Darkness Comes Ii

DARKNESS COMES

PART II

by John Tansey All rights reserved by the author July 2009

I bought new clothes in Washington City and comfortable for walking lace up shoes and a full brim hat. Felt strange it did being out of uniform. I packed up my old uniform pants and jacket, as I could sell them down the road when I needed money. I carried everything in a brown carpetbag with leather handles. My new clothes fit better than my army uniform did. And those new shoes felt good. Into that bag along with a couple extra shirts and a waistcoat I’d need for cooler weather went my two revolvers and accoutrements, and a 10 gauge coach gun. I found operating trains going south from Charlottesville toward Lynchburg Virginia. At times I had to find wagons or coaches going in my direction, as the railroad was still disrupted from the war. But there were road crews: white overseers and black laborers. Their pace was slow, their work rhythmic, hauling heavy rails and hammering spikes into ties. Over time the various lines would be repaired and the old coaches and freight cars would rumble again. From Lynchburg I made my way southwest, sometimes by rail, sometimes by coach, sometimes by foot. My army pay went far. Everyone with something to sell gave custom cheaply. The national currency ruled. And then there were times I rode many slow miles on buckboard and freight wagons, in exchange just for my conversation. I knew there were people of the south who bore deep hatred for anyone coming from north of the Mason-Dixon Line, but all I met, met me well and cordially. They wanted to know about my time in the army, where I had been, what battles I fought

in, and who they knew who was there at that time on their side. I always offered a few coins. Conversation to lighten the journey was usually enough. One Negro man driving a team of mules pulling freight offered me tobacco for my pipe and some corn licker from a demijohn stashed in the toolbox beneath his seat. The corn licker put us both in a convivial state, and his tobacco smelled and tasted like it had a lick of molasses. He apologized for not having more to give me. He wouldn’t take any money. He just enjoyed hearing me talk about the Union Army, Mr. Lincoln’s angel band come to free his people. I enjoyed hearing him talk about jubilees, the gathering of his clan to feast on barbecued pork, greens boiled with fat back, black eyed peas with side meat, melons, licker and cool spring water. Fiddlers and banjo players played and they all danced. A regular fandango! He smiled so at the recollection. My family’s gathering were sleepers by comparison. So I made my way towards Ashville in the hills of the Appalachians. The time was autumn, as I was walking many miles in pleasing weather. I had come to the conclusion that my chosen mode of travel was incorrect. A heavy carpetbag carried one handed just gave my back an ache. I’d not enough money to buy a horse and equipage, but I could probably rent one for a while. With Ashville still some few miles away I trod a dirt road in almost balmy weather, footsore like back in my army days, the surrounding countryside hilly and lush green, small farms overgrown from neglect, a few fields here and there in cultivation. Not much stock. Just some pigs and few cattle. In the direction towards which I walked I saw a small figure struggling behind a plow pulled by a broken down donkey. Gradually I approached and saw the figure was a boy, maybe 12 years of age. “Halloo! Halloo there.” The boy stopped struggling to stare at me. He had managed to plow a row in the small field in front of the small whitewashed clapboard house that must be home. He just stared.

“Gotta’ be tough trying to plough with a donkey pulling.” “What’s it to you, mister?” “I don’t mean nothing. Please don’t take offense. I know times is hard.” “I have to turn over from summer and plant some winter wheat.’ “That looks hard work.” I saw out the window of that little house the barrel of a gun. “Yes,” I said again. “That’s hard work, especially for a young person. Isn’t there anyone to help you?” “What’s it to you, mister?” “It isn’t anything to me. I know hard work, and that does mean something. I’ll help that donkey pull if your folks will let me spend the night in your shed and have some water.” The boy stood there staring. From inside the house I could hear whimpering. The boy looked over his shoulder towards the house, then turned back to me. “We don’t need no help.” “But I do. I’m traveling to Ashville to see Dr. Isambaum. I’ve come a long way. I’m thirsty and dirty and tired. But I’ll help you if I can just have a place to rest. I even have a little food of my own so you don’t need to feed me.” The boy stared a moment more. “What kind of food you have?”

