Of Ashes and Dust

by Marc Graham

  “Pleased to know you,” Cy told Dave, who winced as he shook the big man’s hand. “Helen will be so glad to see you. Come, come.”

  “I’m anxious to see her, too,” I said, then pointed to his shotgun. “You planning to uncock that thing?”

  “What, this?” Cy chuckled as he let down the twin hammers. “Damned thing hasn’t seen a shell in nigh on a year. Come on along now.”

  We followed him along squeaking floors, past the shambling stairs, to the kitchen where Cassandra and Missus Warren sat with Miriam, a pile of snap peas on the table between them. Miriam and Cassandra hummed a duet—a practice Missus Warren had never tolerated, as I could recall—to keep cadence as they broke off the stems, snapped the pods in two and tossed them into a half-full pot.

  “Did you frighten off those hooligans with your empty gun, Cyrus?” Missus Warren asked without glancing up.

  Her scratchy voice had grown even harsher with time, but I couldn’t help smiling at the familiar, no-nonsense demeanor.

  “No, dear,” Cy said. “I’m afraid they’ve taken us captive.”

  Miriam and Cassandra stopped humming at that, and looked up with wide eyes. Missus Warren’s look was more curious than alarmed as she craned her long neck back to peer through her glasses—perched, as usual, at the end of the beak-like nose. Her steely eyes squinted in the dim light as she peered at me, then softened as she saw through the years.

  “Well, my goodness,” she said softly, then wiped her hands on her apron, rose and stepped toward me. “Praise the good Lord for carrying you safely through.”

  Emotion betrayed her voice as she placed her cold, bony hands on my cheeks and gave me a quick embrace.

  “JD?” Cassandra said as she rose and came toward me.

  Her hair was darker now, like burnished copper, and the years had melted away the baby fat that plagued the girl I’d known. In her place stood a slender, elegant young woman with keen, good-humored eyes that the war seemed to have passed by. She wrapped her arms around my waist, and I felt a guilty pleasure as her soft, warm body pressed against me. Not counting Missus Warren, it was the first time in four years I’d touched a woman, and the memory of that and other sensations quickly rose to the surface.

  “Mind your manners, James, and introduce your friend,” Missus Warren ordered.

  I cleared my throat and introduced Dave to the women. They exchanged handshakes and greetings, and I noticed Dave’s lingering stare on Cassandra.

  “At least the good Lord saw fit to bring one of my boys home,” Missus Warren said in little more than a whisper. She pulled off her glasses and pressed one hand to her eyes. “Oh, fiddle-faddle.” Apparently, Mister Webster’s lexicon had expanded during my absence. “The light’s gone so far as a body can’t see her hand in front of her eyes. I’d best go fetch a candle.”

  “They’s one right on the counter, Miz Warren,” Miriam offered.

  The older woman waved off the help with a flailing hand before pushing through the side door of the kitchen. Uncle Cy laughed.

  “Haven’t seen her so fallen out in twenty years or more,” he said. “You boys able to stay for a while?”

  “Just a spell, if it’s no trouble,” I said. “I’m eager to get back to Britton, but I wanted to stop in to see you on the way.”

  “Well, we don’t have as much to offer you as we once did,” Cy admitted with his signature good cheer. “A warm meal with family, a soft bed and a dry roof are about the best we can do.”

  “The meal’d be a mite nicer if we could keep those dad-blamed rabbits out of my garden,” Miriam said.

  “Oh, hush,” Cassandra said to the older woman. “They only pester you because you’ve the finest garden in all of Little Rock.”

  “Be that as it may,” Uncle Cy went on, “I believe we’ll make do. Fetch me one of those candles, would you, Miriam? Let’s get these boys settled in.”

  “If you don’t mind, sir,” Dave spoke up, handing his bag to me and pulling his rifle from its sheath, “I might take a peek at that garden and see if I can’t get us a little something extra for the supper table.”

  “Suit yourself, Mister Perkins,” Cy said. “These Arkansas rabbits are cagey little buggers, though. Cassandra dear, show Mister Perkins the garden, would you? Can you manage the stairs, JD?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be fine,” I said as Dave and Cassandra went out the back door.

