by Marc Graham
“What?” I demanded as the fourth interruption was announced by a light knock on the tent post.
“I’m sorry, Mister Robbins,” Seth said, his hat bunched up in his enormous hands. “I’ll come back later.”
“It’s all right, Seth,” I said, and waved him into the tent. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” he said, his eyes brightening. “I just wanted to let you know—Lydia’s had a boy. I’m a papa.”
We’d arranged for Lydia to join Seth about a year earlier. She’d shared a small cottage with Cassandra in Geraldton until a month or so ago, when the women had rejoined Cy in Perth, in expectation of Lydia’s delivery.
“That’s great news,” I said, and came around the desk to offer Seth my hand. “Did you settle on a name?”
“Sure did,” he said as he ignored my hand and pulled me into a fierce embrace. “Ezekiel Jade Freeman—for my father, and for the man who set him free.”
I’d never spoken with Seth about the totem he wore or about my almost identical one. All thought of coincidence was now gone, replaced by the certainty that both had been carved by the hand of my old friend Zeke.
Before I could say anything, the camp bell rang, and Seth released me from the bear hug.
“I got to get back to work. I just wanted to let you know,” he said, then disappeared through the tent flap, wiping his eyes on his sleeve as he went.
I sat back down at my desk, but old memories kept claiming my thoughts until I finally gave up. Setting the work aside, I returned to my tent and pulled an envelope from between the pages of Age of Fable. The pages of the letter were creased and crumpled and stained with grime and sweat and tears. I read the letter again, mainly to see the familiar handwriting, for the words were long since etched in my mind.
My Dearest Jim—
Cassandra will have told you already of Daddy and Mother’s passing. God forgive me, but it was a relief to see his spirit at last freed from the body that had so long held him prisoner. Poor Mother had been strong for him for so long and, when he finally passed, it seemed he took that strength with him. She followed him to Heaven two days later.
I write, though, not to tell you of them, not to look back, but to look forward. My obligations here are ended, and I, too, am free of the life that was. I have left Simon and am coming to Australia, taking with me only what I brought into his home: a few possessions, a long-held hope, and my darling treasure, Ginny.
Or might I say, our treasure.
For you and I created her, and, in taking her into Simon’s home, I took a part of you. She has been my comfort these years. In her eyes I have found your strength, and in her smile your humor. I pray you might find a way to forgive me, my love, for keeping her from you all this time. Fear and uncertainty can make a young woman take a path on which she would never otherwise have set foot. Once on that path, there can be no turning back—only ever forward, praying and hoping against hope that one day, somehow, another path might appear to lead her to where her heart is.
That path is now open, my Heart, and it leads westward. We will take the train to San Francisco, and Ginny is eager to see the railroad that her father built. I expect to reach Perth by Easter, where I will await word from you.
I cannot expect your forgiveness. I cannot expect you to wish to see me. I can only beg you to see Ginny, that she might know her father, know what a good man truly is. And, if by some miracle you can again open your heart to me, I vow—to my final breath—to repay every hurt with joy, and every tear with kisses.
Till then, I am as I ever have been, and ever shall be—Yours. G—
An hour later, drilling finished, I stood atop the summit of Hundley’s Pass and surveyed the week’s work while I soaked in the westerly breeze. I squinted my eyes against the wind that tickled my nose and stung the back of my throat with its dust. A thin column of smoke rose from the southern horizon, where the company train steamed up from Geraldton. I swallowed a nervous flutter then turned at the sound of boots scuffing over the rock, accompanied by the soft whirr of the cable spool’s unwinding.
“About time they finished up here,” Kincaid griped, idly wringing his hands as he led Dave up the slope.
“We’re still half a day ahead of schedule,” Dave reminded him, then set down the cable spool.
I took the heavy blasting kit from his shoulder while he spun out a few arm-lengths of cable.
“Are you sure that’s safe?” Kincaid asked as I set the crate on the ground and pried off the lid.
“What, this?”
Dave picked up one of the brown sticks of dynamite and waved it at the Brit.
Kincaid reeled back as Dave fumbled with the stick. The little man screamed and crouched into a ball, clapping his hands over his ears as the dynamite fell from Dave’s hand and rolled harmlessly across the ground. The Englishman winked open a fearful eye, then stood when he realized he still had legs.
“Well,” he stammered, “I see you have the situation well in hand here. I’ll head back down to greet the director when he arrives.”
He turned and hurried down the slope toward the barricade that had been set up at the railhead to protect the crew from the blast. He stifled a curse as he slipped on some scree and took the next several yards on his backside.
Dave laughed aloud as he cut the cable from the spool and stripped the insulation from the ends. I stabbed the blasting caps into the sticks of dynamite, then twisted the ends of the cables together to create a web of explosives that would reduce the hilltop to rubble. We’d nearly finished setting the charges when a quick glance south suggested the train would reach camp within a few minutes.
“I can wrap up here,” I suggested to Dave, knowing he was as eager for the train’s arrival as I was. “Why don’t you go on down to meet them?”
“No, I can help finish,” he offered weakly.
