Miserere

by Caren J. Werlinger

  “We can get the mail,” Conn had said to her mother that morning.

  “No,” Elizabeth replied. “There’s still too much tension. I don’t want you down there alone.”

  There had developed a clear schism in Largo between those who were boycotting the general store and those who weren’t. If the Walshes were feeling the financial pinch, they weren’t about to admit it.

  They had become mildly hostile to Elizabeth during recent trips to collect her mail. The men sitting in the rockers, playing checkers and gossiping stared without making any attempts to hide it. The women were more snide, dropping their voices to whispers when Elizabeth and the children entered. Elizabeth continued to offer a polite “Good morning” to all, though she received no response.

  “They’re in a state this morning,” Mrs. Thompson confided now, her mail in hand. “Mr. Walsh was talking about a large order that Obediah Peregorn cancelled with them and took his business to the farmers’ co-op in Marlinton.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Elizabeth. “They didn’t give you a hard time, did they?”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Thompson said. She smiled down at Conn and Will. “Are you enjoying your summer, children?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they replied in unison.

  “Have a good day, Mrs. Thompson, and thank you,” Elizabeth said as Mrs. Thompson went on her way with a wave. “Stay with me, please,” she said to Conn and Will as they climbed the store’s steps.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Walsh, Mr. Walsh,” she said as she entered.

  Mr. Walsh ignored her as he continued talking to a small knot of men gathered around the hammers.

  “Mail, please,” Elizabeth said to Mrs. Walsh.

  Mrs. Walsh silently gathered their mail. The bell tinkled again as she was handing the bundle to Elizabeth, and Abraham Greene walked in. In an instant, the atmosphere crackled with tension.

  “Well, hello, Mrs. Mitchell, Connemara, William,” he said genially, ignoring the others.

  “Hi, Mr. Greene!” Will said. “When are you coming back to our house?”

  Conn closed her eyes and groaned internally.

  Before Abraham could answer, one of the men standing near Mr. Walsh said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “You know, Joe, some folks just ask to be put in their place.”

  The man called Joe nodded, spitting tobacco juice toward the spittoon on the floor, but missing. He said, “I know what you mean, T.R. Some folks are just plain stupid.”

  Elizabeth stepped toward the men and retorted, “Yes, they are, T.R. Watts. Some people are stupid enough to think that skin color is justification for treating people badly. Now, I know no one here would be that ignorant and that backwards, would they?” she finished with a smile.

  Abraham hastily stepped up to the counter and asked for his mail as the men scowled at Elizabeth, but said nothing further. He and the Mitchells left the store together.

  “I don’t know that it’s worth it to keep coming here for our mail,” Abraham said as he walked them to their car.

  “Those cowards are not going to chase us out of here!” Elizabeth declared. “You haven’t been threatened directly, have you?”

  “Only the kind of thing you heard in there,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m more worried about you.”

  Elizabeth glanced back up at the men still sitting on the porch. “We’re fine.” Speaking low so that she could not be overheard, she asked, “Can you join us for supper tonight?”

  He smiled his crooked smile. “There’s a difference between being brave and asking for trouble,” he said. “I will decline until things calm down, but thank you.”

  She nodded.

  “Bye, Mr. Greene,” Conn said as he turned back to his truck.

  He winked as he climbed onto his running board. A moment later, he rumbled off down the road.

  “Mom, may I go to Miss Molly’s this afternoon?” Conn asked on their way home. “I want to show her that journal entry I found.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, but –”

  “– make sure I’m not bothering her,” Conn finished for her mother. She grinned. “I will.”

  A couple of hours later, she was riding her bicycle to Molly’s house. Coasting into the hemlocks, she retrieved the journal from her basket, ran up the porch steps, and knocked. Vincent whined, announcing her. Molly answered, wearing an old shirt covered in splashes of paint, a trio of artists’ paintbrushes in her hand.

  “Come in,” she invited.

