Chariot on the Mountain

by Jack Ford

  Ol’ Joshua was silent, watching the three children play in the corner. Then a sad smile crept across his face.

  “Once you free, you gonna leave here?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. Ain’t never really thought about it,” she said.

  Ol’ Joshua thought a minute and then said, “What about Robert’s people? Where they all be?”

  At the mention of Robert’s name, Kitty’s face became clouded, and her eyes hazy.

  “Don’t know where they be. He never said much ’bout them. Don’t know if they be free or slave.” After a moment, she added, “But I sure wish Robert still alive. Been nice to move in together, bein’ free and all. Maybe even packed up the children and headed west, over the mountains, got our own farm, a whole new life,” she said wistfully. “Would’ve been real nice.”

  They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, their eyes again on the children playing, but both of their minds elsewhere. Finally, Ol’ Joshua spoke.

  “Why she be doin’ this? Why now?”

  “She say it because the master ask her on his deathbed,” Kitty said.

  “But nobody know that for sure,” Ol’ Joshua said. “And, even if he did, nobody be forcin’ her to go and do that if she don’ want to.”

  Kitty nodded in agreement. “All that be true. Seem to me she don’t need to be doin’ it if she don’t want to. And with Master gone, seems like she havin’ a hard time runnin’ the farm—”

  “So,” Ol’ Joshua interrupted, “all that bein’ true, why she be freein’ all you when she could be sellin’ you for some good cash money? That just don’t make no sense.”

  “Somethin’ inside her changed. Least she say it did. Don’t know if it was just Master’s dyin’. Or somethin’ else. But she changed. Always thought she be hatin’ me for all these years. Seemed like it, anyways. And then, when we be caught and brought back, instead of whippin’ the hide off me, she start tellin’ me she’s sorry for sellin’ off my mama. And that now she be freein’ all of us.” She paused a moment. “And you know what be most surprisin’? All this came after I threatened her, tellin’ her she gonna have to kill me if she be thinkin’ of sellin’ me and takin’ me away from my babies.”

  “Just don’t figure,” Ol’ Joshua said, clearly puzzled.

  “Nope. Don’t figure at all. But I ain’t gonna do nothin’ that might change her mind. Soon as she be freein’ us, I’m away from this place fast as our feet can take us.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on top of the old man’s. “Not happy ’bout leavin’ you, though. Or Young Joshua,” she said.

  “And we not happy ’bout havin’ to say good-bye to you, either,” he said. After taking her hand in both of his, he raised it to his cracked, taut lips and kissed it.

  “Funny how the Good Lord works,” he mused softly. “We took you in after Master Samuel and Mistress Mary had your mama sold off, raised you up like you was our own. Figured you’d be round to take care of us until you placed us both in the ground.” He paused and looked off into the distance, a faraway look shrouding his eyes. “Then the Lord decides to take my Sarah from me. And now He be takin’ you from me, too. He be guidin’ Mistress’s soul, tellin’ her to set you free. Good Lord give you to us because your mama taken from you. Now Good Lord takin’ you away from me, again all ’cause your mama was taken from you.”

  He turned and looked deep into Kitty’s eyes, which were now soft with tears. “Maybe it all do make sense, after all,” he said.

  CHAPTER 17

  “I AM, INDEED, SORRY TO IMPOSE ON YOU, MRS. MADDOX. BUT I thought it was important for us to speak as soon as possible,” Moffet Strother said.

  Strother was standing on the porch of the Maddox farmhouse. Mary was stationed in the doorway, a gracious smile on her face.

  “Certainly, Mr. Strother. Always pleased to see you. But I didn’t realize that my husband had been involved in any business with you—that is, before he passed away.”

  “Well,” Strother began, discomfort apparent in his voice, “that’s not exactly the reason I’m here.”

  “What, then, can I help you with?” Mary asked, puzzled.

  Strother cleared his throat. “I’m actually here in my capacity as a lawyer.”

  “As a lawyer? For who? About what?” Mary asked guardedly.

  Strother straightened himself up to his full height, although Mary Maddox was still half a head taller than him.

  “I represent your nephew, Sam. He’s asked me to talk to you about your late husband’s will—”

  “First of all,” Mary interrupted coolly, “he is not my nephew! He was Samuel’s kin but most definitely not mine. And second, there is nothing to talk about concerning the will. I thought I made that very clear to him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not the way he—that is, we—see it,” said Strother.

  “I don’t particularly care how you—or he—sees it. I know what the will says, and I know what my husband wanted. And he wanted the entire estate to go to me. The only reason that Samuel even mentioned Sam in the will was that neither of us has any other living blood relatives. And he had to list somebody in case something happened to me. That’s it. No other reason. And certainly no intention to give that good-for-nothing some share in our hard-earned property. Not while I am still alive,” she said. “And,” she added, her face now flushed and taut with wrath, “you can advise your client that I plan on livin’ a long time. And I plan on makin’ sure that everything’s gone—one way or the other—when I do leave this earth. He’ll be gettin’ nothin’ from me! Not now and not then!”

