Mankillers

He wasn’t surprised when she turned away from him, considering the horrors he’d described. In the empty, pulsing silence that followed, they both stared out to sea. What she said then, however, did surprise him.

“You remind me of my father. You’re both willing to go to whatever lengths are necessary to protect the people you love.”

Love. When had he last heard that word attributed to him? It was gratifying to hear, especially from this woman, but it was also humbling and intimidating. He cleared his throat.

“You do me too much honor. I took revenge on my friend’s enemies and I’ve tended his physical wounds. But I don’t know how to help him heal from the torments those savages inflicted. Perhaps when he gets home to his father and is back in familiar surroundings, doing what he loves, farming, he’ll be able to put all this behind him. I hope so.”

“Where is his home?”

“Portland Plantation near Sava

Sarah froze. “Did you say Portland Plantation?”

Her tone had Buck pivoting to face her. “Is something wrong?”

She hesitated for moment. “You probably haven’t seen a newspaper in some time, so you wouldn’t know. Portland was directly in the line of Sherman’s march. When the owners refused to abandon the place, his troops encircled it, ran off the slaves, and rounded up the white people. They strung up the men. I don’t like to think what might have happened to the women. The Yankees then burned the buildings. People who’ve been by there since report nothing left but charred chimneys and blood-soaked weeds.”

“My God! Does the death and destruction ever end? I knew that devil had ravaged the countryside, but it never crossed my mind that Asa’s home might’ve been in the path of destruction.”

And Jasmine? Buck wondered. Was our plantation a victim as well?

“Fortunately they spared Charleston,” Sarah went on, “or my parents and I wouldn’t have a home either.”

“I’m relieved to hear that, but . . .” Buck shook his head. “How am I going to tell Asa the home he’s longing to return to is no more, that his father’s dead? This isn’t the time for him to find out his poppa might’ve been hanged by marauders.”

“The poor man. He’s already been through so much.”

“I won’t abandon him,” Buck declared categorically, “but taking him to Columbia with me is out of the question. He can’t tolerate a long trip on horseback or carriage, not until his back heals—and his mind. But I don’t know anyone in Charleston to leave him with.”

Sarah put her hand on Buck’s forearm. “Maybe we can return the favor you’re doing us, doctor. Let me talk to Momma. If there’s a way to help your friend, she’ll find it. She loves solving problems. In the meantime, if I may offer a suggestion—”

“Of course. I welcome your advice.”

She spoke softly, caringly. “Encourage him to talk about what he’s feeling. Men don’t like to do that. They accept bodily pain as part of physical healing. Well, emotional pain is part of mental healing. Sympathy from a good listener can work wonders. Ask any mother.”

Chapter SEVEN

As the harbor pilot guided the Shenandoah past the battered ramparts of Fort Sumter and steered toward the Cooper River docks on the Charleston peninsula, Buck tended to Asa’s wounds. His back was healing well.

“Asa,” he said, knowing he was about to inflict another emotional blow, “I was talking with Mrs. Drexel, and she tells me that although Sherman spared Sava

Asa’s posture stiffened. “What do you mean, didn’t do well?”

Buck hesitated, but there was no easy way to say it. “It was totally destroyed.”

The man sitting on the lower bunk didn’t flinch. His voice was even. “And my father?”

“Apparently all the men at Portland were killed. I’m sorry.”

Tears coursed down the young man’s face but he didn’t make a sound.

After several minutes, Buck said, “I’ve agreed to take Mrs. Drexel and her parents with me to Columbia so her father can see a physician there. As your friend I’d welcome your company, but as your doctor I think the trip would be too arduous and would delay your healing. I promise you, however, I’m not going anywhere until I’ve made arrangements for you.”

Asa’s face was stern, his voice flat. “I don’t have any friends in Charleston.”

“Tonight you and I’ll stay at the Isaac Hayne Hotel. Mrs. Drexel’s mother’s apparently acquainted with nearly everyone in town. She’s going to arrange for a place for you to stay while I’m away.”

“I’m not a child,” he objected angrily.

“No, you’re not, Asa. You’re a man. If the arrangements Sarah’s mother offers aren’t acceptable, I’ll stay here with you. They can go to Columbia on their own. You’re my first priority as my patient and as my friend.”

A moment passed. Asa’s watery eyes shifted. “How long will you be gone?” Clearly he didn’t want to be left alone.

“A week. Not more than two. If you need to contact me, I’ll give you the address of an old family friend in Columbia, Augustus Grayson. He’s the bank president there.”

Asa nodded and they returned to the deck. Buck stood at the rail and searched for Sarah and her family in the file of passengers begi

“My God!” His head jerked involuntarily.

A small man with shoulder-length red hair partially covering a rough bandage on his neck was descending the gangplank of an adjacent steamer. Buck stared with unbelieving eyes.

The redheaded man? His brother’s killer? Here in South Carolina? Was he really seeing him? Surely there was more than one male with red hair in the world. Or was this another hallucination?

As the figure melted into the crowd, Buck swore. The sniper he’d vowed to kill was escaping!

He shouted to Asa over his shoulder, “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” and bounded down the Shenandoah’s gangplank. He raced to the other steamer where the bursar was busily checking off the names of departing passengers. Pushing ahead of several, to their loud objections, he demanded, “A small man with long red hair just left the ship. What’s his name?”

“Sir, please wait your turn.”

“What’s his name?”

A

“What’s his name?” Buck repeated emphatically and slipped the coin into the man’s palm.

“Ah, here it is, sir. Snead. Lexington—”

A chill slithered down Buck’s spine. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

“Snead? Did you say Snead?”

“Yes, sir, Rufus Snead, Lexington County, South Carolina. Milky left eye. Had a bandage on his neck as I recall. Is that the gentleman?”

Buck’s mind whirled. Images of the plantation overseer and his family crowded his brain.

The next man in line prodded him. Buck moved absently aside, muttering to himself, “Rufus Snead. Red-haired Rufus Snead.” He slapped his thigh.

My God, he’s that damn murdering Saul Snead’s boy. Couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen when I left Jasmine. Clay detested him. Always making mischief, taunting the slaves, stealing things. I reckon he’s headed back to Lexington County. Damn your soul, Rufus Snead. Now I’ll find you!