“You haven’t seen Cass in over a month. We’re almost done, and it’s nothing I can’t handle while you go wash up—which you really need to do,” I added, wrinkling my nose. “Besides, I could use a little time alone before . . .” Dave didn’t need to hear the words to know my thoughts.
“Fair enough.” He started down the slope, hands in his pockets and hat pushed back on his head, before he stopped and turned back toward me. “Life’s good, you know that?”
I nodded and gave a small laugh. “Yeah, I do. Now go.”
He scuttled the rest of the way down the hill while I turned back to the remaining bit of work. Before long I had the last hole loaded. I pulled off my hat and wiped my forehead on my sleeve. A sudden gust of wind jerked the fedora from my grip and the hat sailed downward, floating on the breeze toward the barricade.
As I followed the hat with my eyes, I noticed Kincaid flapping and strutting around the barricade like a mother hen, fretting over every last detail before Cy’s arrival. He stopped at the detonator, and my eyes widened when I saw the cable ends already screwed to the terminals. I watched helplessly as he pulled the handle up into the armed position, thought better of it, and began to press it back down.
I cupped my hands to my mouth and yelled for him to stop. Kincaid cocked his head at the shout and spun around. As he twisted, one knee sprang out at an odd angle and the man tottered. Kincaid released the handle of the detonator and flailed his arms as he fought to keep his balance. The effort was wasted, though, and he toppled over, catching the plunger in the crook of one arm and driving it inexorably, fatally down under his weight.
So this is what it is to die, I managed to think before my life flashed before my eyes in a blaze of light.
EPILOGUE
My eyes blink open against the glare of tent walls glowing in the midday sun. Grief and concern are etched on the faces of those gathered around. Seth, Uncle Cy, Dave and Cassandra. I turn my head as far as the pain will allow and look into my own eyes set within a face graced by Gina’s features, and I blink away the tears that blur the vision of my daughter, Ginny. I force a smile, then tu
rn my attention back to Gina, to the emerald eyes that have so long haunted me, eyes filled now with pain and regret.
I feel my hold on life slipping. My body trembles as though to shake my spirit loose. The air sears my throat and lungs as I take a deep breath, then rasp out a final word.
“Forgiven.”
That last breath carries me with it, and I feel the rattle more than hear it as I pass from the body. I watch fondly as the images of my loved ones fade away, to be replaced by the dancers and my guide and the tree.
“What now?” I ask.
“What you always wanted to do,” he says. “What I wouldn’t let you do anymore for fear you’d be hurt again.”
I look into the man’s eyes, my father’s eyes, clear and filled with a vigor that I never saw in life.
“Climb,” he says.
I grin and place a hand on the familiar bark. I trace my way around the trunk until I come to the burled root that has always served as a mounting step. I step up, balance myself against the trunk with one hand, then push off to reach the first branch just beyond my arm’s reach. I catch the limb, bring up my other hand, swing my feet up.
And I climb.
I rise through the branches as easily as climbing a set of stairs. The earth drops away and I hear Pa’s voice repeat the words I’d long ago forgotten.
“That’s the way to climb. That’s my boy. Reach for it.”
As I near the top, the world is only leaves and branches and the rustle of the wind and the sound of chimes. From below I hear a faint “I’m proud of you, son,” and I am through the leaves.
The world spreads out below me like one of Ma’s patchwork quilts, the land a checkerboard of varying shades and shapes and styles. Rather than crops and landholdings, I recognize each one as a living, breathing soul, the patterns blending together to form a whole more beautiful than any one piece could ever be.
I hear a loud snap, and my foothold gives way. For a bare moment I dangle by one hand, then the tree limb evaporates and my hand grips nothing but air. A flutter of panic rises in my stomach and I brace myself for the rush of branches and leaves and twigs to tear at my skin and clothing. I look toward the ground only to find that I am racing farther and farther away from it.
Heavenward.
I soar beyond the leaves. The green canopy of the tree grows and spreads beneath me, stretching its branches toward the horizon until the entire earth is hidden by the shimmering sylvan veil.
With a jerk, I stop rising, my ascent checked by a shining silver thread that stretches between me and the center of the leaves. I smile as I pluck it loose and continue my race toward the sun, even as the thread spirals down, down, until it disappears from sight.
I look up. In the midst of the brightly glowing sky, I see a point of light that glows brighter even than the sun. I will myself toward it and the light begins to separate into distinct figures. Clusters of forms appear, then individual shapes from among the clusters. As I draw nearer, I recognize each one by nature, if not by form.
First to come into focus is Becca, her smile warm and welcoming. Ma and Pa stand behind her, alongside Matt and Izzy, Zeke and Ketty. Missus Warren, Mister Barnes and a host of others are on hand to greet me. Eager as they seem for my arrival, they all step aside to allow me to pass, until I come face to face with the one I’ve ached to see.
“What took you so long?” Mae asks sweetly as I draw near.
“Just some business to finish up,” I reply, and joy floods my being as I stand on the threshold of the place I’ve yearned for and from which I’ve so long been kept apart.
“Welcome home,” Mae whispers, and reaches out to me.