  Strother struggled to maintain his composure, surprised and knocked off balance by the sudden vehemence in Mary’s tone and attitude. “I can certainly understand your concern,” he began soothingly, “but it seems to me that we might want to discuss this matter civilly before . . .”

  “Before what?” Mary snapped.

  “Well, we’d be most unhappy if we were forced to bring a court of law into this. Should be a family matter. No sense in lettin’ the law make this decision for us. Somebody’d definitely be losin’ then.”

  Mary started to speak again, but Strother held up his hand. “Please, ma’am. Just let me have my say and I’ll be leavin’.” He continued hurriedly. “We’re most definitely hopin’ that it won’t come to that. What we’re hopin’ is that you might be willin’ to see our point here and come to some agreement that would be fair for all. Fair for you and fair for my client.”

  Mary was silent and appeared to be contemplating his offer. Strother began to think that perhaps he had convinced her to take a more reasonable approach to Sam’s claim. However, that hope was shattered a moment later.

  “Mr. Strother,” Mary said, the visible anger dissipated but her voice still stern, “I’m very sorry that you wasted your time travelin’ all the way out here to see me. Your client should have made it clear to you—as I made it clear to him—that there is nothing for us to discuss. The will leaves everything to me, and that is that.”

  “I’m very sorry you feel that way,” Strother said, reaching into the inside pocket of his coat and pulling out a sheaf of papers. “But since that is your position, I have no choice but to serve you with this,” he said, handing the papers to Mary.

  Mary was perplexed. “And just what might this be?”

  “It’s an injunction,” Strother answered a bit self-importantly.

  “What is that?”

  “It is an order signed by the circuit court of this county. It says that you are prevented by law from disposing of any of the property left to you in the will until the case has been resolved in court.”

  “What?” Mary exclaimed. She scanned the papers. “You can’t do that. The will says clearly that the property all belongs to me!”

  “Well, we’ll see about that. Once we get to court. But in the meantime, you cannot dispose of any of the estate. Anything at all.”

  Mary glared at the diminutive lawyer and then threw th
e papers to the ground. “I’ll ask you to please leave my property, Mr. Strother. Now!” she said, her voice rising.

  “I’m very sorry . . .” Strother began.

  “Now!” she repeated. “Or do I have to go get my shotgun to convince you that it’s time for you to go?”

  “Again, I’m very sorry,” Strother stammered, backing away as quickly as he could. “I will be leavin’, then.” He nodded toward the papers on the ground. “And I’ll be leavin’ those for you.”

  “And I would suggest that you do not return. And please tell your client that he is not welcome here, either. And you should both remember that if either of you does show up again”—she paused a moment and offered a sinister smile—“I’m a very good shot!”

  Damn that Sam Maddox, Mary thought as she stormed back into the house and slammed the door behind her so viciously that a nearby flower vase trembled and nearly toppled over. I should have known he’d stoop to something like this. Thinks he can bully me by threatening to take me to court. I wish Samuel had dealt with him while he was still alive. Guess it’s up to me now.

  Mary paced around the room, contemplating what she would need to do next.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE VILLAGE OF WASHINGTON WAS BUSTLING WITH WAGONS, HORSES, and people buzzing about like bees streaming from a broken hive. The circuit court judge was in town, which meant that the one-room redbrick courthouse on Gay Street, in the center of the hamlet, was now also the center of the Rappahannock County universe for that week. The traveling jurist would arrive for a week at a time every few months. Litigants would be lined up outside the courthouse for hours, waiting their turn in their quests for justice. During this week the normally quiet, hard-packed, wagon wheel–rutted dirt streets pulsated with activity, and the atmosphere was more like that of a county fair than a somber judicial period. Farmers would bring their produce into the village and the merchants would display their goods prominently, hoping that the influx of people would lead to a buying bonanza.

  As Mary crossed the street in front of the courthouse, amid the meandering pedestrians, horses, and wagons, she was struck, as always, by how many people would descend upon the village when the circuit court judge arrived. She recalled being fascinated as a young girl by the idea that so many people would arrive and pack the few snug blocks, and wondering where they all came from.

  Weaving her way through the crowd, wearing her best visiting apparel of a long calico dress, lace-up leather shoes, and a shawl, she approached the law office of Zephania Turner. As she prepared to knock, the front door swung open and the lawyer, his arms wrapped around a bundle of legal folders, nearly barged into her.

  “Mrs. Maddox,” he exclaimed, struggling to maintain control of his perilously shifting cargo, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  “My apologies, Mr. Turner,” Mary said, reaching out to help restore some balance to his load. “I know how busy you must be this week”—she nodded toward the courthouse across the street—“but I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk with me about a legal matter. A somewhat pressing legal matter, I’m afraid.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” he said. “I don’t need to be in court quite yet. I’m always delighted to see you,” he added, with a warm smile, holding the door for her to enter the room.

  Once Mary had settled into the chair across from his desk, and Turner had carefully deposited his folders back on a nearby shelf, he dropped down into his chair.

  “So, then,” he began kindly, “how have you been managing since the death of Samuel?”

  “Fairly well. Thank you,” Mary answered.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Never an easy time when we lose a loved one. Never been married myself, but have to imagine it would be a terrible adjustment,” he said, shaking his head sympathetically.

