by Marc Graham
“Jim, if I could leave Simon, I’d do it in a heartbeat, but it’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Gina, I can take care of you.”
“And Ginny?”
I swallowed hard at that.
“She’s a part of you, so how could I not love her?” I said, half believing it. “Look, I have my savings and a decent job. Given time, I can turn it into a good job. I may not be able to give you Lucas Place, but I can provide a good home for you. For us.”
“I know about the dowry you were saving up before the war, and it’s sweet,” she said in gentle condescension. “But what of my parents? Can you provide for them, as well?”
I lowered my eyes at that, unable to meet her probing gaze.
“We have nothing, Jim,” she said. “Nothing. Our crops were all burned out, and we had to mortgage everything when Daddy took ill. You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t give up to be with you,” she insisted, “but I can’t make that sacrifice for Mother, and I won’t make that sacrifice for Daddy.”
“Whatever it takes, we can find a way,” I said, my voice faltering as I squeezed her hand and searched her eyes for some sign of encouragement.
“I already have,” she stated flatly, and pulled her fingers out of my grip. “His name is Simon Braddock.”
“So that’s it? You’re giving us up, just like that?”
“I have to,” she said, “for the sake of my family. And, if you love me—if you really love me—you’ll let me go.”
“You know I love you,” I said, blinking away the clouds of confusion in my eyes, “but I don’t know if I can do that.”
“That’s why I have to,” she said, and pushed back her chair. She rose and placed her hand softly atop mine, leaned over me and pressed her lips to my cheek for several seconds. “Goodbye,” she whispered in my ear and brushed my cheek with hers, mingling our tears.
Then she was gone.
I stared across the table at the empty chair, stunned and sick at heart and oblivious to anything else around me. When the waitress finally returned to clear the table, I was surprised to find the dining room nearly empty.
“Are you all right, sir?”
I looked up, and the pity in the woman’s eyes drove the knife deeper into my heart. I bit my cheek and shook my head.
“What do I owe you?” I managed in a husky voice.
“Don’t worry about it,” she offered with a gracious smile. “I take it the food wasn’t very good. No charge.”
I nodded my thanks and struggled lamely to my feet. I gathered my coat and cap from the rack near the door, but lacked the energy to put them on. The morning’s warmth had given way to a bitterly cold afternoon. I ignored the chill as a stinging north wind made my eyes water, and shuffled numbly toward my room at the Lindell.
“A package for you, Mister Robbins,” the desk clerk told me on the first Saturday of February.
“Thank you,” I replied with some surprise.
I took the large box from the counter to a seat in the lobby. The wrapping had only my name on it and gave no clue as to the sender or the contents, but my heart leapt when I recognized the handwriting.
I pulled the string loose and tore away the brown paper to discover a hat box with Fellini printed on it. I lifted the lid and was surprised to find a brown felt fedora inside, a bright red feather gaily tucked in the hat band. I set the hat on my head—a perfect fit—and looked again in the box, where I found an envelope and a second, smaller box.
The envelope was blank, and I set it aside to open the box. I instantly recognized Matt’s watch nestled in a bed of cotton stuffing. I pulled it out and ran a thumb over the scratched script-B on the lid, then depressed the spring to open it. I took a sharp breath as, looking back at me from within the hollow of the lid, was Gina’s image, her graceful features faithfully preserved in a sepia-toned tintype.
I balanced the open watch on my knee, swallowed the lump in my throat, and slid a finger under the seal of the envelope. I trembled as I tried to keep a tight rein on my hopes, and clapped my knees together as the watch began to slip. I set it safely on the table and pulled the letter from the envelope.
I said you needed a new hat—hope it fits.
Daddy wanted you to have Matty’s watch, and I wanted you to have what’s inside, to remember. And to say good-bye.
We leave for New York on the 3rd, sailing on the 10 o’clock steamboat for Rock Island. I don’t know that I would be able to leave you again if I were to say good-bye in person, but I do hope to see you once more.