I could see that gun in the window was pointed more at the boy than me, but I was in a line with him. “I have some johnny cakes, some bacon, some coffee and sugar. I’ve a little salt too.” “We have some greens. Johnny cakes… That like hoe cakes?” “I expect so.” “I think me and Autumn might have some other vittles. Maybe we could all make a supper together?” “Sure.” I put my bag down on his side of a split rail fence, and hung my hat and jacket on a fence post. “Let me help you with the plowing. Could you ask your mom to take that gun off’n us? “Autumn, put the gun away! It’s all right!” He turned back to me. “That’s Autumn. She’s my sister.” A girl even younger than the boy emerged from the house and stepped down into the yard. “Where are you mother and father?” The girl whimpered. “Are they gone?” “Yes, sir.” “I’m sorry. These are hard times. Are you trying to keep the farm going?” “Yes. Like Pa would.”

I glanced around seeing that the effort was too great for the two children. The boy saw that I saw. His eyes cast down and his shoulders slumped. “Is there no one you and Autumn have to stay with?” “No, sir.” “Let me lead that donkey and maybe we can get some of this field plowed before dark. Tomorrow we’ll finish it.” “Yes, sir.” It was hard work. It wasn’t even a very large field. We got about two thirds of it plowed. The donkey pulled better the more we did, learning what was expected of it. His name was Sampson. I helped pull. I attached a rope to its collar and looped it around my shoulders and pulled to relieve some of the strain. The boy was good at guiding the plow. He was flushed with happiness at what we had accomplished and confidant about the morrow. I went to the shed where I had privacy and stripped naked to wash with buckets of cold well water. I hung up the clothes I had worn for days and had just worked in, to dry and air out. Dressed in fresh clothes I entered the house. Autumn and the boy had taken what vittles we had and arranged them on a simple plank table. Bacon sizzled in a skillet over embers on the hearth. A steaming pail of greens bubbled on the low fire. “You’re a Yankee, ain’t ya?” “Yes.” “My name is Harley Evers. My father’s name is Eugene Evers. He died at Petersburg. Neighbors who went to the army with him told us he died there. Only a few come back.” “Do you know what happened, Harley?”

“They said he didn’t suffer like some. A cannon ball blows up next to him. They didn’t say if he said anything, so I guess he didn’t say anything.” Autumn was whimpering. “Not all do, and that’s not a bad thing. I saw many men die. Some just got a ‘look’ and shortly they were gone. I think they knew their end was near and they were making their peace.” “Were you at Petersburg, mister?” “Yes. I was there.” “Did you kill any of our soldiers?” “I may have, as things happened. I know for sure I shot and killed one. He had killed one of ours and was gonna kill me. I don’t think he was in his right mind because he walked right into our camp.” We were all quiet a moment as the room grew dimmer and Autumn removed the sputtering bacon from the skillet. “I regret it. Soldiering was an adventure and I made many friends. But I didn’t like the fighting.” “Did you kill that soldier at Petersburg?” “No. That was before Petersburg.” Autumn must have been 8 or 9 years old. She set and served the table expertly. I poured cold well water into tin cups. These must have been cherished possessions. Autumn had placed them on the plank table with great care. “What happened to your Ma, Harley?”

“She got sick. Wheezed and coughed a lot. She tried to keep up the farm but couldn’t. She didn’t stop trying until one morning we found her lying still in her bed after when she usually got up.” Autumn was crying around a mouthful of johnny cake. “The sheriff wrote out a death paper. He had a couple of Negroes from the Stanton place bury her. When the sheriff was gone Old Man Stanton came back with his mean sons and took our two milk cows. Said we owed him. He’s been back twice since to take a wagon and some hay. Said we didn’t need it no more as we didn’t have no cows. Ma had said we needed that hay if it got cold and the cows couldn’t graze.” He was quiet a moment. “Don’t meet up with those Stantons, mister. They’re mean.” Autumn was shaking. Even if fearful she was eating greens and bacon greedily. We all were. “Ma died right before the soldiers told us Pa was dead. She missed getting his letter.” I crushed johnny cake into the greasy mush of greens. A letter? “Tell me about your Pa, Harley, and about his letter.” “Pa was hard. He never hurt us or Ma, but he was hard.” “What did he look like?” Autumn got up and went into the only other room of the little house, returning with a small framed daguerreotype. It was of a woman with pronounced high cheek bones and sunken cheeks, her hair drawn tightly back on her head. “Your ma looks a wonderful woman.”