  “Yes, it is,” Mary said softly.

  “Well, then, Mrs. Maddox,” Turner said, anxious to change the subject, “what is it I can help you with?”

  “I’m having a bit of a problem, and I need some advice,” Mary said.

  The lawyer simply nodded for her to continue.

  “My husband’s—late husband’s, that is—nephew, Sam, seems to think that Samuel’s will gives him some claim on the estate.”

  Turner grunted. “I suspected this would happen.”

  Mary looked at him, puzzled. “Why would you have suspected that?”

  “Sam came to see me some days ago. He wanted me to look at a copy of the will and tell him if he had any right to any of the property left by Samuel.”

  “And?” asked Mary, surprised by this revelation.

  Turner shrugged. “I told him that I thought the will made it fairly clear that he had no claim. That the entire estate was intended to go to you. I also told him that given my friendship with Samuel over the years, I would not feel comfortable representing him.”

  “May I ask what his reaction was?”

  “He was not very happy with me, I guess you could say,” Turner said, with a rueful smile. “Actually stormed out after I told him that. Not a terribly polite young man, is he?”

  “No, indeed. Always had a bit of a short temper,” Mary said. “I used to tell Samuel that he’d come to no good. But Samuel, rest his soul, was always tryin’ to help him out. Never understood what he saw in that young man.”

  “So, has he found another lawyer?” asked Turner.

  “Moffet Strother,” said Mary.

  Turner said nothing and simply raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “He came to visit me yesterday—Strother did—threatenin’ that he and Sam were goin’ to take me to court over the will, unless I agreed to some kind of settlement,” Mary said.

  “And?”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t very polite to him. Told him I had no intention of sharing anything with the likes of Sam. So then he hands this to me,” she said, unfolding a set of wrinkled papers and placing them on the desk, in front of Turner.

  “An injunction?” he said, scanning the document.

  “That’s what he called it,” Mary continued. “Said it prevents me from selling any of the estate—land or property—until a judge decides if Sam has a claim or not.”

  Turner read through the papers and then placed them on his desk. “That is correct. An injunction is actually an order to keep everything status quo—meaning no changes—until a judge has a chance to look at the case and make some decisions. So, essentially, this says that you can’t do anything to dispose of any of the property until a court says so. So, then, what do you propose to do?” he asked.

  “Depends. On a lot of things, actually. First off, I’d like your opinion on his claims about what the will says.” She placed a copy of the will in front of him. “I’d pay you for your time and advice, of course,” Mary added.

  Turner waved his hand in the air, dismissing the offer. “No need for that. As I said, Samuel was a good friend for many years. Happy to take a look at it for you.”

  He shifted his gaze back to the will in front of him. After a moment of study, he looked up at her. “I can see what they’re focusing on. The language is a bit unclear. But,” he continued reassuringly, “I don’t think a court would see it the way Sam and his lawyer do. Let me read it, and then I can explain it to you.”

  The lawyer reached for a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, placed them on, picked up the will, and began reading aloud. “‘I give and bequeath unto my beloved wife, Mary Maddox, my whole estate, real, personal, and mixed, to do with and use as she may see proper during her natural life.’” He looked up at Mary as he jabbed at the paper with his forefinger. “This is the part they’re relying on. ‘If there should be anything left at the death of my wife, Mary Maddox, it is then my wish and desire that my nephew, Samuel Maddox, shall have the remainder of my whole estate at the death of my wife, the aforesaid Mary Maddox.’ ”

  “Seems very clear to me. I get the estate, and when I die, if there’s anything left, Sam gets it,” said Mary. “How i
n the world can they be sayin’ that somehow Sam gets a say in things now?” she asked, both confused and angry.

  Turner removed his glasses and deposited them carefully on the desk. “Here’s their argument,” he began patiently, like a teacher explaining a confounding concept to a frustrated student. “They’re going to argue that this language—giving the remainder of the estate at your death to Sam—creates something the law calls a ‘life estate.’ What a ‘life estate’ usually means is this. A man dies and, in his will, states that a particular beneficiary gets possession of some property—usually a home—for them to use until they die, at which time the property goes back to the estate and then that portion of the estate is transferred to a final beneficiary. The person who receives the ‘life estate’ can use the property until they die, but they can’t usually dispose of the property. Are you following me?” he asked.

  Mary nodded. “I understand. But that’s not what Samuel meant to do. And that’s not what the will says,” she added adamantly.

  Turner nodded. “I agree. And I think a court would agree also—”

  “You think a court would agree?” Mary interrupted. “Does that mean you’re not sure?”

  “Well, Mrs. Maddox,” the lawyer began, leaning back in his chair, “I learned a long time ago that it can be calamitous to try to absolutely predict what a judge or jury might do. Never really know for sure. But that being said,” he added quickly and encouragingly, “I don’t believe that a court would be quick to alter what appears to be Samuel’s clear intention because of a somewhat imprecise phrase.”

  Mary thought a moment.

  “I understand your reluctance to make any promises, Mr. Turner, but I need to know what my chances of winning this case will be,” she said.