Touching Stars (30 page)

“I had a rough sketch to go on, but it wasn’t to scale. I’m going to guess this wall was one end of a cellar. And it’s possible Eb and Cora’s house was built directly over it.” He gestured away from the other excavation units. “Extending that way.”

“Why would they bury their trash this close to the house?”

“I doubt the house was standing by the time this was used as a trash pit. It had probably been gone for years. Robby or one of his children had the cabin or its ruins razed, the way my father had the farmhouse taken down later. And if I had to guess again, I’d say the root cellar extended out from the house this way and became the trash pit. That’s what we’re digging up now. It was a natural. Far enough away from the farmhouse not to be a problem, and the hole was already there. It’s probably not the only trash pit on the property, of course, but one they started after this house was razed.”

“When? Do you know?”

“No. After Miranda’s death, a renter lived in the farmhouse until about 1945. Then it was abandoned, and my father had it torn down much later. By then nothing else had been standing for some time.”

“You said you were sorry you got into this?”

“This isn’t a significant site. No battles or encampments we know of, and between the river rising, floods and the plow, any prehistory’s probably long gone. I don’t think any agency will list it. But I still hate to disturb real historical evidence.”

“So what are you going to do now? Fill in this pit?”

“No, now I’m curious. Besides, as close as it is to the water, there aren’t any guarantees it’ll be here after the next big flood. I’m just going to have to watch the kids even more carefully. We don’t know what we’ll find, and I don’t want them flinging rocks around so they can get to the good stuff, like pieces of glass and buttons.”

“You’re a good teacher. You’ll make sure they’re careful.”

“You should see them screen. I think some of them would miss a cannonball.”

She had watched the kids at work. First they scraped dirt up with pointing trowels and poured it in a bucket. Once the bucket was filled, they took it over to one of the two screens Travis had provided, which were stretched across collapsible wooden frames. One camper set up the screen, which stood on two legs, and another dumped the dirt in the middle. Then the camper holding the frame shook the dirt through the mesh to a piece of plastic below. Whatever didn’t go through on its own was broken up and pushed through by other campers, until only objects too large or solid to go through the mesh were left.

Some of the kids picked over every little thing, eternally hopeful. Some gave one careless glance and were ready to trash the contents, unless somebody stopped them and forced them to look harder.

“As a learning experience, it’s great,” she said. “As serious archaeology? Not so much.”

“I have a friend who’s agreed to help me supervise this particular unit. Just to be sure we get this right. She’s training to be an archaeology technician, and she already has a lot of skills. In fact, it’s Carin Webster, who wrote the play the kids are performing.”

She was glad she was finally going to meet the mysterious Miss Webster, but she wondered why Travis had never mentioned her before. The two seemed to have a lot in common.

“You know, Eric might help you finish out the week if you ask him. He’s not an archaeologist, but he covered a dig in Rome during their Jubilee. I know they gave him some training. He’d make sure they do things the way they’re supposed to.”

“He mentioned that to me the night of Jared’s party.”

“He’s looking for things to do.”

“What about the garden shed?”

“It’s going to be a long summer.”

He looked sympathetic. “I’ll ask him. But I’m going to get Dillon’s permission first. He may not want his dad on site. He’s already coping with you.”

“Everyone’s coping with me this summer. I’m definitely not the fair-haired girl. Everybody has issues.”

There was laughter from across the river, then the sound of feet running across the suspension bridge.

Travis glanced at his watch. “The invasion begins. You’re staying for the campfire, I hope. Act Three of the play.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

She smiled at him. “You know, you seem to be the one person in my life who isn’t after me about something.”

He returned the smile, and his expression was warm. “Stick around, Gayle. Things could change.”

1865

A
s the days progressed, Blackjack grew stronger, and by week’s end he was able to make his way downstairs. He spent the afternoon sitting by our well, surrounded and shaded by newly greening sycamores and oaks. A fine gold pollen had turned our grass the color of ripe pears, and when he came inside after this first day of freedom, his black hair looked as if it had been sprinkled by stars.

My days had been spent helping Ralph and Uncle Eb plow the fields in preparation for planting. Everyone knew a good crop was vital to begin recovery from the war, although years would pass before we produced what my father had coaxed from the land when he was alive. When Lewis Duncan scooped a handful of dirt and kneaded it with his fingers, it seemed like a living thing. I had believed that if my father held the soil long enough, vines would grow in his hands, or trees heavy with exotic fruits like those I read about in my grandfather’s books.

My father said that along with books, my grandfather had passed down his imagination to me. I only know I find reading more pleasurable than farming, and no dirt I hold in my hand produces anything but the commonest yield.

That night Blackjack stayed downstairs for supper. The meal was plain and familiar. Beans and corn bread, greens with apple-cider vinegar, a taste of salted pork. We still had dried apples, which Ma cooked with honey Ralph had smoked from a bee tree. As always, I told myself there were many in the valley and beyond whose rations were plainer and thinner, and I tried not to think about our feasts during butchering season in the days when Pa was alive.

