“You are absolutely right,” said Prudence, lowering her head. “I apologize for my unseemly behavior.”
“Well,” he said, surprised. “You? Apologize? I didn’t think you knew the word. I accept your apology, Mrs. Kent. And just to answer your question: we don’t know yet what we goin’ to do with that property. As I’m sure you can imagine, the most important thing to us was simply to take possession of it in a fair and legal manner, to assure that you have no further reason ever to return to Buford.”
Prudence had had enough of pretend contrition. She met his eyes. “On that we can agree,” she said. “When I leave here, it is my hope never to see you or your town again.”
She saw a shadow of laughter flicker in Colindy’s eyes, gone before it was truly there. “Goodbye, Sass,” she said. “You take of yourself, now.”
“Goodbye, Miss,” said Colindy.
Brushing past Bo Wheaton, Prudence made her way through to the front of the house and climbed into the phaeton. He followed, climbing into his seat. Wheaton let the brake off, clicked his teeth, and the horses started
forward. Prudence turned in her seat and saw what she had expected to see: Colindy, standing out front, following her with those impenetrable eyes.
Prudence and Bo Wheaton didn’t speak during the trip back to town except once when she asked him to make a slight detour. He only grunted in response and she wasn’t sure he would do it, but he did. He even slowed the wagon as it passed the ramshackle little cemetery behind the colored church. The twelve parallel depressions in the dirt were still clearly visible almost six weeks later, even though the grass had grown in. Bonnie’s grave was third from the left. But soon, it would not be necessary for a visitor to count off the graves to find the victims of the massacre: Charles Wheaton had agreed to her stipulation that he furnish grave markers and see to the upkeep of the graves.
Prudence could not imagine who would ever need to seek Bonnie Cafferty’s grave. She had told Bo Wheaton the truth when she said she had no intention of ever returning to this place again. Still, it cheered her to know her sister would not spend eternity lying in an unmarked hole. She deserved better than that.
The back door of the church opened just then, and the Reverend Davis Lee stepped out. He was smoking a pipe and had his head down, as if deep in thought. The sight of the wagon seemed to catch him by surprise and he started. Then he recognized her. Slowly he lifted his hand and nodded. His face bore an expression she could not read.
Still, she was grateful for the gesture, for the acknowledgment. In some part of her heart, Prudence was still convinced all the Negroes hated her for the ruin she had brought upon them. It was the one thing about Sam’s plan that gave her pause. In order for it to work, she would have to ask them to trust her—again. What right did she have to ask? And even if she did, wouldn’t they—
shouldn’t
they—refuse?
Prudence returned Preacher Lee’s solemn nod. Wheaton flicked the reins and the graveyard fell behind.
After a moment, the wagon rattled to a stop in front of Miss Ginny’s. Finally, Bo spoke. “Well,” he said, half turning in his seat, “I suppose this is the last we will see of each other, Mrs. Kent.”
“Yes,” she said.
“It’s been a most interesting association. As I believe I told you once, you are the first Yankee I ever had a chance to know on a close-up basis.”
“I’m certain you shall not be eager to repeat the experience,” she said.
He gave her a thoughtful frown. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Some of it wasn’t too bad.”
“It is a matter of perspective, I suppose. All of it was awful for me.”
“Yes,” he said, “I can imagine how you would feel that way. You’ve been through a lot. But we’re not bad folks, Mrs. Kent. We’re just like anybody else, I suppose. Just like you Yankees, come right down to it. We’re just tryin’ to get by, best way we know how.”
She was seized with a sense of having lived this moment before. Then she remembered Adelaide’s father, standing before her in front of the school one hot afternoon with his daughter. She met Bo Wheaton’s eyes. “Another man,” she said, “told me once that people are just people, behaving according to what they have been taught.”
“I would agree with that,” he said.
“So would I,” she said, “but you see, Mr. Wheaton, that is no excuse for ignorant behavior. A man must not be defined solely by the things he has been taught. He must also be defined by his willingness and capacity to learn new and better things.”
For a moment, she fancied she could see her words hitting home. Then he grinned at her. “Ma’am, you sure talk pretty,” he said.
She regarded him for a moment. “Goodbye, Mr. Wheaton,” she told him. She climbed down from the phaeton. The moment her foot was on the ground, the wagon rattled off. He could not wait to get away from her. The idea was distantly amusing.
Prudence waited until he was out of sight, then walked down to the warehouse, eager to tell Sam about the meeting with Charles Wheaton. The idea that Wheaton’s money would help pay for a plan that would bring his town to a halt had her in a giddy mood and she couldn’t wait to share the news with him.
But the warehouse was empty. Nor was the big horse in its makeshift stall. Sam was out riding, then, exercising the horse and testing the condition of his own battered body.
Prudence sat down to wait. It didn’t take long. Fifteen minutes later, she heard the clopping of the horse’s hooves growing steadily closer. After a moment, the big doors swung open and Sam led the roan in. Man and beast were both sweating. It had been a good, hard ride.
Sam stopped at the sight of her. “Prudence,” he said.
Prudence had been sitting on his cot, but now she came to her feet. It was the first time they had been alone together since that day. “Sam,” she said. And then: “I have been to see Charles Wheaton.”
“Oh?” He was latching the door.
“It went well. Indeed, I daresay it went very well.”
