“But she never forgot him,” Buck murmured, saddened by this new revelation.
Miriam nodded. “Emma was a smart woman. She’d figured out a long time ago he wasn’t coming back, but she couldn’t abandon all hope that someday he might turn up. I imagine every time an unfamiliar wagon pulled into the delivery yard her heart did a little lurch, wondering if it was him.”
Forty years of waiting for the man who’d promised her freedom. Freedom finally came, but too late for her to enjoy it. The man never did. May she rest in peace.
“What about the horseshoe? What does it have to do with this Marcellus Deeds?”
“Just before he left, his horse threw a shoe. He replaced it himself and tossed the old one in the junk pile. When your momma took the baby Jesus, Emma went to the pile and got the shoe and nailed it over her door. She took consolation in knowing no one would bother her about a worthless old, worn-out horseshoe.”
“And the baby Jesus?”
“She asked your poppa for it when your momma died, but Raleigh refused to give it to her, claimed she had no right to it. Emma looked for it after the house fire but never found it.”
Buck wasn’t unmindful of the irony. The big, imposing, proud plantation house had been destroyed, along with the graven image of the messiah who would come one day to set the world free of sin. Yet the tiny, insignificant, humble slave shack had survived, along with a rusted old useless piece of iron.
“Why didn’t Emma take the horseshoe with her when you brought her to your house?” he asked.
“After she told me her story, I asked her that very question. She said it didn’t matter anymore.”
So Emma had at last lost hope, yet Buck couldn’t imagine her falling into despair.
“After a lifetime of serving others,” he noted, “everything and everyone that had meant anything to her was gone.”
“Except you.” Miriam stated emphatically. “She liked the kind of man you’ve become, what you’ve done with your life, how you’ve always helped people.”
Would she have felt the same way if she’d found out he’d become a mankiller, that he’d killed Job’s uncle? He’d never know, and perhaps that was just as well. He’d done what he had to do, like cutting off men’s arms and legs while they screamed in agonizing pain. But hadn’t she delivered babies while their mommas screamed as well. Maybe she would understand after all.
What truly appalled him was his mother’s behavior. How could she have been so heartless as to take away the symbol of a young woman’s hope? Did she really think it would be stolen from Emma’s cabin? Or was this another example of the paternalism that was so ingrained and automatic in the slaveholding aristocracy? Safeguarding the delicately carved wooden figurine would have been one thing, but to then put it proudly on display every Christmas as if it were her own for all her friends to admire, in the very presence of the chattel-slave who had the moral claim on it, was, in Buck’s estimation, an act of inexcusable cruelty. Yet for thirty years Mildred Thomson had done exactly that, and during those same thirty years Emma had served her mistress faithfully and even warmly.
What an incredible woman she was. The parable of the widow’s mite wasn’t exactly right. Others didn’t give great treasure, they took it. But Emma still gave all she had. Buck recalled another verse from St Matthew: And the Master said, Well done, my good and faithful servant.
#
Gus ambled to the porch rail. “Miriam, we’re ready to leave. We need to hurry. I don’t want to be on the road after dark. We’ll drop Ruth off at her house on the way home.”
“Take Rex’s pistol with you,” Buck instructed him. “In case you run into trouble.”
“You’re thinking Drexel—”
“Highly unlikely,” Buck cut him off. “If he’s even gotten to Columbia from Charleston, I seriously doubt he knows where we are, so the likelihood of an ambush between here and there is not very high, but—”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“Amen.”
Miriam shot worried glances between the two men. “I have no problem with you carrying a gun,” she told her husband. “You may not be the crack shot Buck is, but you’re competent.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “However, I think it would be wise to keep the weapon hidden. The last time Ruth rode into Columbia—”
“You’re right, of course,” Gus said. “This day has been upsetting enough. She’s already concerned that Sarah isn’t going back with us.”
“We’ll be fine,” Buck assured her. “We have four men accompanying us, and they’re all armed.”
Ten minutes later, after a tearful farewell among the women, Gus shook the reins of the lead team and the caravan set off down the road, heading west.
As the day ended, the vicar served his guests a simple but wholesome supper. The three of them took turns checking on the patient whose pallet had been placed on the floor of the parlor in case he unconsciously made an effort to get up. They spoke of prosaic things, recounted a few bland recollections of days gone by and finally, exhausted by the day’s emotional events, turned in early. Buck wanted to kiss Sarah goodnight—and more—but circumstances mitigated against it.
#
Unfortunately things didn’t fall into place the way Randolph had planned. As the sun was setting, a closed carriage pulled up in front of the Grayson house. He watched the banker and his wife alight, followed by a young Negro girl, and a white boy. There was no sign of Sarah, her paramour, or her mother. Where the hell were they?
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
The following morning Buck and Sarah set out with Rex in the hearse. Since the vehicle was not designed for comfort, they were forced to move slowly over the poorly maintained roads. Sarah accepted the task of administering laudanum to Rex periodically to minimize his distress.
Before they headed west, however, Buck insisted on a short detour back to Jasmine. It would add a few minutes to their journey, but he wanted one last time to see the place of his birth and the simple grave where Emma had been laid to her eternal rest.
Nothing had changed, but for the mound that marked her final home.
“Stop,” he suddenly shouted when they came in sight of the slave shacks.
He climbed out of the funeral carriage and approached the chinaberry tree. Someone had carved a single word in its thick trunk.
EMMA
He touched the shape of the horseshoe in his pocket. So much had happened here. So many lives spent. And for what? He rested his head against the rough bark. Was it all wasted?
He returned to the hearse. Sarah gave him a soft smile that beckoned for him to tell her his thoughts but said she would respect his privacy if he chose to say nothing.
In fact, they rode in silence for several miles.
“I’ve decided not to sell Jasmine,” he announced at last. “I’m not sure what I’ll do with it, but I can’t sell Emma’s home and mine, and Job’s patrimony.”
She placed her hand on his. “I’m glad. It’s your patrimony too.”