going all day long without stopping for dinner. After all, what was there to do in the house anyway? The old hound would creep around and try to steal some of the meat they were cutting up. The man would curse it and tell the boy he’d better throw rocks at it or he would knock the hound in the head too. The boy would chase it away.

In the early afternoon the man told the boy to take a piece of meat inside and have his mother cook it. By now the man was very agreeable. That’s tenderloin, boy, that and eggs and cornbread is the best eating a person can have. The man cursed and then added, I’m hungry.

The sun was low in the west by the time they were finished. The man said, Suppertime. They both started toward the house, continuing the silence that had hung over them all day. Ben’s mother was a small woman who offered no resistance to her husband when he was in a rage; she had learned to simply be passive as her only defense. Her black hair was often pulled back behind her head in a braid. Ben was glad to be in the house, since it smelled of cooked ham and it was warm. His mother wore the calm smile that she seemed to always have.

They were all happy knowing that the hog meat, once drained and salted, would last all winter. They heard a horse. The boy walked to the door, cracked it open, and saw a man whom he didn’t know talking to his pa. Come on back and wash the plates, his mother said, knowing that the best way out of a conflict was not to get into one. Ya pa may be goin’ to get a job, she said, wanting to add, When there’s a cold day in July.

The bowls of eggs, tenderloin, red-eyed gravy, and cornbread were neatly arranged on the table, waiting for Andrew to come in. Ben was happy in this situation: he and his mother were together and Andrew was not there. Time passed slowly for Ben as he wished his father would stay outside and never come back. When they heard the two men laugh loudly, he and his mother knew the men must have been drinking. After some time, they heard the door fly open and Andrew came in with two clay jugs; they heard the horse trotting away.

Andrew said in a very dictatorial way, I’ve been doin’ a little bartering. His speech was slurred. He stunk of sour mash whiskey already. What did ya trade, dear? his wife asked, sounding unconcerned. I got me two gallons of whiskey, he said, smiling to himself. And if ya’re bustin’ a gut to know, I traded that fatback for it, he said, while he poured some whiskey in a glass.

Oh, what will we eat this winter? his wife asked, more to herself than anyone else, not wanting to upset the man. He did not answer, and when she turned around to look at him he slapped her to the floor. He turned the glass up and drank it all in a few big gulps. He was furious. Benjamin thought he was going to kick her but he only cursed her. When the poor woman stood up and staggered about he slapped her again. Benjamin wanted her to fight back, and he clenched his fists, wanting to yell. Rashly, the boy pleaded, Pa, don’t! This, of course, turned Andrew’s attention from his wife to his son. The boy knew he would be hit instead of his mother.

You little devil, he snarled like an animal. He started for the boy, who stepped back. The man’s red, twisted face looked more like a devil than anything else. He grabbed the boy by his right wrist and balled up his own fist. His wife started screaming I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t hit ‘im!

Andrew gave them a wily look and said, Well, it seems there isn’t enough room in here for us all. He staggered after his wife, and in so doing knocked the table over and spilled their supper.

Well, he said again. When he was drunk he often would say a word or phrase over and over. You all’re just too holy for me, he said, grabbing her and dragging the frail woman to the door and pitching her out like a sack of roasting corn.

Ben, terrified, was in a corner of the room where he would not be noticed. He knew his father didn’t see well when he was this drunk. The boy did not know what to do. He only knew that he was angry at his father.

His pa stormed about the room for some time, railing about this and that, half the time not making any sense. When Ben looked out the window he saw his mother lying on a woodpile. Ben felt sorry for her; she did not have a coat, and there would be frost the next morning.

Later on, around midnight, hunger drove Benjamin to where the food lay on the floor. He picked up the cleanest morsel of ham and ate it. This is what I need to take Ma, he thought to himself.

He was not sleepy; he could get by quite well on only a few hours of sleep per night. He had been brought up this way; his pap had forced him to sleep very little. Ben wondered if that might have something to do with the severe headaches that had in the past made him quite ill.

Well, well, well, his dad mumbled from the corner of the room. He lay down at the other end of the room. Benjamin went out into the night and found his mother lying on the wood. The cold north wind was slowly blowing.

Ma, Ma, let’s go in; Pa’s sleeping, he said, trying to choke back tears. She said, All right, and coughed. She was cold to the touch, Benjamin realized, as he helped her get into the cabin. He helped her past the fireplace and to bed. He laid her gently down on the bed she would never rise from.

He went to the room where his pa lay on the floor and listened to his snoring. She better not get sick! She better not! the hurt boy cried. He wished it had been himself that was out on the woodpile, locked out of his own house, instead of his mother.

The next day his mother had a fever. She could not rise up, and when she breathed he could hear the rustling in her chest. His pa did not seem to recall what had happened, and Benjamin was not going to tell him.

Sharon, Benjamin’s aunt, was their closest neighbor; she lived only a few hundred yards away. Andrew was sorry about the shape his wife was in; he felt he had done something but was not sure what. He could not recollect anything about the night before.

Now that Sharon was there, Pa was the ideal husband and father. He did not even curse while she was around. This just made Benjamin angrier. He often had headaches and, just as his mother said, strong, black coffee was all that would help them. He drank it often, when there was any in the house to be had.

His mother was not improving; she was actually getting worse. The rattling in her chest was worse with each hour, and her coughing sounded more like choking. His aunt Sharon eventually broke down crying, and told him it was only a matter of time.

Benjamin begged to get a doctor to come look at her; there was one in a nearby settlement. They did try to get the doctor, but he did not come. Sharon said he knew they had no money to pay him. Benjamin started crying, which made Andrew angry. He flew into a rage and started mocking the boy. Hearing this only made Benjamin cry louder. Sharon spoke to Andrew and eventually he left and didn’t come back all night. Benjamin didn’t know and didn’t care where he had gone.

The following morning there was an early snow. Benjamin took his hound hunting for some rabbit, as that was the best time to track them. He was gone till just before dinner. Coming back, he stopped to gaze at the cabin at the foot of the mountains. He was sad, and he somehow knew his life would soon come to a turning point. In the past he had never tried to fight his father, fearing it would upset his poor mother. As he came closer to the cabin he heard his father crying; he did not feel sorry for him at all, but he was upset by what it meant.

This could only mean one thing: his mother was dead. He dropped the rabbits he was toting and cried like a person with no friends in the world. The lonely boy fell to his knees, crying loudly, but there was no one who could hear him. His beloved shotgun was lying in the snow. Slowly he pulled himself together and walked to the cabin to hear the news. His mother had departed this life in peace, he was told. She had no peace when she was alive! he wanted to scream but did not dare.

He felt so alone. Now that his mother was gone there would be no one to restrain his pap. There would be no way he could protect himself from his pap except fighting back. He did not believe he could. The boy did not know if he could stand being with his pap when he was drunk on sour mash.

The next few days were a blur, and he could not understand what was happening. Now that his mother was dead, everyone brought food. They had more food than they could possibly eat. Why had they not brought some to his mother when she was alive? That was the bitter question Benjamin asked himself but dared not ask anyone else. He felt he could trust no one; all adults were apt to be like his father: calm and content one minute and raging the next. There was no one he dared trust, not even Aunt Sharon.

The ordeal of sitting up at night was more than he could bear; the night was so peaceful and now at last his mother was at peace. He could see in her face that she was no longer in fear of his pa. Is this the only way to be at rest? Benjamin asked himself.

Finally, she was laid out in the church for the funeral.