Of Ashes and Dust

by Marc Graham

My sight narrowed and the black hole of the barrel grew to fill my vision until my view was blocked by the expanse of Elijah’s back.

  “No,” I heard him say in a deathly calm voice.

  “Step aside, Elijah.”

  “No, Mister Harvey. You ain’t gonna do this. Mister JD here ain’t done nothing but help us. And he don’t appear to want nothing more now than to help his friend. I won’t stand for you repaying his Christian kindness with evil.”

  “If he rats on us, we’ll all be repaid for our troubles at the end of a rope. Now step aside.”

  From where I stood, I could see no change in Elijah’s demeanor, but the change in his voice made my blood run cold.

  “If you harm this boy, I’ll twist that little head of yours off that scrawny neck so’s a rope won’t matter.”

  Stillness settled over the road and the only sound was of the gentle breeze and a slight moan that passed Izzy’s lips.

  “Mister Harvey,” Elijah continued, his voice softer now, “you doing the blessed Lord’s work in helping me and mine to be free. Don’t give the devil a share in it by doing this evil thing. The boy ain’t hurt no one and ain’t gonna betray us.” He didn’t change his position, but said to me, “Mister JD, you go on, help your friend here and clear off the road, y’hear?”

  Without a word, I grabbed my hat and shirt, looped Izzy’s arm over my shoulder and hefted him off the road and into the brush. A whip cracked behind us, and the rumble and rattle of the wagon faded down the road as I helped Izzy to the shade tree. He slumped against the trunk, one side of his face wet with blood. His eyes were open but unfocused, with one pupil bigger than the other.

  I pulled a clean shirt from my bag and soaked it with water from my canteen to clean the blood off Izzy’s face. He winced and groaned as I scrubbed away the dirt and clotted blood from his wound, then I tore the shirt into strips and wrapped his head. I held the canteen to his lips and he sipped at the water, though more went down his chin than his gullet. Drifting eyes moved in my direction, and he squinted as he tried to keep me in focus.

  “We there yet?”

  A light mist rose from the meadow, and the dew on the tall grass stained our trouser legs as we waded through the field. Still fallow, the grass had grown high enough to tickle my palms as I brushed them over the seed stalks. The sun hid behind the morning haze, a muted ball of orange, and the world was silent except for the rustle of grass with each step homeward.

  Home.

  The word seemed alien to me. It’d been nearly four years since I’d seen the little cottage that lay just beyond the hill, even longer since I’d felt like I belonged there.

  “Your pa’s not a bad man,” I remembered Ma’s words from the night before I left home. “If he’s hard on you, it’s because the world’s been hard on him. He just wants to make you strong so you can stand on your own.”

  Pa’s happy all the time now, Becca wrote a few months later. He even whistles some. Whatever made him sad for so long seems to be gone.

  And here I was, coming home again.

  Well, it won’t be for long, I told myself. Just long enough to say hello, then I’ll be on my way and he can go back to being happy.

  “Mmm-mm,” Izzy hummed. “Somebody doing some cooking already.”

  I stopped and sniffed and, sure enough, the dusty tang of wood smoke floated on the morning air. I imagined Ma at the stove—or maybe that was Becca’s job now. I wondered if I’d recognize her—a young lady, not the little girl I’d left behind. A knot formed in my stomach and I struggled to keep my pace steady, to let Izzy keep up with me, but the breeze at my back seemed to push me along toward . . .

  That’s odd, I thought.

  The wind was behind me, but I could already smell smoke. I sniffed again, and the smoke was definitely in the air, but without any of the usual cooking smells. I strained to see through the morning mist and could just make out the plumes from the hearth—only there seemed to be several columns of smoke, not just the one.

  I left Izzy behind and raced to the top of the hill—and froze as I looked down on the scene.

  House and barn and shed had been replaced by smoldering piles of ash. Even the outhouse had been reduced to a ring of black ash. The smoke made my eyes water as I raced down the hill and walked about the ruins.

