The Rebel Wife (36 page)

“Henry, you’re safe. We’re going to be safe. Mama is back.” I kneel beside his bed. He is in my arms. He is crying and doesn’t know why but that he wants to cry. Through the window, even through the heavy rain and wild wind, there is an orange glow over the trees, rising up against the storm.

Emma steps behind me. “Whose house is that?” she asks, keeping her eyes on the orange light.

“Judge’s house,” I whisper, holding Henry close to me. “Judge’s house.”

Emma puts a hand on my shoulder. I feel as if my blood has suddenly reawakened, as if my heart is pumping again after being still for a long time. I am alive again. It is my father’s blood in me. Hill had the same blood. And Mike. It is their blood, too, pushing through me.

There is a pounding like cannon fire, close. Is it thunder? It sounds again. I let go of Henry and look at Emma. Her eyes are wide with terror. There is another loud crack. It is not thunder, even though the wind roars and lashes rain against the windowpanes. It is coming from the house. From downstairs.

“Gus!” A shout. A howl louder than the wind. The howl of a wild animal, caught in a trap. “Gus!”

“Buck,” I say. My mouth is dry. Emma is frozen, and Henry starts crying again. “Give me the gun. Take Henry to the barn. Quietly. Through Eli’s office.” Emma digs the pistol out of her pocket and hands it to me. She gathers Henry up in her arms.

I am already through the door. “Quietly,” I say. Emma holds Henry against her and steps slowly down the back stairs. I close my bedroom door and bolt it. My skirts are soaked and drag at my feet. My hands tremble. There is another pounding and then a crash. He has kicked the door in. I am at the top of the stairs. I shove the gun in the pocket of my soaked dress and hold tightly to the banister. The shaking seems to overwhelm me.

“Gus, where are you.” Buck is screaming.

“I’m here, Buck,” I call out. One step at a time down the stairs. He is a silhouette standing in the dark hall, the front door open behind him. The rain surges in, lashed by the wind.

“Pa is dead,” he says, and he looks up at the ceiling, bringing his hands to the sides of his head. His voice is thick, as if he has been drinking. “The house is on fire.”

My hand twists in my pocket, feeling for the gun, for the loop and trigger.

“I saw you running from the house. What did you do, Gus?” He lurches forward. Water drips off his black hair and chin. He is possessed by a senseless rage. He must have done that damage at the mill. “Did those niggers do it? Why were you at Pa’s house? Are you helping them?”

“I did it, Buck. They had nothing to do with it.” I slip the gun out of my pocket and point it at him. I brace myself against the banister.

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak. He shakes his head. “You’ve lost your mind.” The words come heaving out of him. “You don’t know your own mind anymore. Is this what Eli did to you? After everything we’ve all suffered. I can still hear the cannons, Gus. I hear them every day. And you go and join up with the people we are protecting you from.” He steps toward me. I raise the gun.

“I can see with my own eyes, Buck. Eli didn’t do anything to me. I know who you and Judge are. I can see the poison in all of you.”

“Poison? We’re getting the poison out, Gus. We’re fighting to save us all from chaos, from madness! God is on our side!” His voice rises to a shriek.

“God should strike you dead. Like the night of the barn dance? You coward, that’s how you fight?” My hand is shaking. Water drips from my sleeve.

He shakes his head, and the rainwater scatters. The force of the wind throws the front door back on its hinges. It slams into the wall and swings back. “We were attacked that night, Gus. I
was
protecting you.”

“You’re a liar. Why would you be so stupid as to tell Mike something that awful? It was planned. You and Judge did it. And now Mike is dead because of you and Judge.”

“Those niggers killed Mike. They stole something that wasn’t theirs, and they got what they deserved. You should be pointing that gun at them.”

“It’s all gone now, Buck, burned to ashes—the list and the money. You’ll never have any of it in spite of the killing you’ve done.”

“Why are you doing this, Gus? Why are you doing this to me? You had everything you needed. Why couldn’t you listen to Pa?”

“You all act like you are so honorable, but you aren’t. Not like Hill was. Or Pa. You tragic coward. You really do whatever your pa tells you.”

“I don’t want to have to do this, Gus.” He steps closer to me. “You know that I’ve always loved you, even when you were with Eli. I won’t take this from you. You’re the one full of poison. And I’ll rip it right out of you.” He takes another step.

I hold the pistol out from me. My hand grips the banister so tight it will break. “I will shoot you, Buck. I’m just afraid the bullet won’t kill you.”

