The Soldier's Lady (34 page)

“You gots ter save my William . . . Josepha ain't dere somefin' you kin do!”

Micah handed him into Josepha's arms. She took the form, suddenly so frail. Josepha knew in an instant that William's body had already begun to cool.

“I's sorry, Emma chil',” she said, her cheeks wet and a forlorn expression on her face. “Dere ain't nothin I kin do. Our William's God's little boy now.”

A huge sob burst again from Emma as Micah took her hand and led her away. Katie and I were bawling like babies. Micah took hold of Emma's two shoulders, gazed deep into her eyes, then spoke to her soft words that none of us could hear. Then he
opened his arms to her and she fell into them. Micah pulled Emma close.

She leaned her face against his chest and quietly wept.

C
ONFRONTATION

32

D
EEP DOWN,
W
ARD AND
T
EMPLETON
D
ANIELS
probably knew that nothing would be accomplished by talking to Sheriff Sam Jenkins. He had been uncooperative in the past, and with his own son now likely involved in William McSimmons' scheme, he was less likely to be now.

Still, they thought, they should report the matter.

After listening to their account of Emma's abduction and William's death, however, Sam Jenkins showed no signs of reaction at all, least of all sympathy for the fact that a four-year-old black boy was now dead.

“McSimmons was behind it,” said Templeton Daniels again, “and I'm asking you for the second time, Sheriff, what are you going to do about it?”

“There's nothing I can do,” replied Jenkins. “Sounds to me that you've got no proof.”

“We know it was him.”

“Look,” said Jenkins, eyeing the two brothers skeptically, “you two boys keep coming to me with all your
complaints. But like I told you before, you best get them coloreds out from under your roof and back where they belong, or you're going to keep on having trouble. They're living like whites. They ain't got no right to live in a white man's house. The way things stand now, you're just bringing on your troubles yourselves. And there's nothing I can do to stop it.”

“The man's a murderer,” said Ward.

“You can't prove that.”

“Is what you're really saying is that there's nothing you're
going
to do?”

Jenkins looked at the two coldly.

“All I'm saying is that unless you make some changes at that place of yours, your troubles are bound to continue.”

When the four horses rode up to the McSimmons plantation house three days later, Charlotte McSimmons saw them coming from an upstairs window and knew these visitors were up to no good.

She went in search of her husband. The two emerged from the door just as the four were dismounting in front of the porch.

McSimmons' eyes moved over the three white faces—two men and one young woman—without expression, though he well knew who they were and more than half suspected the reason for their visit. Then he let his eyes come to rest upon the young black man he had never seen before.

He was surprised when he stepped forward to speak for the small group.

“Mr. McSimmons,” said the black man in flawless English, “my name is Micah Duff. I had the dubious honor of coming upon what I assume to be an attempted double murder three days ago. I was in time to save one of the victims, a Miss Tolan, with whom I understand you are acquainted. Unfortunately, I was unable to save her son, who is now dead.”

As they listened, the annoyance of the two McSimmons slowly mounted to a white fury at the man's presumption, not merely to talk like a white man but to speak so boldly, and without apparent fear, to the most important white persons for miles around.

“Whether you were personally present, I do not know,” the black man continued, “but you are certainly responsible for the murder. So we are here to ask what you intend to do about it.”

He stopped and his eyes bored straight into those of William McSimmons. But McSimmons had heard enough.

“How dare you come here, onto my property, and make such an accusation!” he shouted. “You—a colored man . . . accusing me. What right do you have to—”

“I was there, Mr. McSimmons,” interrupted Micah. “Do not make light of my words. I know you were involved.”

“You cannot possibly—” began McSimmons savagely.

“Look, McSimmons,” Templeton Daniels now interrupted from where he stood at the foot of the porch. “One of your men dropped this at the scene.”

He walked forward and held up a torn and crumpled piece of paper. Slowly he unfolded it and held it toward McSimmons. “I think you will recognize the McSimmons
brand on the letterhead,” he said. “I doubt you will deny it came from here.”

