by Marc Graham
“What I mean to say is, I am freeborn. Ain’t never been no man’s slave all my born days. Now, don’t fret, brethren,” he reassured us when we all looked away, shamed by the base assumption. “Most nigras my age back home was only made free after the war. Them that never wore the yoke are mostly from up north, and probably a lot more fine and educated than me. All the same, every breath I’ve taken has been as a free man, from the day I was born.”
He breathed deeply, as though to emphasize the fact, but fell into a wracking cough as he strained his battered lungs.
“My mama and pappy were slaves,” he explained after a sip of water, “and their mamas and pappies before them, back some five or six generations. But, when Pap learned Mama was expecting with me, why they run off to Indian Territory, met up with some Choctaw folk who took them in as they own. Pap took the name Freeman, and that’s how I was born. Free.”
The glint in his eyes faded and he sagged against his pillows.
“Now I’ve thrown all that away.”
“What do you mean?” Dave asked as he pushed himself off the window sill and returned to his chair.
“What Sullivan and the others been saying, about me being a murderer.” Seth looked nervously at each one of us. “It’s true. We all got a little drunk the night we left Sydney, and I let slip what I done. I reckon they was fixing to turn me in here at Perth, ship me back for whatever reward money they might get. You good brothers stepped in, but I can’t see that makes no difference. I still got to pay for what I done.”
“Tell us what happened,” Cy ordered gently.
Seth took a deep, shuddering breath, sipped once more at his glass and unfolded his tale. He told us of his wife, Lydia, daughter of one of the Choctaw elders. After marrying, they’d gone west to California, where Seth had found work with a large mining interest and Lydia had set up a school for the miners’ children.
“The boss man had me working late one night,” he explained. “I traded chores with one of the other fellas and went by the schoolhouse on my way home, to see if Lydia was still there. Sure enough, the light was burning, but when I went to try the door it was locked. I jiggled the latch a bit, then heard something muffled from inside.”
The blood drained from his face, and his features sagged as he went on with his tale.
“Pap always tried to teach me to mind my temper, but there was no minding anything that night,” he said. “I bust that door clean off its hinges, and there they were—Lydia on her desk, her dress half tore off and the boss on top of her.”
He shuddered at the memory.
“I don’t remember moving,” he went on. “Don’t recollect anything that happened right away, but a loud snapping sound brought me back to my senses. I had the man laid out across a bench, my hand on his throat and his neck right on the edge of the bench. Broke. Damnedest thing I ever saw. His eyes was still moving around, and he made noises like he was trying to say something. Then he looked straight at me. Then he stopped twitching.”
Silence filled the room. I chanced a look at Seth, but his eyes saw nothing of me, nothing of Australia. The far-off look—one with which I was all too familiar—saw only the horror his mind mercilessly rehearsed.
“I found Lydia out back,” he went on, “trying to wash herself out. I picked her up and carried her home. We packed a few things, and before daylight, we was gone from there. She’d helped out teaching the orphans at a Spanish mission not far from the camp. The padre there offered to take her in, but thought it best I get away from California soon as I could. See, another nigra fella had got himself hung some time before for killing a white man in a knife fight the white man started. I didn’t reckon I had much more of a chance than he did. The padre drove me down to San Francisco, to the harbor. First billing I saw was for hands on the railroad here, passage paid. That night I was at sea.”
Silence drowned out the street noises from beyond the window as, his story told, Seth slumped back into his pillow. His stove-in chest moved in time with his rapid, shallow breaths. Dave, Cy and I sat silently except for the creaking of our chairs as we shifted uncomfortably.
“Killing a man is no easy thing,” I said, finally breaking the silence. “It’s something that stays with you for a long, long time—maybe forever. But what’s also forever,” I went on, reaching out a hand to clasp Seth’s shoulder, “is the fact that he won’t harm your wife ever again—nor anyone else, for that matter.”
Seth chanced a look toward me, his eyes glistening with grief and regret, tempered with hope.
“Law doesn’t always serve justice,” I said. “Sometimes, taking the law into your own hands—or running from the law when it’s been corrupted by small men—is the only way to see justice done. Have no fear, brother,” I assured him. “You were born free, and a free man you’ll stay. All we have to do now is get word back to Lydia so she can come join you.”
The big man cocked his head, his eyes glistening.
“You—you’d do that for me?”
A knock sounded on the door and Dave patted Seth on the shoulder and spoke lightly.
“What are brothers for?” he said, then crossed to the door and pulled it open.
“Visiting hours are over, gentlemen. You, too,” Cassandra told Dave with a wink and a kiss. “Our patient needs his rest.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dave said, and led the three of us from the room while Cassandra laid out a small meal for Seth.
The house Cy had taken in Perth sat on Saint George’s Terrace, not far from Government House. More important to the moment, it lay close to the marketplaces that supplied fresh daily fare. Uncle Cy had quickly taken to the local custom of ale and cold mutton sandwiches for lunch, and a pail of the amber brew and a platter of meat sat on the kitchen table.
“Poor boy,” Cy muttered as he spread horseradish on a thick slice of bread. “Can you imagine, living with guilt over sending someone into the hereafter, knowing full well the bugger had it coming to him?”