  Mister Warren lit his candle and led me from the kitchen to the stairway. Before we’d managed to climb halfway up the creaking steps, a shot rang out, followed less than two seconds later by another.

  “If nothing else,” Cy said, “he’ll frighten those rabbits out of Miriam’s cabbage.”

  By the time we returned to the kitchen, Miriam had a fire in the oven and a pot of water set to boil.

  “I hope everyone’s in the mood for some stew.”

  “. . . and, Lord, we thank you for delivering JD and Mister Perkins safely to us,” Uncle Cy prayed, concluding the grace. “May we ever be mindful of your many and varied blessings. In the name of Thy Son we pray, Amen.”

  “Amen,” I repeated, along with Miriam, Cassandra and Missus Warren.

  “Am—ow,” Dave cried as Missus Warren’s serving fork jabbed his elbow.

  “I meant to warn you about that,” I said, barely able to stifle a laugh. “Elbows aren’t allowed on the table here.”

  “Thanks for that,” Dave groused, rubbing his elbow as he glared at me. “My apologies, ma’am.”

  “Providing dinner is no excuse for poor table manners,” Missus Warren replied.

  “Yes’m,” Dave acknowledged, and I couldn’t hold back my laughter as he received a further lecture on the English language and its proper usage.

  After dinner, Dave and I joined Cy for cigars on the back porch.

  “How are you, really?” I asked.

  “We’re fine,” Cy assured me. “Things aren’t quite so bleak as the appearance of this old place would make you think. Seemed prudent to let things slip a bit so as not to draw attention to ourselves. And, truth be told, the place is a fair bit more than the four of us could tend to anyway.”

  “What happened to everyone?” I said.

  “When the Federals came in, they freed all our slaves. Conscripted the men, and did Lord-knows-what with the younger women. Miriam’s the only one left. Thought we’d lose her, too, after they took Timothy. Poor thing—her boys vanished and her man sent off to fight.”

  “Dave, would you mind giving us a minute?” I asked.

  He cocked his head at me, but didn’t press his curiosity.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll just take me a little look-see at the garden again.”

  When he’d gone, I told Cy everything about Zeke and Izzy. Of Zeke and Ketty’s escape, and my promise to Timothy not to tell Miriam. Of Izzy’s death at Nashville, and my murdering his killer.

  “Did Timothy tell you where Zeke and Ketty settled?” Cy asked when I’d finished the story.

  “No. Somewhere in Indian Territory, I imagine, but there’s no telling if they’ve moved on since then.”

  Uncle Cy nodded thoughtfully at that.

  “I appreciate your telling me,” he said. “I’ll see what more I can find out, and we’ll see to Miriam. Now, then, how long might you boys stay?”

  “We don’t have any definite plans, if that’s what you mean. But I’m a bit anxious to get back home to Britton.”

  Cy’s face clouded at that, but he tried to mask the change with a puff of cigar smoke.

  “And—ah—what all have you heard from there?” he asked.

  “Nothing since I left for the war,” I admitted as my stomach turned to rock, and a chill crept toward my heart. “Why? What’s happened?”

  Cy waved a hand to dismiss my concerns.

  “Not to worry. Everyone’s fine,” he said. “Well, Ben’s had a rough go of it, but Charlotte and Angelina are both well. Things got tough for them once the war got underway, and they—well,
they moved up to Saint Louis to wait things out.”

  “I see,” I said, though I didn’t see at all.

  Why Saint Louis? And why the feeling that Cy was holding something back from me? No sense pressing the matter, I decided, but maybe Cassandra would be a little more forthcoming.

  “Well, if they’re not in Britton, I don’t suppose there’s much point in heading upriver. By the looks of things,” I added as I leaned against a weathered porch rail, “you might could use a hand around here for a little while.”

  “A couple of pairs,” Dave added as he came around the corner from the garden.

  “Now, boys, I can’t ask you to do that,” Cy said. “After all this time, you must be anxious to be on your way.”