I know my decision has brought you pain, as it pains me to make it. I can only pray that a loving Providence will have mercy for this sacrifice, and that we may one day find each other again.
Until that day, I am lovingly and affectionately yours.
G—
I read through the note twice, blinking hard to clear my eyes. As I searched the meaning of each word, I chanced a look at the watch: 9:43.
I shot to my feet, grabbed the watch and hurried to the door.
Hobbling as fast as my lame knee would allow, I hopped-limped the eight blocks from the hotel to the boat landing, where I pressed my way through the queue at the ticket counter. I ignored the angry shouts as I scanned the roster of departing boats, found the one that matched the time and destination, then pressed deeper into the crowd.
Only two minutes remained until the scheduled departure and the Eurydice’s stacks already billowed with smoke. Stevedores and porters crowded the area near the aft gangway, and the press of bodies and cargo nearer the passenger ramp made it impossible for me to pass.
The ship’s bell rang the hour, and the shrill blast of the steam whistle cut through the air. Deckhands tossed off the lines while the last of the shore crew leapt nimbly from the deck to the pier. The port side paddle began to spin, churning the muddy water as the boat edged away from the dock.
I pushed my way to the edge of the pier and wrapped my arm about one of the stout bollards as I leaned out over the water to watch the departing boat. Scanning the crowd of passengers that lined the aft rail, I spied the telltale flash of bright, auburn hair. I had no breath to shout, and knew the effort would have been wasted over the noise of the engines and whistle. I merely raised the hat in my free hand and waved it slowly over my head.
I was about to give up the effort when I saw Gina raise her handkerchief. She held Ginny in one arm and pointed me out to her. The little girl waved pudgy fingers at me while her mother blew a kiss across the silt-laden water. I held the hat as if to catch the farewells, then dropped my arm to my side. Still clinging to the bollard, I followed the Eurydice with my eyes until she turned the first bend in the river.
As she disappeared from sight, the steam whistle loosed a mournful wail that matched the cry of my heart.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nebraska Territory—May 1866
Dearest Gina,
My heart is broken within me. A pool of sorrow lies stagnant where once flowed happiness and joy. I haven’t words to describe the depths of my sadness, yet I must give expression to it or be drowned in the abyss.
All I’ve known has been taken from me—family, home, the friend of my youth. Everything. I am alone in the world with none who knows me, none who understands me, none to whom I can unveil my heart and mind. None, save you.
Yet, Flame of my Heart, it is you who has taken my last happiness from me, who has dealt the death-blow and placed the final shovelful of dirt on the grave of my joy—
I put down my pen and tore the page from my notebook, crumpled the brittle paper into a tight wad and pitched it into the flames.
“If you’re just gonna burn it, couldn’t you at least let me have it for bum wad?” Dave asked from the other side of the campfire. “I’m getting tired of using bark.”
I ignored the question. Instead, I capped my pen and ink and returned them with my leather-bound journal to my bag.
“I’m going for a walk,” I said, then
picked up my hat and cane and struggled up the slope that flanked the riverside camp.
“A walk. Well, that makes sense,” Dave said to my backside. “We’ve only been walking for two weeks.”
I didn’t answer, but willed myself to the top of the slope and into the high grass where I might lose myself in the rolling waves of wind-swept prairie. Despite a cooling breeze, I soon broke a sweat from the effort. I only managed a few dozen strides before my cane landed in a prairie dog hole. My knee buckled, sending me headlong into the grass.
I cursed and shouted and beat at the ground. My anger quickly turned to frustration, frustration to grief. I lay where I’d fallen, clutched at the thick grass, and shouted my rage and heartache into the earth. It was the first time since Gina left that I’d given in to the pain. In utter isolation—no family or friend or lover or God to comfort me—I plunged into the hell of despair until, completely overcome, I loosed my hold and fell into oblivion.