“Hard to fathom,” Dave said around a mouthful of tender, stringy meat.
“Uh, I’m sitting right here, and I get what you’re saying,” I chimed in. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but—please don’t take this wrong—you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” Cy said.
“Not unless you can tell me how many lives you’ve taken,” I retorted.
“Four,” the older man replied without hesitation. “At least, that I can distinctly recall. Three were in the Sabine War, and there may have been more. The other was just a few months before you boys showed up on our doorstep—some no-good drifter that broke into the house.”
“I never knew,” I admitted, surprised to learn Cy’s coup count nearly matched my own.
“Why should you?” he said around a mouthful of mutton. “A man has no need to rehash his battles, nor to let them rule over him. War’s an ugly thing, but it’s war. And if someone breaks into a man’s home, threatens his security and that of his family, that person has broken the bonds of civility and abandons all right to civil treatment. More to the point,” he went on before I could fathom what he was saying, “how many lives have you saved?”
“One,” Dave said, raising his hand. “At least. If any other Reb had come across me that night, I doubt I’d be sitting here.”
“And one more upstairs,” Cy added promptly, “plus Zeke and Ketty, and who knows how many more of your fellows during the war. The point is, it’s not just the good or bad a man does that defines him. Everything he does, every choice he makes, makes him a new man every day, every moment. It’s what he does with that next moment, and the next one and the one after that, that defines who he is. Without the bad, there’s no drive to make the good better. It’s like a checkerboard—”
“Or a quilt,” I interrupted, and Cy and Dave both stared at me across the table.
I traced my fingers around the floral patterns of the yellow damask tablecloth, trying to smooth the rough weave as I gather
ed the memories.
“I remember Ma making patchwork quilts to sell,” I said, startled by the recollection. “She’d fashion all sorts of designs, sorting through the pieces of material in her sewing basket until she found one with just the right shape and color to fit the pattern. Every scrap of fabric in that basket had a history, and she’d tell each one’s story as she sewed it into place, even the sad ones. I asked her once why she kept the pieces that made her sad, like from her mother’s funeral dress and such. She said it didn’t matter whether the pieces were bright or dark, whether their stories were happy or sad—once they were part of the quilt, they all worked together to make the pattern.”
I took a sip of ale and snuffled noisily.
“She said the quilt’s purpose was to keep a body warm, but it was how the bright and dark colors worked together, how their stories blended, that made it unique, made it special. Otherwise, it’d just be a blanket.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mines Road District, Western Australia—May 7, 1878
PING-tink.
I stood on the dusty plain and stared blankly, past the telegram in my hands, to where a wildflower stood as a splash of red against the drab landscape. The twin blossoms of the flower danced in the late morning breeze, dipping and bowing to one another.
PING-tink.
A gust of wind upset the smooth motions and sent the flowers crashing into one another. I frowned at the harsh notes, so at odds with the delicate grace of the petals.
PING-tink.
I shook my head and stirred myself from the trance of the flowers, then turned to look toward the true source of the noise. Along the crest of Hundley’s Pass my hammer crews pounded their heavy drill bits into the rock outcropping, driving the boreholes for the dynamite that would soon shave off the peak.
The telegram burned in my hand, and I turned my attention back to the message I’d received that morning.
We arrive at Geraldton on the 7th. Longing to see you. G—
“Nice stroll?” Dave asked as he approached me, clouds of dust rising about his boots with each step.
“Mm-hmm,” I grunted absently.
“Any news from town?” A wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and I looked up at him and folded the telegram.
“Probably nothing you haven’t heard about already. Cass and Cy coming up, too?”
“Yep,” he said. “Boat should put in to Geraldton before noon. If we’ve done our job right, the train should reach our end of the line by two or so.”
I nodded and rubbed sweaty palms on my shirtfront.
“It’ll be fine,” Dave assured me with a slap on the shoulder.
“Things are so different now.” I took off my fedora and wiped the sweat from my brow through thinning hair. “What if I’m not the man she wants anymore?”
Dave’s look turned serious and he chewed on his lip for a moment.
“I see what you mean.” A stream of tobacco juice shot through his teeth. “If that’s that case, I reckon there’s plenty of other fellas for her to choose from. It’s a right good-sized crew.”
I looked up at that, and my nervousness evaporated.
“Bastard,” I said with a grin.
“Maybe Coombs—he’s seems a mite lonely.”
The company cook was a good man, but about as wide as he was tall, with cauliflower ears and a pock-scarred face that even a mother would be hard-pressed to love.
“If it comes to that, I’ll leave the matchmaking to you,” I said with a laugh, then led the way up the slope.
As we neared the summit, the ring of hammers on drill heads was punctuated by the heaves and grunts of the men on the hill. My attention was drawn to the lead crew where Seth Freeman and Tim Sullivan outpaced the others by a good four or five strokes a minute.
At Cy’s suggestion, I’d paired the men together once Seth had recovered from his injuries. What started as a fierce battle between the two giants soon settled into an uneasy rivalry and, now, had become something of a friendship. I watched the pair as they worked, their bared chests and arms rippling with power. Sweat glistened in the sunlight and attracted the dust that rose from their work until each was plastered the same shade of grey.