McSimmons eyed it a moment without expression.

“What of it?” he spat. “It means nothing. You could have picked it up anywhere.”

“But we didn't pick it up anywhere, we found it at the murder site, linking you to the crime.”

“No court would convict me with ridiculous evidence like that!” laughed McSimmons with derision.

“Maybe not. But you never know. And how good for your reputation would the accusation be?”

“You wouldn't dare, Daniels!”

“That's where you're wrong, McSimmons,” said Templeton. “I'm not afraid of you. You make a move and this whole state will know what you are. I can't
prove
that this is your handwriting,” he added, folding the paper and returning it to his pocket. “But I think you know it is. And I don't think you will want it publicly known that you were involved in one killing and the attempt of a second. It isn't exactly the sort of thing upstanding people like from their politicians.”

“Just what is it you expect us to do?” Mrs. McSimmons now asked. “That one black baby somewhere has met with an unfortunate accident . . . I hardly see how that concerns us.”

“It was not a
baby,
ma'am,” said Micah. “He was four years old. And what makes you think he was black, if you know nothing about it?”

Mrs. McSimmons stuffed down the volley of fury that would have exploded from her lips at a more opportune moment.

“Mr. McSimmons,” Micah continued, addressing McSimmons again, “what I have to say now you might prefer for your wife not to hear.”

“Get on with it, you fool, before I throw you out!” McSimmons glanced at his wife but she made no move to go.

“I understand it is your intention to run for Congress,” Micah went on. “My friends and I—Miss Clairborne and Mr. Ward and Mr. Templeton Daniels—are going to ask you to change those plans and step down. You are not the sort of man who should represent the people of North Carolina in Washington.”

“This is the most absurd—” huffed McSimmons, nearly speechless with wrath.

“If you do not, it will be made public that you arranged for the murder of a black child . . . your own son, in fact. Do not underestimate the consequences to you both should the fact be printed in the Charlotte newspapers that you arranged for the killing of your own son. We will take this paper to Charlotte personally and let it be known where it came from. Do not think that we will not do as we say. Good day, sir . . . ma'am.”

Micah turned and rejoined the other three. They remounted their horses and walked slowly away from the house, leaving the candidate and his wife in stunned silence.

G
RIEF
, H
EALING, AND
M
ORE
T
RAGEDY

33

T
he next weeks at Rosewood were bittersweet; there's no other way to describe them. The heartbreak over William's loss was so deep it affected us all—though no pain could come close to a mother's loss of her own child. Emma's grief was worlds beyond any of the rest of ours.

We buried William beside Katie's family, in the little plot of graves not far from the house. Everyone wept, even Papa and Uncle Ward. The pain we all felt for poor Emma was so deep. We had all come to love her so much. To see her suffer the loss of her son was one of the hardest things any of us had ever gone through. The two men were so tender toward Emma that you'd have thought she was their own daughter. They must have taken her in their arms five times a day for the next week and just held her a few seconds in consolation.

But in the midst of all that, Emma now had
Micah's love to surround her and give her courage and strength to endure the supreme grief that God himself also had to endure—the loss of a son.

We all watched them daily leave the house to walk slowly and quietly through the fields, Emma leaning against him as Micah's arm tenderly held her to his side. The soft words passing between them were ones the rest of us never heard. We were all so grateful for the love she had found. How she could have endured William's loss without Micah, I cannot even imagine.

When word began to spread through the communities of Greens Crossing and Oakwood, and from there to Charlotte, and then throughout all of North Carolina, that William McSimmons had decided to withdraw from the congressional race, speculation ran rampant about the reasons for his decision.

Nobody knew anything for sure, though there were rumors. Some of these involved his wife. Others involved a child of dubious origin. Still others hinted at wider scandal, even murder.

But nothing was ever learned for certain, and the former candidate never disclosed anything more than “personal reasons” as prompting his action.

The rumors, however, were enough to set the community abuzz about what more might have been involved.