Of Ashes and Dust

by Marc Graham

  “You first,” I said with a laugh.

  “I was just going to ask what it was you called me before. Gina?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “I like it. Most men call me Angel for short, and I can’t stand it. It’s so unimaginative. And I’m no angel,” she added with a mischievous grin. “But Gina—I like that very much.”

  I felt a curious stirring at that. I wasn’t sure what it implied but was glad she approved of my secret name for her.

  “I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” I said after a long pause. “I thought you’d be in New Orleans a while longer.”

  “The school year is over, so there really wasn’t much more for me to learn,” she said. “I suppose I could have stayed for the social season—which is the real reason Mother wanted me to go down there in the first place—but the thought of a hot, sticky summer on the bayou was just more than I could stand.”

  “So you chose a hot, sticky summer on the river?” I said.

  She squeezed my arm and laughed.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Cassandra wrote me about how handsome you were getting to be, so I just had to come back and see for myself.”

  I was dumbstruck by that and just walked on in silence. I willed my feet to keep moving, one in front of the other, lest I stumble and fall, a helpless wreck on the ground.

  “Well,” Gina prodded after several steps of awkward silence, “did you miss me even a little?”

  I stopped at that, unable to trust my feet any further. I turned to face her, stared into those luminous emerald eyes and found myself adrift once more on the sea of her gaze.

  “More than I can say,” I admitted, my voice husky with fear. “I thought of you every day, every minute. I must’ve thought about writing to you a hundred times, but what would I have said? ‘Dear Gina, there can never be anything between us, but I miss you—please come back’?”

  “Why not?”

  I snorted at the foolish question, then thought about the answer.

  “It’s true, I suppose,” I said. “It’s not as though there was anything to lose. Except my pride, of course, but what’s that worth?” I stared up at the stars, found no inspiration there and lowered my gaze to meet Gina’s. “I’ve loved you for years, since before I even really knew what it was. You’ve been a part of my every waking thought for as long as I can remember, but I—”

  The words dashed against my teeth, the wave of emotion unable to carry them farther until Gina’s grip on my hands and her look of encouragement gave me the strength to press on.

  “I suppose Matt said it best, years ago. He reminded me that I’m nothing but the son of a hired hand. That I’m not fit to look at you, let alone think of you that way. Or touch you,” I added, acutely aware of my damp palms against hers.

  “Well, you’re looking at me now,” she said, her eyes fixed on mine. “And touching me.” She squeezed my hands and stepped closer to me. “And thinking of me that way?” She whispered the question, her breath warm on my skin as she drew nearer still.

  I could only nod as she pulled my arms around her and placed my hands on her waist. She moved her hands to the small of my back and tilted her chin toward me as her lips issued a siren call I couldn’t resist.

  If the earlier kiss on my cheek had called forth an inferno, this second kiss loosed the fire of a thousand volcanoes. My head buzzed and my heart pounded, my lungs uselessly inert. My stomach lurched as though I was falling, and my knees threatened just that. After what seemed an eternity of heavenly bliss, Gina broke the spell and eased away from me. She took my hand in hers and led me toward the stables and into the little workshop.

  In the dark of the shop, I heard the swish of her skirts and the soft tread of her shoes on the ladder. I followed mutely up the rungs and crossed to where she stood by the window, bathed in starlight.

  “Now, where were we?” she prompted, and drew me to her. Her hands massaged my back, then she loosened her embrace and explored the muscles of my chest, running her hands along my shoulders and easing off the braces of my suspenders.

  “Gina, no,” I protested weakly, the vestiges of Missus Warren’s lectures on propriety ruining the moment.

  She stepped back from me, a look of mischief and amusement on her face.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “As for me, it’s terribly stifling up here.”

  She pulled loose the clutch of roses that adorned the top of her bodice, tossed them at me and undid the clasp at the front of her dress. I stared open-mouthed as, with excruciating slowness, she worked her hands down the row of buttons, slipped the short sleeves off her shoulders and wriggled the material over her hips until it fell in a bundle at her feet.