I take her hand and fix my gaze on those eyes that once and fully captured my soul. She wraps her arms about me, and the others circle around to embrace us. I melt into the oneness of that embrace.
As I cross Death’s threshold and enter into the wondrous bliss of eternal light and love, I finally know what it is to live.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
I first discovered Jim Robbins’s story in the winter of 1999. During the course of an hour, I experienced a few brief scenes from his life. Over time these expanded into the story presented here. While there is no historical evidence to suggest Jim actually tramped through the backwoods of Arkansas or laid rail across the Great Plains, I’d like to think the spirit of those who did so inform his journey.
I was made a Freemason in Virginia, in 1996. Where Masonic rituals and allusion are presented, they are derived from works in the public domain, and differ from those I was taught. No oaths have been broken in the telling of this story.
Jim’s hometown of Britton appears on an 1891 map of Arkansas, near the confluence of Frog Bayou and the Arkansas River. The town has since disappeared, but Van Buren remains the seat of Crawford County.
The Battle of Elkhorn Tavern (also known as the Battle of Pea Ridge) was one of the costliest engagements of the American Civil War west of the Mississippi. Fighting took place March 7–8, 1862, near Bentonville, Arkansas. The upper room of the tavern was used as a Masonic lodge, but the meeting on the night before battle is my own creation. This is based in part on another pre-battle meeting (perhaps apocryphal) between Union and Confederate brethren at Mason’s Hall in Richmond, Virginia, on the eve of the Union assault on that city. Both Grenville Dodge and James “Wild Bill” Hickok took part in the fighting at Pea Ridge, though it is debatable whether either was a Freemason.
The improbable charge of Champion’s company in support of Guibor’s artillery battery—wherein fewer than two dozen riders charged several hundred infantrymen—is as true as any eyewitness record of battle. The account, including the verbal exchange between Captains Champion and Guibor, is derived from an article originally printed in the St. Louis Republican by Hunt P. Wilson, who served under Guibor. For an excellent examination of this pivotal battle, see Pea Ridge: Civil War Campaign in the West by William L. Shea and Earl J. Hess.
Likewise, the recounting of the Battle of Nashville is based on contemporary reports and personal accounts. This battle effectively ended Confederate action in the western theater, and it is perhaps fitting that it included one of the largest concentrations of United States Colored Troops (USCT) in the war. Indeed, this was the first combat most of these regiments saw, having previously been assigned to garrison duty or guarding railway lines. Notably, the taking of Peach Orchard Hill was accomplished by the 13th Regiment USCT, who suffered a forty percent casualty rate.
The building of the Transcontinental Railroad, fast on the heels of the war, represented another fundamental shift in a rapidly changing nation. Despite the staggering degrees of graft and corruption associated with it, the significance of this achievement, and the determination and commitment of resources that made it possible, rival those of the space program initiated a century later. Stephen E. Ambrose provides a detailed and engaging look at this great undertaking in Nothing Like It in the World: The Men Who Built the Transcontinental Railroad 1863– 1869.
Despite the uneasy peace between North and South, and the steel rails that linked East and West, America remained a nation deeply divided. Those who had recently been made free, and others who willingly came to this country in search of opportunity, faced hatred and violence. Equality under the law was a concept still foreign, as the justice systems of California and other states and territories barred minorities from giving legal testimony against white men.
While a few hundred Chinese immigrants had settled along the Pacific Coast before that area became part of the United States, thousands more began to arrive following the annexation of California and its subsequent statehood. The discovery of gold and the burgeoning settlement in the West provided tremendous opportunities for people fleeing from civil war and foreign aggression against their homeland.
Despite the industry and ingenuity that had made the Central Pacific Railroad possible—or, perhaps, because of these— Chinese immigrants were subjected to physical and legislati
ve attacks. In 1853, the California Supreme Court declared the Chinese to be an inferior race, of limited intellectual development. This decision overturned the murder conviction of a man whose guilt had been based, in part, upon the testimony of Chinese witnesses.
With the economic slowdown that followed the Civil War and the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad, jobs were at a premium. Hardworking Chinese immigrants, who routinely earned far less than their white counterparts, were often viewed as stealing work from white men. As early as 1867, labor organizers led attacks against Chinese workers. In 1871, a mob of several hundred men attacked Los Angeles’s Chinatown, resulting in the deaths of nearly two dozen Chinese. The 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act barred further Chinese immigration to the United States, and remained in effect until World War II.
Given the large amounts of federal land granted to railways, and the interstate nature of the lines, the US Marshal Service played a significant role in law enforcement along the steel roads. While the murder of a few Chinese workers would not be enough to spur justice into motion, it is conceivable that the destruction of railroad property would do the trick.
The Geraldton–Northampton Railway was authorized by the government of Western Australia in 1873. The road was completed in 1879, the year after Jim’s death.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marc Graham is an actor, singer, bard, engineer, Freemason, and whisky aficionado (Macallan 18, one ice cube). When not on stage, in a pub, or bound to his computer, he can be found traipsing about Colorado’s Front Range with his wife and their Greater Swiss Mountain Dog.
marc-graham.com
facebook.com/marcgrahambooks
@Marc_Graham
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