swallied a goldpiece and they went to looking for it smack in the middle of his chest. Yes, sir. They hollowed him out like a bowl.”
“Who told you this, Mr. Downs?” A trickle of water had found the nape of my neck, which did not improve my spirits.
“Tole me? Nobody tole me, Major. I seen it. Yes, sir. Seen it myself. Who do you think come out to pick that feller up off the ground? Wouldn’t no Irish touch him, not likely. Constable puked every time he looked under the blanket. No, sir. Me and my mules and my wagon. That’s who come out to pick him up off the ground. Lying just up there, atop the hill. Mr. Gowen’s orders.”
“Mr. Gowen?”
“Yes, sir. You know Mr. Gowen, don’t you? New district attorney. Fat, handsome young feller. Say he’s going places. Tole me to go out and bring the general in.”
“And where do you mean by ‘just up there,’ Mr. Downs?
“Straight on ahead there. Can’t see yet, for the rain. That’s where they found him. Yes, sir. Raccoons or what have you got at him first. Made a terrible mess in my wagon. He was just atop the hill, there at the crossroads.”
Of a sudden, I shivered, although my thoughts were a nonsense. Perhaps it was the rain upon my neck. Or the gloom of the dying day. But I will tell you a thing, and hope you will not laugh at Welsh beliefs—not that I hold to any superstition. Imerely report, as is the chronicler’s duty. Look you. If you go to Wales, in all her awful beauty, you will not find a crossroads atop a hill. At least not often. Not if the roads were laid in Christian times. For when two roads meet and cross atop a hill or on a mountain, that makes a devil’s cross, where witches gather to call upon Old Night. Not that I credit the existence of witches and such like. And not that I believe un-Christian things.
Perhaps it was but the haunts of childhood returned to me. The Reverend Mr. Griffiths, my guardian for a time, found it a joy to lock me in the cellar, and I was afraid of the dark as a little boy. He made noises at me and spoke through the door of ghosts. A vicar of the Established Church, he taught me of the Martyrs with his strap. But I must not be too hard, for he was a troubled man, and disappointed. He was the father of my darling wife, to whom his demeanor was ever generous and kind. A very model of a parent he was to Mary. But I was the son of the woman he wished to love, see, the one who would not have him, who chose a chapel preacher in his stead. In the years before the cholera come among us.
The Reverend Mr. Griffiths never liked me, but he took me in, and that is something worthy of a Christian. But I recall my terrors in that cellar. The Merthyr rats were real, but it was the unseen things that made me cry. I begged Mr. Griffiths to let me out of that place, as I have never begged another man.
The old fears linger in our adult hearts.
“There. See? Just up there.” Mr. Downs separated his hand from its intimate endeavors to point beyond a deputy’s rain-slicked horse. “Just atop the hill, where it’s all bare. That’s where they massacred the poor feller. Dead as Julius Caesar, that boy was. Yes, sir! Dead as John the Baptist, rest his soul. Had to scoop the half of him up with a shovel. With his face all still, like he was just sleeping one off. And do you know just how damnation stupid them Irish are? Cut him all up for plain meanness, then forgot to take the feller’s money out of his pockets. Now what’s the sense in that? No, sir. Hang a dozen Irishmen, and the rest’ll straighten up quick enough, I’ll tellyou. That’s what Lennie Downs has got to say. Get on, now, mules. Get on.”
The crest was a swamp of mud, yet I was relieved. For all my childish fears had been but foolishness. There was no crossroads atop that hill, but only a fork in the way, which has no meaning in the old tales. A rough track led into rain-swept trees. We passed it by, remaining on the turnpike.
I chastised myself for my
“Who told you this, Mr. Downs?” A trickle of water had found the nape of my neck, which did not improve my spirits.
“Tole me? Nobody tole me, Major. I seen it. Yes, sir. Seen it myself. Who do you think come out to pick that feller up off the ground? Wouldn’t no Irish touch him, not likely. Constable puked every time he looked under the blanket. No, sir. Me and my mules and my wagon. That’s who come out to pick him up off the ground. Lying just up there, atop the hill. Mr. Gowen’s orders.”
“Mr. Gowen?”
“Yes, sir. You know Mr. Gowen, don’t you? New district attorney. Fat, handsome young feller. Say he’s going places. Tole me to go out and bring the general in.”
“And where do you mean by ‘just up there,’ Mr. Downs?
“Straight on ahead there. Can’t see yet, for the rain. That’s where they found him. Yes, sir. Raccoons or what have you got at him first. Made a terrible mess in my wagon. He was just atop the hill, there at the crossroads.”
Of a sudden, I shivered, although my thoughts were a nonsense. Perhaps it was the rain upon my neck. Or the gloom of the dying day. But I will tell you a thing, and hope you will not laugh at Welsh beliefs—not that I hold to any superstition. Imerely report, as is the chronicler’s duty. Look you. If you go to Wales, in all her awful beauty, you will not find a crossroads atop a hill. At least not often. Not if the roads were laid in Christian times. For when two roads meet and cross atop a hill or on a mountain, that makes a devil’s cross, where witches gather to call upon Old Night. Not that I credit the existence of witches and such like. And not that I believe un-Christian things.
Perhaps it was but the haunts of childhood returned to me. The Reverend Mr. Griffiths, my guardian for a time, found it a joy to lock me in the cellar, and I was afraid of the dark as a little boy. He made noises at me and spoke through the door of ghosts. A vicar of the Established Church, he taught me of the Martyrs with his strap. But I must not be too hard, for he was a troubled man, and disappointed. He was the father of my darling wife, to whom his demeanor was ever generous and kind. A very model of a parent he was to Mary. But I was the son of the woman he wished to love, see, the one who would not have him, who chose a chapel preacher in his stead. In the years before the cholera come among us.
The Reverend Mr. Griffiths never liked me, but he took me in, and that is something worthy of a Christian. But I recall my terrors in that cellar. The Merthyr rats were real, but it was the unseen things that made me cry. I begged Mr. Griffiths to let me out of that place, as I have never begged another man.
The old fears linger in our adult hearts.
“There. See? Just up there.” Mr. Downs separated his hand from its intimate endeavors to point beyond a deputy’s rain-slicked horse. “Just atop the hill, where it’s all bare. That’s where they massacred the poor feller. Dead as Julius Caesar, that boy was. Yes, sir! Dead as John the Baptist, rest his soul. Had to scoop the half of him up with a shovel. With his face all still, like he was just sleeping one off. And do you know just how damnation stupid them Irish are? Cut him all up for plain meanness, then forgot to take the feller’s money out of his pockets. Now what’s the sense in that? No, sir. Hang a dozen Irishmen, and the rest’ll straighten up quick enough, I’ll tellyou. That’s what Lennie Downs has got to say. Get on, now, mules. Get on.”
The crest was a swamp of mud, yet I was relieved. For all my childish fears had been but foolishness. There was no crossroads atop that hill, but only a fork in the way, which has no meaning in the old tales. A rough track led into rain-swept trees. We passed it by, remaining on the turnpike.
I chastised myself for my
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