Of Ashes and Dust

by Marc Graham

  “Stay,” she whispered softly, and my heart leapt, willing to obey her every command.

  I pulled her closer still, as though I could imprint the image of her body upon my heart, and so carry her with me on my journey.

  “You know I can’t,” I heard myself say as I loosened my arms about her waist and rested my chin atop her head.

  “How long will it be this time?” Longing was replaced by resignation as she pressed her cheek against my chest.

  “Hard to say.”

  On my return from Little Rock, I’d taken a job as surveyor’s assistant for John Butterfield, who believed his Overland Mail route would lay the foundation for the proposed Transcontinental Railroad. While Congress squabbled over the choice of a northern or southern route, Butterfield formed survey crews to chart the best path along his own road.

  Particularly troublesome was the stretch through the Boston Mountains north of Van Buren. That short span was among the steepest and most jagged of the entire 2,800-mile road. It would never meet the grade and bend specifications Congress had set for the railroad, so Butterfield tasked us with finding a better way along that spine of the Ozarks.

  “Maybe they’ll finally declare war, and you can come back to me.”

  “Gina, don’t even think such a thing,” I said, though I’d had the same thought many times.

  Seven states had already seceded from the Union and formed a loose confederation. Arkansas shared borders with three of those states, and the papers were full of bitter arguments both for and against secession.

  I feared war, but part of me hoped Arkansas would secede. If Missouri and Tennessee followed suit, any fighting would be along far-distant borders, and Gina and I could be together in peace. As far as I cared, the devil could take the politicians, soldiers, abolitionists. All that mattered was the woman in my arms and the days between now and when I could again hold her.

  Gina raised her gaze to mine and rested her chin against my breastbone.

  “Well, then,” she said, “I’ll just have to promise to make it worth your while to hurry home.”

  I smiled at that, both for the promised welcome and for the possibility that we might, indeed, make a home together. I lowered my head and met her lips in a kiss that was not so much one of hunger as of assurance—that I would soon return, that she would wait for me, that what we shared would bind our hearts together despite the many miles and weeks that might separate us. I softly stroked her cheek and drew back, cupping her chin in my hand while I studied her face and eyes, etching every contour and line on my memory.

  “Keep looking at me like that, and you’ll never get out of here,” she warned me.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Gina picked my hat off the small dining table and set it squarely on my head, then held open my duster while I shrugged into it. I turned to face her again and she tugged at my collars to straighten them. “That should do,” she allowed.

  I threw her a crooked grin, then swooped in for one last, quick kiss.

  “I won’t be long,” I whispered, then picked up my saddlebags and stepped out the door. I didn’t dare look back, for fear I’d never leave.

  The morning air was cool and laced with fog, but the chill bite of winter was gone. I pulled the duster tight about me as I made my way through the early morning gloom. To avoid prying eyes, I went by the narrow alleyways behind Gina’s cottage at the Wallace Institute, where she was now a teacher. I hoped the need to slink through the back alleys would be gone by the time I returned.

  Mister Barnes had delivered a sizable legacy to me when I came back from Little Rock—several hundred dollars that Pa and I had worked off against the mortgage on our land. I hadn’t even known of the arrangement, but Barnes insisted I take the money, unless I wanted to rebuild and continue working for him. The choice had been an easy one.

  I combined that windfall with the money I’d earned from Rawls, keeping just enough of the funds to buy horses for Izzy and me, along with a good set of surveyor’s instruments, and entrusted the rest to Uncle Cy for safekeeping.

  After nearly three years of hard work and simple living, the little nest egg had grown quite nicely—nine hundred thirty-three dollars and fifty-eight cents, by the last reckoning. The number was beyond anything I’d ever imagined, but wasn’t quite enough. One thousand dollars was the goal I’d set for myself before I would approach Mister Barnes to ask for Gina’s hand. A nice, round number, but also evidence that I’d be able to provide for his daughter in a fitting, if not luxurious, manner. The sum made this survey trip all the more important, as my earnings from the next few weeks should put me past my goal.

  “I thought I told you to leave her alone,” a voice called out behind me, the words slurred.

