I caught up with him over at the Ridge, digging a new grave in our Rock Wall cemetery. He was wheezing in his pit not eighty feet away, spelling himself after every spade of dirt. I sat my horse and watched him for a while to make him nervous. After a few more aimless pokes, he saw me. He leaned the spade into the corner of the grave, put his hands on the brown grass behind, and kicked himself up and back a little so that he was seated on the edge, doffing his soiled hat to the silhouetted horseman on the highroad. “That you, Will? You looking for me, Will? Yessir, you just name it, Will, Lige Watson is your man and proud to help.”
Realizing the rider was not Coulter, he became aggressive. “What you after, mister?” For the moment, I ignored him, let him sweat a little. I dismounted and climbed over the wall, affecting to inspect the headstone of our sainted Captain Michael. Seeing my poor clothes, he cried, “What do you want here?” I disdained to answer.
Michael Watson’s widow, Martha, had later wed one Jacob Odom, a churlish man of muddy origins who had confirmed the family’s poor opinion of him by making her pay room and board for her four small children. On May 21, 1791, General George Washington had honored the hero’s widow and her children by lodging with them overnight on his journey from Augusta to Columbia. On this occasion, “the odious Odom,” as Aunt Sophia called him, had attempted to charge the first president of the United States for bed and supper. Fittingly, it was young Polly Watson (rather than some Odom offspring) who was taken upon the presidential knee and presented with an enamel snuffbox containing a new twenty-dollar gold piece.
“Private property!” my father bawled in a hoarse whiskey voice. “Family property!”
When Martha died in 1817, her remains, contaminated by Odom’s name, were forbidden interment in this cemetery. When one of her two children by Odom was installed here surreptitiously, Aunt Polly-the keeper of the gold piece-had raised an immemorial rumpus. An Odom has snuck himself inside the Rock Wall. I want him out! Exhumed forthwith, the half-decayed half brother had passed long dusty days beside the highroad before the disgruntled Odoms came to collect him.
Our Watson stones were of white marble set on brick foundations. Captain Michael’s son Elijah (the Old Squire) was present, as well as Elijah Junior (the Young Squire) and his brother Artemas, my grandfather. And here was my father’s youngest sister, late wife of Robert Myers of Columbia and my great-aunt Ann Watson Myers, dead at twenty-two:
A MYSTERIOUS PROVIDENCE VERY SUDDENLY REMOVED THIS WIFE AND MOTHER OF THREE SMALL CHILDREN FROM THE RESPONSIBILITY OF TIME TO THE AWARDS OF ETERNITY.
Great-Aunt Ann’s Robert was the brother of Colonel William Myers who had married Laura Watson, and the “three small children,” somewhat older than myself, included the two nephews in William Myers’s will who were supposed to inherit Ichetucknee but would only do so over Sam Tolen’s dead body.
• • •
“Hold on, mister! This is Watson property!” Wary of the stranger’s silence, my father had clambered up out of his grave; when I turned toward him, he took up his shovel. Behind him, in the corner of the wall, brown leaves swirled like winter sparrows in the cold wind eddies. I let the revolver slide into my hand, hoping he might make my mission easier by using force in an attempt to drive me out. I’m sure he was considering this as he sidled forward but something gave him pause. “E. D. Watson, at your service, sir!” Nervous now, he tried to laugh, indicating the fresh grave. “Looks snug enough to curl right up in, don’t it? Got half a mind to have a snooze in there myself.”
“Do it,” I said.
Disconcerted, my father laughed too loudly and too long, in that drunkard’s conviviality that so easily turned nasty. He was already squinting in suspicion, trying to make out the man behind the beard.
Lige Watson had changed, too, not for the better. He was shiny-skinned, unshaven, with a pulpy nose and thinning greasy hair with yellowed gray hanks down to the shoulders. When he saw the revolver in my hand, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils dilated in a kind of snarl and his grip shifted on his spade. The scar circling that popped eye of his was livid.
