A Deeper Sense of Loyalty (35 page)

Atlanta by every definition was a busy city. The inhabitants had rebounded quickly. The post office was operating, newspapers were being printed, and rebuilding was taking place everywhere one looked. Considering the progress that had been made, it was hard to believe that Sherman had been there just five months earlier. It was, thought James, so good to see construction rather than destruction.

That evening he lay on his hotel bed thinking about the next day. Over and over again he pictured the house as it had been when he last saw it. He could see Mrs. MacGruder tending the lovely flower gardens and George Lynch repairing a wheel on the family carriage. He thought of Olivia Jones; a wonderful cook and a wonderful person, Millie White, Lucy Sipe . . . where were they now? Darcy Davis's son, Tyler, had gone to war . . . did he survive it? Kate told him they were all gone.

In 1860, James lived in what he believed was a perfect world. What would he see tomorrow? What would he picture in his mind four years from now?

At about noon on Thursday, April 13
th
, James was on the road, only about seven miles from his childhood home. By the direction he'd traveled, he would reach the old compound first. As he approached the lane leading back through the woods an irresistible urge to see it came upon him. He remembered his eighteenth birthday, the day he defied his father by riding back to see the place for himself. He also remembered watching by the wood's edge while his father and the late Farley Tabor whipped Bo Sampson for trying to escape. How very long ago it seemed.

When he broke into the clearing, the first thing he noticed was that the field office and the overseer's quarters had burned to the ground. He wondered if the slaves, as an act of reprisal, were responsible. The rows of slave cabins still stood but were silent and weather worn like old markers in a cemetery. The barns that once hummed with activity had the distinct look of abandonment; the corral that held hundreds of mules was empty and half knocked down. Here and there sat a wagonload of rotting cotton; a true testament to the death of Southern economic power. If James had believed in ghosts, surely, he thought, they would inhabit such a place; restless for vengeance against the human suffering inflicted there.

It was a dismal beginning to his return home. He wondered why triumph was never purely free of concessions. He had spent four very hard years doing what he could to help eradicate slavery. His reward was the realization of his dream. Now he would have to learn to live with the price that was paid. Not for himself, but for his father who had spent a lifetime building his world: Did he regret seeing it in ruins? Why did his family have to lose everything? James could only surmise that the larger the sin, the more severe the punishment.

Of a sudden, a compelling urge to reach the house put an end to his procrastination. He spurred his horse to a hard gallop, and soon he could see the south side of the roof above the trees. He nearly wrenched his horse's neck as he came to a stop in front of the house. Before him was a vision so familiar yet so different that he could not recall spending his early life there. The neglect, dilapidation, and damage of war did not agree with persistent memories of parties, celebrations, and reunions. What once stood as a symbol of elegance was now marred by chipping paint, broken windows, and missing roof slates. Two of the tall columns supporting the roof over the veranda had been shattered by artillery shells, leaving the left side of the roof hanging precariously. As far as James could see, the lawn was overgrown, reaching to the bottom of the first floor windows, and the flower gardens were choked with weeds. The frame of the big barn still stood with its roof intact, but most of the exterior boards were missing. The Union army had apparently paid an unwelcome visit as it had to so many homes.

Scanning the surrounding area, his gaze came to rest on a spot on the other side of the driveway. The family cemetery was bordered on three sides by large Cypress trees. It was the final resting place of his grandparents and now . . . his mother. He had been dreading the sight of the grave, as it was final proof that she was really gone. Now he was drawn to it because in the midst of all the ruin, the little cemetery was still pristine in its appearance. The wrought iron fence stood perfectly straight and had the look of recent paint. The grass was neatly trimmed and all of the graves were adorned with fresh flowers.

James climbed down from the saddle, leaving the reins to trail in the dirt. He walked over to the cemetery, opened the gate and stepped inside. He knelt before his mother's grave and spoke silently to her, believing in his heart and soul that she could hear him. He told her how much he loved and missed her; he told her what a wonderful mother she was. He told her about Polly and about her grandson; he told her she would meet them someday when all God's children were together.

When the visit was over, James was both surprised and very grateful for the genuine feeling of peace he felt inside. He sensed that his mother was close by; his feeling of loss was not as great.

Finally he went up to the house, climbed the steps to the veranda and opened the door. When he went inside, his initial shock returned. The furniture, nearly every piece, was smashed and scattered over the floor. The wallpaper hung in tattered shreds; the fine rugs were slashed and dotted with cigar burns. Mirrors had been shattered, once beautiful oil paintings had been run through with bayonets, rifle butts, or boot heels. The destruction had been out of pure vengeance; there was no other purpose for it.

James stood quietly and listened, he heard not a sound. If his father was in the house he must be sleeping. Slowly he walked down the hallway toward the office. The door was closed. He reached for the knob and turned. He gave the door a push; it swung open, revealing the same scene of deliberate damage. Books lay in piles on the floor; papers were everywhere, nothing had been left untouched. The desk was upside down in the middle of the room and a high back chair was next to it facing the outside wall. James was about to walk away when he heard a quiet sound like someone clearing their throat. Then the high back chair began to turn and he realized that it was occupied. His father pivoted the chair around until he was face to face with his son. James was not prepared for what he saw. The man in the chair had aged four years since his last visit but he looked older by ten. The deep creases in his face looked more like scars from a knife; his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. James could remember his father as a physically strong man with the resilience of an Oak tree. Now he looked feeble, shrunken, and vulnerable; the brace on his bad leg added to that impression.

John Langdon was not yet fifty years old but he would need evidence to prove it.

“Hello, Father.”