  My heart lurched into my throat at the unexpected challenge. I spun around and lowered myself toward the ground to prepare for an attack. Silent seconds passed as I stared blindly into the blackness of a doorway off the alley, before the voice registered as one I knew.

  “I seem to recall something along those lines,” I answered, “back when we were kids. But we’re all adults now. Why don’t you leave it to Gina to decide who she ought and ought not see?”

  “Her name is Angelina,” Matt spat back at me as he stepped into the alley. “Given the company she’s keeping, it’s pretty damned clear she ain’t in a position to make any sound judgments.”

  “Look, Matty,” I said, deliberately taunting him with the diminutive, “she’s a grown woman now—”

  I got no farther than that before his hand flashed out from behind his back. A menacing blur trailed behind it and hurtled toward me. I jerked back, but was too slow to avoid the attack. The leather sack connected with my nose and drove across my face in a vicious blow. Blood gushed from my shattered nose as I fell to the ground.

  I pushed myself to my feet and raised an arm to protect myself as I caught a hint of movement through blood-and tear-blurred eyes. Matty rushed me again, but I managed to avoid the blow. He sailed past me off balance, and I snaked an arm through his and planted my hand against the back of his neck. Our combined momentum brought us to the ground, and a sickening Pop echoed off the alley walls as I fell on top of him.

  Matt let out a scream of pain and anger. I let loose of him and grabbed up the small leather bag. My eyes were starting to swell shut as I stepped toward where he lay moaning and clutching his wracked shoulder. I hooked my boot under his armpit and rolled him onto his back. He screamed again, then stared up at me through eyes blinded by hatred and pain and fear. He let go of his shoulder and crab-walked away from me.

  I stalked after him, slapping the heavy leather bag against my thigh as I went. He backed into a wall and his eyes darted from side to side like a cornered fox. A sly grin twisted at his mouth as he fumbled at the top of one boot. He pulled a Bowie knife from his boot sheath, but I pinned his knife hand under my boot. He gasped as I brought my full weight to bear, and dropped the knife.

  I picked up the blade and released his arm, then set my heel into his stomach. I slowly pressed down, and he beat at my leg as the air wheezed from his lungs. A sharp smell cut through the still air and I was surprised—and not a little gratified—to see a damp stain growing between his trouser legs.

  Through swollen eyes I saw the humiliation that colored Matt’s face. I knelt with one knee on his chest and waved the Bowie under his nose while I swung the bludgeon in my other hand. Matt’s eyes opened wide as I stabbed the knife into supple, tanned skin. I drove the blade deeper, surprised at how easily it penetrated. With a savage ripping motion, I tore the knife out through the skin and the contents spilled out on Matt’s chest. Lead pellets poured from the torn bludgeon onto Matt’s shirt with a dull clicking sound.

  When the leather bag was empty, I flicked it harmlessly at Matt’s face, then stood and slipped the knife through my belt. Without a word, I turned and started up the alley toward the livery stable.

  “Coward,” Matt yelled after me. “Can�
��t even finish a fight. You stay away from her, you hear me? You don’t deserve her. You’re nothing. Nothing but a nigger in white skin—a worthless, white nigger piece of filth.”

  I straightened my shoulders as I walked. It was enough effort just to stay on my feet, without turning back to renew the fight. I turned a corner and slumped against the wall, but kept moving toward the livery, while Matt’s insults echoed behind me.

  “What the hell happened to you?” I recognized Tom Halsey’s voice as I neared the stables. He rushed toward me, and I took the blurs behind him for Izzy and Argos.

  “Just a little run-in,” I said as strong hands eased me to the ground.

  “With what, a brick wall? Izzy, run fetch some water for me,” Tom ordered, and I heard feet run off while Argos licked my hand. “Ol’ Tom’s here, now,” he assured me.

  The survey crew’s rodman was short, but built like a hogshead. With him nearby, I needn’t worry over another attack.

  I heard Izzy return and set down a bucket, then screamed in pain as Tom began cleaning my face.