Ring-Eye straightened kind of slow while he figured his next move. “Old soldier,” he blustered, pointing at his eye. “A poor man like yourself.” A moment later, his eyes widened and he forced a garish smile, spreading his bony arms for an embrace. “Edgar,” he gargled. And he shook his hoary head in awe of that Mysterious Providence which had returned the long-lost prodigal to the pining father. Shortly he abandoned this farce, too, crouching a little, hefting the shovel, undecided whether to charge right now or work his way in closer.
An impatient sideways gesture of the revolver barrel persuaded him to drop the shovel. He looked me over, nodding. “Never come to much, I see, no more’n I did.” His old pants snapped in the wind, his wheeze was rapid, his eyes darted. He could not fathom why I remained silent. “Your mother and sister,” he pled next. “They’re getting by all right?”
I waved the revolver toward the open grave. “Do it,” I repeated.
“Come to kill me, Edgar? In cold blood?” Sneering, he lifted his filthy coat, pulled out his empty pockets. The sneer was for his own rags, not just mine. He hiked his pants, exposing begrimed shins and broken boots-he had no stockings-to show me how paltry my revenge would be. Then he dropped his pant legs and stood straight, took a deep breath, and composed himself, looking around the little cemetery at the poor monuments to our departed kin before sinking to his knees at the grave edge. “Still need revenge, boy? After twenty years?” His grin was brief, more like a wince, but it was genuine enough. “Might be the one way I’ll get into this damn place.” Frowning, he brushed dirt off his dirty knees before climbing in. Looking around him one last time, seeing no hope, he lay down in the fresh grave with a desultory groan, folding big liver-marked hands upon his chest. “Give that sainted bitch, your mother, my respects,” he sighed, “and shoot straight like I taught you.” His voice was a little shaky. Though he would not beg, he could not stop talking, eyes clenched tight.
Ring-Eye Lige was not a steadfast man and in a moment would be choking on his terror. “Cold-eyed son of a cold-hearted bitch!” he yelled, to keep his nerve up. “Finish it!” But standing there over his grave, I no longer cared whether this man lived or died. My mortal vow of twenty years had blown away like a bad smell. I’d come all the way across America for nothing.
His eyes were still clenched as I backed away. He thought I was still there. From the damp hole his voice rose in despair. “Shoot straight, damn you!” When he dared open his eyes, in two minutes or ten, all he would see was the grave mouth, a rectangular window on the void of the gray firmament, broken only by the clouds out of the north and the dark wind-borne autumn birds, leaving no trace of their passage down the sky.
At the Artemas Plantation, the black ruin, bound in creeper vine, seemed smaller, all drawn in upon itself. My fields, descending to Clouds Creek, had been hacked into ragged plots by transient sharecroppers and gullied in long scars of raw red clay. Disheartened, I did not dismount but rode directly to Colonel Robert’s house. What could I hope for after twenty years? I hoped that I hoped for nothing.
At the racket of his dogs, he came outside before I reached the steps, drove the dogs off me. A quiet in the house that drifted out the door behind him told me that his wife had passed away.
Robert Briggs Watson looked heavier and grayer. Unlike my father, he knew me at once despite my heavy beard and begrimed appearance, which told him everything the Watson clan might care to know about how the Bad Elijah’s son had fared in the great world. He would even know that my fine horse must be stolen. His expression was unsurprised, neither cold nor warm.
“Sir, I shall always be grateful you had faith in me,” I whispered. “I named my firstborn in your honor.” Awkwardly, I offered my hand, as one day long ago in this same place he had offered his. He did not refuse it, simply would not see it. Edgar Watson, like his father, was a shadow cousin. Gazing past me toward the road was his way of saying he had never seen this fugitive and that if I left at once and kept on going, he would not betray me. In a moment he would return inside and close the door.
I remounted and rode away, bruised to the heart. Yet Colonel Robert had rekindled a small hope. Without once meeting my gaze, he had uttered two words before turning back inside. “Not yet,” he said. Had I imagined this?