By the time I came again to my senses, the breeze had died away and the sky had faded from powder blue to a dark-sapphire curtain. Occasional clouds glowed red in the last rays of the sun. The thin sliver of the moon peeked just above the eastern horizon, accompanied by a handful of stars.
Spent, I lay on my back and watched the formation of the night sky. Reason suggested I head back to camp. I couldn’t muster the will to move, so remained on the ground even as the cold earth sapped the heat from my body. After what seemed hours, my full bladder provided the impulse I needed, and I stirred myself from my stupor.
I groped about for my cane and found it still standing in its hole. The tip drove itself deeper into the earth as I put my weight on it. I managed to find my feet, and limped toward a row of brush to relieve myself. I sighed with the release and scanned the prairie as my eyes became accustomed to the growing darkness. I breathed deeply of the night air as my own scent mingled with that of the rich soil and plants in a thick, heady smell that cushioned just beneath my nostrils.
My stream suddenly stopped and my spine went rigid as a familiar tingling shot through me like a bolt of lightning in my veins. Even before my mind could make sense of things, I found myself crouched behind the row of brush, fumbling to button my fly while I struggled to keep my balance.
Someone is there, instinct warned me. Several someones.
Senses honed to a fine edge, my ears strained for some hint of what lurked beyond the veil of darkness.
It’s only the wind, I tried to convince myself.
But there was no wind.
The rustling in the grass—slow, careful, stealthy—might have been lost in even the slightest of breezes, but the deathly stillness of the night gave no cover for whoever or whatever was approaching. The brush and grass blocked my view, and it was only my ears that registered the passage of several sets of heavy footsteps somewhere in front of me.
The rustling had almost faded when I heard one of the tracks falter, sensed the figure turn and look in my direction. I held my breath and willed my heart to cease its pounding against my ribs, lest it give me away. I could feel my adversary reaching out with all his senses even as I tried to meld into the night.
I caught the sound of another set of footfalls approaching— heavier than a man’s—followed by a whispered exchange, then more silence as two sets of senses probed the darkness for me. After another round of whispers and what sounded like the rustle of a horse’s mane, the pair continued on their way.
When their footsteps faded, I allowed myself to take a shallow breath, just enough to ease the burning in my lungs. The ache of my knee was joined by the sting of cramped muscles as I held my crouched position for another hundred rapid beats of my heart. Then I pushed myself erect and exhaled through clenched teeth to let the tension seep from my muscles and nerves.
I took my bearings and realized the steps had faded in the direction of the creek. With as little noise as possible, I retraced my steps toward camp. As I neared the embankment, I caught the faint glow of a shielded fire and the hiss and crackle of unseasoned wood. I dropped to my belly and crept forward until I could peer down into the camp where the little fire valiantly struggled to hold back the fearsome darkness.
Dave lay on his back near the fire, his head resting on his rucksack, eyes covered by his hat. Wary of the night stalkers, I thought it better to warn Dave quietly rather than to raise a sudden alarm. I felt along the edge of the bank to find some pebbles or clods of earth.
Without warning, the night’s stillness was sundered by a string of heart-stopping war cries. The shrill ululations froze me where I lay, but Dave immediately bolted upright. A Bowie knife appeared in his hand as if by magic.
Before he got to his feet, four sets of thundering hooves crashed into the campsite, painted ponies bearing painted men. Other than their decorations, the ponies were unremarkable. Their riders were another matter.
Their faces and bared chests and arms were smeared with ghastly patterns, and the warriors looked as though they’d emerged from the mouth of hell itself. Eyes wide with blood-lust, mouths gaping as they screamed their war cries, the riders’ long hair streamed behind them like darkling flames. The riders wore only buckskin loincloths and rode bareback. They gripped their mounts with their knees while their hands wielded fearsome war hatchets that whirled in sweeping arcs, the bloodstained heads gleaming red in the firelight.
