The Unquiet Grave

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Mr. Gardner smiled. “If you chose to lie about your age on account of that trifle, would they call you crazy?”

  “I’d try to plead it down to oversensitive. Even though I didn’t spend much time back in the last century, certainly not enough to know what it was like, my folks were from South Carolina, if that counts for anything with you.”

  Gardner gave him a mirthless smile. “I can’t say that it does.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit that I don’t remember any of the nineteenth century. I think my first memory is of a birthday cake with three candles on it.” He sighed. “Why am I telling you all this? This is the sort of question I usually ask the patient.”

  “I suppose it is, Doctor, but if you insist on listening to my story, we might as well make sure you understand it. You are now the age that I was then—back in 1897 during that murder trial. Seems funny to think of it that way. Sometimes it chafes me to be outranked by a young pup like you, but then I remember that back when I was your age, I thought I knew it all, so I’m sure our relative positions don’t seem strange to you. You must see me as a doddering old man whose time has passed. And, mostly, it has. It was a different world back then.”

  Boozer shrugged. “Not all that different. The white folks down in Point Pleasant won’t let any of the staff here live in town, not even the doctors. I have to live here in the hospital, same as the rest of the staff.”

  “Oh, I don’t think people ever change much. There’s always a peck order, same as with chickens. You thought being a doctor would put you close to the top tier, which it would if white skin wasn’t trumps, but when I was in your shoes, starting out as a lawyer, I had no such illusions of importance. We were less than forty years from slavery back then, and no piece of paper, not even a certificate to practice law, was going to make white Greenbrier County forget that previous condition of servitude. I don’t know that I minded all that much, though. My expectations were lower, maybe. Back in those days we lived in separate societies, and as long as you stayed on your side of the fence and went about your business, things generally went along fine. So, while even with my lawyer’s credentials, I might never be counted by some citizens as the equal to an illiterate white sharecropper, I was nevertheless a prince among my own people.” He chuckled. “And I was a hell of a catch back then. Those were my courting days.”

  “Well, I don’t see why you think I should find the concept of two societies hard to grasp, Mr. Gardner. Here we sit in West Virginia’s asylum for the Colored Insane. And the white folks’ mental hospital is at least a hundred miles away in Weston. Doesn’t sound like things have changed.”

  “Maybe you’re the change, Doctor. You chafe at things that we never thought to question. Anyhow, the world in general has changed for everybody. Electric lights. Indoor plumbing. Airplanes.” He laughed. “I’d like to see you spend a week in the wilds of the West Virginia mountains, wearing overalls, chopping wood, and hauling water. Yessir, I believe we could sell tickets to that performance.”

  Boozer shrugged. “It’s still like that when you get away from the cities, even in upstate New York. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “So you’ve heard.” Mr. Gardner laughed. “Well, to be scrupulously fair, the separation between the races was not absolute, either. Perhaps they tolerated us more then because we did expect less. Have you ever treated a white patient?”

  “A few times. On a charity ward when I was a resident, and every now and then after that. Why?”

  “When I was your age, I defended a white man on trial for murder.”

  Boozer had been about to light a cigarette, but he paused so long to stare at his patient that the match burned down until the flame touched his fingertips. He dropped it on the wood floor and stamped on it, swearing. “Sorry. That’ll hurt tomorrow. But did you really? In 1897? You were in charge of the defense of a white man?”

  “Not in charge. I was second chair. In capital cases, the law requires that the defendant be represented by two members of counsel. And I guess I don’t need to tell you that, although he was a white man, the accused was poor and socially negligible.”

  “Well, sure, but still—why you? Was the victim colored?”

  “White as the driven snow—though somewhat less pure, as rumor had it. The murder victim was the defendant’s wife, and they’d only been married a few months. I didn’t know either of them from Adam, of course. They lived miles from the county seat in a little farming community, and I lived miles from town in the other direction, in White Sulphur Springs. Based on our respective races, you’d think it would be the other way around, for White Sulphur Springs is the location of the Greenbrier resort—it was called the Old White then—so there was quite a bit of the gentry there, and certainly a lot of wealth and power, especially in the summer months.”