The man had a sharp thin face, tight lipped. His eyes stared off somewhere, but I doubt he saw anything. “Your Pa looks a good honorable man.” “He was. He worked this place hard. We always had enough to eat and ma was good at mending.” “It must have been hard for you all wen he left for the army.” “Ma put that gun on Old Man Stanton when he came around wanting something. He never came around again until Ma was gone and everyone knew Pa wasn’t coming home.” Autum was whimpering again. Sampson, the donkey stirred. Harley got alert. Autumn became silent and still. Her lower lip quivered and tears rolled out of her eyes. “Harley, can you get out to the shed without being seen?” “Yes, sir.” “Would you bring me my bag.” He was gone, out a back window. I could hear the clink and squeak of tack out front. We had been eating in near darkness, illumined by just the fire and a candle stub on the table. “Autumn, can we make anymore light?” She pulled aside the cloth front of a cupboard and brought out a small oil lamp. I lit it and adjust the wick to give off a fair light. Harley returned.

“Over in the lane, just in front of the house, three men on horses. I think it’s the Stanton.” I opened the bag and strapped on my gun belt with the cut away army holster. I pulled the leather loop off the hammer of the Remington .45. And into my belt I stuck the Lemat. I half cocked the coach gun, put caps on its nipples, and handed it to Harley. “Harley, please don’t shoot this gun. You may kill me. Wait until I’m already dead.” Harley nodded wordlessly. I had terrified him. I shouldn’t have done that, handed him that 10 gauge and said what I said. I opened the door so I could be clearly seen, then closed it fast and stepped aside off the front stoop. “You’re welcome to join us for supper if you like,” I called. Quiet. A horse snickered. At last… “Who the hell are you?” I drew my guns and cocked each in turn so the series of ‘clicks’ could be heard amidst the chirps and squeaks of the crickets and frogs. “Family friend, friend. Who might you be? And would you like to join Mr. and Mrs. Evers?” Again quiet. And then the three turned their mounts and left. I went back into the little house. “I didn’t mean no disrespect towards your folks, Harley. I just wanted them to know something.” “I know, mister. I don’t think they’ll be back for a while.”

“Tell me about your father’s letter.” “He wrote it to ma. Here,” he went to the cupboard and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “His writin’ is small. I have trouble reading it. ‘My dear Trudea’. That is Ma’s name. ‘I hope you, Harley and Autumn are well… I am… myself.” Harley squinted and drew the page closer to his face, blocking the light from the candle and making it harder for him to read. “Want me to try?” Harley offered me the letter, and I held it in the soft glows of the candle and lamp. Mr. Ever’s script was tight indeed. Tiny slanted letters and words. “My Dearest Trudea: I hope you, Harley and Autumn are well. I am myself, although I have never been so played out. The generals have us marching and counter marching. And then we work like Negroes digging trenches and putting up earthworks. I have not been in fighting myself, but it is all about me. All of us are always tired, and if there weren’t much meat on me when I left home, there’s even less now. We get some dried corn and dried peas and are happy for that. I don’t remember what meat tastes like. Oh, what I would give to go rabbit hunting with Harley. Our kitchen garden fed those rascals, and it is only right that they should feed us. You cooked them so good with gravy and biscuits. How my stomach aches just thinking bout it.” Here he had turned the leaf of paper sideways and wrote across in the other direction. “Trudea, I don’t know how I know this but I know I will not come home. The war will get me. I worry bout the Stantons. You know how they want to join our few acres to theirs. They’ll worry you until you give it to them. But get a good price and take payment only in coin. Don’t take script. No one knows what anything is worth anymore, or will be. So just get something and leave that place. Neither of us have family so I don’t know where to tell you to go, but I know you’ll choose right.

“It has been hard. I have not been kind to you and the children. The three of you always been kind to me. I did not know I loved you as I do until now. If I do return to you I will always try to be kind to you, even in hard times.” Here the writing became more compact as he was running out of space on the leaf of paper. “I regret the lost chances to say that I love you. I do, and the children too. And I hope we will one day all be together again in a better place. You loving husband, Eugene.” Autumn’s head lay on her crossed arms on the plank table, fast asleep. Harley’s shoulders shook as he cried without making a sound. At last he said, “I’m sorry, Pa. I’m sorry I couldn’t do good for you.” It broke my heart. “Harley, you and Autumn and your Ma did everything good for your Pa, and he knew it. He said so in his letter.” *** We finished next day in the early afternoon, after which I walked the couple miles into Asheville. This was a quaint community of frame and clapboard homes, small shops, and a couple liveries. I sought out the sheriff: Sheriff Alton. His small office and the town jail occupied the short end of a block long two story building, mostly devoted to a dry goods and mercantile store, the second floor being storage accessed by freight doors and a hoist. Inside was another hoist to lower goods directly into the shop. The sheriff’s office was on the first floor, and the jail upstairs. I found Sheriff Alton sitting behind a large ornate desk. He has just finished

