Savannah

Ward Allen missed his first duck.

- He missed? - Oh. Yes, sir.

Ward Allen missed his first duck.

Aw, come on, Christmas.

Uncle John told me the story himself.

Tell me another story, Christmas.

The one where Ward nearly killed that Russian.

Come on, Little Jack.

I told you that story now a hundred times.

I said wade in the water

Wade in the water, children

Wade in the water

God's gonna trouble the water

Wade in the water

Wade in the water, children

Wade in the water

God's gonna trouble the water

Oh, look at those babies dressed in red

God's gonna trouble the water

Oh, they must have been the babies Moses led

God's gonna trouble the water

Wade in the water

Wade in water, children

Wade in the water

God's gonna trouble the water

Oh, Jesus met the woman, met her at the well

God's gonna trouble the water

He said, "Look out lady, you're headin' for hell"

God's gonna trouble the water

I said wade in the water

Wade in the water, children

Wade in the water

God's gonna trouble the water

I said God's gonna trouble the water

I said God's gonna trouble

The water

You got to help me out here, Christmas.

Used to be people out here who knew you.

Must still be some of them around.

All right, Little Jack.

You want to hear the story

about how Ward Allen beat up them Russians.

No.

I've heard that story a hundred times.

Half a mustache...

Christmas, they sold the land.

You don't get up out of that chair,

it's gonna be sitting in a pile of debris with you still in it.

That's where I'm gonna find you.

You understand?

Well, Little Jack, Ward Allen fell to sleep in the barber chair,

but not before he laid down the law.

He say don't lay a finger...

upon that mustache.

Would have killed him, too,

'cept three Russians jump him.

Ambassador told Ward,

"You ever come back to Russia,

I'll march you down to the Tsar myself."

In shackles.

All right.

You got some perishables you better eat first.

Babs' peas and collard greens.

You don't need be going to all that trouble, Little Jack.

What'd you finally write about?

Oh, just some stories Christmas used to tell.

You know, Jack, the girls and I have been talking.

We don't see...

That's a great idea.

Why don't you girls start your own little club?

You gotta spread joy

Up to the maximum

Bring gloom

Down to the minimum

Have faith

Or pandemonium's

Liable to walk up on the scene

You got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive

Eliminate the negative

And latch on to the affirmative

Don't mess with Mister In-Between

No, don't mess with Mister In-Between

Dad, can I have the camera?

Did I ever tell you the story

about how Ward Allen almost killed a man

for cutting off his mustache?

No, sir. No?

Ward Allen's mustache, that was his pride and joy.

His father had sent him to Russia for shooting a man in a duel...

But not before he laid down the law.

He say don't lay a finger upon his mustache.

Would have killed him, too,

'cept three Russians jump him.

Christmas Moultrie knew Ward Allen

better than any other person that ever lived,

and although one to the manor born

and the other born to slavery,

they were kindred spirits.

As a child, I hunted with Christmas.

After a long day on the river,

Christmas would sit in his rocker before the fireplace,

gazing up at the picture of Ward,

and tell us stories.

As we grew up, those stories became the stuff of legend.

And though none of us were related to him,

there wasn't a man among us

who didn't wish he had a bit of Ward Allen in him.

Damn.

I told you to keep your gloves on.

I can't work my hands in 'em.

Christmas, that sentiment has no sense about it or in it.

Mr. Ward, my hands are too cold to pull them on,

and the gloves are too cold to help.

Piss on your hands, then.

Why don't you piss your own?

My hands are neither cold nor cut, sir,

allowing that, I can spare myself the indignity.

Oh, yes, sir.

You spare yourself the dignity all the time.

In-dignity. In...

Uh-huh, that, too.

Get in the boat before you talk

all the birds right on out of here.

This dog here got more manners upon four legs

than most Savannah people walking around upon two.

Generations of us have hunted

on the river and fields of our county...

something passed between father and son.

If history is our religion,

then hunting is one of its sacraments.

Ward Allen once wrote it down,

"The river belonged to us, and we to it."

And we to it,

like a cathedral no hands of man could ever build.

This is as close as a sinner like me

will ever come to the face of God.

What became tradition for my generation

had once been a way of life,

and for the very best hunters, it was a livelihood,

supplying the markets of Savannah with fresh fowl.

Of the men that plied that trade,

Ward and Christmas were the very best.

One of these mornings, Christmas,

you're gonna shoot your share of these birds.

Well, if I only shot a few of these duck,

I'd be happy just to carry my own,

let you handle the rest.

See how I can tell?

All the ones with that surprised look in their eyes,

yeah, they're the ones you shot.

They can't really believe it finally happened.

I don't see no surprised look in the duck eye, Mr. Ward.

Well, see, you don't see, so you're making my point.

I do see that a bunch of them

look like they dead from laughing, though,

tickled to death at that silly little 7 shot you use.

Christmas, with a name like yours,

you have a duty towards avoiding such sarcastic constructions.

They don't become you.

Save them $10 words for the judge.

Ward Allen's river and his way of life

might have gone on forever

if time and tide and the law had not had other ideas.

And the new laws found in Ward an implacable opponent.

Young blood doth not obey an old decree.

We cannot cross the cause why we were born.

Let us lose our oaths to find ourselves,

or we will lose ourselves to keep our oaths.

Your Honor.

Well remembered, Mr. Allen,

and, uh, nicely edited.

Thank you, sir.

But are you saying you were born to hunt,

or saying you were born to break the law?

I do recollect there are a few

who say you have a natural talent for both.

I am slow of study, Your Honor,

and if there is a law I truly broke,

I have not read it.

I may be a bit too good of a shot,

and there may be some who try to construe that

against my character,

which efforts I generally choose to forbear.

But when this type of personal dispute

is deranged in such a way

as to bring in front of this august assembly,

all I can say is, on my honor,

neither my partner nor I have willingly

nor willfully broken a true law!

Or a law made in error.

Error?

And who is the judge of that?

Why you, sir, without question.

And, if you'll allow, there are more than a few

who say you have a natural talent in that regard.

Lord, help us.

Order. Order, please.

You... You expect me to believe all this?

Mine honor is my life.

Both grow in one.