John Henry’s disinterest in hearing the man’s ramblings had changed to fascination. His father had never told the whole story of how he came to be guardian for a Mexican orphan boy, and Francisco had always spoken as if his life had begun on American soil. He’d even adopted the birthdate of July 4th in honor of his new country.
“What do you mean, it was the boy’s idea?” John Henry asked, urging the man on.
“Well, you couldn’t blame him for wantin’ to go,” the man said. “Henry was good to him, shared his rations, found him somethin’ decent to wear. The boy was so grateful, he’d do anything for Henry, fetch his drinks, carry his bags . . .”
“Be his valet,” John Henry said, and the man nodded.
“I reckon you could say that. Henry never asked him, but the boy did it anyhow. I figure he was tryin’ to make himself so useful that Henry couldn’t do without him. Anyhow, time came for us to board ship for New Orleans, and Henry figured to say goodbye to the boy there at the dock, but he couldn’t find him anywhere. ‘Too bad,’ was all he said about missin’ that goodbye, ‘he was a good boy.’ I was surprised he didn’t show more feelin’ about it, close as the two of them had got to be, but I guess that wasn’t the Lieutenant’s way. Cool, folks called him, and I reckon he was. Still, that boy had been mighty attached to him . . .”
“So what happened?” John Henry asked, caught up by the story, though of course he knew how the thing ended. Francisco came to Georgia and Henry kept him on as his serving boy.
“The boy stowed away,” the clerk replied. “That’s why we didn’t see him at the dock. He knew Henry wouldn’t take him home, so he hid himself away with the horses and the munitions, and didn’t come out ‘til we docked at New Orleans. Closest thing I ever saw to a smile on Henry Holliday’s face, I saw that day. We were off the ship and headin’ to the muster office when along comes the little Mexican. ‘Carry your bags, Señor?’ he says to Henry, about all the English he knew. And Henry just nodded to him. Not a word, only a nod, but almost a smile at the same time. I wasn’t surprised when he brought the boy home after that. Francisco was his name, as I recall. He lived with Henry a few years, then he went to work and moved on. Had a barbershop here in Griffin for a while. Haven’t heard much of him lately. Do you know how’s he’s doing?”
“He’s dyin’,” John Henry said. “He took the consumption.”
“Now that’s a shame,” the clerk replied. “Well, your deed’s all copied and legal. You can pay the cashier for the registration.”
His business taken care of, John Henry paid the registration fee and left the courthouse, his mind filled with thoughts of a stowaway boy and the American Lieutenant who had taken him home.
The Iron Front was an impressive piece of property, two-stories tall and made entirely of red brick, with long twelve-paned windows facing the street and letting the morning sun stream into the shops inside. On John Henry’s western side of the building, the liquor and tobacco store of N.G. Phillips occupied the entire downstairs space, and the proprietor looked up with a smile when a well-dressed young gentleman came into his shop setting the door bells jangling.
“Afternoon, Sir!” Phillips said in greeting. “What can I do for you?” He seemed the jovial sort one often found in establishments that sold liquor, and as he leaned forward on the counter, his paunch strained at the buttons of his plaid waistcoat. “Can I interest you in some of my fine stock today? Old corn whiskey, old Holland gin? Apple brandy, Virginia leaf tobacco?”
John Henry straightened his lapels and said with a purposely superior tone: “I am Dr. John H. Holliday. I am here to meet my tenants.”
“Is that a fact? Well, you look mighty young for a landlord.”
John Henry tried to ignore the insult and glanced around as if he really were inspecting the place. “This is a sturdy building,” he said approvingly, “good high ceilings.” Though he didn’t really know all that much about architecture, he did like the look of the place. The ceiling was covered with embossed tin panels and edged all around with a heavy molding of the same design. One sidewall was brick, but the other was a curious combination of fluted beams and covered arches—likely the court-ordered partition wall between his half and the McKey’s side of the building.
“It’s a real nice place,” Phillips agreed. “I’d be interested in expanding into the other rooms, if you’re lookin’ to sell the place.”
“I appreciate your interest, Mr. Phillips, but the truth is, I only own half the building. My Uncle Tom McKey owns the other half.”