feeding coal into a small oblong iron stove that sat low on the floor in a sandbox. A coffeepot sat atop it. “I know,” he said to me rolling his little eyes. “It’s not very cold yet, but I’m old enough to get chills.” He was a big man, and he had a huge head with deep set tiny eyes, and framed by side whiskers and a pyramid of thick red hair. The coffee smelled good. He was perceptive. “All right,” he said, pulling a thick earthenware cup from a desk drawer. “Here’s some coffee. There’s a little sugar there on that shelf.” “It’s kind of you to offer. I take mine plain. I know it must be hard to find coffee and sugar.” “Not so much anymore. Just expensive. Now, is there anything more the appointed law of Ashville can do for you?” “I’m staying over at the Ever’s place for a few days. I’m helping the boy put in a winter crop.” “That’s kind of you, mister. Are you kin?” “No, I’m here to look up a Dr. Phineas Albert Isambaum.” He settled back into his creaky swivel chair and sipped some coffee. His small eyes studied me over the rim of his cup. “Dr. Isambaum is a good man. What does some Yankee wearing a gun want with him?” He had noticed the bulge beneath my jacket. “I hear he is studying an ‘occurrence’.” “What’s your name, mister?”

‘My name is Ciaran. Back in the war I saw such an occurrence. I wanted to learn more. One of your boys told me Dr. Isambaum was studying this ‘thing’. Perhaps he could inform me. Perhaps I could inform him.” He drank more coffee. “I’ll take you to the doctor’s and introduce you. I am uncomfortable that you carry that gun.” “I am uncomfortable that men came to the Ever’s place last night. Their intentions were not good.” His lips compressed and he looked me up and down. “I worry about those children too. They can’t stay there alone. They’re too young.” “And the Stantons covet the property.” “They’ll get it one way or another, and it will be legal but it won’t be right.” “What could make it right is to find those children a home and get them a fair price for their property.” “And what do you think fair would be?” “Silver in an amount sufficient to make what is right right. Not more, not less.” “Well, I’m clerk of the court as well as justice of the piece and county magistrate. I can have some say in this. Getting Old Man Stanton to agree… That’s something else.”

go?”

“You’re a man of many hats, Constable Alton. Where can the children

“Walk with me to the doctor’s and I’ll tell you about the Widow Johnston.” *** We walked down the wooden boardwalk in front of shops and storefronts. The sheriff’s great head swiveled to look at me as we went. We stepped around bundles and bales, barrels and boxes, crossed side alleys, were grateful it had not rained for a while so the roads were dry and dusty except for plops and puddles of horsed and draught animals. For this was a busy town, a crossroads leading to scattered hill farms and logging camps and sawmills. Even without a railroad this was a bustling place that appeared untouched by the recent war. Animals, hides, leather, tobacco, sweets and spices fragranced the air. And cooking, from a hotel kitchen and a bakery. “The Widow Johnston is all alone. Her husband went off to the war and never came back. She’s a couple of problems: for one, she never heard if he is dead, and without a death certificate she’s kind’a stuck; the second is she has a small place just outside of town but can’t work it all by herself.” “How does she support herself?” “She teaches. Her home is a town school. Children go. Their parents give her what they can. It’s not much but she gets by. People here think highly of her and look out for her.” “What are you thinking?” “Well, those Evers children need someone to look after them, and the Widow Johnston needs help on that place of hers. She has no children of her own. They’d get some learning. What do you think?” “I think that’s a good plan if the Widow Johnston and the children agree.”

