A Plume of Blue Ash

Words by F. Scott Hess

Art by Yaleeza Patchett

Columbus, Georgia. February 14, 1838

“Alfred, get yourself away from that horrible Indian this instant!” His stepmother’s voice rang out sharply through the morning air, louder than a steamboat captain on the Chattahoochee. His eyes were locked with those of an elder Creek, huddled over a pile of deerskins in an alley off the bustling Broad Street of Columbus. The old man, his face soot-streaked, was dressed in an odd mix of European shirt and breeches, a decorated leather vest, and a speckled night-cap with a few drooping feathers hanging out the back. Alfred was unable to shift his gaze away from the coal-black eyes, deep as an abandoned well.

“I told you to get away, young man!” With his ear nearly yanked off his head, he was pulled from the alley, squealing. “Those people are covered with vermin and carry disease. God knows you’re sickly enough without catching some incurable fever.”  

Sulking next to his half-sister, rubbing his stinging ear, Alfred glanced at the woman who called herself his mother. She’d married his father one short year after the death of his true mother and was the only mother he remembered. Now nine years old, he doubted she’d ever held any affection for him at all.

“Alfie got his ear pulled,” snickered Callie. Alfred turned to the five-year-old next to him, giving her his best grimace. Callie stuck out her tongue.

“That’s quite enough, Alfred.” Dressed in the best fashion of the day, Julia Forsyth Iverson appeared larger than she was, in layered petticoats and a short woolen coat. Not a spot of dust or dirt sullied her impeccable ironed attire, her laced Spanish boots immune to the mud of the street. “It’s time you act your years, not your sister’s.”  

“She’s not my sister.”

Julia’s head whipped toward him. “What did you say?”

“Nuthin,’ Ma’am.” Only his blood sister had an inkling of what his life was like, but she was off at Presbyterian school. He’d overheard a parental argument, his stepmother insisting the money his father sent to the Bryans for his sister’s clothing was too extravagant. Five dollars was not enough to buy material, but nevertheless his father surrendered to his wife’s stinginess. Brother and sister saw through their stepmother’s facade, as caring as a resting axe, aware of their standing. 

One-year-old half-brother John, the apple of his stepmother’s eye, was at home, tended to by May. With his birth Alfred had slipped further down the pecking order. His father refrained from showing any favoritism, but Alfred Senior was often engaged in business, travel, or in court. They didn’t spend much time together.  

“Come along, children. We’ll be late meeting your father at the bank.”

* * *

A cluster of men blocked the entrance to the Bank of Columbus, and Alfred Senior pushed his thick body through them with his usual aplomb. Inside, a pack of braying hounds would have been quieter. The crowd seethed against the long counter like a wave, each man yelling or shaking fists towards the one lost clerk.  

Alfred grabbed the arm of an agitated gentleman in a black coat, “Ben, what’s all the commotion?”

“Judge Iverson,” little Benjamin Fort shook his hand like a water pump, “Disaster, or even worse for Congressman Jones back there.” He gestured beyond the spluttering faces raging at the countertop, to the back room where Bank President Seaborn Jones spoke earnestly to someone unseen. “Just like Planter’s and Mechanic’s Bank … Seaborn backed their stock and brought down his own establishment. I lost my shirt on this one, too.”  

Bill Beardsley, a Broad Street shopkeeper, whipped his head around, “All our bankers are idiots. It’s this speculatin’ what caused it. Everybody makin’ money outta thin air.” He gave a vicious laugh, “It’d be funny if they weren’t takin’ a whole lotta us common folk down with ‘em.”

“All this is worthless now,” Fort waved at a little stack of banknotes. “You lose much in this, Judge?”

Alfred shrugged, “Some.” Truth was, he’d known this was coming down the pike. He’d moved his money to Washington City, the capital banks being a better bet in times of financial stress. “I’ve got minor investments tied up here.”

Beardsley nodded, his narrow face like a starved horse, “I remember you both was pretty mixed up in them speculations. Lotta them folks is goin’ bankrupt now.” He squinted at Iverson, “You must be kinda nervous, Judge.”

Alfred chuckled, “Bill, I made money out of that business years ago. Trick was quick turnover. Buy land cheap, quadruple the price, sell and put it into other things.”  

“Only fools like me stayed longer,” Fort frowned. “Now you’ll reap more profits when we all sue each other.”

“I’m just a simple lawyer plying my humble trade.” Alfred lifted the corner of his mouth in a half-meant smile.

“A humble lawyer, eh?” A hairy eyebrow snaked above one eye. “People say it was you that got the Federal Investigation quashed.” He winked at Beardsley, “Father-in-law, ya know.”

“What investigation y’all talkin’ about?” The shopkeeper felt he’d suddenly been pushed into a dark closet. “What’s that ex-gov’ner got to do with this here?”

Alfred’s wife’s father, Georgia’s ex-governor John Forsyth, was now Secretary of State under President Van Buren, as he’d been under Andrew Jackson.

