Papa had already tied off one end of the rope and was dangling the other down to them. Uncle Ward took the rope first, then struggled to climb up the cliff as Papa pulled from above. Stones and dirt showered down as he scrambled to find footing on the rocky surface. When he neared the top, Papa kneeled down and grasped Uncle Ward’s hand, helping him up over the edge. Then he tossed the rope back down to Micah.
As gently as he was able, Micah took William from Emma’s arms, set him down briefly, then eased her to her feet, tied the rope around her waist, told her to grab the rope above her, then nodded to Papa.
“Hang on, Emma,” he said down to her. “You just hold on to the rope and we’ll pull you up.”
She reached us, her eyes glazed over in shock. Katie and I took her in our arms and we all wept another minute. Beyond us I saw my papa nod to me in the direction of the slope. Katie and I began helping Emma away from the river and back up to the level ground, while the two men now brought Micah with William in his arms, up the cliff.
As they turned to go, Papa’s eyes spotted something crumpled up on the ground a few yards away. He stooped down, picked it up, and showed it to Uncle Ward with a look of question.
Katie and Emma and I were all crying as we reached the house. We had walked together the whole way. The men had followed some way behind us on the horses, William in Micah’s arms.
Josepha was standing outside waiting for us. She knew while we were still some distance away that something was terribly wrong.
When she saw her, Emma burst away from us and ran straight toward her.
“Josepha,” she wailed in a sobbing voice, “William’s gonna wake up, ain’t he? Josepha . . . you kin help him, Josepha, you gots ter! You an’ Miz Katie—you always knows what ter do—you’ll help him, won’t you Josepha . . . you gots ter help him wake up!”
Josepha looked past Emma at all the rest of us, saw Katie and me crying again, saw the limp form in Micah’s arms, and knew the truth.
“Oh, Emma chil’!” she said, giant tears spilling from her eyes. She folded Emma in a huge motherly embrace, her hands gently stroking Emma’s wet hair and kissing her forehead and eyes and cheeks. “Emma . . . dear Emma chil’!”
Emma was whimpering and saying William’s name over and over as Micah walked up behind them.
Emma turned and saw him carrying William. A great wail burst from her lips.
“You gots ter save my William . . . Josepha ain’t dere somefin’ you kin do!”
Micah handed him into Josepha’s arms. She took the form, suddenly so frail. Josepha knew in an instant that William’s body had already begun to cool.
“I’s sorry, Emma chil’,” she said, her cheeks wet and a forlorn expression on her face. “Dere ain’t nothin I kin do. Our William’s God’s little boy now.”
A huge sob burst again from Emma as Micah took her hand and led her away. Katie and I were bawling like babies. Micah took hold of Emma’s two shoulders, gazed deep into her eyes, then spoke to her soft words that none of us could hear. Then he opened his arms to her and she fell into them. Micah pulled Emma close.
She leaned her face against his chest and quietly wept.
CONFRONTATION
32
DEEP DOWN, WARD AND TEMPLETON DANIELS probably knew that nothing would be accomplished by talking to Sheriff Sam Jenkins. He had been uncooperative in the past, and with his own son now likely involved in William McSimmons’ scheme, he was less likely to be now.
Still, they thought, they should report the matter.
After listening to their account of Emma’s abduction and William’s death, however, Sam Jenkins showed no signs of reaction at all, least of all sympathy for the fact that a four-year-old black boy was now dead.
“McSimmons was behind it,” said Templeton Daniels again, “and I’m asking you for the second time, Sheriff, what are you going to do about it?”
“There’s nothing I can do,” replied Jenkins. “Sounds to me that you’ve got no proof.”
“We know it was him.”
“Look,” said Jenkins, eyeing the two brothers skeptically, “you two boys keep coming to me with all your complaints. But like I told you before, you best get them coloreds out from under your roof and back where they belong, or you’re going to keep on having trouble. They’re living like whites. They ain’t got no right to live in a white man’s house. The way things stand now, you’re just bringing on your troubles yourselves. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
“The man’s a murderer,” said Ward.
“You can’t prove that.”
“Is what you’re really saying is that there’s nothing you’re going to do?”
Jenkins looked at the two coldly.
“All I’m saying is that unless you make some changes at that place of yours, your troubles are bound to continue.”
When the four horses rode up to the McSimmons plantation house three days later, Charlotte McSimmons saw them coming from an upstairs window and knew these visitors were up to no good.
She went in search of her husband. The two emerged from the door just as the four were dismounting in front of the porch.
McSimmons’ eyes moved over the three white faces—two men and one young woman—without expression, though he well knew who they were and more than half suspected the reason for their visit. Then he let his eyes come to rest upon the young black man he had never seen before.
He was surprised when he stepped forward to speak for the small group.
“Mr. McSimmons,” said the black man in flawless English, “my name is Micah Duff. I had the dubious honor of coming upon what I assume to be an attempted double murder three days ago. I was in time to save one of the victims, a Miss Tolan, with whom I understand you are acquainted. Unfortunately, I was unable to save her son, who is now dead.”
