It seemed a curse had been laid upon that day; that was the only way to explain so many misfortunes piling up at once. No sooner had the boys caught their breath after the button incident and begun to properly enjoy the end of lessons than fate tossed them a new, even bigger worry.
Tommy Savage was a willful boy with a strong character. Once, about two years ago, on the back-lot of a fair, he had traded with a junk dealer for a tattered, patched-together little book. Among its crude engravings, it told of the hard lot of Negroes on the cotton plantations of the South. The book had lodged in his soul like a splinter. It kindled in him a quiet but stubborn hatred of all arrogance, of those who flaunted their wealth and fancied themselves masters over others. And of all things, Tommy could not bear mockery from the sons of planters.
And such sons, alas, existed in Clarkville. Right across the yard from Mr. Whitaker's school, in a neat white house with columns, sat another school — for the pastor's offspring and the children of the surrounding gentleman landowners. They were taught by the young Pastor Geoffrey, a learned and delicate man.
And so, as ill luck would have it, at the very hour when the country boys, shoving and yawning, spilled out into the dusty yard heading home, a pack of these very young gentlemen happened to pass by.
Having evidently planned an outing, they were heading to the river, where at the dock their skiffs and a large, fancy raft for excursions waited. Short, expensive pipes stuck out stylishly from their teeth, and in their hands glinted thin, flexible riding crops. They walked unhurriedly, with the air of lords of creation.
One of them, a boy with a pampered face and a velvet jacket, curled his lips into a sneer, cast a contemptuous glance over the farmer boys, and said to his companions, deliberately loud:
"Look, Will, our village rabble is crawling back to their hovels. They could at least wash in the river; they reek of manure."
These words, ringing and venomous, hung in the air. Tommy Savage, in whose chest the coals from that old book already smoldered, could no longer contain himself. He didn't even answer. Silently, with ferocious focus, he bent down, grabbed a hefty stone from the ground, and hurled it straight at the offender.
A juicy, dry crack rang out. Sparks flew from the expensive pipe, and it went tumbling into the dust.
For a second, silence reigned. And the young gentleman, his eyes popping, let out a cry — more from astonishment at such impudence from a country boy than from pain — and brandished his crop over his head, rushing at his attacker.
"You, you country bumpkin! I'll whip you like a dog right now!"
But Tommy was already standing, having picked up a second stone, heavy and fitting snugly in his palm. His face was calm, but his eyes burned with such a cold, un-boyishly adult fire of hatred that the attacker involuntarily froze.
"Scoundrel!" Tommy barked the single word, and it sounded louder than any scream.
They stood frozen opposite each other, like two roosters on a perch, ready to launch into a fight. The other boys held their breath, sensing impending disaster. The young masters, seeing Tommy's unyielding character and his gaze full of determination, huddled behind their leader, whispering and regrouping for a group attack on the upstart. The farmer boys instinctively moved closer to Tommy, forming an uneven but formidable wedge.
While the "Southerners" conferred, the "Northerners" camp was first gripped by confusion, which quickly gave way to business-like bustle. Larry Botter, the American Buffalo, was the first to recover and took on the role of chief strategist.
"Curse it!" he whispered in dismay, patting his empty pockets. "If only my trusty musket were with me… One volley and I'd send this whole silk guard to feed the fish in the river!"
But the musket wasn't there, and they had to act with what was at hand. So Larry, ordering them to wait for his return, darted back into the school, into the classroom where the morning stove still smoldered. His plan was brilliant and simple: to heat a poker and tongs red-hot — and put this fiery weapon to use.
Meanwhile, the toughest boys — Clint, Leo, the bruiser Zeke, and a couple more daredevils — surrounded Tommy in a tight ring. He stood among them, motionless and firm as an old oak stump, and without words, only with his gaze, measured the distance to the enemy. The younger ones, sensing real danger, had already started darting their eyes about, looking for escape routes — some behind the shed, others behind the church fence.
"If they attack and Larry doesn't come back with his artillery, we're done for," Clint hissed, rubbing his palms on his pants.
"He'll come back," Tommy replied hollowly. "He always comes back. The main thing is that he's not too late. Otherwise, they'll wipe the floor with us."
And they attacked. They attacked so quickly and unexpectedly that they didn't even have time to prepare properly for defense. The young masters, having conferred quickly, charged — decisively, with shouts and that particular fervor that comes from confidence in one's superiority. They swept down like a noisy, sprawling avalanche, and the sharp cracks of whips whistled through the air like angry wasps.
The first blow, ringing and searing, landed on Tommy's forearm. A crimson stripe immediately flared up on his sun-tanned country skin. Tommy just gasped, sucking in air with force, and then, with his left hand, dealt the offender such a short, powerful blow to the bridge of his nose that he flew backward, choking and gasping for air.
The brawl was on. Clint, getting whipped across the cheek, roared and rushed forward, locking with an opponent in rough grappling. Leo, nimble and quick, dodged the blows, but one still caught him in the ribs, making him double over in pain. The bruiser Zeke, cursing thunderously, fended off the whips with a broad board torn from the school fence, as if swatting at pesky flies, but there were too many enemies and he got his share too — despite his giant frame, he howled like a wounded bear and dropped the board when the thin leather tip of a whip lashed his face, nearly knocking his eye out.