“And then maybe we can separate a few coins from Old Man Stanton in exchange for the Evers place.” We arrived before an office on a side alley. Iron rings driven into the side of the building were ready for securing horses. Neatly stenciled on the door window were the words: Phineas Albert Isambaum, Doctor of Medicine. Sheriff Alton knocked and we entered a small front room with flower print wallpaper and some straight backed chairs. A bell pull hung next to a narrow doorway screened by a heavy fabric curtain. Sheriff Alton pulled the bell rope. We sat down to wait. After a few minutes a small slender man in waistcoat parted the curtain and entered the wait room. He was bald and wore a pinz nez. A gold watch chain and fob looped across his middle. “Sheriff Alton, what can I do for you today?” “Dr. Isambaum, good day. This gentleman would like to ask you about one of your studies.” Isambaum turned towards me with raised eyes. “If I might have a few minutes of your time, Dr. Isambaum?” “Yes? So say what it is.” I could see he might not be easy to talk to. “At the end of the campaign outside Petersburg I met a Confederate soldier who comes from these parts. He told me you had discovered an ‘occurrence’ that you were studying.” “Yes? So say what it is you want from me.” “I want to learn more about that ‘occurrence’.” “Why?”

“Because I came across it myself. I shot it seven, eight times before it died. And before it died it said it was going to find me.” He studied me. “What was that soldier’s name?” the Sheriff asked. “He said his name was Rupert. I don’t know his family name. He had a scar on his right eyebrow, dividing it in two.” The Sheriff’s mouth compressed shut. “Come back here,” the Doctor said. He parted the heavy curtain and we entered the back room, his examination room. The Sheriff had to turn sideways to pass through the narrow doorway. In the middle of the small examination room was a contraption with a thinly padded leather surface that could be contorted and folded into different shapes for the purposes of examination – a sort of platform or table. There were shelves of bottles containing dry and wet substances. A shelf held shallow metal pans and fine looking doctor tools. There was a device with shallow grooves and a roller that I figured was for making pills. There were also small lamps, rubber tubes, things I could not identify. There was a fragrance of herbs and medicines. I had never been in a doctor’s office before. It made me feel queasy, even after my experiences on the battlefield. Out there the doctors and their assistants practiced horrific things on the wounded. “Tell me about this occurrence,” the Doctor said. “It was after a battle. It was the very early hours before dawn. There was an unearthly howling that approached our camp. Bursting into our midst came this… creature. It appeared big, arms going every which way. It attacked one of us and sent a man flying with a swipe of its… hand. Then it came after me. I shot it with a pistol, at least seven times.” “How could that be?” Sheriff Alton asked.

“You mean how many times I shot? I have a Lemat revolver.” The Sheriff nodded. By the time I finished shooting the creature had fallen back against a tree, just sitting there bleeding. It said, “I’ll find you.” It said that twice. Its eyes were red. When it got light we could see this was a man. And not a big man. But in the night he seemed twice as big, and he was at least twice as strong as a man his size ought to be. His body was all strange angles, jutting muscles and sinews, and his hands were like claws.” The Doctor listened intently. I could hear Sheriff Alton breathing, his lips still compressed shut. “Yes,” the Doctor said. “It appears you and I have something in common. Why did you find it necessary to shoot the man?” “Because he would have killed me if I hadn’t.” “You knew that?” “It was a day of killing. Thousand lay dead already. By the grace of the Almighty I survived. I did not think twice about killing a monster that was trying to kill me.” “Yes,” the Doctor said. “Monstrous at the time he was, but once quelled he was just a man. No one can blame you your actions. Quelling is a treatment for the monstrosity, yet I seek the cause. Here’s what I have used to quell the beast, if I am summoned in time.” He took a small tightly stoppered vial from a rack behind him. “Laudanum. A narcotic that seems to quiet the episode. Will you come with me this evening? I’m going beyond town to the home of a share cropper family. I will come by the Ever’s place about 7 O’clock to get you.” ***

Again we found ourselves following the boardwalk down the main street of the town. Sheriff Alton was quiet awhile before speaking again. “That soldier you spoke to at Petersburg. Do you think he survived the war?” “I don’t see why not. The fighting was done and all the rebels paroled.” “Why do you think he never came home?” “I don’t know that he didn’t.” “I’m sure that Confederate soldier was Ruppert Johnston, the Widow Johnston’s husband.” “If that’s true, then she is no widow.” “She’d be better off if she were. In several years time I could draw up a death certificate in absentia for the missing husband, and she could go on with her life and marry again if she wanted.” “You make if sound like he is a ner-do-well.” “He is. She was foolish to marry him. But she did. He joined the army two years ago and left. It was the leaving he was after. The responsibility of marriage and working a piece of land was too much for him. He liked drinking and playing cards. There was an occasion or two I had to knock him on the head and drag him home.” “Perhaps Mrs. Johnston is… a handful herself?” “No. She is a very pleasing woman. But she came to marriage when most of the good men had already left for the war. When others came home on furlough to plow or harvest, her husband never did. I think we should visit her. She should know.”