  We’d swum together as children, but it had been years since I’d seen her in this state of undress. And she was no longer a child. The naggings of good counsel fell silent as I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it over my head. I drew Gina close and lost myself in the passion of her kiss.

  By the time I managed to take another breath, the pile of clothes had deepened. The moon peeked through the trees, dappling Gina’s alabaster skin in a soft glow. With only the ribbon in her hair to remove, she slowly pulled the knot loose, shook out the flowing tresses and pulled them over one shoulder.

  She approached me slowly, like some goddess out of a dream. My heart raced ever faster as she pushed me back on the bed and—with the moon cresting over the treetops—initiated me into the mysteries of love.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Franklin County, Arkansas—May 1858

  “Dadgummit all to tarnation.”

  The almost-curse was followed by an equally vexed “Son of a—” The words were bitten off as their speaker struggled to find a substitute. “Sow.”

  I was jerked out of my midday nap, and lifted my hat up from my eyes to look over at Izzy. He, too, had been startled awake and blinked dazedly back at me. For nearly two weeks we’d been following the pike between Little Rock and Van Buren, and this was the first time our afternoon rest had been disturbed.

  I crawled out from the shade of the sprawling elm tree and up to the side of the road to see what the fuss was about. A man of about Pa’s age—though much more slender of build— was bent at the middle, legs straight, as he peered underneath his wagon. His thin hair revealed a bald spot that shone in the noonday sun. A quick glance at the wagon showed that the spate of cursing had been brought on by a broken axle.

  I pushed myself to my feet and walked toward the man, who now squatted on his haunches, picking at an ear as he stared under the wagon.

  “Looks like you could use a hand,” I said.

  The man jerked and tried to stand, but failed to clear his head from the edge of the wagon’s bed. A dull thunk rolled across the road and was closely followed by a bellowed “Sh— shortcake.”

  “Sorry,” I said as the man fell on his backside and rubbed his bald spot.

  He skittered away like a crab and looked nervously about as I extended my hand to help him up.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said. “Just looks like you could use a hand.”

  The crab blinked up at me through squinty eyes.

  “Are you a traveling man?” he asked in a wheezing voice.

  “I guess you could say that. I’m on my way to Britton, over in Crawford County.”

  He blinked at me a few more times, rubbed his head again, then smiled sheepishly as he reached out a hand.

  “Thanks,” he said as I pulled him to his feet. His hand gripped mine strangely, and he looked expectantly at me.

  “Happy to oblige,” I said, puzzled by his odd behavior.

  Izzy poked his head above the edge of the road, and I shook my head slightly, warning him to stay put until I had a handle on the situation. The man apparently noticed the gesture and spun around to see, but Izzy had already ducked back down behind the roadbed.

  “I’m JD,” I said. “JD Robbins.”

  “Harvey Walpole,” he replied.


  “Pleased to know you, Harvey. You mind if I take a look?” I nodded toward the nearly collapsed wagon.

  “Um . . .”Walpole hedged, and looked from me to the wagon, then back again.

  “I might be able to help,” I said. “I’m a bit of a blacksmith by trade.”

  “Much good the last smith done me,” he griped before chewing on one of his thumbnails. “But I don’t suppose it’d hurt to have another set of eyes on the damn—er, dang thing.”

  His face reddened as the curse escaped his lips, and he grimaced as he pinched the inside of one arm.

  “My missus don’t much care for the rough language,” he explained, seeing my curious look. “She says if I pinch myself every time I let loose with a foul word, before too long my body’ll tell my mouth to watch itself.”

  He grinned good-naturedly at my skeptical look.

  “Naw, I don’t know how well it works,” he said. “Reminds me to watch my tongue some, but mostly it just gives me a sore arm.”

  I laughed along with him, and his pleasant chuckle dispelled the air of suspicion that had clouded our meeting.