  “The Greenbrier. I’ve heard of it. Not all that far from Washington.”

  Mr. Gardner nodded. “Eastern Seaboard money coming to the hills for comfortable summer temperatures. But the hotel had a need for porters and maids and cooks to pamper the gentry, so a little community grew up in the shadow of the prominent one, and I lived there. The defendant was a blacksmith residing halfway across the county.”

  Boozer took a long sip of coffee. “So the white defendant was a blacksmith, and you—the colored attorney—lived near the society folks at the Old White. Seems like everything in that case was all turned around. Contrary to expectations.”

  “Life is mostly contrary to expectations, don’t you find, Doctor?”

  “I suppose it is. What was it like, working on that case?”

  “Like falling down the rabbit hole. Never a dull moment. But if it was a bad year for the white blacksmith, it was a good year for yours truly.” The old man raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Ol’ Trout Shue did away with a wife in 1897, while I managed to acquire one.”

  “You managed to court a sweetheart while you were working on a murder trial?” Dr. Boozer smiled. “Lawyers must keep better hours than physicians.”

  “Oh, shoot, I’d have welcomed long hours, but I didn’t get them. I told you the defendant was poor. Didn’t have two nickels to rub together, which makes for a speedy trial. My courtship of Miss Eliza Myles took months, but the blacksmith’s trial lasted barely a week. It was memorable, though.”

  “I expect it was.” Dr. James Boozer took another sip of tepid coffee and leaned back in the frayed armchair. “All right, Mr. Gardner. Let’s talk about that.”

  Everybody said, “You’re reading law with a white gentleman, that Dr. William Rucker? Why, you must be awfully grateful.”

  James Gardner, who saw no reason ever to tell anyone what he thought or felt, would always lower his eyes modestly and agree with the speaker, black or white: “Oh, yes, indeed. I’m no end of grateful to Dr. Rucker. He is a fine, generous gentleman.” As far as he was concerned, though, the operative word in the comment was must. If everyone says that you must be grateful, then it takes the shine off the sentiment. He would never by word or deed show resentment, but it rankled him to be thought the object of charity, when he thought that at least some of the gratitude ought to be coming the other way. People never seemed to realize that the more they praised Dr. Rucker’s supposed generosity, the less they seemed to value James Gardner’s ability and worth.

  There was no harm in telling people what they wanted to hear, though, and since pride in a struggling young man was often mistaken for arrogance, he wouldn’t risk being suspected of that, not even among his close associates. They might have been surprised to learn that he thought of them merely as associates, but although he might have referred to those people as friends, he did not think of them as such. A favorite maxim of James P. D. Gardner’s was He travels fastest who travels alone.

  The truth, never expressed but deeply felt, was that William Rucker lost nothing and gained considerably by taking on a bright, ambitious, hardworking young man whose only defect was being the wrong color. Because of that, the fledgling atto
rney had to work cheap, and so his supervising lawyer got twice the work for half the money he would have had to pay a white man. If you asked him, Rucker was getting a bargain—and he was well aware of it, too. William Rucker was not conspicuous for charity or kindness. Or sanity, if it came to that. In later years, James P. D. Gardner would contemplate with rueful amusement on the irony that he should end up in a lunatic asylum, while William Parks Rucker, madder than a mattress full of bedbugs, should have been presumed sane and remained free for the whole of his charmed life.

  They didn’t lock him up, his worthy colleagues in the Greenbrier legal fraternity, but they didn’t admire him, either. Associating with a nonwhite employee wouldn’t cost Rucker any esteem in the eyes of the public, either, because he hadn’t much to lose in the way of reputation as it was. James had tried, diplomatically, of course, to explain this to the solemnly pretty Miss Eliza Myles when he took her out for an evening stroll, which was about all there was in the way of courting activities in rural, sleepy Greenbrier County. Eliza was a quiet, handsome woman, a good listener, and not given to gossiping or to frivolous ways in dress or deportment. So, without in any way complaining or showing resentment, James tried to explain to her the true circumstances of his position in the law office of W. P. Rucker. He was thinking of making Miss Myles his wife in due course, and as a show of good faith, he had begun to confide in her, although such revelations did not come easily to him. He found, though, that he liked the feeling of having someone who was always, unquestioningly, on his side.