“Hello, son. It's been a long time.” He managed a weak smile. “Find something to sit on, son. I have to talk to you.” James found a chair from which the arms had been broken but still sturdy enough to sit on. He sat facing his father.

“I heard you ride up, James. I knew it was you. I knew you'd come eventually. I'm glad. Did you visit your mother?”

“Yes, Father. I loved her very much, I will miss her.”

“I know. We will all miss her. I always hoped that I would leave this earth before her. Life does not always let things happen the way we want them to. Sometimes we don't even get the chance to say our goodbyes. But sometimes we
do
get a chance to make things right, a chance to say things that need to be said. If you will be patient with me; if you will sit and listen, I will take advantage of the opportunity.”

“Of course, Father. I will listen for as long as you wish to speak.”

James was more than willing to sit and listen. He was nothing short of grateful for his father's demeanor. He had long feared that the man would not want to speak to him after all that had happened. Apparently, the events of the past four years had had a profound effect on more than just his appearance.

“I've had a pretty clear understanding for some time of what you've been doing since the day you first left home, but none of that is important now. For a period of time, I reacted much in the way that you would expect. I was hurt, I was angry, and I considered you to be very ungrateful.

“I like to think that I was blind back then. I was blinded by the fact that I followed in my father's footsteps and never questioned anything about the way we lived. I never saw any wrong in it. I became a plantation owner and an owner of slaves, and you were
my
son. I felt that you owed your loyalty to me as I had to my father.

“Even when I fully understood that you did not share my point of view on slavery, I believed that you should and would turn out to fit the mold of what
I
thought a Southerner should be. As I said, I was blind. I did not realize then that a man needs more than fine clothes, a good education; material things. A man also needs understanding, a right to his own conscience, and the freedom to do what
he
believes is right. No man should think that he can buy that away from you, not even your own father.

“When your mother passed away, so did my blindness. The last thing she said to me the night before she died was, ‘Someday, when you see your son, give him your understanding. He is doing what he believes is right.' Then she went to sleep. For days after she was gone, I studied about that. I realized that she knew more about what was going on than I'd thought and she knew more about me than she'd let on.

“So many things came clear to me. I finally understood it didn't matter that I was following in my father's footsteps; carrying on with tradition. What we were doing, owning slaves, was something you could not accept. I depended on your loyalty, but I understand now that you could not give it. You had a deeper sense of loyalty; to God and your fellow man. I am proud of you, James, and I always will be; proud that you had the courage to go against all that you were raised to be because you were right. I only wish I'd seen it sooner; or maybe I did and just didn't have the guts.”

James was thoroughly astonished. He was filled with an elation that was unparalleled. For so long he had been haunted by what he thought to be irreparable damage between him and his father. A relentless guilt had plagued him every day since before he ever left home. Now it was all washed away, knowing in the end, that they were on the same side.

Nothing could destroy the happiness that James felt at that moment. Then his father said, “The South paid for her mistake, son. She paid with many lives, much property, and the time it will take to recover. I do not mourn my material losses. Maybe because of it, I will owe my maker less when I die.”

James noticed something that made him feel uneasy. He could not make sense of it but somehow his father's voice had taken on a different tone. He sounded like a man who was disoriented, waking out of unconsciousness, not really sure where he was. He wore a strange half-smiling, half-woeful expression. He kept talking, but he wasn't as coherent. “We deserved what we got . . . made my peace with God . . . miss your mother terribly . . . glad I saw you, son.”

Then he reached behind his back with his right hand and scratched himself for several minutes with a slow deliberate stroke. His eyes were fixed and unblinking; he brought his hand from behind his back. The pistol appeared from thin air. He put it to his head and squeezed the trigger. It sounded like a cannon; still James heard his own voice, “No!!!”

 

THIRTY

 

Epitaph

 

 

The smoke from the gunshot hung in the air like a dark cloud. The smell was acrid and irritating to the nose. The body was slumped in the chair, almost to the point of sliding to the floor. What had happened? James didn't know.

An hour later he looked at his father; lying on the floor, covered with a blanket, and wondered how he'd gotten there. Everything since the gunshot had been erased. James felt incapacitated. He could not think and did not know what to do. A partial bottle of whiskey lay on the floor near the wall, no doubt overlooked by the ransacking soldiers. James pulled the cork and put the bottle to his lips. He was not a whiskey drinker, but that didn't seem to matter. He took a long pull from the bottle. It burned all the way to his feet and he coughed as the heat of the liquor nearly choked him. For good or bad, it seemed to bring him back to reality and he broke down, crying like a child.

When he could cry no longer, he pulled himself together and grasped the responsibility before him. He went out to the big barn's skeletal remains and found a spring wagon that was still in serviceable condition. There were no horses except the one he'd been riding since Andersonville; the late Farley Tabors'. In a few minutes he had the wagon hitched and ready to go. He wrapped his father's body in blankets and placed it in the bed of the wagon. Then he began the slow, reflective drive into Macon.

There were a number of travelers on the road, both black and white. Most were laden with household possessions, heading for a new home, and hopefully, a better life. James acknowledged no one and no one bothered him. One look at his stoic expression and a glimpse of his unmistakable cargo afforded him a great deal of understanding.

James and his family were well known in Macon. He wondered briefly how he might be received by the locals. The war was over but grudges would remain for years to come. He decided that he didn't care.

He felt no angry stares boring through him as he drove down the street, but he did seem to be drawing some attention. Men tipped their hats; women bowed their heads and crossed themselves. James kept driving.

When he reached the undertaker's, he drove around to the rear entrance where the deceased were carried in. Mr. Templeton was sweeping the back porch when James arrived. It took him a moment, but James saw the flash of recognition in the man's face. He set his broom against the wall and hurried down the steps.