  “If you could take a look at that axle,” he said, “I’d be much obliged.”

  “Be happy to,” I said, then dropped to my hands and knees to peer under the sagging wagon.

  The rear axle was broken in two, the pieces buried in the ground where they’d gouged a rut before dragging the wagon to a halt. An iron sleeve was wrapped around one of the pieces and slid freely when I tried it.

  “You had it fixed before?”

  “Yep,” he said. “A few days ago, out to Marshall. Feller there said he’d patched it up good as new, scheming son of a . . . gun. Paid him three dollars for the job, and here’s what I get for it.”

  “Well, it’s not all that bad. He’s drilled through the strong part of the axle. The wood’s still whole, except where the original break was. I reckon you just lost your pins somewhere on the way. If we can fix the sleeve back in place, it ought to get you where you’re going, assuming it’s not too far.”

  “Heading to Fort Smith,” he offered, scratching his chin as he tried to figure the distance.

  “About thirty miles,” I offered. “Shouldn’t be a problem if we can find something to hold the sleeve good and firm.” I stood and brushed off my hands and knees. “This ought to do,” I said, and reached for the hasp pins holding the tailgate closed.

  “No.” Walpole rushed at me and pushed me roughly away from the wagon, surprising me with his strength and speed.

  “Hey, easy there.”

  “What you mean, fooling around with my rig like that?”

  “I wasn’t fooling with anything,” I said. “If you want to move on, you need something to hold that collar in place. Those pins there are your best bet.”

  “What about the ones that come out of it to begin with?” he suggested, his voice calming slightly despite his beet-red face.

  “If you want to backtrack this road on foot looking for them, be my guest,” I said. “I have better things to do than wait on you when there’s a perfectly good fix right in front of us.”

  With that, I clamped my hat down on my head and crossed the road toward the ditch where Izzy still lay hidden.

  “Wait,” Walpole called out after me. “JD. JD, was it? Wait.”

  I checked my temper, paused and turned as the man chased after me.

  “I apologize. It’s just I got an important load to carry out Fort Smith way. Makes me a little leery of strangers. I’m obliged for any help you can give me.” He stared at me with imploring eyes until I finally relented.

  “If we’re going to fix it,” I said, “that load has to come off. It’ll be hard enough lifting up the empty bed to set the axle right with just the two of us, let alone with a full load aboard. Once we’re through, we can figure a way to keep the gate shut, but we need those pins for the axle.”

  He considered the solution so long I turned away again before he at last agreed.

  “All right, we’ll do that,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

  I gave a frustrated sigh, then nodded and turned back toward the wagon.

  “Go ahead and start unloading,” Walpole suggested, rather ungraciously I thought, “while I get some tools from the front.”

  I wasn’t happy about doing all the work, but was eager to carry out my Good Samaritan’s duties and have done with the odd little man. I moved to the rear of the wagon, pulled the pins from their hasps, threw back the tarpaulin cover and lifted the gate out of its place.

  And met three sets of wide, brown eyes that stared at me out of frightened black faces.

  The three huddled together beneath the tarpaulin—a man, woman and little girl. There was actually a fourth, an infant who was nearly hidden from view as its mother clutched it tightly to her breast. The little girl’s eyes were a mix of fear and wonder, while her mother’s were pure fright. The man’s eyes bore a hint of anxiety, though their menacing gaze suggested he wasn’t one to be backed into a corner. It took several moments of looking from eye to eye to eye before I recovered my wits enough to speak.

  “I—”

  “Marse Jade, look out,” Izzy called from the roadside.

  I heard the distinctive clack of a rifle hammer, followed immediately by a shot. I ducked for cover and saw a pair of legs running across the road from the direction of the ditch.

  “Damn fool cracker,” Izzy shouted. “What you think you’re doing?”

  Another shot rang out, and Izzy slumped to the ground, a bloody gash in his temple. I charged Walpole, hoping to catch him with his gun unloaded, but he jerked at the rifle’s lever and aimed for my chest.