  “That don’t look like no accident.” Izzy caught up with me and spoke the very words I was thinking.

  “Let’s go over to Gina’s folks,” I said as numbness settled over me. “They’ll know what’s happened.”

  Gina and Matt had taken the boat home from Little Rock, but I’d chosen to walk the hundred fifty miles. There was the cost of the boat ticket, of course—I needed to mind every penny if I were to save enough to make a home for Gina one day. Too, I didn’t cotton to the idea of making Izzy sail at the back of the boat as I’d had to do. The only slaves permitted on the passenger decks were personal attendants, and—despite Missus Warren’s best efforts—we seemed unlikely to pass for a gentleman and his valet.

  Mostly, though, I’d just needed the time to think. Gina and I had kept our romance secret for two years. Well, Izzy knew, which meant that Timothy and Miriam were likely in the know. Uncle Cy’s and Rawls’s occasional conspiratorial winks, along with Matt’s baleful glares and Cassandra’s sad glances, suggested that they had all guessed the truth. Secret, then, would seem to be a relative term, meaning only that those who might stand in our way were kept out of it.

  I hated the secret almost as much as the need for it. The nights when Gina came to me—after we’d made love and she left my straw mattress in the shed to return to her feather-stuffed one in the mansion—I’d lie awake until dawn and curse the rift that separated us. I cursed myself for being unable to cross over to her side, to take her hand in public. And I cursed her for fearing to come over to my side.

  So I walked, to sort out my scattered emotions as much as to form a plan. To find a way to make a home for her, a home somewhere between the manor to which she’d been born and the little cottage that lay in a smoking ruin behind me.

  A jangle of harnesses caught my attention, and I steered Izzy to the side of the road as the clip-clop of shod hooves came up behind us.

  “Ho,” the driver called to his team, and the hooves slowed as the carriage stopped beside us.

  I turned and immediately recognized the livery and the signature black felt hat and morning coat, one sleeve banded with a strip of black crepe. The hair was greyer than I recalled, and the eyes lacked their normal brightness, but there was no mistaking the man behind them.

  “Doc Aubry, sir.”

  “JD?” he said, his eyes gone wide in recognition. “My land, if you haven’t grown, son. You’re all of a man now.” His mouth opened and closed as he tried to find words to continue.

  “We just came from the place,” I answered his unspoken question. “We were heading over to Barnes’s to find out what’s happened. I’m glad we found you, though. My, uh, my friend could stand to have you take a look at him.”

  Slave was the truth of it, but friend seemed closer to the mark. The Warrens had given Izzy to me when I left them, but I couldn’t bring myself to think of him as property.

  “Sure, sure,” Doc replied as he set the brake and climbed down from the rig. “Sit here, boy,” he offered, and propped Izzy on the sidestep.

  “Matt rode out looking for you boys,” he said as he removed Izzy’s bandage and examined the wound. “Rode out clear to Dover before turning around. I don’t mind saying, we were all a mite worried after you.”

  “We ran into a little trouble this side of Ozark,” I said. “Decided it’d be best to keep off the roads. What’s happened, sir?”

  Doc Aubry ignored the question as he finished inspecting Izzy’s wound, then put on a fresh bandage.

  “Take a seat on the tailgate, boy,” he said to Izzy before finally turning to face me. “Put in your things. I’ll take you to see your folks.”

  I made sure Izzy was sett
led in, put my bag in the flatbed, then climbed up beside Doc. He flicked the reins and pulled the team around to head back up the road.

  “Aren’t we going to the Barneses’?”

  “I thought you wanted to see your folks.”

  “Yes, sir. I just figured they’d be at the farm.”

  “No, son, they . . .” His eyes clouded over and he looked away from me. “They’re in town.”

  I nodded, not really understanding, and settled in for the ride. Questions—and now fears—mounted with each step of the team. Images flashed through my mind, of Ma, Pa and Becca so badly injured they had to stay with Doc Aubry. When we entered town and continued past his house, the images faded away as though a black veil were drawn across them.

