Stonewall

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This scene depicts a frightened, six-year-old (Tom) Jackson whose father and sister have died and whose ill mother Julia is having to give him away to relatives.

The little wooden crosses marking the final earthly resting places of Jonathan and Elizabeth still stood lonely sentinel one especially intoxicating May dusk in 1830. As the sweet smell of clover, mint, and pine permeated their nostrils, Mama's new husband Blake Woodson and Tom's Uncle Brake Jackson faced the darkening woods out back of the old Jackson homeplace.

"Come on, Tom Jackson!" Woodson shouted. "Come on out of there, you hear? Your aunt and uncle have got to be going now!"

"I declare, for a six-year-old boy, that young Tom knows his mind," Uncle Brake said.

Warren and Uncle Robinson, standing nearby, glanced at one another.

Julia had worked with all the energy her heart and body could muster to provide for Warren, Tom, and little Laura Ann. However, her judgment in some ways did not match her piety. After learning that most all of the estate owned by the generous but thriftless Jonathan was to be claimed by creditors (of others, for whom Jonathan had provided surety) and bill collectors, she rejected the petitions of her family and married another man possessed of both legal training and dubious financial sense.

Woodson's financial lot, in fact, proved to be even worse than Jonathan's.

But it was Julia's tired, worn old frontier body of thirty that was most to blame for the situation that had caused Tom to be huddled in the spooky, animal-infested tangle that ran down from behind the cabin.

Sadness and frustration filled Woodson's face.

"Poor little guy," he said. "I don't know what else to do. Been looking since sunup and nothing. You and Aunt Jennie are already late leaving, Brake. And he's fixing to be in there with the mountain lions."

The group heard sounds behind them. It was Julia, limping from the house with the help of Uncle Brake's wife Jennie. Three-year-old Laura Ann trailed behind them, sucking her thumb and carrying a small, tattered wool blanket. Pain sliced Woodson's face as he rushed to support his wife's tottering frame.

"Why Julia, sweetie," he said, "you shouldn't be out of bed. You can hardly walk. You know the doctor said you--"

She ignored his proffered hand and squinted out into the silent woods. The paleness of her once-ruddy complexion caused Uncle Robinson to wince and half-shake his head.

Julia swallowed hard. "Tom. Tom Jackson," she said. "I love you, honey."

Shivering behind a thick tree trunk in the deepening shadows, his face streaked with tears and dirt, Tom choked back more sobs. He flinched as a wild beast screeched from somewhere in the woods.

"Tom, honey," the charmed voice continued, "please come out now, before it gets dark."

Oh, no, what to do? Tom thought, uncertain. Too many emotions. Too much to think. He began to weep wrenchingly, chewing hard on his small grimy fist to muffle the sound.

"Tom, I promised Uncle Brake and Aunt Jennie you'd be good for them."

Got to be good for her, Tom thought with a grimace. Don't want to disappoint her. She's the only one that matters anymore. Everyone else important leaving. Don't want her to go too. Not fair, God, not at all.

The dark silence descended like a black canopy. Then, a small lonesome figure emerged from the thick brush. When Tom reached his mother, he collapsed sobbing into her arms. Mother and son clung to one another as though never to let go.

"Why, Mama, why do I have to go away?" the boy cried.

She stroked his thick, mussed chocolate hair. "It's for your best, son. Your aunt and uncle are much better able to care for you now than am I."

"But Mama, I just want you."

Tears rolled down Julia's face. For the first time, a guttural moan sounded from deep within her. Warren bit his lip.

Uncle Robinson's large, clear raven eyes glistened. He had known much pain in his life, having been separated from his own mother when he was a boy. His debt-ridden white owner had become deathly ill and with tears in his eyes sold him to put food on the table for his own children. The gentle giant had always been partial to little Tom, and now he felt more so. It don't seem right, Lord, some things just don't seem right, Sir.

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