  “Just take it nice and easy,” he said calmly.

  I’d heard of repeating Volcano rifles but I’d never seen one, and scarcely thought it possible that a gun could be reloaded with just the cycling of a lever. True or not, I froze in my tracks and held my hands out to my sides.

  “Look, Mister Walpole,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even, “there’s no need for that. Just let me see to my friend and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Elijah, y’all come on down from there, now,” he said, ignoring my words.

  I looked back to where the big black man hefted himself from the wagon bed. His eyes didn’t leave me for an instant as he slid from the edge of the wagon to the ground.

  “Come now, Hannah,” he ordered the little girl. He swept her up in his arms and set her gently on the ground behind him. “You help your mammy with the baby, hear?”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, and took the infant from her mother’s outstretched arms.

  Once on the ground, the woman took the baby back from the girl and hustled the children to the far side of the wagon.

  “You don’t need that rifle, Mister Walpole,” I repeated.

  “I’ll decide what’s needful and what ain’t. Elijah, this here young feller fancies himself a blacksmith of sorts. Reckons he can fix that bum axle. Now you help him out and do as he says, while I make sure he don’t start no trouble.”

  “Yes, suh, Mister Harvey. What you be needing me to do?” Elijah asked me, the menace in his eyes ebbing slightly.

  “What about Izzy?” I demanded of Walpole.

  “You just see to the wagon,” he said. “We’ll take care of the boy in due time.”

  With no choice but to agree, I turned to the big man by my side.

  “We need to lift up the wagon a bit so we can join the axle again. Once the sleeve’s in place, it should be able to hold the load just fine.”

  Elijah nodded slowly then squatted to peer under the wagon. “How you thinking to go ’bout it?” He squinted his eyes against the sun as he looked up at me.

  “Well, if you can hold up the bed, I can probably work the axle together.”

  He grunted.

  “You got some other way?” I said.

  “Well, that all right, if you trust me not to drop the thing down on your head.” He looked me square in
the eye before cracking into a slight grin.

  “What’d you have in mind?” I asked, relaxing a little.

  “That axle’s none too flimsy itself,” he said. “Might take a bit more doing than one man’s got in him. Now you ain’t no scrap of a boy, but I don’t know that even I could pull them ends together on my own. If we was both to get in under there, why I’ll bet we’d get her done.”

  “I suppose,” I said. “But who’s to hold up the wagon bed while we’re underneath?”

  “Well, now, the Good Lord didn’t give us legs for nothing,” he said.

  “All right,” I agreed, “let’s do it.”

  I pulled off my hat and shirt, then took another look at Izzy before wriggling under the wagon. Elijah joined me a few seconds later, and I marveled that he was able to fit his massive chest into the tight confines.

  “Ready?” he asked as he placed his palms against the wagon bed.

  “Say when.”

  Together we hand-walked our way under the wagon, braced the weight with our legs and forced the ends of the axle together. The ends butted together nicely, and I slipped the wrought iron sleeve over the ends, then secured it in place with the pins.

  “Fine work,” Elijah said after we’d set the wagon back onto its wheels and crawled out from underneath. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “JD,” I said, accepting his outstretched hand. “JD Robbins.”

  “Well, Mister JD,” he said, carefully pronouncing each syllable, “that was a nice piece of work.”

  “Yes, very nice,” Walpole agreed, and stepped toward me, his rifle still at the ready. “Now, if you’ll just step over that way,” he motioned with the rifle barrel. “Elijah, you get yourselves settled back in.”

  “What about them?” Elijah asked as he helped his wife back aboard the wagon.

  “We can’t very well have this one running to the next town and telling about a bunch of escaped slaves, now can we? We’ll take the boy with us, though.”

  “The hell you will,” I shouted and started toward the skinny man, but he leveled the rifle at my chest and froze me in my tracks.