Mankillers

“I’d like to take the credit, but I must tell you I merely furnished the funds. Miriam provided the means and moral courage. She clothed and fed them, gave them shelter and even transported them. No, my friend, if you want an example of selfless bravery, look to Miriam.”

They continued on. Gus had slowed his pace, perhaps in consideration of his young companion, perhaps because he was caught up in his own thoughts and memories. It was during this almost relaxed perambulation that something dawned on Buck that sent a shiver down his spine.

Was it possible that while the parents were undermining the singular cornerstone of southern society, their boys were going off to be killed in defense of it?

“Gus—” he hesitated “—did Bert and Harry know?”

“They knew. They died for the right of free people to make their own decisions.” Emotion silenced him for several strides, then he recovered and said, “I realize that sounds contradictory, but they were fighting so we could make the right choices on our own, not have them dictated by self-righteous outsiders.”

“We could have solved our own problems, if we’d been allowed to,” Buck agreed. “Is that what you mean?”

Gus shrugged. “Firing on Ft. Sumter was a grievous mistake. Firing on any fort is stupid if you can’t win the battle that will inevitably follow. Did those idiot politicians here in Columbia think Lincoln would tuck his tail between his legs and give us independence?”

“I hated slavery,” Buck said, “but like you I thought of myself as a South Carolinian first and an American second. General Lee felt the same way about his allegiance to Virginia. I guess now we’re all Americans first.”

They turned the last corner on their approach to the hotel.

“Gus, we’re lifelong friends. Why did we never have this discussion before?”

“I felt sure you agreed with me in principle, but I was afraid, with your famous Thomson temper, you might inadvertently compromise what we had to do in secret. Besides, when were you around for me to tell you? We haven’t seen you in what . . . six or seven years? First you went off to college, then medical school, then into the war.”

“A war that should never have happened.” He thought of the carnage he’d seen. The wasted lives. The ruined lives. A generation of men scarred and crippled.

“Yet you fought on the side of the Confederacy,” Gus observed.

“Because we were invaded under force of arms by the Yankees. I wasn’t defending slavery. I loathe it. Or state rights. Do we have the right to be morally wrong? I was helping in the struggle against northern aggression. Nobody points a gun at me and mine without me fighting back.”

They’d arrived at the Sand Hills Hotel, a three-story frame building with four grand columns in front. Its northwest wing had suffered fire damage and was obviously no longer habitable. Inside the main entrance, however, there was little evidence that the world outside had changed forever. Plush settees, crystal-shaded lamps and claw-footed tables gleamed, while neatly dressed Negro servants poured tea for finely gowned peaches-and-cream ladies and decanted aged Cognac for distinguished white gentlemen.

The clerk at the registration desk greeted the banker with polite respect.

“Good evening, Mr. Grayson. How may I help you and your young friend?”

“Doctor Thomson requires accommodations for—” he asked Buck “—how long will you be staying?”

“A week perhaps. No more.”

“The John C. Calhoun Suite is available, sir.”

“That’ll be fine.” Grayson turned to Buck. “I’ll leave you now, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning at nine. We have a great deal to discuss. Get some rest. You’ve had a trying day.”

Buck extended his hand. “Thank you for your help, old friend. And please thank Miriam for me.”

After Gus left, Buck arranged for a message to be sent by courier to the stagecoach company in Charleston notifying them of the highway encounter and the death of their driver. It was ironic that the drunken guard had survived. Buck also identified Otis Jeffcoat as the point of contact for the disposition of the driver’s remains.

He then sent a note to Dr. Meyer’s office canceling Mr. Greenwald’s appointment. After informing the man behind the desk that the surrey would be arriving sometime that evening and directing that his baggage be brought to his room, Buck retired for the night.

#

“He killed Floyd.” Rufus stomped in front of the cold pot-bellied stove in Lexington County’s infamous pot house. “He killed my brother.”

Hank wiped his handlebar mustache of beer foam. “Where?”

“Cedar Creek crossing.” It was supposed to be so simple. Shoot the horse and the driver, then put a slug in Thomson’s shoulder. Would have worked if Thomson hadn’t been riding guard, wielding that rifle. Never trust a doctor with a gun in his hand. “He killed my brother and now I’m go

Hank held up his pewter mug to the bartender for a refill. “What about Fat Man?”

Rufus slammed his fist on the plank bar. “Killed him too.”

“Their bodies still out there?” Shifty replaced Hank’s empty stein with a frothing one. “Or’d you bring ‘em back with you?”

“No time.” Rufus paced angrily, remembering the barrage of gunfire and the shower of leaves. There was no way he was going to hang around with Thomson wielding a gun. “Get a couple of the boys and a wagon out there to pick ‘em up,” he told Hank. “I’m go

Hank showed no particular interest in hurrying, but drank deeply of his beer, a few drops coursing down the side of his mouth. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. “How come you didn’t get him, Rufus? You knew he was coming along that road and you was waiting for him. Even with one eye it ain’t like you to miss?”

Rufus glared angrily. He didn’t like being reminded he was half-blind. “Ain’t my fault, I tell you. Would’ve got him in the shoulder, dammit, if Floyd and Fat Man hadn’t opened fire too soon. Ended up hitting the woman riding behind him instead.”

“You shot a woman?” Hank gri

“Told you, I wasn’t aiming for her. Only wounded her. In the shoulder, I expect.” Without realizing it he raised his hand to the blood-stained scarf around his neck. Maybe there was justice after all.

“But you missed killing the doc?” Hank taunted.

“I told you I was aiming to cripple him, damn it. But he killed Floyd. Now I’m go

“Floyd was a good man. So was Fat Man. Can’t let that doc get away with this. We’ll help you finish him off.”

“I work alone. Always have. I’ll get him myself.”

Hank fondled his luxuriously thick mustache with his fingers. “Didn’t do a real good job by yourself this time.”

“Cause I was depending on other people.”

Hank shrugged and emptied his tankard, then started for the door. “I’ll get Zeke and see to them bodies.” He turned back. “When you change your mind and decide you can use some help with this killer doctor of yours, you just let me know. Like I said, Floyd and Fat Man was friends to a lot of us.”

Chapter TEN

Buck slept deeply and arose early, physically refreshed, but dreading the events to come. As promised, his luggage was waiting in the sitting room. He pulled the cord by the fireplace and when a servant arrived, requested a hot bath be drawn and a barber be summoned to shave him and cut his shaggy hair.