  One Sunday afternoon after luncheon with their respective families, they had met near the church to enjoy a stroll, admiring the flowers and glorying in the gentle weather of a mountain summer. Eliza, slender and solemn, with a fine straight nose and well-chiseled cheekbones, was a handsome woman. Beyond her sedate beauty, though, her correct and dignified suitor prized her deportment. She neither prattled nor giggled. She was not educated past eighth grade, but she was bright. She listened with calm attentiveness, and her few comments were always intelligent and well expressed. James felt at ease with her, as much as he could with anyone. One key thing he had to consider in choosing a wife was whether she would help him to advance or hold him back. Eliza Myles, he thought, would suit him well.

  They sat down on a fallen log at the edge of a meadow, where the smooth expanse of grass sloped gracefully downward, revealing a far-off vista of hazy blue mountains topped by white clouds like cotton bolls against an even bluer sky.

  Eliza settled her skirts decorously to cover her ankles, and gave her full attention to her beau. “You were telling me about Dr. Rucker, James. You don’t consider him a kind soul for taking you on as an assistant while you qualify? But surely for a white lawyer to take on a gentleman of color—”

  James scoffed. “It isn’t charity, I assure you. He gets excellent work for far less money from me, and he loses nothing in reputation. As far as the rest of the legal community is concerned, Dr. Rucker is a loose cannon.”

  Eliza looked up at him, but his expression gave no sign of his own feelings in the matter. “What is he like?”

  James hesitated. “Well—nothing much to look at. Medium height, long white beard, and not much hair on his head. He’s not a young man—in his middle sixties if he’s a day. But nobody mistakes him for a sweet old grandfather. Do you know why I think he practices law? Because he enjoys suing people.”

  Eliza laid her hand gently on his arm. “You’re joking, aren’t you, James? Surely no one would choose his life’s profession for such a frivolous reason.”

  “No one but William P. Rucker. He’s a medical doctor. He is. Graduated from a proper medical college in Philadelphia back before the war. He may even have practiced medicine back then, for all I know, but he seems to have become distracted by politics and abandoned the sick.”

  “A doctor and a lawyer? Well, he sounds like a brilliant man to me.”

  “You know that old saying Genius borders insanity? Well, sometimes I think Dr. Rucker has crossed over that border and come out on the other side. Have you heard about his escapades in the war?”

  Eliza shook her head. “All that was before my time. All I know about Dr. Rucker is that you are reading law with him. From that, I assume that he favored the Union side in the war.”

  “Well, he did back the Union, but nothing with Dr. Rucker is ever pure and simple. The man also owned slaves.”

  “Did he really?” Eliza’s eyes widened. “Well, what did he think they were fighting about?”

  “Lord knows. But he married a wealthy woman, one of his distant kinfolks, I believe. Her maiden name was Scott, so all these colored folks around here who go by the last name of Scott likely belonged to her family sometime back and came with her to Greenbrier County. They can spin a tale or two about the Scotts and the Ruckers when the spirit moves them.”

  “And yet he took you on to read law with him.”

  “He knows a bargain when he sees one. And I’ll bet he justified his slave holdings as a matter of economic necessity. Back before the war, he owned businesses—a general store and a tavern, that I know of—and as I told you, his wife came from money, so I suppose they used slaves to operate these various commercial establishments.”

  “Did he tell you all this, James?”

  “No, but some of the colored Scotts had a word with me when I first signed on to read law with Dr. Rucker, and the other Greenbrier attorneys aren’t shy about discussing him, either. I make it my business to listen.”

  “Does it worry you?”