  Finally, he drew rein and brought the carriage to a stop in front of the little whitewashed church. He studiously set the handbrake and wrapped the reins around the handle, his eyes avoiding mine all the while. Without a word, he stepped down and walked around to the back of the building. I climbed down and helped Izzy to his feet. He looked at me, his eyes full of pity. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom what was happening, and it angered me that everyone but me seemed to know.

  I followed Doc to the back of the church, my hand gliding along the weather-beaten boards of the siding. We came to the low wrought-iron fence that enclosed a small yard behind the church. Doc removed his hat, opened the gate and stepped in. He held the gate open and beckoned for me to follow. A cold hand gripped my heart as I passed through the gate, and light began to shine around the edges of the veil in my mind.

  Markers of wood and stone stood in neat rows among the closely cropped grass of the yard. Toward one corner, a lone figure lay next to a wide mound of freshly turned earth. The head rose and brown eyes looked at me across a white muzzle and black nose.

  “Argos?” I said.

  I sank to my knees and the hound struggled to his feet, then slowly came over to me and laid his head in my lap. I scratched his ears and rubbed his flanks, startled at the ribs that poked out from beneath his flecked coat.

  “Has no one been feeding you, boy?” Anger mixed with my uncertainty.

  “I tried to bring him home with me,” Doc said, “but he wouldn’t come with me. Even brought him food, but he wouldn’t eat or drink. Just wanted to lie there by her.”

  “By who?” I said.

  The edges of the veil pulled away a bit more, and I began to fear what lay on the other side. With a whine, Argos rose on stiff legs and paced between me and the mound of earth. When I failed to follow, he let out a mournful bark and pawed at the air in my direction.

  I stumbled forward, my feet cased in lead. With each step, the mental veil drew back farther and farther until my eyes burned with the light of realization. I reached Argos and patted his head, his eyes fixed on the freshly painted marker board. I followed his gaze to read the dreaded word: Robbins.

  In the next instant, my eyes blinked open and I jerked my head back from an acrid stench beneath my nose.

  “Easy, son,” Doc said as he braced one hand against my shoulder and waved a small vial under my nostrils. “Just a couple more whiffs should do you.”

  I found myself lying on the dew-moistened ground, my knees propped up. Izzy knelt to one side with Argos on the other, his chin propped on my arm. I eased into a sitting position, and the world spun around me.

  “Take your time,” Doc cautioned, then helped me to stand when I felt ready. I waved off his hands and turned back toward the grave marker.

  ROBBINS

  James Douglas, Sr. Sarah McKenzie

  Rebecca Noelle

  June 14, 1816– November 28, 1820–

  December 24, 1847–

  May 24th, 1858

  Joined in Life,

  Unseparated in Death

  “It was the typhus,” Doc explained as we sipped bitter, steaming coffee around his kitchen table. “I reckon Becca picked it up playing with a rat or somesuch. Your Ma would have caught it right quick, and Jim sat with them till the end.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked. I thought of Pa’s brusque demeanor and found it hard to imagine him playing nursemaid.

  “When I found them, Becca and Sarah were tucked in bed together,” Doc said. “Your pa was sitting beside the bed, tending to them until he succumbed. Near as I can tell, he spent his last bit of laudanum on them to help ease their way.”

  “So he was back on the hop,” I said, my voice dripping with disgust.

  Doc Aubry set his cup down and fixed me with a solemn glare.

  “Boy,” he told me, and I’d never heard his voice so stern, “there are some things you need to get straight in your head.”

  I was surprised at the chastisement, but said nothing.

  “First thing,” he said, “Jim was in pain every minute of every day after his accident. A man suffers an injury like that, gets his leg smashed and shattered—well, even with the best doctor, it doesn’t ever heal quite right, and your pa had to make do with me. Add to that the shame of having to send you to work to care for the family, plus the guilt of Sarah’s losing the baby . . .”

  I looked up at that.

  “I always blamed myself for that,” I said.

  Doc gave a mirthless laugh.