“I know, I know, already got in touch with him about it, and he’s not ready to sell just yet. But I’m willin’ to buy one half at a time. I’d be willin’ to pay good money for it—cash money.”
Though John Henry had no intention of selling his inheritance before he’d even taken possession of it, he was interested in knowing just what it might be worth. “What kind of money are you talkin’ about?”
Phillips smiled and cleared his throat, obviously sure he had an impressive offer. “Eighteen-hundred dollars, Dr. Holliday. Top dollar for the place!”
John Henry had to stifle his surprise. Eighteen-hundred dollars! That was more money than he’d ever seen at one time. It was no wonder his mother had considered the Iron Front the true prize of his inheritance.
“Like I said, Dr. Holliday, top dollar. So what do you say? Are you interested?”
“I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t impressed by your proposition, Mr. Phillips. That’s good money all right. And I can’t say I’m not tempted. But I’m not in the market to sell.”
Phillips sighed. “Well, you let me know if you ever change your mind.”
“I will certainly do that.” He eyed the shelves lined with bottles, amber and brown and full of choice liquors. “And I believe I will have somethin’ to drink, after all. A bottle of Tennessee whiskey, if you have it.”
“My pleasure,” Phillips said with a smile, “and for my landlord, something special.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a small silver flask and flipped open the stopper. “Just right for a young gentleman. Holds just enough for a day’s ride or an evenin’ by a lady’s side.” Then he opened a bottle of whiskey and filled the flask. “Call it a down payment, in case you change your mind.”
There was one more thing he had to do while he was in Griffin, and he rode up Hill Street to Taylor, whipping the horse to a gallop and heading east out the McDonough Road. There hadn’t been a hard rain for weeks and the dust of the road rose up in a cloud and trailed behind him. Then from out of the haze and the dust, he saw something else rising up: an angel hovering in the air, outspread wings reflecting the afternoon light. He reined the horse to a stop and wiped the dust from his eyes, and peered ahead again. There was indeed an angel poised there before him, bent with sorrowful face, and below it, row upon row of grave markers, stark white against the green hills.
The Confederate Cemetery had been established after the Hollidays left Griffin, acres of burial plots for the soldiers who had died during the battle of Atlanta. Griffin had been headquarters for the Confederate hospital, with thousands of wounded soldiers coming in every day on the train. Soon the schools and churches were full to overflowing with the sick and the dying, and the army commandeered private homes for hospital space as well. And still the wounded kept coming, more men than the medical officers could treat, more dead than the townspeople could bury. When the fighting ended, the corpses remained and the country was covered with the bodies of the dead, rotting in the hot Southern sun.
The ladies of Griffin lost no time in forming the Ladies’ Memorial Association, setting aside land for a new cemetery. They paid for head-stones for the graves, bearing the name, company, and state of the fallen, though too often the inscription was only Unknown. And to watch over the fallen heroes, they placed an angel of Italian marble standing on a tall marble shaft. They claimed it was the first monument ever erected to the Confederate dead; it was certainly the first angel
John Henry had ever seen face to face. He must have heard and then forgotten what lay out the McDonough Road, and it was an eerie feeling to find himself suddenly surrounded by the silent dead, riding through the remains of all those lost young lives.
He rode up the hill to the top of Rest Haven, trying to remember just where his sister was buried. There was a tree nearby the spot, he was sure—he remembered playing under it while his mother had fashioned her flower wreaths. But the trees had grown and changed in ten years, and the place looked very different than he remembered it. He slid out of the saddle and led the horse, walking along between those graves until something at his feet caught his attention. A patch of granite showed through the grass, a sliver of a headstone peering out from under a tangle of weeds. He bent to brush away the overgrowth and saw his own name carved into the stone: Holliday.