As they listened, the annoyance of the two McSimmons slowly mounted to a white fury at the man’s presumption, not merely to talk like a white man but to speak so boldly, and without apparent fear, to the most important white persons for miles around.
“Whether you were personally present, I do not know,” the black man continued, “but you are certainly responsible for the murder. So we are here to ask what you intend to do about it.”
He stopped and his eyes bored straight into those of William McSimmons. But McSimmons had heard enough.
“How dare you come here, onto my property, and make such an accusation!” he shouted. “You—a colored man . . . accusing me. What right do you have to—”
“I was there, Mr. McSimmons,” interrupted Micah. “Do not make light of my words. I know you were involved.”
“You cannot possibly—” began McSimmons savagely.
“Look, McSimmons,” Templeton Daniels now interrupted from where he stood at the foot of the porch. “One of your men dropped this at the scene.”
He walked forward and held up a torn and crumpled piece of paper. Slowly he unfolded it and held it toward McSimmons. “I think you will recognize the McSimmons brand on the letterhead,” he said. “I doubt you will deny it came from here.”
McSimmons eyed it a moment without expression.
“What of it?” he spat. “It means nothing. You could have picked it up anywhere.”
“But we didn’t pick it up anywhere, we found it at the murder site, linking you to the crime.”
“No court would convict me with ridiculous evidence like that!” laughed McSimmons with derision.
“Maybe not. But you never know. And how good for your reputation would the accusation be?”
“You wouldn’t dare, Daniels!”
“That’s where you’re wrong, McSimmons,” said Templeton. “I’m not afraid of you. You make a move and this whole state will know what you are. I can’t prove that this is your handwriting,” he added, folding the paper and returning it to his pocket. “But I think you know it is. And I don’t think you will want it publicly known that you were involved in one killing and the att
empt of a second. It isn’t exactly the sort of thing upstanding people like from their politicians.”
“Just what is it you expect us to do?” Mrs. McSimmons now asked. “That one black baby somewhere has met with an unfortunate accident . . . I hardly see how that concerns us.”
“It was not a baby, ma’am,” said Micah. “He was four years old. And what makes you think he was black, if you know nothing about it?”
Mrs. McSimmons stuffed down the volley of fury that would have exploded from her lips at a more opportune moment.
“Mr. McSimmons,” Micah continued, addressing McSimmons again, “what I have to say now you might prefer for your wife not to hear.”
“Get on with it, you fool, before I throw you out!” McSimmons glanced at his wife but she made no move to go.
“I understand it is your intention to run for Congress,” Micah went on. “My friends and I—Miss Clairborne and Mr. Ward and Mr. Templeton Daniels—are going to ask you to change those plans and step down. You are not the sort of man who should represent the people of North Carolina in Washington.”
“This is the most absurd—” huffed McSimmons, nearly speechless with wrath.
“If you do not, it will be made public that you arranged for the murder of a black child . . . your own son, in fact. Do not underestimate the consequences to you both should the fact be printed in the Charlotte newspapers that you arranged for the killing of your own son. We will take this paper to Charlotte personally and let it be known where it came from. Do not think that we will not do as we say. Good day, sir . . . ma’am.”
Micah turned and rejoined the other three. They remounted their horses and walked slowly away from the house, leaving the candidate and his wife in stunned silence.
GRIEF, HEALING, AND MORE TRAGEDY
33
The next weeks at Rosewood were bittersweet; there’s no other way to describe them. The heartbreak over William’s loss was so deep it affected us all—though no pain could come close to a mother’s loss of her own child. Emma’s grief was worlds beyond any of the rest of ours.
We buried William beside Katie’s family, in the little plot of graves not far from the house. Everyone wept, even Papa and Uncle Ward. The pain we all felt for poor Emma was so deep. We had all come to love her so much. To see her suffer the loss of her son was one of the hardest things any of us had ever gone through. The two men were so tender toward Emma that you’d have thought she was their own daughter. They must have taken her in their arms five times a day for the next week and just held her a few seconds in consolation.
But in the midst of all that, Emma now had Micah’s love to surround her and give her courage and strength to endure the supreme grief that God himself also had to endure—the loss of a son.
We all watched them daily leave the house to walk slowly and quietly through the fields, Emma leaning against him as Micah’s arm tenderly held her to his side. The soft words passing between them were ones the rest of us never heard. We were all so grateful for the love she had found. How she could have endured William’s loss without Micah, I cannot even imagine.
When word began to spread through the communities of Greens Crossing and Oakwood, and from there to Charlotte, and then throughout all of North Carolina, that William McSimmons had decided to withdraw from the congressional race, speculation ran rampant about the reasons for his decision.
Nobody knew anything for sure, though there were rumors. Some of these involved his wife. Others involved a child of dubious origin. Still others hinted at wider scandal, even murder.
But nothing was ever learned for certain, and the former candidate never disclosed anything more than “personal reasons” as prompting his action.
The rumors, however, were enough to set the community abuzz about what more might have been involved.