  “What? That he owned slaves? So did most of the well-to-do men over fifty around here. As fellow attorneys, we all contrive to overlook the fact nowadays. As for Dr. Rucker, I take care to keep on his good side. The fact that he is a qualified, licensed attorney in the state of West Virginia is all that matters to me. If he can sign the papers and get me certified, he can sue the queen of England for all I care. And I wouldn’t put it past him. There was a notice in the Independent back in January concerning him—did you happen to see it?”

  Eliza shook her head. “I don’t recall. Was it an article?”

  “Legal notice. He was suing a man named Lewis Skipper in Circuit Court. Some business deal gone sour. I know the details, of course, even though I didn’t assist him in the case, but it’s hardly worth discussing with you. I only mentioned it to bolster my point: the man enjoys bringing lawsuits. I think he considers it a form of sport.”

  “Well, perhaps he is a little eccentric then. I suppose he can afford to be. They say that if you’re rich enough, you can get away with murder.”

  “Oh, he did that, too.”

  “Got away with murder? Surely not, James.”

  “It’s true. You can ask one of the Scotts. They told me he killed a man in the early days of the war. Not as a soldier, I mean. He was a civilian. This killing was personal.”

  “Oh, James! And to think you have to work with such a man. Do you know the circumstances?”

  “Only what I’ve been told. I overheard a conversation about it once around the courthouse, and then Dr. Rucker himself elaborated a bit on the subject one evening when we were working late. I don’t know how we got off on it. As I recall, we were drawing up a witness list, or some such bit of routine business. I don’t know what set him off, a name on the list perhaps, but he just started talking about it, and I sat back and listened, like I always do.

  “He said it happened over in Covington in the summer of 1861. Rucker was proud of the fact that he was against secession. And he wasn’t going to keep quiet and hope nobody challenged him. Oh, no! He was belligerent about it. Proud of it. And they kept hauling him into court, trying to make him take the oath of allegiance to the Commonwealth of Virginia. Virginia, of course, was part of the Confederacy by then, so swearing fealty to the state meant supporting its departure from the Union. Dr. Rucker was dead set against that. On that day, they took him to court over it yet again, but the only oath he took was to swear at them. He ref
used to cooperate. That didn’t surprise me. The harder you push Dr. Rucker, the more he digs in his heels and resists whatever you’re trying to get him to do.”

  “That was brave of him to refuse to swear the oath, though. I suppose they could have put him in prison.”

  “Knowing him these days, I’ll bet he enjoyed being contrary back then as well. And he ended up in prison, anyhow, but I’m getting ahead of the story here. Where was I?”

  “He was in court, refusing to take the oath of allegiance.”

  “Anyhow, he said he was on his way home from court that summer afternoon, after trying to post a letter reporting the postmaster for being a secessionist—that very postmaster refused to accept the letter, by the way—and he was indignant about that.”

  Eliza began to laugh. “Oh, no, James, no. You are just plain making that up.”

  James Gardner shook his head. “Nobody but the good Lord could make up Dr. William Rucker, and I expect it taxed His powers of invention to accomplish it. But I’ve known the man for a fair few years now, and all I can say is that story doesn’t even make me bat an eye. Dr. Rucker goes through life like a crosscut saw.”

  “The wonder is that somebody hasn’t tried to do him in.”

  “I’m coming to that, Eliza. After he left the post office that afternoon, he ran into a mob who were out looking for him. Some of them had probably been there in the courtroom when he refused to take the oath, and they were angry that he wouldn’t renounce the Union. Maybe they’d been drinking, too, but that just fueled the anger. He says he counted twenty-three men in the crowd, led by a hulking railroad man who had a loaded weapon in one hand and a weighted stick in the other.”

  “Oh, my, and Dr. Rucker was unarmed?”

  “Of course, he was most certainly armed! He is no fool, and he knew what a dangerous game he was playing. The war had already started, and tempers were running so high that it wasn’t safe to talk politics with anybody. Dr. Rucker knew that, and he was carrying both a pistol and a bowie knife. When he saw those men coming at him, he pulled out the knife—either to get the mob to leave him alone or else to stir up more trouble. My guess would be the latter.”