by Marc Graham
Tom wrinkled his crooked nose and grinned a little. “It’s a different kind of work we’re doing, Jim.”
“Work other than surveying?”
“Oh, for certain. You might say we’re building something,” he offered, as though that would clear up the matter.
“Building what?”
Tom didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tossed another pebble into the creek, then another.
“A better place,” he said after the third pebble went in the drink.
“A better place? You mean you’re fixing up the Coxes’?”
He laughed at that.
“No. I mean a better world.” I stared at him blankly, and he went on. “The work we do is on ourselves, trying to improve ourselves, make us better men. This country’s getting itself into a pickle, for as good as we started out. And, if things is gonna improve any, it’s men like us—you and me and the rest of these fellas—that’s gonna make it happen. Oh, I ain’t fool enough to think a little survey crew out in the middle of nowhere is enough to make much difference. But every man who can better himself, well . . . It’s like those ripples there.”
He tossed in another pebble.
“Everything we do sets up a ripple around us,” he said. “Those ripples spread out and out, until they’re caught up in the big stream of life. Now, it might look like the ripples disappear once they’re out there in the stream, but who knows but it don’t change the whole creek somehow?”
I nodded at that. I wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about, but I nodded all the same.
“There’s truths that wise men have known about since the beginning of time,” he went on. “How to act toward one another, how to deal with your neighbor. Most folks would agree things like the Golden Rule are good and worthy things. In the day-to-day, though, it’s awful easy to ignore truths like that, to just do what seems good for yourself, and hang the other fella. When we do our work, we try to remind ourselves there’s more to this world than what’s in it for ourselves, that we have a duty to each other and to God to do what little bit we can to make it a better place.”
I sat quietly and thought about that for a spell.
“Sounds reasonable enough,” I allowed, then tossed a pebble of my own into the pool. “Is there some way I can help out with that? Be part of the work, I mean.”
Tom smiled, but said nothing. Instead, he just pushed himself to his feet, patted me three times on the shoulder and wandered back up the creek toward camp.
The next few weeks had me on pins and needles. Tom never mentioned the work to me again, and I feared to ask him about it, lest I jinx my chances of being part of it. One evening, while I helped Paul Ramsey dress a deer he’d brought down, I raised the subject. He just grinned, patted me a couple of times on the shoulder and hauled the take back to camp.
A few days later, I tracked down Nathanael Reiss while he drew with chalk in his thick sketchbook. His eyes never left the scene—a family of beaver repairing their lodge in the flood waters. He just nodded and grunted while I spoke. When I asked if he’d speak on my behalf about joining in the work, he finally looked at me, folded up his sketchbook, clapped me on the shoulder and walked away.
“I don’t understand it, Izzy,” I complained one night, after the others had left us to go to the tavern. “Tom seemed like he was inviting me to join them when he described the work to me. Since then, he hasn’t mentioned it once. None of them has.”
Argos grunted and tucked his head under my hand, as though to remind me of the more important things in life.
“Well,” Izzy said as he chewed on a thick blade of grass, “maybe they just trying to see how bad you want it.”
Weather forced us back to the Elkhorn Tavern a few days later. By now, all the talk was of the new president, Lincoln, up in Washington, and Jeff Davis, who’d been named president of the Confederacy until elections could be held. Again, Tom and Mike played their instruments, and again the argument between North and South grew heated.
As the debate reached a fever pitch, Tom strummed his sour note and directed Silas to call the men to labor. The crew trundled up the stairs, followed by a leavening of others, and Izzy and I settled onto the floor with fresh cups of cider.
“Jim.”
I looked up to where Tom stood at the top of the stairs.
“You coming or not?”
The days that followed were like a rebirth for me. My initiation as a Free and Accepted Mason gave me a new outlook and perspective on things. The world was still the same, the political troubles unchanged, yet this Work—which had for generations been a beacon of goodness—offered a glimmer of hope for a better world, a renewal of humanity. On a more personal level, whereas I’d been without a family before, I now had a whole host of men that I could call brothers.
