Hell Come A-Walkin'
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

So, y'all want to hear a story? Settle down, then - do close that window, Wendell, before that rain plumb ruins your Meemaw's chifferobe - and I'll spin you a tale about the Great Battle of Bottletree, just the way your Meemaw told it to me.

This happened back in the days of the War of Northern Aggression, when General Sherman and his Yankee army were marching to the sea, burning everything in their path like hell come a-walkin'. What wasn't burned, they stole. Didn't matter if it was red-hot or nailed down, them damned Yankees swarmed around like a cloud of locusts, leaving hardly a crumb behind. Soldiers peeled off in groups from the columns, most times a few days ahead of the main body, to scout and scavenge. Not a shred of common decency in the lot of them. The Yankees took bread from the mouths of defenseless women and children. They destroyed their homes and crops, their crimes multiplying as they drove further south. It was an ungallant war. The battlelines were drawn, not against our brave Confederate soldiers, but striking full upon those frail beloved who were left behind. Our boys' families suffered greatly at the hands of Sherman's men.

Refugees brought the word to friends and neighbors as they fled that devil's march. Hell come a-walkin', all right, and terror went right alongside.

There was a plantation on the land where your Meemaw's house sits - the actual site's a bit north of where your uncle Cutshall has his hunting shack - which was owned by a woman named Calpurnia Arbelle Burke. Miss Calpurnia was an educated lady, obstinate as a mule, with a will of purest iron. Too contrary to marry, she lived with her friend and companion, Baby Tishamingo. Miss Baby (one of the Birmingham Tishamingos, not the no-count Kempersville branch) was raised on a sugar plantation in Haiti. They didn't keep no slaves in Sans Souci, but somehow the fields were worked, their needs were met, and no man was the wiser.

In those days, the nearest town to the Sans Souci plantation was a tiny little place called Bottletree. Hardly much of consequence in Bottletree at all, 'cept a church for marrying, and a cemetery for burying. There was some farmsteads in the area, a few sharecroppers, a clan or two of hill folk - just enough custom to support Bottletree's four merchants, the pastor and the blacksmith. Miss Calpurnia was the uncrowned queen of the place. When she and Miss Baby arrived at church in style on a Sunday morning, clip-clopping along in their fancy surrey with a yellow fringed top, men took off their hats and woman curtsied in the street. People back then knew how to mind their manners - unlike you, Mary Eudoxia, so get that finger out of your nose 'cause I'm fixin' to ask the cat to bite it off!

Now, it happens that there were sometimes strange doin's up at Sans Souci. Lightning running side to side, strange colors in the sky, unseen voices speaking in tongues, the occasional rain of toady frogs... that kind of thing. But since Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby were always most generous and kind in their dealings with the people of Bottletree, nobody paid much mind to their little ways. Besides, frogs make good bait for bass fishing, and the old pastor was often to be found with pole in hand when he wasn't preaching or organizing war relief.

Life was good in Bottletree, even in those hardscrabble times... until the day they got the news that a band of Sherman's raiders was spotted, riding hard for the town.

Quite naturally, the good folk called upon Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby to save Bottletree from the Union vultures. The ladies came riding down from Sans Souci in their fancy yellow-fringed surrey. Everyone had gathered outside the feed store - farmsteaders, merchants, sharecroppers, hill people - and all of them looked to Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby for help. Since the able-bodied men were away at war, there were mostly women and children left, along with the old and the infirm.

Miss Calpurnia asked if they were willing to fight. Hell yes! went up the answer. They had almost nothing 'cept good will and good hearts, but not a one of those people was going to run from damned Yankees. It was their land, and by God, they were going to defend it. So Miss Calpurnia sent them out to gather what weapons they could, before the soldiers arrived.  Then the ladies went back up to Sans Souci, to do what they could in defense of Bottletree.

With Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby on their side, the Bottletree folks felt they had a chance.

The soldiers against them numbered fifty-odd; they were trained killers, and well armed, besides. Against them stood a dozen mothers, about as many grandmothers and grandfathers. The children were hidden in the church, it being hoped that even a Godless Yankee would hesitate to blaspheme against the Lord by setting His house afire. Bearing pitchforks, flintlock rifles, hatchets and native ingenuity, Bottletree's defenders made themselves ready to repulse the enemy.

Just before dusk they came, soldiers riding proud in blue, silhouetted against a scarlet sky.