Separated from the raiders by the fire, Dave took a defensive posture and made as though to retreat from the flames. His escape was cut off as the band stretched into a column and formed a deadly circle that spun madly about the camp, just at the edge of the fire’s light. Dave raced back to the fire, using the flames as a rear guard. He crouched low, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the riders, looking for help.
Looking for me.
I swallowed my fear and forced the abandoned lover to give way to the warrior I’d tried to forget. I traced the movements of the riders, timed their passage and—when the moment was right—launched myself from the river bank.
My own war cry resounded in my ears.
My target had just enough time to turn his head and show his surprise before our bodies met and my momentum carried us both over the pony’s croup. I wrenched the grotesque hatchet from his hand and swung the death tool across his throat, leaving a bloody gash in its wake.
I turned from the fallen man as another rider bore down on me. There was just time to note the twin handprints on the pony’s chest before I threw myself out of the way and tumbled across the rough, pebbled ground. No sooner had I righted myself than, from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a body sailing toward me through the air.
I’d somehow managed to hold on to my cane all this time, and I aimed its tip at the center of the attacker’s feral snarl. I fell back from the impact and shuddered at the sickening crackle as tipped wood penetrated the soft flesh at the back of his throat. The howl that had rung out only moments before instantly fell silent.
The cane jerked out of my hands when its tip met the back of the rider’s skull, and the man went reeling past me. He came to a stop as the butt end of the cane stuck among the river rocks. The force of the impact drove the cane into the ground, leaving the Indian’s body propped almost comically on his knees.
I spun away from the grisly scene and scanned for the next attack. By this time, Dave had felled one of the remaining warriors. The last man—finding himself alone—loosed a bone-chilling cry before steering his pony away from the bloody scene and back the way he’d come.
For the barest flicker of a moment I thought to let the man go, but he could easily return with reinforcements, and there was no telling how close his camp was. I hefted the tomahawk I’d captured, took aim and flung it after the fleeing rider. Dave’s Bowie knife flew close behind and we were rewarded with a dull thwap-thunk as the blades found their target. The pony raced on into the gloaming beyond the camp’s fire, but the heavy sound of a falling body assured us that news of the raiding party’s fate would not reach far.
>
“You all right?” Dave asked breathlessly.
“I think so. You?”
“Better’n I’d have been if you hadn’t showed up when you did. I think it’s safe to say these three are out of it,” he said as he surveyed the carnage. “I’ll check on the other one.”
“Good idea. I’ll see if I can’t corral a couple of these ponies. We’d best put some distance between us and them tonight.”
“No argument there,” he agreed, then grabbed a fallen hatchet and stalked into the darkness.
Without their riders, the ponies had gathered together at the edge of the creek, tamely drinking from the cool water and nickering softly to one another. I moved to my rucksack—past the third man, slit belly to bollocks by Dave’s Bowie knife—and pulled out a coil of rope and my own knife. I measured out a few arm-spans of rope, cut it off, then repeated the process to make a pair of lariats.
I rummaged through the bag until I found a small apple, which I quartered before sheathing the knife in my boot. I eased sidelong toward the ponies, careful not to make eye contact or any sudden moves.
The ponies watched me through cautious, paint-encircled eyes. The largest one—a striking dark bay—stepped between me and his companions, shook out his mane and sniffed the air as he pawed at the ground. The handprints on his chest marked him as the same one whose charge I’d narrowly escaped. I swallowed my nervousness and approached the beast at an angle, an apple quarter held out in my hand.
I stopped about four paces from the pony, the apple still held out to let him smell the sweet fruit. He was already accustomed to people, so it didn’t take much effort to earn his trust—the fate of his previous owner notwithstanding. With a confident tread, the pony came closer, accepted the peace offering and let me slip one of the lariats over his head.
Seeing their companion’s good fortune, the other two—both dappled palominos—ventured a few tentative steps toward me, which I encouraged by the offer of two more apple chunks.