We walked beyond the edge of town a ways and came up on the Johnston homestead. There was only a small garden out front. The fields out back would have been overgrown but for staked out goats and a cow. The Widow Johnston herself was leading a milk cow out of its barn to a fence post where she tethered it up with a long length of cord. Sections of the rail fence about the pasture had fallen down. It wouldn’t take much to put things back to right, but more than she could do on her own, being much taken up as the town’s schoolteacher. And at that moment eight children of varying ages came running out of the house, waving and calling ‘goodbye’. She waved to the children and caught sight of the constable and myself. “Sheriff Alton, good afternoon. And who’s your friend?” “Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnston. This here is Mr Ciaren. He’s staying at the Ever’s place a while. He’s concerned for those children.” “That’s awfully good of you, Mr. Ciarren, to take an interest in those children. Are you family?” “No, ma’am.” “My, you’re a Yankee. What are you doing here? Come seeking tribute?” “No, ma’am. I needed to talk with Dr. Isambaum.” “Why, I’m sure you all have something important to discuss. Were you in the Northern Army?” “He was, Mrs. Johnston,” Sheriff Alton interjected. “He was witness to something that Dr. Isambaum might shed some light on. But we’re here to talk about the Ever’s children.” “And how can I help with that?” she said. “Would you consider taking them in?” the Sheriff asked.

“I worry for their safety,” I said. “The Stanton family will get their hands on that property, one way or another. I worry the children might get hurt. Last night three riders were at the property. My presence caused them to leave, but I cannot stay at the Ever’s place long.” “I would be good for the children to be here with you?” the Sheriff said, his eyes screwed up in earnestness. “The boy could fix the fences and help with your farming. The girl could tend to the cow and chickens. The three of you can keep this place up. And we’ll try to get a good price out the Stantons for the Ever’s place. That money will be yours.” “I’ll keep it for the children. They’ll need clothes and things.” There had been no hesitation in her part. She must have been thinking of this situation herself. Sheriff Alton smiled, then shifted his feet uncomfortably. “There’s another thing I feel you need to know about. Mr. Ciarin, would you tell Mrs. Johnston?” “Mrs. Johnston, it may be something of an irony, but the reason I came to Ashville is a conversation I had with someone the Sheriff believes is your husband.”

way.

She was an attractive woman and she smiled in a pleasing, if quizzical,

“You spoke to my husband? How do you know it was him?” “The name he gave was Rupert, and his right eyebrow was split in two by a scar,” the Sheriff answered for me. “That must have been him.” She swallowed and her eyes looked out to some far place. “In your conversation with my husband did he mention his family at all – his wife?”

“No, ma’am.” “Is he dead now?” “I don’t think so, ma’am. I met him after the hostilities had ended.” “Well,” she said after moments of uncomfortable silence. “I had thought myself a widow. I may as well be. It’s all the same thing now, except for the inconvenience of having a husband somewhere who isn’t decent enough to be here or be dead.” We stood about uncomfortably a few moments, then we took our leave. *** Early that evening I explained to Harley and Autumn the plan set forth by Sheriff Alton, the Widow Johnston and myself. Autumn’s face was without expression, but Harley understood. “This is Ma and Pa’s place. How can it not be? How can I not tend the fields and the stock we have left?” “Because it is too much for one person. So the Sheriff will sell it for you. You and Autumn will get the money, but that will go to the Widow Johnston to keep for you. You will help the Widow Johnston run her place because without you it is too much for her to do on her own. And she will teach you and Autumn your lessons so you will get educated.” There was silence. In the lowering light the interior of the little house darkened. I fumbled for a match on the shelf by the rough hewn kitchen table and dragged it across the table surface. It sputtered and sparked to life and in the harsh glare of the flame Autumn’s face lit up surprised and hopeful. I touched the match to the wick of the lamp. That small corner of the little house illumined to a soft yellow glow. “But this is our home,” Harley said evenly.