He caught his breath and pulled away, then laughed at himself for his foolishness. It wasn’t his own name, of course. It was his sister’s grave he had stumbled upon, somehow remembering better than he knew how to find the place. He bent back down and pulled the rest of the weeds aside, reading the inscription:
In Memory of Martha Eleanora
Daughter of H.B. and A.J. Holliday
Who Died June 12th 1850
Aged 6 Months 9 days
Alice Jane had made sure that her baby’s exact age was recorded—6 months and 9 days, precious short little life. Ellie would have been twenty-two years old now, if she’d lived, likely married and with children of her own, children who would have called John Henry their uncle. He’d lost a whole part of his own life when his sister had died so young. He took off his hat and bowed his head, thinking a prayer, and felt a sudden rush of emotion.
He’d lost his sister before even knowing her. He’d lost his mother too soon. He’d lost his father too, when Rachel had come along. But he wouldn’t lose Mattie, and he’d do what he had to do, whatever he had to do, to keep her. He’d speak to Uncle Rob and win him over, show him how he’d changed since his reckless youth, how temperate and steady he’d become. He’d find a way to fund his own dental practice, being a man of respect in the community. He’d become a Catholic even, if Mattie wanted him to. He’d do anything he had to—but he wouldn’t wait any longer.
He pondered a plan all the way back to Atlanta, knowing that the hardest part would be changing Mattie’s father’s mind about him. For how could he do that if he couldn’t talk to him man to man? And how could they have such a talk when Uncle Rob was down in Jonesboro and John Henry was in Atlanta? He couldn’t very well just show up on his uncle’s doorstep uninvited, the prodigal black sheep returned, asking for Mattie’s hand and expecting a warm welcome.
When he arrived in Atlanta, he found the house on Forrest Avenue empty except for the servants who greeted him then scattered to their work. His Uncle John and Aunt Permelia, they said, had taken the family off to a social at Wesley Chapel Church. His cousin Mattie was visiting with her Fitzgerald kin over on Jackson Hill, but was expected home again soon. So with nothing else to do but wait, he wandered into the parlor to pass the time, sitting down at the grand piano and running his hands over the ivory keys.
The piano had been a housewarming present to Aunt Permelia, but she’d insisted she was too old to learn to play and her boys had never taken to it. So the piano stood there decoratively, deep rosewood shining with careful polishing and covered with lace doilies and fussy little knickknacks, adding a cultured air to the room and regularly tuned, but never played.
John Henry hadn’t played a piano in years himself, not since his mother had died and his father had sold the parlor spinet to make room for Rachel’s new furniture, but his hands still had a feel for it. There was a small stack of sheet music on top of the piano, laid under the paws of one those Chinese dogs his aunt collected, and he leafed through the folios reading familiar names—Schubert, Chopin, Liszt. He opened the Liszt and began to play, one finger finding the melody, then haltingly adding the chords, then right hand and left hand slowly remembering together. He knew he wouldn’t be able to accomplish the arpeggios, out of practice as he was, but he thought he could manage most of it. And intent on the music, he didn’t notice until she spoke that Mattie had come quietly into the room.
“I remember that piece,” she said, her voice as sweet as music to his ears. “Your mother was playin’ it that Christmas in Valdosta, at your Aunt Margaret’s wedding.”
She’d left the parlor doors open behind her, and the gaslamp in the hallway beyond cast a halo of light around her, making her look like an auburn-haired angel.
“And I remember you teachin’ me to waltz that night,” he replied, pausing over the keys while the music hovered in the air. “I was sure there wasn’t a more beautiful dancin’ partner in all of Georgia.”
“You were just a boy, John Henry,” she said with a smile, “you hadn’t been to many dances. And you were very reluctant, as I recall.”
“I was a lot of things then that I’m not now,” he said deliberately, remembering her father’s disapproval. “But I’ve changed, Mattie.”
“But I don’t want you to change! I just want you to be your best. I like you fine the way you are, mostly.”
“Mostly?” he asked, and his heart faltered. Did she know what she shouldn’t know? Had Annie shared her suspicions? But surely, Mattie wouldn’t be so comfortable talking with him if his sins had come between them. And the fact that she went on without a blush put his fears at rest.
“Well, you are hot-headed sometimes,” she said.
And knowing that she wasn’t talking about more important transgressions, he asked :
“And arrogant? I remember you accusin’ me of that, years back.”
“A little arrogant,” she agreed.
