Ben stirred awake with a throbbing in his mouth. He knew the pain would mean a ride into Sommerville later that day to see his barber friend who spent most Sunday afternoons under his china berry tree cutting hair…or pulling teeth….usually dispensing the gossip of the prior week, more interested in the tawdry details than the accuracy of his information.

Until then however, Ben would have to walk the 100 yards or so to the perimeter of the hardwood stand near the natural spring that formed and fed the waters that meandered down through the mill where his corn was ground. There he would cut off a bite size piece of the tree bark’s pointed warts, chewing to create a poultice from the hard skin of a toothache tree, or “tickle-tongue” as his mama had called it. He knew it would sting his tongue, but that it would also numb the pain for a while.

Ben had never lingered to consider the blessing of his healing tree, but he had a keen appreciation for the natural spring that it stood beside….a spring that trickled into the very beginning of a small silent stream that bore the name some Choctaws had given it countless seasons ago, but Ben had long given up trying to remember. To Ben, it was simply Indian Creek.

More than 50 years had passed since Ben’s father-in-law had paid a premium price for this land that was set atop a high ridge in East Mississippi and had been home to so many others through unrecorded generations. It had passed to him through his wife’s family, who had acquired it from the government in 1834, just a short time after the Choctaw’s had been persuaded to remove themselves to new promises out west. Ben and his wife lived on the ridge above the spring and just across from her family on the opposite ridge. He owned and managed the entire 320 acres depending on others for the labor required to grow the corn and other crops that sustained his family.

More than any other, Ben knew he could depend on his old black hand George to regularly do anything needed. George in turn knew Mr. Ben would always treat him fairly and with respect. There was a bond of mutual trust and complete interdependence between the two that neither had ever even stopped to ponder. They had grown up together, on Ben’s family farm in nearby Noxubee County. From the earliest day Ben could remember, George had been by his side as his servant. The Surrender 20 years before had changed nothing in their relationship. George knew his place was with Mr. Ben, and there he had remained for 30 years.

George had been warned to not be where he now found himself. Some of the white men of the area, many George had known most of his life, had ridden through earlier in the day. He had no idea what mission had each looking so earnest. He just knew he had rarely seen such worry and dread in their faces. They repeated a caution for him to leave his work in the field, and to stay close to his house the rest of the day.

Two hours or so passed. When they rode back by on their horses, their familiar faces were no longer that, but were more like the spirits that sometimes inhabited his fitful nights – little expression of emotion, and a cold stare of determination no reason would ever change – These men had killed, and were not through yet.

The men’s movements to surround George were deliberate and determined. George had been warned.

George was lifted onto the back of the buckboard in one swift wave of motion and force, as the rough strands of rope scratched over his cheeks and chin, then quickly ensnared his neck. He was stunned and confused by the actions of these men he knew so well, and could only manage to utter a quiet prayer for mercy as his face shone of sheer terror. No explanation was offered, as the mule was whipped, causing the buckboard to lurch forward. George was left to hang, twist and cough-up his mid-day meal, wildly thrashing as he kicked one of the mob in the mouth…his last conscious act being to find the face of his friend and former Master Ben among the group…as his stare begged the question.

As Ben gazed into the soft ripples in the quiet spring, all he could see was George’s distorted and terrified face. He had come to a realization, early this Sabbath day after the hanging, that the only way he would ever escape George’s stare for the rest of his life was to end his own now. He stiffened his spine as his quivering hand rotated to place the barrel of his revolver between his lips, the nervous tapping of the steel against his teeth gave way to the taste of oil and gunpowder as Ben pushed the weapon inward against the back of his mouth.

Ben thought about honor. He recalled his father sometimes speaking in a somber tone as he would recall his own brother’s lingering death after being wounded at Corinth. That was honor. Ben’s actions the day before were honorable, he reasoned, for they were in self defense. He could taste the pistol that had killed 3 men in rapid succession – 3 among a score that were shot and hanged. But he could find no honor in George’s death. Why had he not intervened to save his best friend? Why had he instead participated in his death?

Ben imagined the gun shot that would rip through his head. He visualized the effect his revolver would have at close range. He could see his blood spilling down the side of the creek, joining the water that trickled then flowed all the way to the great gulf of water his sister had written home about from Mississippi City. What a noble death. His whole body began to tremble in anticipation of the unknown. He took a deep breath.

There would be no honor redeemed this day. Ben removed the weapon from his mouth, and dropped to his knees in sobs of prayers of forgiveness. When some time had passed, he wiped his face and staggered to his feet. There would be another day to deal with this matter. Maybe, he slowly reasoned, George deserved what happened to him for not doing as he was told. Maybe it was a just act to serve as an example to others. Ben could find another George. So, quickly his guilt turned to rationalization. He was a good man he reminded himself, kind to the deserving, but capable of punishment when needed. He had spoiled George.

Ben puffed his chest. Now resolute, he turned and climbed back up the stream bank, past the toothache tree, and turned towards home. His children would be ready for Sunday School. Photo Credit for "Hanging Tree" - Steve Whalen of SW Photography