“Yes. But you will have a new home. And there is someone there who needs you both. Be kind. Help the Widow Johnston and she will help you. You will be a new family. But you will always hold close to your hearts the family you were born into. Things have changed for us all and we must change too. If we don’t we will never get on.” We heard the sound of a carriage out front. “I’ll get the gun!” Harley said. “No. That’s Dr. Isambaum. He’s come to get me to go on a house visit with him.” “The Stantons!” “I don’t think there’s a need to worry about them tonight.” But I nudged his elbow and nodded towards the fireplace where the squirrel gun rested on the mantle. “But keep that close. When I come back tonight I’ll whistle so you know it’s me.” *** It was still light enough to see clearly. The doctor was alone on the seat of the Phaeton. It had a short bed behind the seat. The whole was suspended on metal leaf springs which softened the bumpy, if still lively, ride. The weather was warm and muggy, but the doctor wore a waistcoat and jacket. I was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. When climbing up onto the seat next to the doctor, I tossed a blanket roll into the bed. A 10 gauge coach gun and the Remington revolver I had taken from that captain of the staff during the war were wrapped in it. “What are you talking me to see, Dr. Isambaum?” “What you have already seen. I am trying to deal with it differently than you did. Perhaps I have the time to explore this where you did not. I did not mean to chastise you for what you did. You did what you needed to

do at the time.” He looked at me with consideration. I caught the fragrance of licorice, tobacco and medicine coming from him. “But you are ready to take action?” “Yes, I am ready to be of service to you.” I reached back for the blanket roll in the bed of the Phaeton and pulled it up onto my lap. We only drove a few miles beyond the Ever’s property and beyond the Stanton property, pulling up in the front of a small clapboard cottage on what appeared in the fast dimming light a well worked farmstead. A dull yellow glow emanated through the stretched muslin on the two front windows. Although supper must be long over, the odor of it still hung in the air. My mouth watered. Nothing stirred, but I knew we must be watched. “Hello, Mr. McWilliams! It’s Dr. Isambaum! May we visit with you?” The door slowly opened and a pleasant looking Negro woman in a gingham skirt and apron appeared in the doorway. “Come in, Doctor. It’s good of you to come.” We tied up the pair that pulled the Phaeton and entered the home. It was tidy and well ordered, just like the farm. Three small children played at the hearth by the light of a low banked fire, some absorbing game of little round stones and bits of wood. They watched us enter and smiled at Dr. Isambaum who nodded to them. The few pieces of furniture were rough-hewn but serviceable, all except one which was well made, a chair with finely turned legs and spindles. On a low sturdy stool in a dark corner of the house sat a large Negro man breathing heavily and noisily. “Mrs. McWilliams, this is my friend, Mr. Ciarin. He possesses knowledge of what we are about here.”

“Mr. Seerin, I’m so happy you come to visit us in our home.” She had trouble with my name, but her speech was refined. I put forth my hand to shake her hand. The doctor became rigid, and Mrs. McWilliams looked uncertain and hesitant. The doctor put his hand on my arm to guide me to the darkened corner where the large Negro sat, breathing even more heavily now, perhaps disturbed by our intrusion. He looked at us with narrowed yellow eyes. I nervously pulled my waistcoat closer against me to feel where I had tucked the Remington into the waistband of my pants, concealed behind my back. “Hello, Joseph,” the doctor said. “How are you doing?” The large Negro man raised his yellow eyes slightly to take in the doctor’s face, but otherwise did not respond. I could feel the heat coming off his body and a wild animal smell. His countenance appeared murderous. “Can we have some light here, Mrs. McWilliams?” She went to the mantle and retrieved a slender reed that she lit in the fireplace and brought to us. I had not often seen rush lights. It gave off smoke as well as light. Our scene was better illumined, but Joseph became more agitated. He attempted to rise, but the doctor gently placed his hands on Joseph’s shoulders and firmly pushed him down. “Be easy now, Joseph,” Dr. Isambaum said. “It’s about past that he leaves the house and we shutter the door and windows,” Mrs. McWilliams said. I surveyed the cottage’s interior and noted the door was heavy planked with two cross bars, and the windows each were similarly equipped with heavy plank shutters and cross bars. “My goodness, doctor,” I said. “Just what are we about, keeping something in or something out?”