  Conn followed her into the dining room where Molly had a canvas set on an easel. She picked up her palette and resumed dabbing a cloud on a painting of a mountain that Conn recognized.

  Conn sat on the floor silently, letting Molly work. Vincent lay down beside her and settled his head in her lap. She stroked his silky black and white coat for several minutes.

  Molly stepped back, critically scrutinizing her work. “What do you think?” she asked.

  Conn tilted her head. “I like it,” she said, “The trees look… real.”

  “Thank you,” Molly said, pleased. She set her palette down and cleaned her brushes in a jar of turpentine, wiping them dry. “So, what brings you this way?”

  “I found another journal entry,” Conn said. “An important one, I think.”

  Molly nodded. “Read it to me.”

  Conn carefully opened the journal to the page she had marked, and read,

  “‘20th November 1865

  Hannah recovering, but inconsolable. Her wounds be severe, but her body wilt live. Less certain be her soul. No sign of Caitríona or the men. I believe this be the fulfillment of my dream, and we wilt hear naught of her again.’”

  Molly pulled up a chair and sat. “What men? Did she say?”

  Conn shook her head. “No. The last entry before that one was in October, and had nothing to say about any kind of trouble.”

  Molly frowned, thinking. “It’s still a mystery, but I think you’re getting closer.”

  ***

  Conn fell asleep that night, still puzzling over Lucy’s entry and who the men could have been. She was awakened by a sound outside. She slipped out of bed and crept to peer out her window. There was movement in the front yard. She could see light-colored shapes and then a sudden burst of flames rose from the ground to ignite a crooked wooden cross which had been planted in the grass. By the light of the flames, she could see figures, maybe four or five of them, wearing white hoods.

  “We’ll teach you to respect your betters!” one of them shouted. “And we’ll give that nigger a lesson he won’t soon forget!”

  There was a bang downstairs that sounded as if the kitchen door had been kicked in. Conn heard someone outside yell, “What’re you doin’?” She grabbed a flashlight and raced out into the hallway where Will and her mother were emerging from their rooms, panicked.

  Conn clapped a hand over Will’s mouth as he was preparing to cry out. “This way,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the hidden door.

  She popped the moulding and the door swung open. “Be very quiet,” she breathed, handing her mother the flashlight and gesturing for her to go down first. Will followed, and then Conn, who carefully clicked the door shut behind her.

  “Keep going,” she whispered.

  They could hear loud footsteps ascending the regular stairs on the other side of the plaster wall as they crept down the winding hidden staircase.

  Once at the bottom, Conn held her finger to her lips to signal silence and took the flashlight, leading them along the tunnel to the fork below the barn. Pausing, they listened, but heard nothing.

  “How did you –?” Elizabeth began.

  “They needed this escape,” Conn said, knowing her mother would understand who “they” were. She pointed up the ladder. “This goes to our barn, on the bottom level.”

  She crouched down at the small alcove and retrieved a candle and an oil lamp. She lit both and handed her mother the candle. “I don’t know how long the battery in my flashlight
will last, so use this. Wait until you hear help coming. If it doesn’t come, I think you can stay down here and be safe. There are more candles if you need them.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Elizabeth demanded, still shaken from the shock of the break-in and the discovery of this tunnel.

  “I can get to Miss Molly’s through the tunnels,” Conn explained. “We can call the sheriff and get help over here.”

  “I don’t think we should split up,” Elizabeth said as Will cowered next to her.

  “Mom,” Conn said calmly, with a glance toward Will, “We can’t do anything against that many men. I’ve been all through these tunnels. You know I’m not alone. I can go faster on my own.”

  After what felt like an agonizingly long time, Elizabeth nodded her consent. “Please, be careful,” she said, hugging Conn tightly.

  “I will.”

  Conn took the oil lamp and headed into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 31

  Conn’s bare feet were scraped and bruised and she was out of breath by the time she got to the tunnel’s opening into Molly’s shed. Feeling immensely grateful that Molly had cleaned the junk out of her way, Conn pushed the shed’s door open and raced down to the house, her feet slipping on the dewy grass. Her knock brought frenzied barking from Vincent and a startled call from an upstairs window, “Who is it? I’m armed.”