He takes another step toward me. Another. The shadows hide his face. He is a black figure moving closer. I have to shoot him. I aim and pull the trigger. There is only a click. A misfire. The powder is wet.

He leaps at me and wrests the gun from my hand, flinging it aside. “I’ll rip the nigger lover out of you, Gus,” he says.

I fall back on the stairs. He is on top of me. His face is wild with rage. He presses his mouth against my face, hard. The taste of metal is on my tongue. He holds my wrists, pressing them into the sharp edge of the steps. His legs are over me, pinning me down. The bones will snap. I am screaming, but there is nobody to hear. He tears at my bodice, pulling and ripping at my skirts. The thunder cracks over us as if the house has been hit by a shell. Buck rears up and his body loosens. The pressure is gone. He looks into my eyes, and a small ribbon of blood comes from the corner of his mouth. He sighs, and his eyes roll back in his head. He falls backward off the stairs into a pile on the floor.

Simon is standing at the open doorway. A thread of smoke twines from the muzzle of the gun he is holding.

“Oh, Simon,” I whisper. “Thank God you’re alive.”

IT IS JUST AN
hour before sunrise and Simon must go. He must find that sad caravan and join them on their way to Kansas. He insists on going and he cannot stay in Albion. It is his duty, he says. And it is mine to stay here. The army will move in now. The sickness will abate. After last night, it is hard to worry about the sickness.

Simon was in the barn even before I got back from Judge’s. He brought Little John with him. Emma must have thought a miracle had happened when she found them there. It must have been some sort of miracle. I stood with Simon while he dug a common grave for Mike and Buck in the soft earth under the grape arbor. The rain dripped through the leaves onto us. He told me Garson had too much to bear already with what had happened. He couldn’t worry about an orphan boy, too. He laughed as he said it as if he were laughing at himself. Then he held the shovel and looked at me, both of us shivering dark shadows under the dripping leaves.

“I took him for me. And for Rachel. He will be my son.”

“You are good, Simon,” I said.

“I have a lot to make up for.” He forced the blade of the shovel into the earth and continued digging. The graves are flat now. Simon cut the turf over them and carefully replaced it. In a week or so, they will not be visible. And if they are, what can anyone say when there are so many new graves everywhere?

I don’t know how we slept last night.

Emma and I shared my bed with Little John and Henry tucked in between us. They curled up tight together and slept so soundly. Emma and I looked at each other for a long while. It has been so long since we shared a bed like that. Not since I was a girl. She took my hand and smiled. Her hands feel so good.

Simon slept in the nursery, but the doors were open, and I could hear his even, full breathing. It pulled at me. What will we do without him? We will go on. We have money and the house and whatever is left to us from Eli and from Judge after this chaos. But Simon will be missing. He will be an empty place, always waiting to be filled. I will wait for him. I know Emma will, too. He will come back to us.

Simon walks onto the back porch with Little John. Emma and Henry are close beside me. We are in our wraps and nightclothes. The morning mist is heavy, and the dark gray silhouettes of dawn rise up before a rose-edged sky. They must go before the light.

“Say goodbye to Simon, Henry. Shake his hand.” Simon smiles at me. Henry steps toward him and holds out his hand.

“You be a good boy, Mr. Branson, and listen to your mama,” Simon says. Little John reaches out to shake Henry’s hand, too. Henry reaches for him, and they give each other a hug and cautious kisses on the cheek.

“Good, Henry,” I say. “Tell Little John that you will write to him.” He nods and holds on to my skirts.

Simon hugs Emma and whispers something in her ear.

Then he is before me. I do not know what to say to him.

“Thank you, Gus,” he says.

“Thank you, Simon.” I step off the porch and put my arms around him. He holds me for a moment, the two of us pressed against each other. He will come back. I am certain he will. “And I have this for you.” I pull the bundle of newspaper from my pocket and put it in his hands.

“What is it?” he asks, and unfolds the paper and looks inside. “I can’t take this from you. Not now.”

“Yes, you can. It is yours. We had an agreement. That is your half.” I feel as if my whole body is smiling at him. “I do not want to be someone who dishonors an agreement. Take it. I want to see the good you will do with it.”

He smiles back. “As you say.” He winks at Emma. “We should be on our way. Right, Little John?” He takes Little John’s hand. “But you can’t be little anymore. You’re going to have to be a man to help me. You’ve got to be big now.”

