SHORT STORIES
MOONLIGHT AT SETTLE'S BRIDGE

Looking out across the road that day the air was shimmering in the hot Carolina sun. In the distance I could see the last of the this years crop being planted. A water wagon rumbled past on its way to quench the thirst of infant tobacco plants. On the front seat the dirty smiling faces of the darkies belied the troubled times that stirred around us. Uncomfortable, I shifted in my chair and drew the pistols from my belt. Laying them on the porch rail I looked at the worn ivory handles. It seems I remember thinking their light yellowish color seemed as warm as the day.
A Yankee census taker had been working the farms in our area and I knew he would get to me sooner or later. As he rode up the cut of his clothes and the awkward way he dismounted gave away his city background. The questions he asked were to the point and polite but I could not help but feel violated. I had given him the most basic of answers and invited him to ride on. Damn, the man was clearly a scalawag. One of the drove of northern opportunists that had descended on us after the war. Was there not a day that would go by that I would not think of that stinking war? Men like him had probably sat at home during the struggle, I thought. The way he had eyed my pistols on the porch rail. It was clear he was afraid. That was the one good thing the war had taken from me. Fear was for those not familiar with death. During those four years death had ridden with me. We had left North Carolina with over fifty men, only seven had returned. The rest had fallen on far away fields, not unlike the field across road from me now. Fields distant from me only in miles not in memory.
Shoving my pistols back in my belt, I stepped out into the bright sunshine. The water wagon raised a cloud of dust on its way back to the creek. I rode along enjoying the fine day. We reached the creek and I watered my horse while the boys started a bucket line and began to fill the tank. They sang as they worked. How much this day was like the old times. I was still in charge and the darkies were still doing the work. According to the damn Yankees these guys were free. Funny, I wonder what that word means? I used to think I was free. Free, yet beholding to every damn Yankee in the county. Free, still I had to leave all this and fight a war I knew we could not win. Free, sometimes the only freedom we have is to be born and die. What passes in between is the rub. Death is not the hard part, sometimes living is.
I would not say my politics had changed since coming back from the war but I had to be awakened to some very important realities. Locally, it was expected for you to be part of the "Good ole Boy" network and to try and continue fighting for "The Cause" in spite of the occupying Yankee army and the new federal reconstruction government. I had been asked to join the frequent night rides to put down uppity blacks and Yankees. Somehow I could not picture myself in sheets. Having spent so much time looking my enemies in the face I could not bring myself to hide from them now. I did know "The Cause" was not going to pay my taxes or feed the people looking to me for leadership and jobs. To do that I had been forced to get into bed with some of the same damn carpetbaggers I hated so much.
The wagon was filled and headed back to the fields and I rode in the other direction. I was satisfied that the planting at Hawks Nest Farm was going well but I had responsibilities elsewhere. The ride to Mulberry Island Farm would take well into the night. I would be there in time to get a little sleep and then supervise the mornings work. At a fork in the road a gentle tug of the reins turned my mount down the gently sloping road toward the Dan river and Settle's Bridge. In the gradually failing light the fields and forest along the road began to lose their details. Soon the moon would be up to light my way. The steady tattoo of hoof beats reminded me of the roads we had all ridden together from Sharpsburg to Gettysburg and everywhere in between.
Gettysburg, if it had not been for an impassable muddy road we would have perished there to. The thousands that died, damn! A generation of our finest had soaked that ground with their blood. For what, the possession of some Pennsylvania hilltop, the Southern way of life? What it came down to for most of them was bleeding in the grass. A .68 caliber minnie ball in the chest can boil down your politics to base level real fast. Like I said death is the easy part, living with the memories is a good bit harder.
I could hear the river now. Gentle current lapping at the wood pilings. In the new moonlight that old green snake of a river had gone silver now. Slivers of clouds raced by the moon in the darkening sky as the first few stars came out. Turning a bend in the road, I could see a large groups of men in sheets blocking the dark mass of the bridge. A few held torches, their white sheets almost glowing in the moonlight. "Damn fine targets." I thought to myself. In preparation I loosened the leather thongs that held down my pistols. Just outside of pistol range I stopped my horse.