Fort held his hands in the air a moment, searching carefully for what he wanted to say as Alfred eyed him. “Bill, it’s old news. Back when the government was lookin’ into fraud in them Creek land contracts and started finding it …”

“Judge!” The booming voice of Bank President Seaborn Jones suddenly interrupted his explanation from across the noisy room. “Judge Iverson,” he waved him over. “Could I see you back here for a moment?”

The office of Alfred’s friend and sometime legal adversary lacked the usual fastidious appearance of everything Seaborn Jones touched. Account papers littered the floor, covering every surface. His tailored overcoat, tossed in a heap over a cabinet, imitated a wolf carcass. In the corner sat General Daniel McDougald, president of the now defunct Planter’s and Mechanic’s Bank, and lauded commander of the Columbus Guards in the recent Creek War.

“Morning, Judge,” McDougald didn’t bother to get up, but he meant no disrespect. “Looks like our little problem has become infectious.”

Alfred nodded, studying the man’s face, dark bags under the eyes, an almost grayish mien to his lips. “Our little problem?”

“Well, I mean …” He trailed off mid-sentence.  

“What he means is,” Seaborn Jones cut in, “Prosecutor Carey says he’ll be going after the stockholders of the Bank. Now that we’re definitely going under … well, somebody has to be held responsible.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Seaborn, but I warned you about covering for Mechanic’s. It was a damned fool thing to do.” He glanced at McDougald, “No offense intended, General, but I counseled him against the dangerous nature of your proposition.”

McDougald shrugged.

“Yeah, Judge, you did warn me off the idea of our friend,” he flicked his head at McDougald, “about stockholders only paying twenty-five percent for shares of ownership. We all knew each other’s warts and wonders. Seemed like just another usual business deal back then. I figured we’d all be good for the rest.”

“And now you all will,” said the Judge, “Carey’s an exacting man. He’ll see to that.”

“Except, most of us have put it back into land that ain’t worth what we paid for it anymore.” McDougald shook his head. “Times ain’t exactly great. All that Creek land got tied up too long. Ends up bein’ one big losin’ proposition.”

“I hardly think that’s true. Early investors in the Columbus Land Company did just fine.” Alfred knew the profits had been considerable. “Trouble is, y’all put everything back in the same shell game one time too many. Y’all got burned. General, you then had the brilliant idea to finance even more investment by issuing three-hundred thousand in bank bills, when you had less than a thousand to back it up.”

McDougald sprang to his feet, “Iverson, you were the damn Company lawyer in Washington. You should’a seen that stupid Federal intrusion a comin’ after us purchasin’ all them allotments from the Indians. We owned bonds for over seven hundred of ‘em. What’d we send you to the Capital for, anyway? We all got stuck holdin’ a bag of empty profits!”

Seaborn Jones put out a stiff arm to stop McDougald’s clenched body from getting any closer to Alfred. “Before you go off and start another duel, Daniel, the Judge didn’t cause the government policy.”

“Yeah, but was paid over twenty thousand dollars of company money. Nice profit he pulled out.”

“You were inside, too, General,” said Alfred coolly, “like the rest of us. You profited handsomely. Any empty bag you’re holding is filled with your foolishness, not mine.”

McDougald slumped back down in the chair, silent for a moment. “I hate seeing that ol’ Creek chief, Suto Mekko, draggin’ his sorry self all over town. Just this morning I seen that ragged Indian trying to spear a fish under the falls. He reminds me how much I lost.”

“The Columbus Land Company took all Suto Mekko’s tribal lands, swindled him by marrying his daughter to their agent. Once he’d signed everything over in front of our judge, he had nothing left in the world.” Alfred gazed down at his old acquaintance, “You aren’t nearly in such a pathetic state, General.”

Jones snorted, “C’mon, Daniel. You own half this town. I know it’s against your nature to give up a square inch, but partin’ with just a fraction to pay down debt isn’t so painful. Like the Judge, your share of the Water Company alone will more than answer for the loss in three or four years. The good citizens of this town will always need water.”

McDougald sighed. “I didn’t buy an interest in Columbus water. Seemed so … insubstantial. The Judge here has the majority stock in that.”

Seaborn Jones and Alfred Iverson each glanced at the other. Congressman Jones had aged considerably in the last years, his hair graying prematurely. Congress, his failing bank, shaky investments, and legal wrangling had been a tightrope walk. Iverson, on the other hand, seemed rounder, fuller, his short frame solid and powerful, his suit new, unwrinkled. Considering the dire financial state of the country, the twinkle in Iverson’s icy blues was obscene.

“Daniel, water’s not as thick as dirt, but as our friend Iverson here knows, everybody gets thirsty sometime.”

As he made his way back through the crowded lobby, Alfred considered how the wheel of fortune had rolled away from Columbus. Gone was the unquenchable optimism accompanying the founding of their town on the Chattahoochee a decade earlier. Gone was the vision of unfathomable wealth to be gained from the Creek lands in Alabama. The destiny of the Creek Tribe had been undeniable. Their removal from ancestral land followed the pattern set by the first European settlers on the continent. The Creeks lost their lands in Georgia in 1826 and were losing their lands in Alabama one way or another. The Federal Government and the State of Georgia were intent upon their removal, if somewhat conflicted over the particulars.