“Yes, sir,” Little John says in his small voice. They turn and walk away down the gravel path to where the horse waits, tethered by the trough. Simon lifts Little John up and sets him in the saddle, then climbs on himself.

Emma puts her arm through mine, and we lean against each other. Henry stands between us, nestled in our skirts.

“What did he say to you, Emma?” I ask.

Emma smiles but keeps her eyes on Simon. “He just said he’s putting me in charge until he comes back. He wants me to watch over you, but he knows well enough you don’t need watching over.” She laughs and I pull her closer to me.

Simon and Little John ride down the lane in the half-darkness toward the wooded trails that lead to the mill. The air is still but cool. The leaves droop off the trees, exhausted from the storm. He will come back.

There will be more like Buck and Judge, but I know what they look like now. I will be ready for them. I feel that there will always be something lurking in the darkness of the trees—whether it is the sickness or the Knights or blind hate. I know what it looks like. I will keep a gun with me, and I will be ready for it. I will make sure the powder is dry and Henry is close to me. I will take him to Eli’s grave. He should know who his father was—everything about him. And Simon will come back. I know he will.

THIS IDEA WAS BORN
many years ago, and I have spent much time since then in research to try to recapture a sense of place and time. All those hours reading and poring over period documents can be a lonely process, but producing this work was not at all one of monastic isolation. I want to thank the good friends and family who were with me throughout this process. I owe a huge debt to my great and wonderful mentor in the master of fine arts program at Wilkes University who guided and goaded me to complete this manuscript, the very talented teacher and writer Kaylie Jones. Through Kaylie, I had the great good fortune to meet my agent, Trena Keating. Trena worked tirelessly and generously with me for many months, helping sculpt this novel into its final form. Without her, this book would have been very different. Through Trena, I had another stroke of good fortune in working with Trish Todd of Simon & Schuster. She connected with the book immediately and has remained a devoted believer. Other readers who gave critical feedback include Dr. Nancy McKinley, another faculty member of the Wilkes University creative writing program, whose knowledge of the period and insights into human behavior were indispensable, and the late Norris Church Mailer. I was privileged to receive a scholarship in her honor during my study at Wilkes. She immediately asked to see my book and generously read through a draft, including two different endings. She gave me honest and important criticism. Hers is a voice that is greatly missed.

David E. Lazaro, collections manager at Historic Deerfield, generously gave his time to the manuscript. Stephen Borkowski provided much guidance and his incomparable artistic acumen. I would also like to thank Beth Thomas for her detailed and thorough copyediting. And thanks to the city of Huntsville, Alabama, the model for Albion. The Heritage Room at the Huntsville Public Library is a researcher’s dream come true. The antebellum historic district is a place in which you can easily find yourself a time traveler. And I have had some truly transcendent experiences at the Weeden House Museum, thanks to its director, Barbara Scott.

MASSIVE SOCIAL AND ECONOMIC
upheavals altered the physical and human landscape of the Deep South after the Civil War. For many whites, it was the end of the world; for many blacks, it was the beginning of a new one. From the time of emancipation in 1863 through the end of congressional Reconstruction in the mid-1870s, the recently freed people saw a dizzying amount of legislation pass Congress that guaranteed their rights and provided the means to protect those rights. In practice, however, enforcement was often difficult or impossible because of the open hostility of many white Southerners and the terrorist activities of secret paramilitary organizations like the Ku Klux Klan and the Knights of the White Camellia.

The Civil Rights Act of 1875, the crowning (albeit posthumous) achievement of Massachusetts Senator and radical Republican Charles Sumner’s career, typifies the strange paradox of Reconstruction in the South. Congressman Robert Elliott from South Carolina, a freed man, delivered an important and acclaimed speech on the House floor in support of the act, which guaranteed equal access for African-Americans in hotels, public transportation, theaters, and other “public accommodations.” The same year, the Red Shirts of Mississippi, a white paramilitary group, successfully intimidated black voters, keeping them from the polls and enabling the Southern white Old Guard to take back political control of the state. With the presidential election of 1876, a compromise was struck whereby federal troops, the only authority that could guarantee access to the voting booth for African-Americans, would be withdrawn from all states formerly in “rebellion.” By 1883 the Supreme Court had deemed the Civil Rights Act unconstitutional. Many of the same guarantees included in the 1875 act were again passed by Congress as part of the 1964 Civil Rights Act signed by President Lyndon Johnson. But by that time, disfranchisement and segregation had been the law of the land for almost a century.