  “That’s so,” I agreed, “but you and Missus Warren have done more for me than I could’ve ever hoped for. More than I can ever repay, in fact, but I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t at least try.”

  Over the next two weeks we helped restore the old house to a semblance of its former glory. We closed up broken window panes, replaced loose and squeaking steps, added a fresh coat of paint. Dave even set out a series of snares for Miriam to keep her garden free of rabbits and her stew pot full.

  I watched with amusement—and just a hint of envy—as Cassandra’s girlish crush on me transformed into a womanly attraction to Dave. Despite his worldly ways, the former scout seemed entirely ill-equipped to deal with a lady’s affections outside the safe confines of the Higgins sisters’ establishment. He fumbled and stuttered any time Cassandra came near him.

  The morning we left, Mister Warren led me into the sitting room. He rummaged through the stacks of books until he found the one he was looking for.

  “For you,” he said, and handed me a battered copy of The Age of Fable, his most cherished book.

  “No, sir, I can’t.”

  “Take it,” he insisted, pressing the book firmly into my hands. “Lord knows I’ve read it enough times to have it by heart.”

  “If you’re sure,” I said, and got a satisfied nod in return. “Thank you.”

  “And there’s one other matter I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”

  I grinned sheepishly at that.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I said. “I just didn’t figure there was much point in bringing it up.”

  Before I’d joined the state guard, I entrusted Uncle Cy with the thousand dollars or so of Gina’s dowry, and arranged to have the bulk of my pay—when it was actually delivered on— sent directly to him. After Little Rock fell to the Union—and even more so now that the Confederacy had been dealt the deathblow—I gave up hope of ever seeing my small fortune again.

  “Let’s see now,” Cy mumbled as he searched through another stack of books. “Ah, here it is,” he said as he located the copy of Ovid.

  He leafed through the oversized volume and pulled out several sheets of paper that had been tucked between the pages. He counted the individual sheets and riffled through the book once more to make sure he’d recovered everything.

  “Here you go,” he said.

  I took the sheets from him and flipped through them. They were all identical, with the exception of a serial number printed on the upper left side of each. Every page was headed by the title, Union Pacific Corporation, Certificate of Stock.

  “Seventy-three shares of common stock, par value one hundred dollars,” Cy read from a ledger sheet, which he also handed to me. “I know it’s not good practice to put all your eggs in one basket, but I believe this railroad will be just the ticket, as it were. When Congress passed the Railroad Act last year, I cashed out all our other positions and bought up as many shares as I could.”

  I stared blankly at the ledger sheet, unable to wrap my mind around the numbers shown there.

  “You’re free, of course, to do with them as you like,” he said, “but the dividends alone will turn a fair income for you. Frankly, I’ve yet to see a railroad that can be run worth a damn, but Congress is going to make sure this road gets built. Till then, at least, I don’t see this stock going anywhere but up. There’s this, too,” he added, and pulled a small purse from his coat pocket.

  I took the silk bag from him, untied the string and peered inside. The metallic clink and ruddy gleam of the contents made my breath stop.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “The part of your pay I wasn’t able to invest I changed out of scrip,” he said. “Even if we’d won, the decisions coming out of Richmond weren’t worth spit. I didn’t figure it’d be long before a dollar wouldn’t be worth the paper it was printed on. After the Federals took the city, I managed to find a few . . . businessmen, shall we say, who were willing to take scrip for gold. I only managed about thirty cents on the dollar but, looking at it now, I’d say it was a fair trade.”

  “I won’t argue with you there,” I said. “But I still don’t know what to say.”

  “No need to say anything. It’s all money you earned—I just piggy-backed it with my own, helped steer it along a bit.”

  “I can’t wait to see the look on Gina’s face,” I said. “Thank you, sir.”

  He faltered a little before saying, “My pleasure, son. Godspeed.”

  I scarcely noted the edge in his voice as I placed the fortune in my bag, then followed him out of the sitting room to the front porch where Dave waited with the ladies. Cassandra spoke quietly and earnestly to Dave as I said good-bye to Miriam and Missus Warren, then she gave me a fierce hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “You two look out for each other,” she told us, then handed me a slip of paper with a Saint Louis address.