  Conn stepped back off the porch so she was visible. “It’s me, Connemara,” she gasped.

  “I’ll be right down,” Molly said. A moment later, the door was yanked open and she stood there in her nightshirt, shotgun in hand as Vincent wriggled out the door to greet Conn. “What’s the matter?”

  “Men. White hoods,” Conn gulped, still out of breath. “They lit a cross in our yard and kicked in the door.”

  “Your mother and brother?” Molly asked, heading back into the house. Conn followed.

  “Safe for now, down in the tunnel under our barn,” she said. “Can you call the sheriff and get him over there as soon as possible?”

  “Of course.” She turned to see Conn heading back toward the door. “Where are you going?”

  “To Abraham,” Conn said. “They shouted something about teaching him a lesson. I’ve got to warn him.”

  “Conn,” Molly called. “Conn!”

  But she was gone.

  “Damn that girl,” she muttered as she rushed into the kitchen to call Sheriff Little.

  ***

  By the time Conn got to Abraham’s house, she knew she was too late. Forcing herself to ignore the cuts on her feet that were now bleeding freely, she limped closer. From where she crouched in the undergrowth, she could see a crudely made cross already burning in the yard, and she could see movement in the house where lights were on. A moment later, Abraham was pushed out the door, wearing only pajama pants, his hands bound behind him. Seeing them closer, Conn could tell that the white hoods worn by his assailants were just pillowcases with slits cut in them.

  “Over here,” someone called. “I’ve got a rope already strung over this beam.”

  They herded him toward the woodshed at the edge of the yard. In the light from the burning cross, she could see a rope dangling from the center beam of the peaked roof. They forced him to climb up onto a stack of firewood, and slid a noose around his neck.

  “We didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout stringin’ him up,” one of the hooded figures said.

  “The world won’t miss one more nigger,” said another.

  “I ain’t havin’ no part of this,” said the first man.

  “Then you go pour the kerosene on the house, Grady,” said the second man disdainfully. “Joe, give me a hand!”

  “We weren’t gonna use our names,” said Joe.

  The other man, whom Conn was now sure was the one called T.R., laughed harshly and said, “Who’s he gonna tell?”

  Conn watched in horror as the one called Grady picked up a fuel can and began splashing liquid on the house while Joe and T.R. took hold of the other end of the rope around Abraham’s neck. A couple of other men stood in the yard, watching and weaving a little on their feet.

  “I ain’t so sure about this, neither, T.R,” said one of the men and Conn recognized Mr. Walsh’s voice. Abraham seemed to have recognized him as well, for he turned his head and looked at him, though Conn couldn’t tell if he could actually see any eyes through the holes in the pillowcase.

  “Are you going to be able to live with yourself, Walter?” he asked in his soft voice.

  “You shut up,” Joe said, punching Abraham in the gut so that he doubled over as much as the rope would allow.

  Turning to Mr. Walsh, T.R. growled, “You’re just chickenshit. You talk all big down at the store, but when it comes to doin’ somethin’, you turn yella.”

  He wound the rope a few times around his hands and called, “Ready, Joe?”

  Joe rushed over and wrapped the rope behind his back and together they pulled, hoisting Abraham into the air. As he swung, his feet kicked out, toppling the stack of wood upon which he had been standing.

  Swallowing a scream, Conn ran behind the house and around to the woodshed from behind. Joe and T.R. had tied off the rope to one of the posts supporting the roof and were now hooting and clapping as they watched Abraham swing, gurgling noises coming from his throat as he kicked spasmodically.

  Conn saw an axe stuck in a broad stump which was used for splitting firewood. Yanking it free, she chopped at the rope where it was tied off against the post. As it split, Abraham crashed down onto the wood below him, still unable to breathe.