Lester George, quit pulling your cousin Minnie's pigtails and pay attention, boy! If you're so restless, maybe you'd better go and chop some firewood instead of sitting here pestering the devil out of your cousin. Oh? You want to hear the story? Then settle down, son, and leave that girl alone. Minnie, if you don't stop whining, I'm going to give you something to cry about. All right? Are we done? Good.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes... so the Union soldiers came to Bottletree. They had found the farmsteads deserted, the livestock driven into the woods. Onward they came, the arrogant ones, believing there could be no opposition. They were wrong. The Bottletree folk stepped out to meet them, weapons at the ready, their souls commended to God, Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby. The Yankees drew their pistols, eager for a fight. It looked like the end.

Suddenly, yonder from the plantation house came a clap of thunder so loud it startled the deer for miles around. Lightning bolts flew side to side. Strange lights filled the air, like stars fallen out of Heaven. Unseen voices proclaimed a hallelujah chorus in tongues unknown to man. Toady frogs fell from the sky, plopped in the dirt, and started croaking doom.

That may not have been enough to drive the Yankees away, but Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby weren't done yet. No, sir! For shambling figures came streaming out from the plantation fields, shedding dirt and flesh and flies. More came from the church cemetery, to box up the Yankees before and behind. Some were hardly more than bone held together with rags, but most still had some juice left in them. Lurching like drunkards, teeth bared in skull faces, Bottletree's dead had been awakened.

Well, it wasn't much of a fight after that. While the good folks watched, them dead folks whupped hell out of those damned Yankees. They tore them scalawags into itty bitty pieces. When it was all over, there wasn't much left of Sherman's soldiers except a few scraps that were quickly scraped up and fed to the hogs. After that, not a trace remained.

The dead went back to the cemetery, dug themselves back into their graves. The ones from the plantation house just fell over and lay there, gathering flies. Bottletree's people consigned these defenders to a corner of the cemetery, giving them the reward of consecrated soil to rest their weary bones. Of Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby, nothing was ever found. The ladies disappeared from Sans Souci, and were never seen alive again.

They were particularly missed by the pastor, since he had to catch his own bait from then on.

So, when the War of Northern Aggression was finished, the citizens of Bottletree were moved to erect a statue of Miss Calpurnia Arbelle Burke and Miss Baby Tishamingo, the women who had saved their town from destruction. Did you know that the statue still exists? Oh, yes... it stands in a clearing out there by Crossfire Creek. It's said that the ladies protect their own, and they are quick to punish offense.

How do I know, Wendell?

Take a look at my hand, son. See where I've lost these two fingers?

Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby snatched 'em clean off 'cause I was a bad boy!

Boo!

Aw, now, Wendell... stop crying. You too, Minnie. I was just funning you. Lester, stop sniveling. Mary Eudoxia, that finger's going to start digging out brain if you aren't careful.

You children know we're fixing to sell this land to them developers from Up North. They're going to move the bodies in the old cemetery and everything. I reckon they'll get rid of that statue somehow. Yes, Wendell, I know your Meemaw don't like it. She's old, son, and a mite touched in the head. This house of hers is worth a pretty penny. I already signed the deal. Uncle Cutshall will have to build himself a new hunting shack someplace else.

Minnie, I do not care what your Meemaw said. I'm not selling your heritage for a mess of pottage. These Up North people are nice, not anything like Sherman's Yankees.

Yes, Lester, the land's been in your family for a long time. I knew that when I married your momma, who ain't got a lick of sense, either. Takes after Meemaw in that regard. Now, I may be your stepdaddy, but when I tell you to stop that crying, I mean it, buster. There ain't no such thing as curses, whatever the silly women of this family may believe. Oh, Uncle Cutshall believes it too? Well, good for him. Moonshine does terrible things to a man's brain, and let that be a lesson to you.

No, Mary Eudoxia, Miss Calpurnia and Miss Baby aren't going to kill me and feed me to the hogs. Bottletree is long since gone, and so is Sans Souci. The land remains, but the town and plantation ain't nothing but memories and a dumb old statue. It's just a story.

The Yankees are not invading. They're businessmen, not soldiers. Everybody knows that, 'cept for ignorant hill folk like your Meemaw. You can visit her in the nursing home when...

Hey, y'all... did you hear something at the door?

THE END

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