The only cloud over it all was the fact that Izzy couldn’t be part of it. Among the requirements for initiation was being freeborn and, while I’d long since given Izzy his freedom, it came about sixteen years too late.
“Don’t you worry none about that, Jade,” he told me, when I explained things to him. “I done already got me family enough. Don’t see no need for a passel more.”
In the days after my initiation, each man of the crew spent time to help me absorb the lessons I’d been given. By the end of March, we were back at the tavern, where I was passed to the next degree. Two weeks later, I was ready to receive the third degree.
It was a miserable Friday evening when we set out again for Elkhorn Tavern. A storm blew up just as we were ready to leave camp, and Izzy insisted on staying behind to keep an eye on things, despite the weather. Leaving him and Argos in the company tent, the rest of us set out on Telegraph Road toward the tavern.
By the time we arrived, the other men were already milling about upstairs. Tom and the rest of the crew hustled to open the Masonic lodge, while Reiss led me up the outer stairs to a small changing room to prepare. As in the previous two ceremonies, all my possessions were taken from me, my clothes arrayed just so, a blindfold placed over my eyes and a thick rope tied about me. At the proper time, a knock sounded on the door, words were exchanged and I was led into the lodge room.
The ceremony itself followed the same form as the previous two, and after I took the obligation, I was asked what I most desired.
“Further light in Masonry,” I repeated Reiss’s prompting.
The blindfold was removed. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the bright candlelight, then gaped as I saw the faces gathered around me.
Standing among the crew and the other regulars were Doc Aubry, Uncle Cy, Sam Rawls and Mister Barnes. The blood rushed to my face as I realized the import of my oath, I will not have illegal carnal intercourse with a master mason’s daughter . . .
If Barnes noticed my discomfort, he didn’t show it. He just smiled broadly and gave me a friendly wink. After a moment, Tom—acting as worshipful master—presented me with the passwords, signs and implements of a master mason. Lastly, he gave me a white lambskin apron, similar to the ones worn by all the others.
The ceremony continued, and the origins of the Craft were presented to me in frightening drama. Finally, Mister Barnes took the master’s chair to deliver the historical lecture—and the true horror began.
Shouts rose from the tavern room below, and a knock sounded at the door. Men looked at one another in confusion, but I couldn’t tell if the reactions were genuine or a continuation of the ceremony.
“An alarm at the door,” Paul Ramsey stammered.
Mister Barnes nodded hesitantly, and I gathered this was not part of the program.
“Brother Junior Deacon, see to the alarm,” Barnes said.
Paul moved to the door and opened it, exchanged a few words with Jesse Cox, then closed the door and approached the master’s chair. The blood drained from Mister Barnes’s face as Paul relayed the message to him.
“Brethren,” Barnes started, and his voice cracked. “We must close this lodge, trusting the com
plete instruction of our newest brother until a later time.”
“Worshipful,” Tom Halsey said, making his sign of respect as he rose to his feet. “What is it?”
Barnes looked slowly around the room. He paused as he met each pair of eyes, and his pained expression deepened all the more as he looked at the younger men.
“War.”
“C’mon, Orion,” I shouted, and slapped the horse’s flanks.
We tore along the muddy Telegraph Road toward camp. Word had quickly spread of the Confederate attack on Union-held Fort Sumter. Already, rumors were flying. Jeff Davis and Abe Lincoln had both been assassinated. Little Rock was in Federal hands. Unionists were burning out the border farms.
I’d said a quick good-bye to Rawls and Uncle Cy, and promised to catch up to Mister Barnes. But, first, I had to get back to Izzy and Argos, gather our things, and take leave of the survey crew.
The rain had turned to sleet, and lashed at my face as Orion raced along. At last, we reached the camp and I swung down from the saddle before the horse came to a halt.
“Izzy? Argos?” I whistled, but there was no response.
Hooves pounded behind me. I yanked my rifle from the saddle holster and spun toward the newcomers.