  “Then that’s one more thing you have in common with him,” he said. “I told Jim, and I’ll tell you. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. For whatever reason, that baby just was not ready to come into the world.” He sipped thoughtfully at his coffee and gave a shrug. “And, if not for losing that little one, your sister might never have come along. I tell you what, boy, it’s that little girl who saved your pa.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’ve seen more than my share of broken men in my day,” Doc said. “Especially after the Mexican War. Men broken in body and spirit, where all they have is a bottle to drown their pain. Your pa might easily have gone down that road, but little Becca kept him on the right path. He quit the whiskey for fear of his temper, and asked me for just enough laudanum to take the edge off. Said he wanted to keep his mind clear enough to watch that little girl dance and play and grow. For all his faults— and don’t get me wrong, he had plenty—your pa became a good man when your sister came along, and he became damn near a saint as she and your ma passed.”

  I crossed my arms and pushed back my chair. Argos grunted as the scraping chair legs disturbed his nap.

  “What was the second thing?” I said.

  Doc mimicked my posture and tipped his chair back on its rear legs.

  “Oh, it’s a small thing,” he said with a drawl. “Hardly worth mentioning.”

  I fixed him with a tired stare, but uncrossed my arms and leaned forward on the table.

  “The second thing is,” he continued, “your father was proud of you.”

  “Proud?” I scoffed. “He didn’t even know me.”

  “He knew you well enough. I should say, he knew himself well enough, and the fruit don’t fall far from the tree.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

  “It means you’re a lot like your pa. If he was hard on you, it was only to make you stronger than he was. If he pushed you, it was to help you go farther than he could.”

  “And if he sent me away?” I said. “Kicked me out of my home?”

  Doc fixed his eyes on mine and sighed deeply.

  “Then I’d say it was to help you find a home of your own.”

  For as long as I can remember, home has had canvas walls and folding furniture. Anything of a more permanent nature has simply been the place I happened to live. As I watch the men clustered about the cot in my home of the past few years, a murmur ripples through them, hats come off their heads as they step away from the tent flap . . .

  And home walks in.

  Her clothes are dusty and her hair windblown from the train ride. Time has added a dozen creases to her once flawless face, and the fiery curls have been tamed by strands of ash-grey. Life has sapped a bit of th
e glow from the emerald eyes, but they sparkle with tears in the dim light of the tent.

  She moves to the cot and raises a trembling hand to her mouth as she looks down on me. The quilt is wrapped around me so only my head shows, face scraped raw from the fall and hair matted with blood. The woman kneels beside the cot and places a soft hand on my forehead. I feel the cool touch in the corner of the tent where I’m hovering.

  “Is there anything we can do for him?” she asks.

  “Best to patch him up here as best we can,” one of the men answers. “Once he comes around some, we can think about moving him.”

  As I watch the sorry scene, a haze slowly fills the tent. The figures huddled around the cot begin to fade while, out of the gloom, others emerge. The newcomers stand in a perfect circle around the cot, heedless of any obstacles. Three of them are half in and half out of the tent, one stands in the middle of the camp stove, and another actually shares the same space as one of the men. Through the fog I see the big black man shudder and step away from the intruding wraith. As one, and without a sound, the figures join hands and begin a slow funereal dance around the cot, circling like a great cloud of witnesses.

  Or vultures.

  Silence looms, with no one willing to speak—or maybe with nothing to say. The sound of dripping water breaks the spell, and a pair of hands reaches out from the pall with a handkerchief, to soothe and clean my face.

  The woman leans toward my body and from across the tent I hear her whisper, “I’m so sorry I was late.”

  A tear falls from her cheek to mine, followed by the warm softness of her lips.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Van Buren, Arkansas—February 1861

  Gina’s lips were soft and inviting, and returned my kiss with an ardor equal to my own. Her body pressed hard against me and her mouth was full on mine as we shared a hunger that the passion of the past hour had done little to satisfy. Indeed, the desire seemed all the greater for the separation that had preceded our reunion, and the one that would shortly follow.