The Crossing | Page 6

I had not the least doubt that he would do it. The world is a
storybook to a lad of nine, and the thought of Charlestown filled me

with a delight unspeakable. Perchance he would leave me in
Charlestown.
At nightfall we came into a settlement called the Waxhaws. And there
being no tavern there, and the mare being very jaded and the roads
heavy, we cast about for a place to sleep. The sunlight slanting over the
pine forest glistened on the pools in the wet fields. And it so chanced
that splashing across these, swinging a milk-pail over his head,
shouting at the top of his voice, was a red-headed lad of my own age.
My father hailed him, and he came running towards us, still shouting,
and vaulted the rails. He stood before us, eying me with a most
mischievous look in his blue eyes, and dabbling in the red mud with his
toes. I remember I thought him a queer-looking boy. He was lanky, and
he had a very long face under his tousled hair.
My father asked him where he could spend the night.
"Wal," said the boy, "I reckon Uncle Crawford might take you in. And
again he mightn't."
He ran ahead, still swinging the pail. And we, following, came at length
to a comfortable-looking farmhouse. As we stopped at the doorway a
stout, motherly woman filled it. She held her knitting in her hand.
"You Andy!" she cried, "have you fetched the milk?"
Andy tried to look repentant.
"I declare I'll tan you," said the lady. "Git out this instant. What
rascality have you been in?"
"I fetched home visitors, Ma," said Andy.
"Visitors!" cried the lady. "What 'll your Uncle Crawford say?" And
she looked at us smiling, but with no great hostility.
"Pardon me, Madam," said my father, "if we seem to intrude. But my
mare is tired, and we have nowhere to stay."

Uncle Crawford did take us in. He was a man of substance in that
country,--a north of Ireland man by birth, if I remember right.
I went to bed with the red-headed boy, whose name was Andy Jackson.
I remember that his mother came into our little room under the eaves
and made Andy say his prayers, and me after him. But when she was
gone out, Andy stumped his toe getting into bed in the dark and swore
with a brilliancy and vehemence that astonished me.
It was some hours before we went to sleep, he plying me with questions
about my life, which seemed to interest him greatly, and I returning in
kind.
"My Pa's dead," said Andy. "He came from a part of Ireland where they
are all weavers. We're kinder poor relations here. Aunt Crawford's sick,
and Ma keeps house. But Uncle Crawford's good, an' lets me go to
Charlotte Town with him sometimes."
I recall that he also boasted some about his big brothers, who were
away just then.
Andy was up betimes in the morning, to see us start. But we didn't start,
because Mr. Crawford insisted that the white mare should have a half
day's rest. Andy, being hustled off unwillingly to the "Old Field"
school, made me go with him. He was a very headstrong boy.
I was very anxious to see a school. This one was only a log house in a
poor, piny place, with a rabble of boys and girls romping at the door.
But when they saw us they stopped. Andy jumped into the air, let out a
war-whoop, and flung himself into the midst, scattering them right and
left, and knocking one boy over and over. "I'm Billy Buck!" he cried.
"I'm a hull regiment o' Rangers. Let th' Cherokees mind me!"
"Way for Sandy Andy!" cried the boys. "Where'd you get the new boy,
Sandy?"
"His name's Davy," said Andy, "and his Pa's goin' to fight the
Cherokees. He kin lick tarnation out'n any o' you."

Meanwhile I held back, never having been thrown with so many of my
own kind.
"He's shot painters and b'ars," said Andy. "An' skinned 'em. Kin you
lick him, Smally? I reckon not."
Now I had not come to the school for fighting. So I held back.
Fortunately for me, Smally held back also. But he tried skilful tactics.
"He kin throw you, Sandy."
Andy faced me in an instant.
"Kin you?" said he.
There was nothing to do but try, and in a few seconds we were rolling
on the ground, to the huge delight of Smally and the others, Andy
shouting all the while and swearing. We rolled and rolled and rolled in
the mud, until we both lost our breath, and even Andy stopped
swearing, for want of it. After a while the boys were silent, and