Mankillers

The minister echoed her invitation. “Let all come forward who wish to bid her a final farewell and usher her into the presence of the Lord, where there is joy and happiness forever.”

“Amen.”

Buck and the others slowly turned at the sight of half a dozen black men and women, and two small children shuffling toward the interment site. They were all ski

The rector’s words were reassuring. “Come stand with us and praise the Lord in thanksgiving for Emma, for we have come not to mourn her passing but to celebrate her life.”

When they stopped a few paces behind the white people, the minister again raised his prayer book but began speaking without reference to it.

“O God, whose mercies ca

Buck listened without hearing, except for the sobbing of the people behind him. How often had he sat under this tree, teasing Emma as she scrubbed clothes she’d drawn from the steaming metal tub with a wooden stick. As if her hands didn’t burn from the hot lye-soapy water, she would gently tease him back, ever mindful of her place. She smiled so easily, even when she had to have been exhausted, but the joy on her face was genuine when he’d recite “purdy” words from books she couldn’t read. How she loved poetry, the cadence and rhythm of verses with strange words and meaning even he didn’t yet comprehend.

“Out of the depths I cried to thee, Lord, Lord, hear my prayer . . .”

There was open weeping now.

“If anyone wishes to offer prayers or memories of Emma, please come forward,” the minister said. “Let us share the events and good deeds of her life here below.”

When no one came immediately forward Buck spoke up. “I don’t remember the exact words of the bible but the story of the widow’s mite describes her perfectly. Others gave great treasure, but she gave all she had.”

“Praise the Lord,” a woman behind him called out, and suddenly a deep male voice commenced singing:

“Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

“Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,

“Darkness be over me, my rest a stone;

“Yet in my dreams I’d be nearer, my God, to Thee . . .

As they finished the last verse, the gravediggers stepped forward and slowly lowered the casket into the hole. As it was being set in place, the minister closed his book and from memory recited a final benediction:

“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord;

“Even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.”

The gravediggers were pulling up the ropes by which they’d lowered the coffin when Job stepped forward and said softly, “Bye, bye, Emma.” He turned and threw himself against Miriam’s dress. She rubbed his shoulders tenderly.

It was more than Buck could take. Raw emotions cascaded through him, burned his throat and racked his body. He emitted an audible sob and dashed behind the chinaberry tree.

As he leaned against the massive trunk, the former slaves began a spiritual he’d heard them sing many times, even while working in the cotton fields.

Swing low, sweet chariot,

Coming for to carry me home . . .

As everyone was singing or humming, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Sarah gazing at him with sorrow-filled eyes.

“All of us have lost someone dear. We have a saying that death is merely moving from one house to another.”

“She had such a hard life,” he said, barely able to get the words past the burning in his throat. “She did so much for others.”

“And now she’s free.”

He removed a kerchief from his inside pocket and wiped his eyes and face. When he made no move from where he was, Sarah said, “You have so many friends here who are happy to see you’ve returned from the war safe and sound. Come meet them.”

He nodded. “Give me a minute.”

“Take your time. There’s no hurry.” She brushed her fingers down the side of his jaw. “We’re not going anywhere, and neither will they.”

It took several minutes for him to master his emotions, longer than he thought it should have, and even then his control was tenuous. He stepped out from behind the chinaberry tree. Everybody had moved away from the gravediggers and were gathered around the minister’s buggy. Reverend Christian was removing his stole and folding it neatly. He looked up at Buck’s approach, his face somber but soft with understanding.

“She was a fine woman,” he said. “I feel privileged to have known her. She was very proud of you.”

Uncertain how to respond to this tribute, Buck said, “It was a beautiful service, Reverend. Thank you for the prayers and benediction.” He turned to the black folks who stood a small distance away and went to them.

“Thank you all for coming.”

“You ‘member me, Mr. Buck? I’s Rastus. Used to tend your poppa’s horses.”

“I remember you well. I never did meet anyone could calm a skittish horse as well as you.” He peered at the woman beside him. “Lulabelle, that you?”

“Yessir, Mr. Buck, sure is.”

He greeted all but one of the others by name. The exception was a field hand who’d come on the place after he’d left home.

“We sure be glad you’s back, Mr. Buck,” Benson said enthusiastically. “We planting come spring? I knows where you can buy seed. Two year old, but still good.”

“We been working in the cotton gin over to Gadsden, but I sure would like to get back in the fields where things is quiet, ‘cept for the birds and mules. They’s always brayin’, but it sound a mighty bit better than in that gin house.”

“You tells us when you wants us, Mr. Buck,” Dola Rose said. “Just leave word at the gin.”

“It may be a while,” Buck temporized. He looked over at Sarah who was watching him and clearly listening as well. “But I’ll keep y’all in mind.”

They thanked him profusely and started wandering off on foot. He realized he had no idea where they lived or how they’d survived, or until now how much he’d missed them.

Sarah came up beside him. “They sure like you.”

“I never beat them.”

“From what I hear you tended all their needs.”

“Somebody had to.”

She smiled in a way that said it didn’t have to be him. “Well, they haven’t forgotten.”

“You ready to go?” he asked and started toward the group talking with Reverend Christian.

Rex approached. “I’ll be leaving now.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Sarah asked.

He looked a little sheepish. “I have an appointment in town.”

“A lady, no doubt,” Buck commented.

“You know me too well.”

“Thank you for coming, Rex. Let’s keep in touch.”

“Definitely. I haven’t given up on convincing you we need good doctors in Columbia.”

They shook hands. Buck and Sarah watched him limp toward his young stallion.

“There’s something I want to do before we leave,” Buck told her.

He strode over to the cabin Emma had lived in most of her life. On the porch above the door was a horseshoe that had been there since before he was born. He reached up and pulled on it and was surprised it was so securely fastened to the ancient wooden crosspiece. He went inside, got a stool and climbed on it. It still took a mighty heave, but then, with a sharp crack it came loose and he dropped nimble-footed to the ground, horseshoe in hand.

The panicky neigh of a horse caught his immediate attention. He looked over to see Rex fighting to gain control of Scamp, but the stallion was strong and uncooperative. He reared again, then made a dash to the right. Rex tumbled off the side of the saddle, but the foot of his crippled left leg got caught up in the stirrup. Even more spooked now, the horse kept whirling and pitching. Suddenly there was a sickening snapping sound. Rex went completely limp. Rastus, the groom, raced over and grabbed the horse’s bridle, hung on and brought the animal to a standstill.