“Easy, Jim.” I recognized Tom’s voice and lowered the rifle. “You see anything?”
“No,” I answered, and continued to look around.
The rain had drowned the fire, and the heavy clouds threw a cloak over the night sky. I called out again and felt my way around the camp. I tripped over something and sprawled headlong into the mud.
“Jim?” Tom had managed to light a pair of lanterns and came toward me.
In the dim glow I saw a heap of fur, white with blue-black flecks. I scrambled to my knees and groped my way toward the pile. Argos lay in the deepening mud, his eyes open and teeth bared. I reached out a trembling hand to stroke the matted fur, and found his body stiff and cold. The white flash on his chest was marred by an ugly black wound.
“Come away, Jim,” Tom said softly.
I clutched at Argos’s fur and buried my face in his neck, but Tom tugged gently at my shoulders and pulled me away.
“Let him be, boy,” he said.
I let Tom help me to my feet, and wiped my face on my sleeve.
“Izzy?” I asked.
Tom shook his head. “Nothing.”
He handed me a lantern, and we searched the camp as the other crew members showed up. More lanterns were gathered, and the scene slowly came to light.
Hoof prints—more than our crew could have made—littered the area around the camp. Several tents were collapsed and trampled into the mud, and supplies and tools were scattered about the site.
“Over here,” Silas called to us from a small stand of trees at one end of the camp.
A knife stuck out from one of the slender trunks, stabbed through what, at first, appeared to be a swath of flesh. On closer inspection, it turned out to be just a piece of butcher’s paper.
“Abolitionists,” Reiss observed.
In the lantern glow, the outline of a kneeling slave could be seen, his broken shackles scattered around him.
“I thought abolitionists acted out of principle,” I said stoically.
“They do,” Bornholm replied. “Most of them, anyway.”
“Then tell me,” I said, “where’s the principle in killing a man’s dog, in kidnapping his friend?”
“We don’t know Izzy’s been kidnapped,” Bornholm replied.
“Murdered, then,” I shouted. “I tell you now, there is no way in hell Izzy would have let this happen. He’s either dead or taken, and I’ll see that those who did this are made to pay.”
“Jim, you can’t—”
“Can’t what?” I demanded. “Can’t find the ones who did this? Can’t bring Izzy back? Bring Argos back?” I looked around at the gathered crew, their faces spectral in the lanterns’ glow. “Maybe not. But I’ll return in blood what they’ve done here. This war’s not about principle. It ain’t about what’s right or wrong. It’s about men using force to get their way, consequences be damned. And, if that’s all it is, then I’ll help myself to it.”
I knelt by Argos, closed his eyes and ruffled his fur.
“I got no truck for slavers or abolitionists,” I said, as though I might make him understand. “I’d have been just as happy to let it all alone, let them that cared duke it out, so long as I could live in peace. But they’ve come to me, now. They’ve made this a war and, so help me God, I will take the war back to them.”
I rose and slogged through the mud to where Orion stood impatiently stamping at the ground. I grabbed the saddle horn and was about to heft myself up when Tom called out, “Almighty God, Supreme Architect of the Universe.”
I stopped, turned and lowered my head.
“You know the heart and mind of each man here,” Tom prayed. “May your blessing be upon each one, taking him safely upon whatever path he may choose. Let the days of this conflict be short, oh God, and the losses few. May the blessings of freedom and liberty be granted to all men, and may peace and harmony prevail.”
He set his hat back on his head, his eyes glistening in the scattered lantern light.
“And, now, brethren,” he said, “be ye all of one mind, live in peace . . .”
His voice broke, and he seemed unable to continue. I stepped over to the burly man and placed my hand on his shoulder. He looked me in the eye, gripped me by the back of the neck, and pulled my forehead to his. I sniffed and cleared my throat so as to finish the benediction.
“And may the God of love and peace delight to dwell with and bless you.”
And God help whoever stands in the way of me and mine, I didn’t add.