"Hold it right there David" they called. " You won't be crossing this bridge tonight." I replied "This is open road and I will cross." The leader said "You have had your chance to join us. Malloy you are either in this with us or you are against us." At that point I said "Now, I know every man Jack of you and can name you right down the line. I am carrying two pistols and a sharp knife and you know I am not afraid to use them. I am going to cross here tonight and if one of you so much as lays the weight of a hand on my bridle I will shoot him dead as a stone." They all laughed and over the mumblings I heard one of them say "We know you a fine shot that is true. We are not doubting your shooting or your courage but we have a grave dug for you and there are ten of us and one of you. Do you think you can shoot us all ?" In the now bright moon light the robes were easy marks. Well, I thought, ten men one for each of the balls loaded in my big .44's. I know that would be a lot to ask but the alternative did not look that appealing either. Pulling and cocking my pistols it seemed like someone else was speaking when I said "Very well gentlemen, which of you shall be the first to die ?" After what seemed like a lifetime the group slowly parted and I rode through.
My horse's hooves thundering on the wooden planks of the covered bridge brought me back into sharp reality. It has never ceased to amaze me how much reason power cold steel can bring into a difficult emotional situation. You know the hell of it all was that two of those men on that bridge, in the moonlight, fought with me in the war. Yet there they were still ready to kill for "The Cause." Apparently they just were not willing to die for it. I can not blame them though. We all did enough dying during the war, even the ones that made it home.

This was based on a true story about my Great-Great Grandfather Col. David Morton Malloy. It is a story told in my family and passed on to me. Political commentaries and situations are based on family research done by my father and myself and documented by historical records of the time.

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From the Sea

The sound of waves crashing on the distant reef muffled the sounds of frigate birds and gulls as they circled over head. Arok looked up briefly. he knew the birds would dive down and try to steal anything small enough for them to carry away. That was of little concern, he thought, the sea was kind and the lagoon was full of food. Returning his attention to fishing he intently watched a large sheepshead as it fed on a small crabs. The sun on his brown back was warm and soothing. The clear, warm water of the lagoon lapped gently against his legs. Arok stood completely still. With a quick spear thrust the fish was his. In water up his thighs he struggled to keep his balance between the coral heads. The big fish was speared thru the vitals and died quickly in a plume of reddish blood.
A few moments later Arok heaved his catch into the canoe. The smooth wood of the small boat was a welcome retreat to his bare feet from the shallows filled with sharp coral. A large frigate bird swooped down as if to grab the fish. He shouted to the bird "Go on my friend, try to carry this away." In the distance, beyond the reef he saw several large canoes making rapidly for the lagoon. From the set of their square sails he knew they had just crossed open ocean. Far beyond his home and its protected lagoon were many islands. Under the protection of the ocean spirits the Crib people had colonized almost all of them. Arok had often dreamed of exploring and battle. He knew each island of any size had one or more small groups of the people that lived perched on the border between land and water. Arok's people were children of the sea and the jungle. The songs of the old ones told stories of how the people had come up from a distant land. They were from an island in the south so big no man had ever sailed around it. Fierce warriors and fighters, they had killed or absorbed the other tribes they found in their travels. Long before he was born clans of the Carib tribe had made homes of almost every island in the large sea that would one day bear their name.
Arok paddled with smooth strong strokes. The narrow dugout skimmed across the lagoon. He wanted to be back at the village before the big canoes reached shore. By the time he got there three large dugouts were already pulled up on the wide stretch of white sand between the village and the lagoon. A group of twenty Carib warriors stood in the brilliant sunlight. He had never seen any of them before. All the strangers were all dressed in their finest feathers and shells. What fascinated Arok most was their weapons. Most of them carried what looked like a wooden canoe paddle, but with a shorter handle. These narrow paddles were made from heavy brown hardwood and the edges had been honed with shell rasps to a sharp edge. The boy had seen what such a weapon could do to flesh. Men of his clan used similar weapons to kill sharks caught in their nets. In the hands of a strong man one solid strike could cleave a medium sized shark almost in two. The leader of the warriors carried a club set with shark's teeth in rows. Secretly he rolled over in his mind how such weapons would be used in combat. He thought of the war dances he had been learning. The moves of the dances were smooth and fluid like a wave passing over the sand but he knew that the same moves performed with weapons could be deadly.