  “What the hell?” T.R. yelled as Conn clambered over the wood and loosened the noose.

  Abraham took great, rasping breaths of air, only partially conscious. Conn tried to untie his hands, but was only able to get the knot loosened a little before she was grabbed roughly by the hair and pulled to her feet.

  “It’s that Mitchell brat,” said Joe. Conn swung her fists wildly, trying to punch him. He laughed. She got hold of the pillowcase and ripped it off his head. She could smell the alcohol on his foul breath as he leaned close and said, “You like this nigger so much, fine. You can die with him.”

  “Wait a minute, Joe,” said Mr. Walsh, real fear in his voice now. “You can’t. She’s just a kid.”

  Even T.R. hesitated, saying, “This changes things, Joe.”

  “She knows who we are!” Joe roared. “What’re you gonna do, let her tell the sheriff who all was at this little party?”

  He grabbed Abraham’s bound hands and yanked him to his feet. Abraham yelled in pain as the motion nearly dislocated his shoulders. Still holding Conn by the hair, Joe forced both of them toward the house. Shoving them inside, he pushed them roughly to the sitting room floor. Looking around at the books, he pulled a couple off the shelves, ripping pages out and throwing them at Abraham, the loose pages fluttering to the floor like injured birds. “You think you’re better than the rest of us,” he leered. “You and your books can burn together.”

  From outside the house, they heard a chorus of yells, “Grady, no!”

  Through the windows, Conn saw flames leaping up the exterior walls of the house. Every direction she turned, the house was on fire, the flames greedily lapping the kerosene that had been freely thrown at the wooden frame.

  “You idiot!” Joe screamed in panic. He rushed toward the front door, looking as if he might try running through the wall of fire, but the flames lunged inside, reaching for him.

  He fell backward onto his rear. Looking about wildly, he saw the entrance to the kitchen and began crawling in that direction.

  Conn shook Abraham. “Get up,” she said. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Abraham sat up, coughing. In the minute it took Conn to finish untying his hands, he seemed to have fully regained consciousness.

  The old, dry wood of the house was being rapidly consumed by the fire.

  “Upstairs!” Abraham croaked, pushing Conn toward the stairs. They ran up to the second
floor, and into one of the bedrooms where there was a tree a few feet away from the house. He forced the window open as wide as it would go and pushed the screen out. Hastily, he pulled back inside as flames were now licking up nearly as high as the second story.

  “We’re going to have to jump across to that tree,” he said. “Can you do that?”

  Conn nodded, terror making her mute.

  Abraham picked up a chair and used it as a battering ram to break out the entire window, glass and sash, so that they could stand on the sill. He picked Conn up and placed her on the sill where she could feel glass underneath her feet. Gritting her teeth, she looked down and saw a solid wall of fire below her. The heat was incredible and the flames were already reaching up to her.

  She turned back to Abraham, throwing her arms around his neck and cried, “I can’t do this!”

  He held her for a second, kneeling on the floor and then took her arms and pulled her free so that he could look her in the eye. “You can do this,” he said calmly. “You are the bravest person I know. I’ll help you.”

  Making up her mind, she nodded. Abraham placed her back on the window sill and said, “On the count of three, you jump, all right?”

  The flames were higher than the sill now, and burned her feet as he counted. Instinctively, she withdrew first one foot then the other. When he shouted, “Three!” she leapt awkwardly as he threw her toward the tree.

  Flailing wildly, she grasped at the tree branches, trying to get a solid hold on one. Branches cut her face and chest as they broke under her weight and she began to fall. She continued clawing and was able to grasp one larger branch that was strong enough to hold her. Scrambling farther onto a stouter part of the branch, she turned to see Abraham already standing on the sill, ready to jump.

  He gave an enormous leap, and fell further than Conn before he was able to grasp a limb strong enough to support him. Vaguely, she could hear shouts from below as the others saw what they were doing. She could also see the flashing lights of sirens as both the sheriff’s car and the firetruck pulled up to the house.