Mankillers

“He’s staying at the Isaac Hayne Hotel if you want to go ask him,” the livery man said.

“No. I don’t want to wait that long.” Or confront him face-to-face. “Just give me a horse. I can get there before he even leaves.”

And be waiting for him. The last of the Thomsons.

#

Buck was puzzled by the summons to the lobby of the hotel that evening to meet two ladies who were asking for him. It was a pleasant surprise when he saw Sarah and her mother on the settee across from the saloon. After exchanging greetings Ruth Greenwald told him in a concise ma

“It won’t be a sinecure,” she pointed out. “He’ll be required to attend to all the aging rabbi’s personal needs under difficult circumstances. In return he’ll receive respect and support. Like everyone else these days they don’t have any cash, but he’ll at least get room and board.” Ruth then reiterated her firm conviction that helping others was the best way to help oneself.

“Absolutely brilliant,” Buck exclaimed. “I can’t think of better medicine for Asa than assisting someone in need. He excels at that.”

Momentarily excusing himself, he went upstairs and brought his friend down without explaining the reason for the summons. A small smile came to Asa’s face as soon as he saw the ladies. Ruth tactfully explained to him the duties he’d be called upon to perform if he agreed to come with them. For an all-too-brief moment, Buck glimpsed a spark of enthusiasm in the young man’s eyes. His verbal reply, however, was “Whatever you say.” Then he added to the ladies, “Thank you.”

At least he hasn’t forgotten his ma

“I’ll come and check up on you when I return from Columbia,” he assured his friend. “If you need anything in the meantime, you can contact me at the Graysons’.”

Together they returned to the room and assembled Asa’s modest belongings. Twenty minutes later, they again joined the ladies, this time in front of the hotel. Buck shook his friend’s hand in both of his. “By the time I see you again, I expect you’ll be healed and well on your way to a complete recovery.”

“I hope so, Buck.” His eyes became glassy. “Thanks for—” He broke off abruptly and climbed into the carriage and took the seat opposite the two women.

Buck felt a pang of loneliness as he watched them disappear down the busy street.

Chapter EIGHT

Early next morning the surrey Buck had rented pulled up in front of the Isaac Hayne Hotel, and the sullen driver grudgingly loaded his passengers’ portmanteaux. He was a large man, more mass than muscle, and it was manifest he hadn’t bathed in some time, perhaps since before the late war. After another restless wait of over

fifteen minutes a short pudgy guard with bleary eyes, lugging a 12-gauge shotgun, joined them. Reeking of last night’s alcohol he clambered onto the front seat without a word of greeting or apology, belched loudly and was snoring before they’d even reached the outskirts of Charleston.

It was going to be a long trip with these brutes, Buck decided.

The open carriage was more utilitarian than elegant, a flatbed wagon with two ranks of passenger seats on leaf springs, plus the driver’s bench behind an improvised dashboard. Mr. and Mrs. Greenwald sat in the rear, while Sarah and Buck occupied the front seat opposite them. This afforded him the opportunity to keep an eye on the road behind them, since both the driver and guard, when the latter was awake, were focused forward. The baggage was stowed behind the rear bench. It wasn’t an ideal setup, but at least they were out in the air instead of confined to a cramped coach interior. Gypsy was tethered behind the carriage.

Once what promised to be a tedious journey had begun, Mrs. Greenwald, in true southern fashion, initiated a conversation by inquiring into Buck’s family background.

“Dr. Thomson, by any chance are you related to the Thomsons of Sullivan’s Island?”

“No ma’am, all my family’s from lower Richland County near Columbia. I did have occasion to meet the Thomsons of whom you speak while I was attending medical school in Charleston. Delightful people. I wish I could claim them as kin.”

For a while, Buck and Mrs. Greenwald discussed family co

“My younger brother Clay and I were raised at Jasmine, a cotton plantation about fifteen miles from Columbia. Our mother, Mildred Lynch, died of yellow fever when I was thirteen and my father chose not to remarry.” He added, as if lightly, “I’m afraid I was something of a disappointment to him when I chose to study medicine rather than follow the family tradition and manage the plantation.”

“Family traditions are very important but the profession of medicine is a truly noble calling.”

“How long have you been a physician, doctor?” Sarah asked.

“I graduated from medical school three years ago and immedately joined the army, as did all my fellow classmates and professors. Now I’m returning home to visit my father and see what’s left of the family holdings.”

“And your brother?”

“Clay was killed near Burkeville in Virginia shortly after Lee surrendered.”

“Our deepest condolences,” Mrs. Greenwald responded. “It seems no family’s been spared the tragedy of loss in this terrible conflict, but at last it’s over.”

Mr. Greenwald remained silent during this exchange, which wouldn’t have been particularly remarkable under the circumstances. Buck fondly remembered learning from his mother that when women were speaking, men should remain silent and attentive, speaking only when spoken to. However, Sarah’s father showed absolutely no interest in the conversation. Buck suspected he was for all intents and purposes unaware of what was being said.

They rode in silence for a minute or two.

“And what about the future, doctor?” Ruth asked. “Do you plan to open your practice in Columbia so you can remain close to your father?”

“It’s a consideration. I hope to explore the opportunities with Dr. Meyer and my good friend Gus Grayson.”

“Grayson? You know Augustus and Miriam? I hope they’re well. I’m sure you’ll get wise counsel on the prospects available in their fair city. I implore you, however, not to eliminate Charleston from your considerations. There’s always room for another good doctor, especially in a thriving port.”

“You’re quite right, Mrs. Greenwald.” Buck gazed over at Sarah, sitting next to him. “Charleston has many attractions.”

From there the conversation migrated to mundane subjects like the price of cotton, about other people they knew in common, at least by name, and about times past. Eventually, however, the heat and humidity, the buzzing of insects and the rhythmic snoring of the guard lulled them from their sprightly conversation into private daydreams.

The sun was low in the sky when they finally pulled up to the i