  Dave seemed reluctant to go, but followed me out the gate, down the hill and to the rail depot across the river. We boarded a flatcar on the Memphis train that would carry us to the Mississippi River. From there, we’d find a paddlewheel to carry us up to Saint Louis.

  To my dream.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Saint Louis, Missouri—May 1865

  “Vagabond filth.”

  The angry shout was followed by the sharp slam of a door. Dave and I picked ourselves up from the lawn where we’d been thrown by the house’s manservant.

  “You sure this is the right place?” Dave asked as he retrieved my crutch and helped me to my feet.

  I compared the crumpled, rain-soaked slip of paper with the stone-carved number in one of the columns that framed the ornate veranda.

  “Twenty-seven, Lucas Place,” I read. “We are in Saint Louis, right?”

  “That’s what the man said.”

  Our riverboat had docked less than an hour earlier. We’d trudged up the long hill from the boat landing, through the Missouri Park and under the gated archway that marked the entrance to this neighborhood. A cold spring rain hampered our progress and dampened our spirits, but my anticipation of the homecoming had driven me on.

  Dave sucked at his teeth and shook his head sympathetically.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe it’s best to try again in the morning?”

  “Maybe so,” I agreed reluctantly, then took a lingering gaze at the unwelcoming door and limped heavily after Dave toward the gate.

  “Jim?” A tentative voice came from the direction of the house.

  I paused and turned to take in the vision as the house lights outlined a form in the doorway, backlit in graceful silhouette. Wide, velvet skirts tapered to hug a slender waist. A heavy shawl hid most of the luxuriant, auburn hair, but what was revealed framed the alabaster skin of a sculptured face, with lips and cheeks glowing red in the chill air. Even from across the lawn I could see the emerald eyes ignite as they met mine.

  “Oh, God—Jim,” Gina cried, raising her hands to her lips.

  She stepped toward me, hesitantly at first, then with rapidly growing speed as she crossed the veranda, leapt down the steps and dashed across the walk. I overcame my own surprise just in time to open my arms to meet her as she threw hers about my neck. I took two or three painful s
teps back to keep from falling under the force of her embrace, but I easily set the pain aside as Gina clung to me. I folded my arms around her and pressed her body to mine, hungrily breathing in her scent as I buried my face in her hair.

  The world stopped. All existence faded away, leaving no other reality than the woman I held in my arms, no notion of the passage of time other than the rapid staccato of our hearts pounding against one another. When I was at last able to draw back from the embrace, it was only to bring my lips to hers. The moist warmth of our mouths was a stark contrast to the cold night air as we fed one another’s hunger for an eternity. Only the rough clearing of a throat brought the world’s intrusion once more.

  “I hate to interrupt,” Dave said, “but knowing Jim’s social graces, I’m like to melt before he introduces me.”

  Gina giggled as she pulled herself away from me. She licked her lips as I wiped at my own, blending the last sweet drops of our passion into my rain-soaked goatee.

  “I see things haven’t changed then,” she said, the lilt in her voice a balm to my ears. “His manners never were quite proper. I’m Angelina Bra—” She bit off the word, and more color rushed to her rosy cheeks. “Oh, just call me Angelina,” she said, and extended her hand.

  “Dave Perkins. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  She lowered her eyes and looked awkwardly from Dave to her hands to my feet. The blood drained from her face as she finally noticed my crutch.

  “Jim, you’re hurt,” she said.

  “Nothing that won’t mend,” I assured her, then winced as I shifted my weight. “Of course, it’s nothing that standing in the pouring rain is liable to help, either.”

  “Of course,” she said, drawing the shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “I’m already soaked and you both must be chilled to the bone. Come in, please.”

  She led the way up the walk and onto the veranda. As we crossed the threshold, the same manservant who had ejected us now held open the door for our entry, his steely eyes no more welcoming than before.

  “Avery, hang these gentlemen’s coats to dry, and put on some tea,” Gina instructed him.