Arok had lived through fifteen seasons of storms. During that time he had seen many visitors to their island. Trade between the clans of Caribs on different islands was a long time tradition. He knew the strangers had probably come to trade or look for wives. Clans on the widely separated smaller islands needed to seek wives outside their family groups to keep bloodlines strong. The leader of the warriors spoke loudly. He repeated the traditional Carib greetings in a sing-song voice. There was the obligatory recital of history and linage and the promise of peace and trade rather than seeking combat. In response Arok's people hugged them and welcomed them to the village.
That night the dancing and feasting lasted long into the night. In the flickering fire and torch light the visiting warriors ate their fill. Several of the village men started playing on a great wooden drum carved from a log After eating and drinking the men danced skillfully to show off their weapons, muscles, shells and feathers. The object was to impress some of the single girls that were dancing off to the side but still watching the handsome newcomers. One by one the laughing, giggling girls came to the warriors fire to dance with a man they had chosen. The girls movements were dances of seduction. The men matched their movements with a dances of power and strength. As the fires died down they danced closer and closer. The lithe forms of dancers in the were soon dancing beyond the fire’s circle of light.
By early morning the fires were out and the villagers had retreated to their huts. Pairs of new lovers were spending the night in the jungle, seeking to cement bonds that could last a lifetime. If a girl accepted a warrior it was possible they would be married and she would return with home with him. It was also possible that a warrior might stay on the new island if his new bride talked him into it.
Arok had left the feast early. His big catch of the day was hardly noticed in the huge spread of food the village had put out. Keeping good relations with other clans was important. Warfare between Carib clans was a deadly affair. He had listened to the stories and songs of clan warfare with great interest. Since the Caribs had ruled these island unopposed his only chance for battle might be one of these conflicts. Deep inside he felt almost sorry that this visit was a peaceful one. Far back in the jungle Arok climbed a tree and retrieved his weapon. He had carefully crafted it after the weapons he had seen in his village. Slowly building speed he went through the movements of the Carib warriors war dance. He swung the heavy blade in large circular arcs. The weight of the wooden blade carried a momentum far beyond what the boy's own strength could have managed. As he danced he selected a small but stout tree. In his mind it became an oiled and feathered warrior. With thrusts and parries he fought the tree until in one fell swoop he cleaved it in two.
The horror of what he had done came over him like a wave at high tide. This tree was along a well used path. There would no hiding the stump of the felled tree. He was also sure the tree spirits would seek to harm him. In his tiny world of sea, sand and jungle he could not afford so powerful an enemy. Add to that the wrath of the village elders. The cutting of a tree without proper ritual could mean misfortune for the entire clan. Arok slid the weapon in his belt and ran down the path. He ran without knowing where he was going. The branches and vines tore at him as he ran. The tree spirits were trying to hold him back. All the while he wondered what he could sacrifice to the tree spirits in payment for his crime The path took a steep turn upward. It wound along the side of the mountain toward the bluffs at the north end of the island. As Arok broke out of the jungle he slowed down. The thick vegetation of the mountain slope had given way to knee high grasses. He fell in the dark and tumbled down the remaining part of the slope. First there was tumbling and stars, then darkness.
The sounds of gulls and frigate birds circling overhead woke him. The pounding of the surf on the cliffs below him was matched only by the pounding pain in his head. When he stood up he noticed that the sun was already well up in the eastern sky. Looking down he saw the white tops of waves stretching off to the horizon. Then he saw it! In awe he fell back and grabbed the hilt of his weapon instinctively. In the distance was a great canoe. The largest canoe he had ever seen. Its sails were as white as a bird's wing and hung from masts as large as trees. It was moving across the waves growing larger and larger as it approached. Arok felt a pressure in his ears. It seemed like he was deep under water. The pressure threatened to crush his chest and head. Finally, he let out a breath. Then it dawned on him. This was a spirit canoe. Almost certainly it had come for to take revenge for the tree he had killed.