“It’s kind of you to share your meal with me,” Blackjack said. “These are hard times to be charitable.”

“And hard times not to be,” Ma answered. “The opportunity presents itself far too often to be ignored.”

He laughed. “I’m told good deeds are their own reward.”

“Full hearts and empty stomachs.”

“At least you didn’t suffer as badly as you might have under Sheridan. I’m reaping that reward tonight, for which I’m grateful.”

“You won’t be grateful if you stay much longer. This meal will wear on you. You’ll dream of butter.”

“A dream common to many in the South now, Mrs. Duncan, while the North eats cake.”

We followed the meal with the brew that Uncle Eb now called “Not so Dandy” coffee. For so long I had not adjourned to the parlor after a meal that it felt strange and unpleasant when Ma asked me to take Blackjack there while she tended to the kitchen.

Dust floated in the last beams of a dying sun. Above our heads, on a frame my father had fashioned for my mother, a quilt hugged the ceiling. When Ma had time in the evenings, she would lower it in front of her and quilt a row or two. This quilt was one she called Virginia Star. She had never told me as much, but before the quilt was stretched out on the frame, I noticed cloth from shirts she had made for my father and some that was dyed the same butternut hue as his uniform. I thought the quilt might be a keepsake meant for me.

I often thought of the quilt my father had carried with him when he’d ridden away to war. The pattern had connecting
X
s, like the lattice at the side of our porch, climbing up and across the quilt surface. I remembered what Ma had called it, and I had asked Aunt Cora why Pa had chosen a quilt called Devil’s Puzzle. Aunt Cora had replied that when lovers signed a letter, they added rows of
X
s to stand for kisses. She thought perhaps Pa just wanted to think fondly of my mother when he covered himself at night.

I had been up since before the sun made its first appearance, and now my eyes were heavy. Blackjack, dragging his injured leg a little as he walked, looked over the shelves of books that were my grandfather’s legacy.

“These are a treasure,” he said.

“My grandfather acted on the stage. My grandmother, too. Then he was the schoolmaster here.”

Blackjack looked surprised. “Clearly an educated man.”

“The youngest son of a clergyman, who was the youngest son of a nobleman in Essex.” My mother had told me the story, but she had also cautioned me to be doubtful. In this one thing she had agreed with my father. My grandfather
had
been a man with a rich imagination.

“And you, Robby? Do you read often and well?”

“I’ve finished what school there is. I was supposed to go to the academy in Lexington. My mother planned for me to go.”

“No plans now, I take it?”

“I read instead, and Ma tutors me. I’ve read all those books over and over.”

He carefully removed one. “The collected plays of William Shakespeare.”

“Only some. My mother keeps the other volumes beside her bed.”

“Your mother is a woman of taste.”

“She was named for Miranda, in
The Tempest.
My grandmother played the role at a theater in Delaware.”

He smiled at me. When Blackjack wasn’t smiling, it was possible to forget what a handsome man he was, but when he smiled, the reminder was direct.

“This is not an ordinary farm, and you aren’t ordinary farmers. Tell me about your father.”

I told him what I could. Pa had left not long after secession. Writing letters had been a chore for him, not because he couldn’t write, but because he had taken on so many duties. Just before his death, his maturity and resolve had boosted his rank to sergeant-major. My mother believed that if he had contented himself with a lesser rank, he wouldn’t have been such a prominent target. But I knew that thousands of men had died at the battle in Gettysburg. Had he remained a private, she would have blamed lack of rank for his death, instead.

“He was a courageous, loyal soldier,” Blackjack said when I finished. “And you are surely proud.”

I wondered how long any of us would be allowed our pride. The South had lost the war. My father’s sacrifice was meaningless to my mother. I wondered how long it would be before I viewed it the same way.

I must have looked dejected. Blackjack tried to cheer me. “Come, Robby, the war hasn’t ended yet. Have faith. The Union’s in turmoil. Our bravest soldiers are still fighting.”

“No, it’s done. Every man who dies now dies for nothing. And Ma says we’ll suffer even more because Lincoln was killed. It will only enrage the Unionists.”

“Lincoln’s death was a triumph.”

I heard the difference in Blackjack’s voice. His concern and interest had changed to something colder.

“Why do you think so?” I was curious, since the only newspaper we’d seen had been old before it had fallen into our hands and hadn’t been replaced by a newer one.

“He was a tyrant. He was a blight on the constitution of our forefathers. Had it not been for Abraham Lincoln, war would never have been necessary. You can blame him for your father’s death. He was responsible.”

My mother arrived with a pot to refresh our “Not so Dandy.” I was glad for the interruption. The hard edge in Blackjack’s voice softened when he thanked her.

My mother looked tired. Like mine, her day had been too long already.

“Your son showed me your books,” Blackjack said. “You’ve done well to educate him.”