He merely looked at me and opened his medical bag. He took out a green bottle of a few ounces, uncorked it and poured a small amount into a metal folding cup that he also took from his bag. “Some water, Mrs. McWilliams.” He mixed a small amount of water into the cup and then pressed it to Joseph’s lips. “Drink, Joseph.” He did so, draining the cup and glaring at us. The doctor poured some of the contents of the green bottle into a smaller bottle, stoppered it tightly, and handed it to Mrs. McWilliams. “Can you measure out a teaspoon?” “Yes, sir. I can.” “You measure out two teaspoons of this liquid into a cup. Fill the cup halfway with water, and give it to Joseph to drink. You can keep him inside then. Don’t you or the children drink any.” “I’ll do that.” Joseph’s breathing had become easier and quiet. He leaned against the wall and appeared to sleep. His arms, thighs and shoulders seemed gigantically muscular. We took our leave and climbed aboard the Phaeton. The horse’s clipclopping gave us a comforting rhythm. “Thank you for coming with me tonight.” “I didn’t do anything.”

“Mr. Ciarin, you lent me courage to go there.” He paused a moment. “That Negro will kill me one of these nights. Each time I see him he seems farther along, more beast-like.” “Why do you think this is happening to him?” “I believe it is a progressive type of illness. Like a cancer or consumption, but of the mind and soul.” “How did he get this… illness?” “If I could show you his back… “ “He suffers some corruption of his mind from some wound to his back?” “In a manner of speaking. If I could show you his back you would see. It is a thick mat of scars from lashings. Joseph McWilliams was the property of cruel master, Old Man Stanton – Conrad Stanton himself. So cruel that when the South surrendered and emancipation came to the Negroes, the local magistrate, Sheriff Alton, fined Stanton for the abuse of McWilliams, giving Joseph a tenancy on a small piece of Stanton’s land. Free. Such abuse is sinful. And Stanton burns with hatred of the Sheriff and McWilliams because of that.” “What did McWilliams do to deserve such treatment?” “I don’t know what a man can do to merit what Stanton did to him. They called me to tend to him after they were through beating him.” I could see by the light of the waning moon that he was searching for words. “I did not know what to do. I had never seen anything like that. I gave him laudanum like I did tonight, except that I gave him a dose so large that I expected it to stop his heart. But that heart kept beating. I washed his splayed back with water mixed with a small amount of vinegar. It should have driven him mad, but he tolerated the treatment. Maybe the laudanum masked the pain. Maybe his mind went someplace where the pain could not reach him. I brought him back to town and arranged for him to have a space in a shed behind the laundry. The woman who is his wife worked at the

laundry, and she tended his back and fed him and took care of his bodily functions. He survived. I don’t know why.” “Those children?” “Hers by I don’t know who. But they see Joseph as their father and he seems to be a good husband and father, except for times such as these.” “How often does this happen?” “Every few months. It builds. Not all at once, but a time comes near a full moon and his demeanor changes. Mrs. McWilliams described to me. After a few nights there is a respite, and then the next month it comes on again only he seems to grow in agitation and physique. Mrs. McWilliams gets him out of the house and bars the door and windows. He has a sign that he has become right again. He knocks three times to let her know the episode has passed and it is safe for him to re-enter the house. I began treating him with Laudanum in an attempt to keep him quiet and at home for fear of what he might do while wandering the night, or that he might be killed. The laudanum has a salubrious effect, but it takes ever greater amounts to do so with each episode. Eventually the dose will be so large it will kill him – or so I think.” “Why do you think this happens?” “I don’t understand what happens in the mind that has suffered such torment. This illness is not understood, but it is not unknown. I have correspondents, other physicians, in St. Louis, Philadelphia and Boston who have noted similar cases. I believe if we can understand what is happening in these tormented minds we can create a way to treat it. There must be better methods than laudanum.” Surrounding us was the night music of cicadas and tree frogs. The night air was pleasing and cool, and the way was lighted by the rising, waning moon. Soon we were before the Ever’s place. I whistled loudly and the cabin door opened. Harley looked out and I waved to him.

“I’ll be here a while longer. I want to see the Evers children safely over to the Widow Johnston’s. And I want to help you with McWilliams. I don’t know what I can do, but I do know that people around here are not safe if Joseph is roaming the night in his monstrous form.” “I value your help, Mr. Ciaren. We’ll talk to you soon.” ***