* * *

Young Alfred skipped ahead of his parents and sister down the middle of Broad Street, pretending to be an Indian hunter on the track of renegade half-breed Jim Henry. Henry had caused much trouble at the time of the Creek War, raiding plantations near Columbus and making off with slaves and plunder. He was caught at the end of the conflict and put on trial, but this minor fact did little to hinder Alfred’s quest for the notorious raider.  

Avoiding a muddy pothole beneath a man painting a sign, Alfred nearly knocked him off his ladder. Quickly apologizing, he glanced back, expecting a reprimand from his stepmother, but she had climbed onto the wooden planking before Fogle’s Store to admire jewelry in the window of the shop with Callie. His father was engaged in conversation with a man Alfred recognized as Lieutenant Hepburn of the Columbus Guards.

As the adults wandered towards him, Alfred caught their conversation in intermittent acoustic snippets. “Burton, what did you expect?” or, “McDougald said it was impossible to lose.” The evident concern in the Lieutenant’s face, and his fluttering hands making swift, sharp movements through the sunlight catching him between gaps in a clapboard fence, caused Alfred to pause and admire the shimmering effect, mesmerized by the staccato movement. 

They were still on Broad, headed toward First Avenue and home, when it happened.  Alfred would remember the moment until his dying day, but as an oddity, an obscure incident he would occasionally roll out of his memory bank, turn over in his mind, and wonder at its significance. Was it an omen of the troubles to come?

The dark figure danced out of the short diagonal street called Dog Alley by the locals. Chanting an incomprehensible dialogue, sounding to young Alfred like the taunts and squawks of crows, Suto Mekko halted in front of his father, lifted a clenched fist to his mouth, slowly unfurled his fingers, and blew a plume of fine blue ash that billowed outwards, engulfing the cluster of surprised onlookers.  

Burton Hepburn raised his cane and swung it at the old man’s head, but Suto Mekko twisted out of the way with unexpected agility, sprinting down the street in Alfred’s direction.  He was nearly upon the boy when trailing Burton brought the cane down upon his skull with a vicious thwack that rang out across the street. Falling, the old man took down Alfred, too, landing them both in muddy carriage tracks. Suto Mekko grunted, struggling to get up as Burton kicked him hard in the kidneys.  

The old man reached out to Alfred, whose face was only inches away. His eyes showed pain, but no fear, as he placed his palm on Alfred’s forehead, and received another vicious kick in his back.  

Hepburn flailed away at Suto Mekko, inert in the street, until Alfred Senior stopped him. “No need to kill him, Burton. Everybody knows he’s fit for the lunatic asylum. Don’t waste your energy.” Burton kicked one last time, and Suto Mekko rolled away into a crouch, then limped back towards the alley.

Young Alfred pulled himself up and slapped at the mud on his pants. Yet another pair dirtied. He had no luck.

“Here, use this, Alfred.” Julia handed him her pristine handkerchief.

Alfred held it in his hand, unable to bring the clean cloth to the mass of mud that covered the back of his pant legs.

“It’s for your face, stupid boy.” She took it back and rubbed his forehead roughly. The cloth turned blue with the powder from Suto Mekko’s palm.

“Well, Judge,” Burton chuckled. “I think you just got a real Injun curse.”

“You believe so?” Julia said, truly alarmed. “I despise that old Indian.”

The Judge laughed at her discomfort. “Don’t worry, Julia. I think he was just blowing off dust.” He patted her shoulder, “Let’s hope it wasn’t their famous itching powder.”

Parting company with Burton Hepburn, who headed back in the direction of the bank, they continued towards First Avenue and home, the Judge still chuckling while Alfred picked at his muddied pants and Julia fought to prevent her gloved hand from inching up and scratching at her neck.

About the author

F. Scott Hess is an artist and writer from Los Angeles. His work is included in the collections of the LA County Museum of Art, Orange County Museum of Art, Long Beach Museum of Art, San Jose Museum of Art, and the Smithsonian Institute, among many others. He is the recipient of a Theodor Koerner Award, Western States Art Federation award, a J. Paul Getty Fellowship, and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. A one-hour documentary by Shirin Bazleh, “F. Scott Hess: A Reluctant Realist,” was released in 2018. Hess is currently working on a memoir and a collection of short stories about his year in the Islamic Republic of Iran. 

About the artist

Yaleeza has been creating illustrations since the moment she was able to pick up a pencil. Through her artistic journey she became well versed in the mediums of graphite, ink and acrylic. Recently she has begun to further exercise her artistic skill in the realm of dark macabre, pagan, and blackwork illustrations. Through this she has found meaning and new love for her artwork. Yaleeza currently resides in the Southside of Indianapolis, Indiana with her husband Jon, her bloodhound Jojo, and her two cats, Boogers and Finn.