  “Easy now, Jim. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but I got to get this blood washed off. Might hurt a bit,” he added needlessly. “Help hold him still now, Izzy.”

  Strong but gentle hands gripped my shoulders while Tom resumed his care of my battered face.

  “There, now, that wasn’t so bad.” Tom’s voice came as through a thick blanket, my mind having dulled all my senses against the pain. “Had my own nose broke three times, but you’d never know it.”

  I peered through slit eyes at the bent and twisted nose.

  “Only three?” I said.

  “Aye, well, I didn’t have good ol’ Tom to see to myself, now did I? Here,” he said, and placed a small flask in my hand. “Take a few sips of this—it’ll help with the pain.”

  “What is it?” I held the flask close, but could smell nothing through my ruined nose.

  “Just a little home-brewed medicine.”

  I took a pull from the flask, gagged and spat out a mouthful of alcohol and blood.

  “Don’t waste it all now,” Tom said. “Just sip at it. Trust me, it’ll help.”

  Warily, I raised the flask again, drank and fought to swallow the harsh liquor. Almost immediately, I felt the blanket over my senses draw more snugly about me.

  “That’s the way.” Tom’s voice was muted even more, and I barely heard the words, “Hold him steady, now.”

  With a violent jerk, Tom reset my nose and all my senses were restored with a vengeance. Pain shot through my entire body, and Argos yelped and skittered away as I fought against the hands holding me down.

  “Steady, boy,” Tom said quietly. “Sorry about that, but I had to set it before the swelling got any worse. With luck, you won’t have much more than a little bump. You’re lucky, y’know? Whatever it was hit you, a half inch off and you’d be minus a few teeth.”

  “Here you go, Jade.” Izzy had torn strips from his shirt and offered me the rolls of cloth. “For the bleeding,” he explained.

  I nodded, then squeezed the swabs into my nostrils.

  “That’s the way,” Tom said. He picked up his flask from where I’d tossed it in my struggle, wiped off the mouth and took a quick pull before handing it back to me. “A couple more snorts, and you’ll be right as rain.”

  My ears popped as I swallowed against my plugged nose, but the liquor seemed to go down more smoothly this time. Izzy helped me to my feet and led me into the stable, where the rest of the crew had begun gathering.

  “What—?” a startled voice asked, but Tom cleared his throat roughly and cut off any further questions. In a few minutes, eight riders and three packhorses left the livery and set out north along the Fayetteville Road.

  “It is the natural yearning of man to be free.”

  The fire crackled as we huddled around the glowing warmth that kept the evening chill at bay. A pleasant mid-February had turned into a miserable and bitter March. Foul weather had hampered our progress, and I feared it might be months, rather than weeks, until I could again hold Gina in my arms.

  “But what is the value of that yearning, if a people lack the facility to maintain and treasure their freedom?”

  Days were spent tramping about the Boston Mountains, tracking down old survey markers—some dating back to the Louisiana Purchase survey of 1816—and spiking new ones. Evenings were spent around the campfire or—if, like tonight, we were close enough—around the big fireplace of the Elkhorn Tavern, engaged in lively, usually friendly, debate.

  “If a man has the desire,” Evan Bornholm, the company’s lead surveyor, insisted, “he must have the capacity to seek its fulfillment.”

  “But are all people equally endowed with that desire?” Silas Ramsey pressed his point. The tracker was as dogged in his pursuit of an argument as he was in chasing down game. He took a bite of venison, and his brother Paul took up the point.

  “Where would the Negro be without slavery? Still stalking about the African jungle, chanting to his gods, painting his face and hurling spears at his neighbors.”

  Mike Adams plunked away at a Jew’s harp while Tom Halsey strummed his Kentucky banjo and shook his head—whether in time to the music or in dismay at the endless argument, I couldn’t tell.

  “Who’s to say what is the right course and the natural growth of a people?” Nathanael Reiss chimed in, the artist’s New England accent a stark contrast to the Ramseys’ Carolina drawl.

  “God is,” Silas replied around a mouthful of cornbread. “ ‘And the son of Ham shall be a slave unto his brethren.’ ”

  “That is a fable written three thousand years ago,” Reiss objected.