I rode back to the Elkhorn Tavern after burying Argos and saying good-bye to the crew. Mister Barnes had waited for me, and we rode back toward Britton together. For three days we traveled the road that had become so familiar to me during the survey, but it seemed alien now, as though the entire landscape had changed under the shadow of war.
Twice we had to lead the horses into the thick brush at the side of the road. Bands of riders—perhaps the same ones who had raided the survey camp—patrolled the Telegraph Road. Their exposed rifles and masked faces were warning enough for us to stay out of their way.
On the third morning, we forded Frog Bayou. We had talked easily enough during the ride, but the words of my oath weighed heavily on me, and I had tried to keep the conversation directed away from anything to do with Gina. Now, just a few miles from the farm, where I expected Gina would be waiting for us, I could avoid the subject no longer.
“Mister Barnes,” I began, after clearing my throat.
“You have my blessing, JD,” he said before I could continue.
“Sir?”
“You have my blessing. Angelina’s a lovely young woman, and a father couldn’t ask for a better man for his daughter than you.” He threw me a crooked smile. “But I expect you to make an honest woman of her, Brother.”
My ears buzzed as the blood rushed to my head. I could hardly believe what I’d just heard. Gina could be mine. We could be together, for all the world to see.
“Thank you, sir,” was all I could manage.
Barnes laughed and kicked his horse into a trot. I followed suit, more eager than ever to see Gina, to hold her, to come home.
It wasn’t long before we left the rolling foothills and crossed May’s Branch, Barnes’s northern property line. As we emerged from the trees that bordered the stream, we could see grey pillars rising through the morning haze. The columns of smoke were more than could come from the kitchen or forge.
“God, no,” I whispered, then spurred Orion into a gallop.
The poor beast dug his hooves into the sod and tore across the fields. I clung to the saddle and whipped his flanks with my reins, heedless of the sprouts of wheat and corn laid to ruin in our wake.
We broke out of the fields and into the barnyard. I stee
red Orion around the remains of the barn, where the rebuilt corncrib was again a smoking heap and half the barn was caved in on itself. The house seemed untouched, but the forge, tool shed and slaves’ bunkhouse were blackened, skeletal ruins.
A rifle shot split the thick morning air and an explosion of dirt erupted a yard or two in front of Orion’s charging hooves. He reared and threw me, then ran up the clamshell drive, away from the destruction. I landed facedown, and raised myself up as I tried to get my breath back. I looked around to find cover, and only then noticed the bodies scattered about the yard.
Two men lay not far from me, one with a bandana still fastened over his nose and mouth. A torch lay just beyond his reach, while the other man’s cold, dead hands clutched a shotgun. Their faces were turned toward each other, and they exchanged shocked expressions through sightless eyes.
As I rose to my knees, I could see other bodies. Bull’s unmistakable bulk lay crumpled at the doorway of the burned-out bunkhouse, his arms scorched and raw where they had landed in the fire. Across the threshold, three pairs of grisly arms reached out from the ashes for a salvation that could not come.
“Jim.”
The voice cried out from the direction of the house, and I heard the screech and slam of the kitchen door and the muffled tramp of hurried footsteps. I just got to my feet before Gina threw herself into my arms. I managed to keep my balance, then squeezed her tightly and covered her face with kisses.
“Guess it’s a good thing I missed,” another voice said.
Matt strode toward us, a rifle tucked under his left arm, his right still in a sling. I released Gina and turned to Matt. Mindful of the wracked shoulder, I threw my arms around him.
“I’m glad to see you,” I said.
He stood rigid for a moment before I felt the tension and years of resentment slip away. He let the rifle slip to the ground, wrapped his good arm around me and returned the embrace.
“Good to see you, too,” he said. “How’s the nose?”
Before I could answer, Mister Barnes rode into the yard, and Missus Barnes and Belle came out from the kitchen. After Gina embraced her father, I moved to her side, took her hand and wrapped an arm around her waist.