“You want them to push on through or go ahead and break?” Dave asked.
I pulled my watch from its pocket, and a chill ran from my hand to the message that rested over my heart. I shook off the feeling and snapped open the lid to check the time.
“Go ahead and call them off,” I said. “We’ll start fresh after dinner, and should be ready to blast by the time Cy gets here.”
“That’ll make Kincaid happy,” Dave said, then spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground.
I looked down the slope toward the field camp, where Leslie Kincaid sat fanning himself under the awning of the staff tent, while Andy Fraser kept him out of my way.
“I can’t tell you how much his happiness means to me,” I said drily. “Call dinner.”
Dave put a pair of fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. The drilling sounds slowly faded and the hammermen and drillers shouldered their tools and headed down the slope.
“Good job, men,” I offered as they passed by in dust-caked indigo dungarees. The men nodded and grunted their thanks, not daring to open their mouths until they’d had a chance to wash away the grime.
“You coming?” Dave asked as he headed toward the chow wagon.
“I need to talk to Kincaid first,” I said, “but I’ll be along in a bit.”
“Enjoy.”
“Yeah,” I said, and headed toward the staff tent.
“The plunger spins the dynamo, creating an electric current,” Andy Fraser was saying as I approached, “which passes along the cables to detonate all the charges simultaneously. Oh, there you are, Jim,” he said, visibly relieved as I rounded the corner.
“Andy, would you run and find Dave?” I said. “I need you to help him with some of the blasting prep.”
“Yes, sir,” he said immediately, a grateful look in his eyes as he made his escape.
“I must confess, Mister Robbins,” Kincaid lisped in Queen’s English, looking at me through beady eyes as his wispy mustache twitched beneath a long, thin nose, “I have reservations about these new methods. This is not how we have done things in the past.” He wiped a drop of sweat—perspiration—from his brow and slicked back his oiled hair.
While the directors of the railroad had given Cy—and, therefore, Dave and me—a relatively free hand in restructuring the operations, they had insisted on having one of their own men assigned to observe and report back to them, independent of the American interlopers. For the most part Kincaid stayed well out of the way, but he provided just enough of a nuisance and a distraction that I half suspected his real job was to keep us from making our schedule, and thus deny any performance bonuses.
“It is exactly by doing things as they were done in the past that this line fell so far behind schedule,” I pointed out. “If we’re to make up the lost time, we need to take advantage of every new opportunity we can.”
“Be that as it may, I have notified the board of my concerns.” Kincaid puffed out his slender chest and pulled a sheaf of telegrams from the pocket of his khaki jacket.
“And?” I said.
The little man deflated a bit.
“And they agree that operations are to proceed as planned. But the director himself is coming up to observe this afternoon,” he hastened to add, “and I am to inform him of any further concerns.”
“Naturally,” I said, then pushed past him into the tent.
“Are you sure this thing will work?” he pressed, lugging the Smith Exploder into the tent behind me. “After all, the ink is barely dry on the patent.”
“Look, Leslie,” I said with a tired sigh.
The man bristled at the familiar use of his name.
“If it doesn’t work,” I said, “we have plenty of safety fuses to fall back on. Worst case, we blast tomorro
w instead of this evening, which still leaves us right on target. I wouldn’t do that—” I added as Kincaid moistened his fingers, touched them to the detonator’s terminals and pressed on the plunger, “—if I were you.”
He screamed and jerked his hand back, waving it as he tried to cool his fingers from the electric shock.
“You might want to avoid that in the future,” I suggested, then steered him toward the tent flap. “Why don’t you go see Coombs at the chow wagon. Some lard should take the sting right out.”
Finally alone, I took a deep breath and sat down at my camp desk to sort through the new stack of orders and telegrams. The courier had come up from Geraldton this morning, but I’d ignored the official communiqués as soon as I discovered Gina’s telegram. Unable to put off the work any longer, I forced myself to set aside her arrival, and plunged into the pile of forms. Midway through the stack, a head poked through the tent flap.
“Were you planning to eat today?” Dave asked.
I looked up as I dropped another telegram in the Later pile.
“I completely forgot,” I said, and accepted a plate of stew and biscuits.
“That’s what I’m here for. Someone has to keep this line on track.”
I grunted as I shoved a gravy-laden biscuit in my mouth.
“Maybe Cy should’ve put you in charge of this outfit,” I said. “I could have stayed back in Perth.”
“Nah,” Dave said. “You’re better at dodging the bullshit than I am. You just keep pushing that little pencil of yours while I push the crews, and we’ll see this line finished yet.”
“Did Andy find you?” Another biscuit.
“Yep,” Dave said. “I let him hide out in my tent, making up the last of the blasting caps. Should be ready to go as soon as we’ve finished drilling.”
“Good. Let me get through these papers, all right? And maybe find a hole for Leslie to fall into.”
“Accidents have been known to happen,” Dave said with a grin as he turned to leave the tent.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said, then started on the next telegram. The next ten minutes saw three more interruptions, and I began to think I could drill back to the States before I managed to dig through the stack of papers.