Limping slightly, Sam led the horse across the room to its makeshift stall. He looped the reins over the leg of the overturned bench, undid the saddle, and laboriously laid it aside, then picked up a brush and went to work on the horse’s left flank. During all this, he was silent. Prudence approached him from behind.
“Sam, we need to talk.”
She heard him sigh. He paused in his brushing. “Look,” he began, “I need to—”
“No,” she said. “Allow me to speak first, please. Three days ago, you apologized to me for what…happened between us, and I allowed you do it. That was cowardly of me.”
“Prudence, I—”
“No, allow me to finish. I have been thinking a great deal about this. I allowed you to go on as if what happened was your fault, as if I had not kissed you first. I behaved as if I were granting you pardon. That was a dreadful thing to do, but I could not bring myself to face the truth. The truth is that it happened because I wanted it to happen. I wanted
you
, Sam. I still do.”
Now he turned to face her. His eyes were unreadable in the shadows and half light of the warehouse. “I am leaving tomorrow,” he said. His voice was thick.
“
What
?”
“I must go,” he said. “I thank you for everything you have done for me, you and Ginny both, but—”
It was as if he were speaking another language. “You are leaving?”
“Yes,” he said.
“But why?”
“I have to find her,” he said. “I have to at least try.”
“Tilda?”
“Yes.”
“But what of our plan here?”
“You have no need of me for that.”
She felt as if she were falling through space, nothing to hold to, not even an impact to look forward to. Just falling.
“I am sorry,” he said.
Prudence couldn’t breathe. “After we…and that is all you have to say? Sam, please, you must not do this to me.”
“I know. I am so sorry.”
And Prudence, who had solemnly promised herself to refrain from impulsive acts, slapped Sam Freeman hard enough to turn his head. He touched the spot. “You are sorry?” she said. She slapped him on the other cheek. The flat, sharp bang of flesh against flesh echoed in the cavernous room. “How dare you?” she cried and hated the tremble she heard in her voice.
“I am sorry,” he said, yet again.
She held up her index finger as if to warn that his next word might be his last. Sam fell silent. Prudence regarded him as if he were some repellent bug. And then she ran away.
Watching the door slam behind her, Sam felt exhausted.
Stay with this white woman who had nursed him back from the dead, who had given him a home and healing and hope? Betray Tilda.
Go searching for his wife, for the woman he had loved from the instant he saw her, the woman whose image had gone before him in battlefields and a hospital ward and a thousand miles of walking? Betray Prudence.
There was no path without betrayal.
So how was a man to know what to do? He didn’t know what was right. He didn’t even know if still believed such a thing as right existed.
Morning came.
Sam had saddled the horse and was on his way to the loading door when he heard a knock at the side door. Hoping it was Prudence and yet
fearing
it was Prudence, he flew to answer. But it was Ginny who was standing there.
“Heard you leavin’ us,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Thought you might need these.” She lifted a haversack and a canteen. “Put you some biscuits and salt meat in there,” she said. “Ought to carry you a couple days, at least.”
“Thank you,” said Sam.
“You goin’ lookin’ for Tilda?”
“Yes, I am,” said Sam. “Miss Ginny, please…tell Prudence…” And then he stopped, because how he could he finish that sentence? What words could encompass all that was churning in his heart? He looked at the old woman, helpless.
She told him, “I’ll tell Prudence you said goodbye.”
Sam nodded, unable to do much more.
Miss Ginny touched his arm. “You a good man, Sam. I want you to know that. We all doin’ the best we can.”
Sam kissed her cheek. “Goodbye, Miss Ginny,” he said.
“Goodbye, Sam. You take care of yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She watched as he secured the haversack and canteen to the horse’s saddle. Then he led the horse toward the big doors. They swung open upon a morning perfect and blue. He stepped through, leading the horse. His right knee thudded in protest as he swung his leg up over the horse from the right. Sam barely noticed. He was used to the pain.
Sam lifted the reins, regarded Miss Ginny for a moment. “Thank you for everything, ma’am,” he said.
He gave the horse the spurs and it walked slowly forward. He heard the big door close behind him. And then he felt his heart knock painfully at the walls of his chest. Prudence was standing out in front of Miss Ginny’s little house, her hands clasped before her. When the horse drew abreast of her, Sam reined it to a stop.
Without a word, she handed up a canvas sack, closed with a drawstring at its neck. Mystified, Sam accepted it. He sat it on his saddle and was using his one hand to work the drawstring open when she spoke. “It contains about $25 in Union coins. There is also a derringer pistol.”
He considered the gift. Then he pushed the sack into his pants pocket. “Thank you,” he said.
She regarded him with hurt, defiant eyes. “I wish you good luck, Sam. I hope you find her.”
With that, she turned away. He watched her go. When the front door had closed behind her, he spurred the horse gently and it moved away at an easy pace. Only once did Sam look back. No eyes met his. Miss Ginny’s door was still closed, her curtains drawn. The morning he had first started out from Philadelphia came back to him then. He had stood on the bridge,
wondering if he were not making the biggest darn fool mistake of his entire darn fool life.
He wondered the same thing now. And yet, as before, he had no choice.
Sam spurred the horse into a trot and in just a few minutes he had left the town, and Prudence, behind.
Abandonment hung over Jim McFarland’s place like a pall of smoke.
The fields were so overgrown with grass and weeds they were hardly recognizable. The house was nothing but a burn spot on the soil, and the barn slumped as if ready at any moment to collapse in on itself. An awful stench of death drifted toward Sam and made him gag.