CHAPTER 40
Within a few weeks the countryside would erupt first with the news of General Lee’s surrender at Appomattox Court House and only six days later, on Holy Saturday, hordes of drunken men would spill out into the streets of Greensboro, cheering the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. The face of the country and the face of Reconstruction would be forever changed.
Beyond the porch overhang, the clouds stretched near to tearing. The rocker creaked as Ginny eased her back into it. The respite was fleeting. As Ginny rolled her head to stretch her aching neck, she spied the pot of nasturtiums, spindly orange and yellow, too dry even for nasturtiums. Ginny had nursed them in that pot all winter, trying to provide enough sun to keep a little joy in her cabin. In her fatigue, she tried to ignore them, but duty and the habits of a lifetime won. She rose and headed for the well.
As the bucket sloshed its way up, Ginny turned at the sound of an approaching horse. She recognized Shaver, a slim, nervous man, the color of almonds, who had appeared one day from unknown origin or history and settled in to help Adeline. He rode Adeline’s blue roan.
“You thirsty?” Ginny said, reaching for the gourd.
“I am, thank ye,” Shaver said, dismounting.
“What you need, Shaver?”
“Nothing. Got news. Can’t say good or bad. Old Man Slate finally drunk himself to death. Miss Adeline told me to come on over and give the news to you, Ginny. Found him this morning in the shed.”
Ginny nodded, puzzling on how, or even if, to break this news to Emily. “Miss Adeline all right?”
“She’s all right. Not much different from any other day.”
“Tell Miss Adeline I’ll ponder the news.” Ginny untied and retied her apron strings. “You be careful riding hereabouts. Got your papers?”
“Hell, yeah. War’s over and I’m a free nigger, woman.” Shaver remounted.
“Free nigger don’t mean you a safe nigger, now do it?” she said.
The bucket teetered on the rim of the well. Ginny hauled it to the porch and poured a stream of water on the nasturtiums. News or no news, life demanded her.
* * *
A torrential rain came in the night. Benjamin’s tin roof had been alive with it, the air charged with the electrical energy of lightning. The morning dawned soggy and gray, the earth pulpy and scattered with debris.
Sleep had been fleeting. The nightmare had shaken him like a hound killing a rat. In the dream, lightning had entered the room. Its flickering touched nothing, but held him prisoner, knowing that to put his foot out was to enter a river of lightning. He sat up, thinking he could wake himself enough to end the dream. Ain’t nothing but a dream, he thought. But as his eyelids sagged again, the swirling currents recommenced. So he asked out loud, “What you want from me?” The answer he heard was that something must die. In the middle of the floor stood a man with long dark hair and beard. He held out a hand and beckoned. Benjamin stepped into the river of lightning, astonished to find himself alive and free. The man disappeared. Benjamin was alone with his disbelieving hope.
In the wake of the dream, Benjamin had slept, a hard sleep that left him exhausted. When he heard Lucian stir in the early dark, he had difficulty rising. The bed, the sheet, his nightclothes all felt laden with the storm. As he followed the sounds of Lucian’s preparations, Benjamin pulled at his lower lip with his fingers. He rubbed at his thigh, aching now with the wet weather.
He stood watching his son thrust his few possessions into a damp croker sack.
“Morning, Daddy,” Lucian said, tying the sack and depositing it by the steps. He braced himself against the post and faced his father. “You gone be all right, Daddy. Samantha got you now.” His voice was hoarse.
Benjamin did not answer. He searched the dim outlines of Lucian’s features, seeking the soft face of the boy who no longer existed. “Where you gone go, son?”
“North. I don’t know, just north.”
“Got your papers?”
“Don’t know as I need them, but I got them. Miss Emily give them to me yesterday. Look all official, by the judge’s hand and signature. Reckon he fix them a long time ago. Papers for a boy. Description don’t match me no more, but I don’t reckon it matters. War over and we all free, anyway, thanks to Mr. Lincoln, even if he dead. Miss Emily give me some Federal dollars. Don’t know where she got them or if they worth the paper they on. Don’t reckon she had many, but she give me what she had. She say, ‘You take care.’ Bout all she say. Seem like she want to cry and she went on back in the house.”
“North is a big place,” said Benjamin, pulling at his beard.
“I know.”
“Long way from home, boy.”
“Ginny fix me eight days’ ration. I got it all in the sack.”
Benjamin walked to the edge of the porch. He took his clay pipe and handed it sideways to his son. Lucian took it.
“Judge give me that when he first bought me. Brought me here with a load of scars, just a good-size boy. He say, ‘Benjamin, a man needs a good pipe.’”
Lucian put the pipe in his pocket and picked up the coarse sack. One step down, he turned and put his free arm around his father. Benjamin’s arms hung slack at his sides.
“You know where home is,” Benjamin said. “You ain’t no prodigal son.”
Lucian nodded. He lifted the sack to his shoulder and stepped out onto the wet road, the pools of the night’s deluge mirroring his reflection and the indiscriminate light of a colorless sky.