“Nothing will come of nothing.” She smiled a little. “You see? I take the books seriously and require Robby do the same.”

“Ma, sit with us.” I took the pot from her hands. “Just for a little while.”

I could see her struggle. She had worked as hard indoors as I had out. She smoothed her skirts and sat. I left and returned with a cup and saucer, then poured her the last drops from the pot.

“Robby, play for us,” she said.

On their wedding day, my father had given my mother a piano. Of my parents, though, he had been the more musical, picking out songs with no music to guide him. He could hear a song once in the morning and play it for us that evening.

Ma was like me. Together we struggled over notes on sheet music, our fingers refusing the unfamiliar duty. I would sooner hoe a row of the tallest weeds. Now I shook my head, hoping she wouldn’t insist.

“Mr. Brewer, do you play?” I asked, hoping he said yes.

“It’s a fine instrument.” Blackjack got up and touched the keys. Even with no ear for music, I could tell it was out of tune.

“It was,” my mother said. “Before the war. Please, if you can play, will you entertain us now?”

Blackjack gave a little bow, then made himself at home on the bench, taking some time to position his injured leg.

He didn’t play with the lively abandon of my father. Blackjack’s playing was careful, with few mistakes and fewer reasons to listen. In the days he had been in our home, I had begun to believe he was a man who cared passionately about many things, but now I knew that the piano wasn’t one of them.

My mother didn’t seem to share my view. She watched him carefully, and I saw the sharp lines of her face soften and melt as he played. Then he began to sing. His voice was passably fair and filled our parlor.

I suddenly understood why she seemed so pleased, and why she closed her eyes as if to hold on to the moment. In the past years there had been few like this, moments when we thought of anything except sorrow and hunger, or when fear wasn’t our close companion. My mother was still young, meant for a life when music and gentle conversation were never such strangers. It was easy for me to forget this.

He sang all the verses, some I had never even heard. So many of our songs were about the war, plaintive or ferocious, but Blackjack had gauged my mother’s mood and settled for a simpler theme.

She applauded when he finished. “It’s been such a long time since anything more than a hymn has been sung in this room.”

He turned and smiled at her. “I’m glad I could be the one to sing it.”

“I would think you a gentleman, with a gentleman’s education, except that new beard hides all signs.”

His hand stroked his chin. “It’s a change in appearance, and I feel in need of one now that my army service has ended.”

“Very soon the summer heat may take care of that notion. Of course, you’ll be on the road by then.” She paused. “You’ll be ready to ride again any day now.”

He looked at me, as if to include me in the conversation. “I had hoped you would let me stay longer. I can pay for my board, help care for your animals and whatever else my recovery will allow.”

I expected to see the sharpness return to her face, but she only tilted her head. “And is our company so intriguing that you can’t leave us?”

“That intriguing and more. But just as important, in a week’s time or two, more soldiers will be returning and the roads will be crowded. I’ll have traveling companions, and there will be less chance of trouble.”

Ma didn’t say anything for a moment. I mulled over his words and tried to think why he might really want to stay with us. If he was one of Mosby’s Rangers, as Uncle Eb had guessed, then he should be anxious to ride south to be with Johnston—if indeed Johnston had not yet surrendered. There might be some value in traveling with others, but only for a man who wished to lose himself in the human tide.

I wondered then if he was truly an officer, perhaps even someone whose name would be familiar to us. A man who wanted to evade capture by his conquering enemy, or perhaps a trial, now that the war had all but ended.

“We’ll decide one day at a time,” Ma said. “We may need your room for another who’s more gravely injured.”

“Then I would adjourn to your barn.”

She gave a brief nod and stood. “Shall we tend to your hand? In the kitchen?” She looked at me. “Robby, will you pour a basin of warm water? Then perhaps you can bring in the tub and fill it so our guest can have a bath before he retires.”

I knew I would be required to supervise the bath, since my mother obviously could not, so my steps were slow and reluctant. By the time I had readied the basin of warm water, she and Blackjack joined me. She sat him at the table and unwrapped the bandage covering his hand as I moved inside and out, pumping and pouring water in the hip bath.

“You’ve never mentioned how you got this,” she said as she worked.

As I passed, I glanced at his hand. I could see that the wound was healing nicely. The swelling was gone and a scab was forming, although the area was so broad it would take time. But the edges were still dark, as if something was embedded there.

Blackjack watched her as she worked, with too much interest, I thought. “I took a bad fall on my horse, and she fell with me, which is how I broke my leg. As we went down together, my hand was ground into the surface of the road. Signs remain, I’m afraid, even after your poultices.”

She lifted his hand and peered more closely at it. “Were there India ink letters here?”

I happened to be watching him. He looked surprised, but covered it quickly. “Youthful folly. Only a small tattoo, and now, joyfully, as invisible as the woman I memorialized. That would be the silver lining to a nasty accident.”