The days moved slowly.
They became a week, then two. Everyone went about their work more quietly than usual. With William’s happy voice and laughter and running footsteps gone, all the life seemed gone from Rosewood.
Reverend Hall came out a few times to try to comfort us. But what could he say?
Poor Emma! She walked around, or sat on the porch just staring ahead, her red eyes glazed over. She didn’t go to the river anymore. No doubt that place where she used to find peace was now flowing with terrible memories. William had been her whole life, everything she had lived for, and now he was gone.
In one way, I suppose, we all knew how she felt, at least Katie and Micah and Jeremiah and I all did. During those days after William’s death I thought back often to the days after Katie and I had met. I had seen my whole family killed. The look on Katie’s face when I walked into the Rosewood kitchen and saw her standing over her father’s body was a look of horror and desolation I’ll never forget.
But we’d lived through it. Somehow we’d found strength in each other. As much as we tried to love her, I wondered if Emma would be able to find that same strength from us as we had from each other. And even though we shared knowing what it was like for death to come so close, we hadn’t lost a child of our own. I reckon nothing could be quite so bad as that. My heart ached for her!
One day Emma was out walking alone like she often did these days, just walking and crying. She came to the place where the graves were. She stopped and just stood there looking down at William’s grave.
Katie and Papa and I were watching from the house.
“You know,” said Papa, “I think I’ll go into town and get the undertaker to make a stone for William.”
“That would be nice,” I said.
Katie smiled. “It would mean a lot to Emma, Uncle Templeton,” she said. “That’s a good idea.”
“What should it say?” he asked.
We thought a minute”. “ ‘William Tolan, 1865–1869 . . .’ ” said Katie slowly, then paused. “And then . . . ‘one of the first Negro sons of South Carolina who was never a slave, but was born free.’ ”
“That’s nice, Katie,” I said.
“I’ll ride into town this afternoon and get him started on it,” said Papa.
We stood a few minutes more, then Katie walked out to where Emma still stood. She approached slowly. Emma heard her and turned. Katie put her arm around her, and they stood side by side for another several minutes.
Then I saw Katie take Emma’s hand and lead her away. They walked toward the fields, still hand in hand, toward the woods, and slowly disappeared from sight.
They were gone a long time, probably an hour. Papa had already left for town and I’d gone back inside when I heard the kitchen door open and Katie walked in. She had a sad, peaceful, quiet look on her face.
“Where did you go?” I asked.
“I took Emma to my secret place in the woods,” said Katie. “I thought she needed to know about it.”
“Is she still there?”
Katie nodded.
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her that I’d been going there since I was a little girl and that when I was young I visited with the animals and thought up silly poems—”
“They weren’t silly,” I said.
“They seem a little silly now,” smiled Katie. “Then I told her that as I got older my secret place in the woods became a place where I went to let God speak to me. I told her I thought that maybe He wanted to use it now to speak to her.”
“What did she say?” I asked.
“She thanked me and smiled. Then I left.”
Katie sighed and smiled.
“She’s changing, Mayme,” she said. “I don’t think she’ll ever be the same again.”
“Losing someone you love changes you—you and I know that.”
“I know,” nodded Katie. “But I wonder if Emma will ever recover completely. It might be different for her than it was for us.”
We hadn’t heard Micah come in behind us. His voice now startled us and we turned around.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he said
. “Emma will be all right.”
“Are you sure?” said Katie, still concerned. “It seems that nothing I say helps right now.”
“There are no words to help someone through their grief,” he said. “Love is what she needs, and she is getting that from all of you. Her soul is being fed by your love, even though you may not see it. It takes time to heal. Grief is a long, slow, painful process. Time is the only thing that can heal it. Everyone has to come to terms with the change death brings in their own way. You both know—you lost your families. I know—I lost my mama. Jake lost his mama, and he had to deal with guilt along with his grief. But we all grew strong from it too. It takes time. Emma just needs our love.”
“You’re . . . really sure Emma will come through this?” said Katie, staring deeply into Micah’s face for an answer.
Micah smiled. It was a peaceful, knowing, almost contented smile. “Yes,” he said slowly. “She will come through it. You’re right in what you said before, Katie. She will never be the same. William will always be with her. The pain of his loss will always be there. But pain can be turned to good. Pain carves out deeper caverns within us for the waters of joy to flow through. Sometimes the deeper the pain, the deeper the joy. Emma will grow strong and she will again know joy, even though she will also always know pain. Have no fear, Katie—Emma will laugh again. And she will grow strong . . . even stronger than she was before.”
Micah spoke with such confidence I couldn’t help believing what he said. It was not hard to see that he really loved her.
But even more than that . . . Micah believed in Emma.
In the days following that, Emma disappeared across the fields toward the woods a lot—sometimes more than once a day. I know she was going to Katie’s secret place to talk to God about William.
Every time she came back, she had a peaceful look on her face. The pain and sadness and grief were still there, but I began to see healing too. It was just like Micah said—the slow passage of time gradually did its work.
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