Archie had stood all this time, pressed against the rough bark of the school porch. His throat was parched, and his legs seemed rooted to the ground. He watched as Tommy, surrounded by three of the strongest and toughest opponents, fought back like a cornered wolf, as the attackers' whips left dark stripes on his shirt again and again. And then one of the young masters raised his arm to strike Tommy directly on the head. At that very moment, something inside Archie clicked. Without thinking, he grabbed a gnarled stick lying by the fence, rushed forward, and hit the strongest attacker on the back with all his might. The boy shrieked in an unnatural voice, dropped his whip, and ran off to the side.
But despite their heroic resistance, the forces were still far too unequal. There were far fewer farmer boys who dared to fight than their opponents. And now they were tightly bunched together, defending themselves as best they could, while Tommy, shielding his head with a convulsively clenched arm, could almost no longer strike back himself. It seemed one more minute — and it would all be over.
And then, like a rescue cavalry charging at full gallop to the rescue, Larry Botter arrived. He burst out of the school door not at a run, but in some sort of wild, bounding gallop. In one hand he dragged an extremely long poker, its end glowing with a thick, crimson heat. In the other — heavy tongs, heated white-hot and hissing in the air. His face was twisted with battle fury, and his eyes blazed with such rapture, it was as if he were heading not to a fight, but like an ancient Viking into his final battle.
"Forward, settlers!" he roared across the yard, whirling his hellish instruments over his head. "Beat the redskins! Drive them beyond the Mississippi! Drown the ugly bastards!"
The effect was instantaneous. The young masters, who just moments ago felt like victors and masters of the situation, froze in utter astonishment. The sight of this madman with blazing iron in his hands was so unexpected and frightening that all their arrogance evaporated at once. And when Larry, with a wild howl, advanced on them with his "firearm cannons," a veritable Tower of Babel confusion broke out. They scattered in all directions — some ran for the river hoping to save their lives in the boats, some toward their school, others simply fled wherever their eyes took them, just to get away from this fiery spirit of the prairies. Larry, jubilant, chased after them across the yard, brandishing the poker and shouting such bloodthirsty battle cries that the blood ran cold in the veins of the defeated enemy forces.
Dust rose in a cloud over the schoolyard, dogs broke into alarmed barking, a flock of sparrows noisily shot up from the shed roof. The battle was won. And it was won epically, as befits sagas that descendants will sing of for many years to come, by a single hero — Larry Botter, who hadn't received a single scratch in the process.
When the commotion had somewhat subsided, a sorry picture presented itself on the battlefield. Tommy, breathing heavily, wiped his bloody lip. Clint whimpered piteously, rubbing the back of his head where a huge bruise was swelling. Leo and Zeke, limping, examined their bruises.
"My side hurts like a mustang kicked me!" Zeke moaned.
"And my ear is burning like it's in a stove!" Clint echoed him.
But through the pain, another feeling broke through — pride. They had stood their ground.
It was at this moment that young Pastor Geoffrey, hurrying to his duties, stepped into the yard, only to be nearly bowled over by his own pupils, who were fleeing from Larry with faces full of genuine terror. One was running so hard he even knocked the pastor's elegant hat right off his head.
The pastor, a peaceable man by nature who disliked scandals, quickly assessed the situation. Seeing the bruises, scrapes, and the general look of a brawl, he decided to settle the matter amicably, without bringing it to Mr. Whitaker. Calling Tommy over, he spoke to him quietly and in a fatherly tone:
"Well, son, what's all this? Go and apologize to the young gentlemen. And let it all be forgotten. It's not good to fight."
Tommy stood with his head bowed and remained silent. It seemed he didn't even hear.
The pastor pleaded with him long and patiently, with true Christian humility. But Tommy was deaf as a stone. He didn't justify himself, didn't cite the initial provocation, didn't even shift the blame onto others. He simply stayed silent, and in this silence was such a stubborn, impenetrable fortress that the pastor's patience gradually began to wear thin.
"You're just a stubborn mule!" finally burst from him, and his voice held genuine annoyance for the first time.
It went on so long that Mr. Whitaker, attracted by the noise from the schoolyard, had time to join them. Hearing the pastor's quick account, he too set upon Tommy — but not to persuade, to demand.
"Confess, Savage! Repent! Otherwise, you won't get off lightly!"
But the more they pressed him, the deeper Tommy retreated into his silence. He didn't cry, didn't shout, didn't try to break away. He was like an old, mossy boulder — it was useless to pour water on him; it just ran off, leaving no trace.
"You are the most stupid and stubborn creature on earth!" Whitaker cried out in exasperation, finally losing his temper.
"Precisely," sighed the pastor. "Usually children lie, start making excuses. But this one… this one is just as silent as a fish."
In the end, having achieved nothing, the adults gave up. They ordered everyone else to disperse, and sentenced Tommy Savage to punishment: for the entire next week, he was to stay after lessons and memorize four stanzas from the book of church hymns. Mr. Whitaker promised to personally select the longest and most difficult ones for him.
But even this did not break Tommy. He remained just as he had been — willful and firm as that old riverside oak that had seen much in its time and bowed to no storm.