A Leading Citizen

“The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.”
Mark Antony, oration at the funeral of Julius Caesar.

Nothing ends like it begins. But it always ends.

The tour group meandered slowly among the shadows of ancient oaks in the cemetery of Christ Church, enraptured by the historical retrospectives recited by their guide. They stopped at the tombstone of John Armstrong. Chiseled on the headstone were the words, “A Leading Citizen who fell a victim to his secrets and died the 3rd of September, 1848.”

His grave marker had waxed yellow. It sagged slightly to the right. It was crumbling from the top down, as if the weight of Armstrong’s life itself, even in death, had become too heavy to bear. It seemed to be melting, dissolving slowly into the abyss of a double death…both his body and his name. The listeners stood spellbound while the guide resurrected the details of Armstrong’s abhorrent life. She began:


“As the scion of one of the island’s early settlers, Armstrong was destined for greatness. He had a certain flair for life. People loved him. Some called him lucky, others said blessed. He was endowed with a fine intellect, an amiable disposition and benevolent feelings. He excelled in all things financial, was charitable and religious. He alchemized everything into gold. He became a leading citizen.

But he had a secret. It seethed inside of him. It tortured his memory, tormented him in dreams and hounded him like a demon spirit from a body buried badly. The horror stalked him…the night, the knife, the girl, the murder, the blood, the grave. He was chained to it.

He relived the details, over and over. How he fled the scene, how he fabricated the story, how he dodged responsibility and how his cowardice clung to him like a filthy cape. It was too late to recant. Let the past lie, he said. He now had stature as a leading citizen. But the past was always present for him.

It’s tough being a leading citizen. Much is expected. It’s a hard act to follow, day after day. Always a coat and tie, deacon meetings, boards to attend, advice to give, a business to oversee, a family to nurture and always an image to maintain. It’s a high wire trapeze act, always to see and be seen, the constant clinging of the community, sapping every ounce of strength. And always the shadow of his filthy secret in relentless pursuit. He pushed against it. It pushed back.

He came to embrace the notoriety, the status that being a leading citizen bestows. His honors grew even as his hair grayed. Certificates of recognition covered the walls of his home and office. Autographed photos of important people occupied the spotlight. He had become a great man in a small place. But his past became a noose. It wound tighter.

On a certain Sunday the sermon was on the wages of sin. The preacher’s cold stare clawed his psyche. The words echoed from the walls of his wicked conscience. His demeanor slumped, his countenance contorted. Fear ate him. He fled in terror from the presence of impending judgment to his sanctuary and the bottle.

Later that day the law knocked. He knew it would. It always does. A body and a rusty knife had been exhumed. The knife bore his initials and the inscription, “A Leading Citizen.”

In a matter of minutes he aged years. He staggered backwards, his heart failed. He fell, stone-cold dead at the feet of justice. The community was shocked. It felt raped. Its leading citizen’s secret was exposed, its icon stripped naked.

With time the crime case grew stale. There was little more to say. Life moved on in the slow tick of island time. Soon another man became a leading citizen. Nothing stays the same forever.”


The tour concluded. The group departed. Left standing in rapt attention are new grave markers, spit-shined to a polished sheen. They bare other names and dates. Standing guard are sculptured seraphim and silent stone angels, stark sentinels and wardens of the secrets of the bones. They know that all have feet of clay.

Nothing ends like it begins. In the end it’s the graves that speak. They remind us that all we really possess are our names. We only borrow the dust.

Bud Hearn
March 1, 2012