Fishing for Corn

Fishing for Corn

This is a story I heard from my wife's aunt over Christmas dinner a few years ago about one of her great
uncles. I wrote it for my freshman mid-term exam. So you'll see some obvious lit techniques that I was
testing that semester.
A special thanks to Maggie L. for explaining the difference between heifers and cows. I've lived here this
long, and I didn't know.

Fishing for Corn

Jonas awoke just before dawn. This was his favorite time: when the darkness had gone, but before the sun had not yet peeked
over the trees that hid the Atlantic Ocean a mere 10 miles east. In the silence of the morning, it was nearly impossible to
believe that a civil war was raging two states away.

He closed the bedroom door quietly, so he wouldn’t wake his wife and his infant son. Jacob had been born nearly a month
ago, and named after Jonas’ great, great, great grandfather, an indentured servant from England who for all intents and
purposes sold himself into slavery for passage to this new world. After the elder Jacob had served his seven years of servitude,
he was free to buy land and give his family roots in Milton, Delaware. This land was his legacy. Jonas smiled as he thought of
his little Jacob; he wanted to do the same for his son and grandchildren.

Delaying breakfast until the morning chores were done, Jonas Clifton stoked the fire, threw two logs in the hearth, and
donned his coat. He stepped outside into the brisk March air. The faintest pink was starting to creep over the horizon. The
only sound was an insistent crow and moo from the barn area. He gazed across the fields—his family’s fields—empty now
except for the lingering wispy fog, which would lift by the time pancakes would be on the table. Taking a deep
breath of pride, he stepped off the porch and walked toward the barn.

Ten minutes later, the chickens were feasting, and Jonas was milking a very appreciative cow. The flap of his blissful bovine's
tail and the rhythmic stream of milk hitting the side of the pail comprised the daily morning music in the barn.

Jonas cocked his head to the side as a new sound added discord and broke the pre-breakfast concert. A quick percussion of
hooves was coming closer. Jonas tried to finish this chore before turning to his visitor who was abruptly halting his horse and
dismounting.

“Jonas! The conscripts are here,” William said excitedly. “They’re coming house to house to round up soldiers for three-month
tours in the war!”

“Volunteers?” replied the other as he stood and turned to his visitor.

“No. They’ll take you now…unless you’ve got money like Doc. Hickman. He paid Sam Watson to go to war in his place. A
soldier’s a soldier, as long as they get somebody.”

Jonas’ eyes shifted from William’s face to the empty fields. Next month he would be planting his crop. Without it, the next
year would be hard for his family. Worse, they could lose the land his great, great, great grandfather sacrificed his life for.
Conscript officers were not known for their understanding. When they showed up at his house, they would not care about his
family and farm. They wanted a soldier.

Delaware, while geographically a northern state, held supporters of both Union and Confederate beliefs. As a result of this
division in loyalties, Jonas just didn’t feel strongly enough either way to give his life for their cause. His cause was in
the house asleep. If he widowed his wife or took a father from his son, what future would there be?

He patted his cow twice and lifted the filled milk bucket. “Thanks, William.” He poured the milk into the waiting pitcher. “I
don’t have any spare money, so I won’t be hiring a substitute.” He turned his back on his visitor.

“I just thought you should know,” said William after a silent minute. “They should be here sometime today.” The teenager
mounted his horse and rode off to warn someone else.

Jonas grabbed the empty milk bucket and his fishing pole and walked about fifty yards into the cornfield. He sat down on the
overturned bucket. Jonas dug into the dirt and found a soggy, half-decomposed piece of corn stalk buried a quarter of an inch
down. He baited his hook with the stalk, checked his sinker, and cast. The fog was beginning to lift. His wife and son should
be awakening soon. He wished he had eaten breakfast.

The day came and went. As dusk neared, two horsemen wearing Union uniforms started up the lane. Jonas began reeling in.
The hook snagged on an old stalk. He fought it and after a few seconds, freed the hook. He reeled in the rest of the
way and recast.

The horsemen dismounted and walked slowly to the fisherman. The taller one spoke hesitantly. “Jonas Clifton?”

“Yes sir?” he replied focusing on the hook that had snagged again. The rod nearly bent in half as he fought to get it back.

“Are you catching anything?”

“No, but they’re bitin’.” He finally got his line reeled in. “They keep taking my bait, so I know I’ll get one soon.” He grabbed
another piece of stalk to put on the hook. His stomach growled loudly. “I expect the Mrs. will want some supper.”

The tall conscript looked to the house to see a woman and an infant staring from the doorway. He looked back at Jonas, who
was still fishing, then to his partner. The shorter recruiter flashed a sad look, shook his head, and motioned toward the horses.

“Mr. Clifton,” the taller one said at last. “You have a nice day.” With that, he mounted his horse and headed to the next farm.

When they were out of sight, Jonas stood, grabbed his pail and rod, and headed in for supper.

Copyright 2005 Tony Varrato