“She’s daid!”
“My God! Not when the house was burned?”
“No, she warn’t here. She was down in Baltimo’—she went dar after de Jedge died. But she’s daid, fo’ sho’, ’cause Aunt Dinah was wid her, and she tol’ me.”
Adam dropped upon a bench outside the door of the cabin and began passing his hand nervously over his forehead as if he would relieve a pain he could not locate. A cold sweat stood on his brow; his knees shook.
The woman kept her eyes on him. Such incidents were not uncommon. Almost every day strangers on their way South had passed her cabin, looking for friends they would never see again—a woman for her husband; a mother for her son; a father for his children. Unknown graves and burned homes could be found all the way to the Potomac and beyond. This strong man who seemed to be an officer, was like all the others.
For some minutes Adam sat with his head in his hand; his elbows on his knees, the bridle still hooked over his wrist. Hot tears trickled between his closed fingers and dropped into the dust at his feet. Then he raised his head, and with a strong effort pulled himself together.
“And the little boy—or rather the son—he must be grown now. Philip was his name—what has become of him?” He had regained something of his old poise—his voice and manner showed it.
“I ain’t never yeard what ’come ’o him. Went in de army, I reck’n. Daid, I spec’—mos’ ev’ybody’s daid dat was here when I growed up.”
Adam turned his head and looked once more at the blackened ruins. What further story was yet to come from their ashes?
“One more question, please. Were you here when the fire came?”