The thoughts he struggled with. Could he hide? Could he take a canoe and flee to another island? No, it was certain the spirit canoe would overtake him in any boat he could paddle. He would hide in the jungle. No, the spirit of the trees was even stronger there. Arok sat down and thought. As he thought he watched the sprit canoe get larger and larger. By the time it reached the opening in the reef he stood up in amazement at the sheer size of it. Then he could make out the shapes of men in the canoe. Their chests reflected the sun and shone like the scales of a fish. Some of them were climbing the trees that supported the sails. He saw the spirit men lowering a smaller canoe to the water of the lagoon. Perhaps the tree spirits had sent these demons to punish the village for what he had done!
The trip down the mountain was difficult. He fought his fear of the tree spirits and of these strange invaders. When he reached the stump of the tree he had cut down the sap was oozing out of it. The sap ran down the stump and onto the path. It was bleeding. He remembered the teachings of his elders. "As you do, so will it return to you." He quickened his pace, thinking that "It may be me that will bleed this day." When Arok burst out into the brilliant sunshine of the beach ten of the spirit men were already ashore. The entire village was on the beach at the edge of the trees. All the Carib men were armed. Arok knew that it was not Carib custom to welcome unknown people. If the spirit men had come to punish the village he knew there would be a fight and many of his clan would die.
Arok drew his weapon from his belt. He shouted to the spirit men. "It is me you have come for! I am Arok of the Turtle clan of the Carib. The offense is mine. Your fight is with me." The small group of Spanish sailors and soldiers turned and looked at the boy. All they could see was a half naked savage running down the snow white beach toward them. He was screaming in native gibberish and swinging a large wooden sword over his head. The Spanish had come ashore to claim the island for Spain and look for gold.. While they were there they had planned to replenish the ship's stores of fresh water and food.
The stunned villagers could not figure out what was happening. The strange god men from the great canoe were speaking in a tongue none of them had ever heard before. They also carried what seemed to be weapons and brightly colored flags. Then there was the sight of their kinsman running down the beach screaming that he was ready to fight these men. When Arok reached the spirit men he raised his weapon high. One of the soldiers fired his pistol at close range but missed the boy. Despite his fear Arok struck the soldier's neck. The solider fell. The heavy wooden blade had nearly cut his head off. Several of the sailors and soldiers fired at once and Arok fell to the sand. Two things brought the watching villagers to life. One was the fact their kinsman lay dead. Two was that one the spirit men lay bleeding in the sand. The warriors then knew that these were no gods, they were mortal. No fear of their strange thundering weapons would hold back the fury of the Carib attack. A great cry went up from the assembled Carib warriors. They rushed forward and over whelmed the shore party from the Spanish ship. Almost certainly the help of the Carib warriors that had come seeking wives helped tip the battle in their favor. Within a few moments all the Spanish men lay dead.
Far away on the ship, the captain watched in horror as his men were killed. He briefly considered firing on the village with cannon but decided in the end to just leave for now. The unexpected resistance on the natives had taken him by complete suprise. The search for gold, water and food could take place at an uninhabited island. The crew would return to Hispanola and eventually Spain carrying tales of the wild Carib warriors they had encountered.
Arok was mortally wounded. He raised his head a little and watched the great canoe leave the lagoon. The sounds of frigate birds and gulls circling over head drowned out the sounds of villagers picking over the bodies of the fallen enemies. Arok lowered his head as the strength left him. "So this was the blood sacrifice the tree spirit demanded" he thought. "At least the people were safe." Soon Arok's spirit was circling with the birds.


Arok's people were safe only for the present. Within the next twenty five years all of the major islands from South America to Florida fell under Spanish control. Most of the native people that lived on them were captured and sold as slaves or killed outright for not accepting the new Christian God. Few people in the Americas today realize the holocaust that took place. Ironically some of the atrocities took place on islands that the Spanish had named for Christian saints. Many of the Caribs fled to the jungles, mountains and smaller islands for refuge. Thousands of them were decimated by disease. In less than one hundred years almost the entire native population of the Caribbian islands were gone. The proud race of Carib warriors, once feared by other tribes, were only memories.

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