  “Are you saying God’s word loses value with time?” Silas said.

  “No,” Reiss said with a shake of his head. “I’m saying the scriptures must be taken in the context of the times when they were written.”

  “ ‘The Lord hath sent me to preach deliverance to the captives,’ ” Bornholm joined in. “No context needed for that.”

  “Look,” Paul Ramsey said, his hand raised to still further preaching, “I don’t say that slavery is good or needful—our peculiar institution is just about dead, as it is. But I do say that sometimes good can come out of what some see as evil. Take Izzy, here.” He gestured toward our end of the hearth circle.

  “If it wasn’t for generations of slaves, where would the boy be today? Probably traipsing around some infernal jungle, or dead with a spear in his gut.”

  Izzy looked up wide-eyed at that.

  “I’m just saying, is all,” Paul went on. “A good many Negroes are alive today that might otherwise not be. Maybe someday, once this country straightens herself out, they or their children can breathe free, have a chance to make something for themselves. And, good or bad, it’s slavery will have made it possible for them.”

  Reiss opened his mouth to speak, but Tom struck a harsh note on his banjo and spoke up.

  “I don’t reckon we’ll solve the world’s troubles just tonight.” With that, he stood, set his banjo in a corner and turned to Silas Ramsey. “Brother Junior Warden, call the brethren from refreshment to labor.”

  Izzy and I looked at each other, then stood to follow the others as they headed for the tavern’s stairs. Argos—who seemed to know better—merely looked up before resting his head on his paws again.

  “Y’all stay put,” Tom said, not unkindly. “We’ll be back down in a while.”

  With that, he led the other men up the stairs, followed by Jesse Cox, the tavern keeper. A few men from other tables stood and followed up the stairs.

  “Don’t you boys mind them,” Lucy Cox, Jesse’s daughter-in-law, said to us as she picked up the plates and cups abandoned by the men. “They all got to go play at spooks or some such moonshine. You boys have some more cider.” Lucy couldn’t have been more than sixteen but she had a matronly air about her that belied her youth.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said as she refilled my mug.

>   “Thank you, ma’am,” Izzy repeated, with much more depth of feeling.

  It was rare enough for a slave to be allowed in a tavern, let alone be waited on, but the Coxes cared little about convention. Lucy refilled Izzy’s cup and went back to cleaning up the place while Izzy and I settled on the floor in front of the hearth.

  “What you think she meant about them playing at spooks?” Izzy wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  Through the rough wooden planks, I could hear footsteps slowly pace about the floor above, first one way around, then the other. Voices rumbled through the floorboards, alone or in unison, but I couldn’t make out the words. Every once in a while, Jesse would pace across the upstairs landing, a white apron tied around his waist and an old sword in his hands.

  “What you think they doing?” Izzy persisted.

  “I don’t know,” I repeated, then drained my cider, rolled out my bedroll and lay down. I ignored Izzy’s whispered questions and pretended to sleep, while I strained my ears to make some sense of the noises above.

  I’d drifted off by the time the men came back down the stairs, but their muted conversation and good-natured laughter—even between the cantankerous Yankee and the stubborn Ramseys— roused me. Men traded handshakes and arm clasps before going their separate ways—some out the door for home, others to their own bedrolls scattered about the tavern floor.

  “Got a minute, Tom?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Pull up a rock.”

  Our crew was surveying the course of Logan Creek a few miles south of Osage Springs. I sat on a small boulder next to the rodman and stayed quiet for a spell, just listening to the babble of the creek, fat with snowmelt.

  “I don’t mean to be a snoop,” I finally said, “but what is it y’all do upstairs at the tavern?”

  “Oh, we’re just seeing to the work,” he said, and tossed a pebble into a pool at the side of the bank. The ripples spread out until they were caught in the flow of the creek and whisked downstream.

  “Well, shouldn’t I be a part of it?” I asked. “I mean, I’m a member of the crew, and all. Mister Bornholm says I’ll be ready to lead a crew of my own after this job. Just seems to me that if there’s work to be done, I ought to be part of it.”