“And selfish?’
“Often selfish,” she said with a small nod.
“And vain?”
“Always vain!” she said with a laugh. “But John Henry, you can be awfully sweet when you try!”
And taking advantage of the light-hearted moment, he stood quickly from the piano and turned toward her with open hands.
“Well, at least I’m not reluctant anymore. Dance with me, Mattie?” “But there’ll be no music if you don’t play.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, gazing into her eyes. Then he said quietly, stepping closer: “There will be if you dance with me.”
There was a world of meaning in her hesitation, there was a struggle in her heart that played across her face, in those lovely eyes that could never lie. She loved him but she loved her father as well, and she couldn’t please them both at the same time.
“It’s only a dance, that’s all,” he said softly, reaching for her hands. “Waltz with me, Mattie, like we did when we were young.”
She hesitated only a moment longer, then answered by putting her hands in his. And as they turned together around the room, waltzing in the silence of the parlor, he knew they were both hearing the same thing: the music of their shared memories, the sound of two hearts that would always beat as one. When the music came to an end they were still standing together, arms circled around each other.
“Come home with me for Christmas!” she said suddenly, “home to Jonesboro. Oh, John Henry, let’s be together again the way we used to be!”
“Dear Mattie, there is nothing I would like better!” he said with a smile. For Christmas in Jonesboro would be the perfect time to speak to her father.
Chapter Fifteen
JONESBORO, 1872
THE OLD MACON & WESTERN RAILROAD WAS STILL THE MAIN ROUTE south to Jonesboro, heading past East Point and rolling through the new towns of Forrest Park and Morrow’s Station. But other than those little mail stops along the way, there was nothing much to see outside the thick windows of the rail car but the heavily wooded countryside of north Georgia.
It had been raining again, on and off, ever since the beginning of December, and now a cold wind was blowing the rain into an icy sleet that froze o
n the trees and frosted the red-brown earth. There had never been such a cold spell so early in the winter, and folks said it looked like there’d be snow by Christmas, for sure.
Inside the crowded rail car, the little potbellied stove was stoked with a hardwood fire, putting out too much heat for the nearest rows of passengers, who perspired and wiped sweating faces, and not near enough heat for anybody else. At the far end of the car where John Henry and Mattie sat, huddled in heavy woolen overcoats, the air was cold enough to turn breath to a fog. But with Mattie by his side and a mind filled with visions of the Christmas to come, John Henry hardly felt the cold at all.
Mattie was being especially tender to him these days, calling him “honey,” and letting him hold her hand the way she had when they were young, and laughing at his talk about the other passengers who shared their car. He’d always liked watching people, trying to guess by their dress and demeanor what their circumstances in life might be—the fussy old woman with an unruly grandchild alongside; the traveling salesman with his carpet bag full of overpriced wares; the lonely old maid with her nose in a book and her spectacled eyes looking about the railcar, wondering, “Is that one a bachelor? Is that one? Have any of them noticed me?” John Henry had an eye for those little things that gave away a person’s character. And as he watched those other passengers, he knew that they were watching him as well, leaning his face close to Mattie’s, holding her hand to keep it warm. Was it obvious to everyone that they were a courting couple now? Mattie had never said anything to acknowledge that they were, but surely her actions were acknowledgment enough. And with Mattie’s obvious affection to give him confidence, he imagined his soon-to-come conversation with her father:
“Uncle Robert, Sir, I know you’ve had some misgivings about me in the past, but I hope that you will put them aside. You see, Sir, I love your daughter, and I want to marry her . . .” Should he say which daughter, or wasn’t that obvious? No, better to use her name. “I want to marry your daughter, Mattie, Sir . . .” That sounded a little more personal. “I have a promisin’ professional career, and as you know, I’ve recently come into some inheritance, as well . . .” Better to ease over that part, since there wasn’t really much money in owning that property, but it did sound good. “So I hope, Sir, that my proposal may meet with your approval . . .” Then, finally, Uncle Rob would nod and shake his hand, and on Christmas Eve John Henry would make his proposal to Mattie. Of course she would accept, once they had her father’s approval.
Southern Son Page 34
