Mankillers

“Uh-oh. I think I just said the wrong thing. Miriam, please, no cats.”

She laughed. “Silly man. You know they make me sneeze.”

Gus stared up at the ceiling. “Thank you, Lord.”

“Is Gibbeon from around here?” Buck asked.

“Born on the Hardwick plantation. Was about seven, he reckons, when his mother got in trouble. The old man, Chalmers, apparently wanted her in his bed. She refused. He wasn’t one to take no for an answer, but when she struck him, she went too far. He could legally have killed her, but he didn’t. Instead he took Gibbeon and sold him in the slave market in Charleston, then refused to tell her who had bought him or where he’d gone.”

Buck cringed. He remembered Chalmers Hardwick, the patriarch of the family, a tightfisted tyrant whose wife had committed suicide a few months after the last of their five sons was born. Over the years each of the boys had rebelled against him, sometimes violently, and been disowned. To Buck’s knowledge, none had ever expressed regret at the loss of their inheritances.

“Chalmers still alive?” Buck asked.

“Died last year,” Gus replied, “of an apoplectic stroke. His youngest boy was killed at Chancellorsville in ‘63, and I heard the oldest was blinded at Gettysburg a few months later. Not sure what’s happened to the other three. Heard the middle boy went up north and fought with Grant.” He shook his head. “Can’t say if it’s true, of course. Just a rumor. None of them showed up for the funeral. Then Sherman came through a few months later and burned the place down to the ground, including the slave quarters.”

“You said Gibbeon was sold away,” Buck reminded Miriam. “Where was he and what’s he doing here now?”

Her face sagged in sadness. “After leaving Hardwick he was sold several more times. Apparently he wasn’t very cooperative with his masters. Eventually ended up in southern Mississippi. When he got word the war was almost over, he ran away and managed to get back here.”

“Looking for his mother?”

“Unfortunately he was too late. She’d run away several times over the years, intending to find him, but it was hopeless. She always got caught and whipped when she was returned to Chalmers. Finally, about two years ago she managed to get word to me that she wanted my help.”

“The Underground Railroad?”

Miriam nodded. “It took a month of pla

“And of course you’ve said yes.” Buck realized how proud he was of this strong, sweet woman. No wonder Gus was in love with her.

“I’ve written to my contacts in Toronto and Montreal, but I haven’t heard anything back yet. With the mail these days . . .”

“What are the chances—”

She shrugged again.

“My sources tell me,” Gus remarked, “that you’ll be joining Dr Meyer here in our fair city. I hope you’ll favor me with a special discount.”

Buck laughed. “Anytime you want my medical advice, I’ll be happy to give you a special discount on top of a friendly one. I believe added together they equal a hundred percent.”

“A bargain.” Grayson winked at his wife.

“I should forewarn you, however,” Buck went on, “that I deal primarily with disorders of the mind and nervous system.”

“No surgery? With all your experience and expertise?”

“I’ve put my bone saw, scalpels and other surgical instruments away in my saddle bag along with my pistols. Patients who require surgical treatment will be referred to Dr. Roger Jervey.”

“Why only mental disorders?”

Before he could answer, Sarah’s mother joined them. “Buck, I recently received a letter from Molly Cohen. She had the highest praise for Asa, said the young man has been absolutely selfless in attending her husband, the rabbi.”

“Asa insists the rabbi’s helped him much more.”

“Molly didn’t furnish any details, but she did mention that they enjoyed many long conversations.”

Buck smiled. “The rabbi’s willingness to listen drew Asa out of his shell. I’ll try to do the same with my patients. There’s a great need and considerable ignorance about mental illness, particularly involving casualties of war. Not all scars are visible. I expect caring, compassion and listening will be far more effective than the usual pills or potions.”

Miriam came up beside her husband. “We mothers have always known that.”

“Touché,” said Buck. He hesitated for a minute, then asked to be excused. “I want to see Emma.”

“Oh, dear me,” Miriam said. “I should have had you taken to her immediately. She’s anxious to see you.”

“Is she all right?”

“I’ll let you decide.” She motioned to Gibbeon. “Please take Dr. Thomson to see Emma.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The young man led Buck to a small room over the stalls of the carriage house. Emma lay on a cot in the far corner under a lace-curtained window. Buck tried not to show it but he was shocked by her appearance. She had withered even more than the last time he’d seen her. Her dark rheumy eyes lit up, however, when she saw him in the doorway. She reached out a scrawny hand.

“Oh, my baby’s home. At last. Now I can find my rest.” Her voice was faint and husky yet there was a strange joy in it.

He came closer. “Don’t talk like that, Emma. You’ll be up and dancing in no time.”

“Lordy, chile, the only-est dancin’ I be doin’ be in a happier place. I’s plumb wore out, Mr. Buck, but it ain’t no matter. I’s done what the Lord done sent me to do. Now I’s ready for His call.”

He went to his knees at the side of the bed and clasped her hands in his. “Don’t leave me, Emma. I need you.” She brought her hands up to his cheeks and murmured softly. “Thank you, Jesus, you let me see my sweet baby one more time.”

“Oh, Emma.”

A faint smile creased her wrinkled features and a light returned to her eyes.

“Do you ‘member how you loved to read when you was a boy? I would come out on my porch and see you settin’ in your Daddy’s rocker on the piazza with a book in your lap for hours. Mister Clay, he was always tearin’ round the place on his pony or a horse with that yellow hair flopping up and down. But you was always quiet, ‘specially after your Momma passed. Sometimes you’d be up in that ole chinaberry tree readin’ your book. One day I axt you to come and read to me and it started. I learned about King Arthur and his round table and his knights. Then you read to me from those Cooper books about Indians that talked fu

Buck was unaware of the tears coursing down his face as he answered.

“I remember Emma, and I remember how you rewarded me. You would pick up a hot sweet potato with those iron tongs from your fireplace and put it in a wooden bowl so I wouldn’t burn my hands. You’d peel off the top and put a blob of churned butter on it and I would eat it all. I can taste it now.”

“Lord a mercy, you would look up and have that butter and tater all over your face. We would laugh and laugh.”

It seemed to Buck that this brief conversation had exhausted her.

She let her hands drop and closed her eyes, then whispered, “Take care of Job.”

Buck remained by her side for a while and watched. Her breathing was shallow and slow. She was resting peacefully. He quietly climbed to his feet and with one backward glance, left the room.

To his surprise Gibbeon was waiting downstairs for him. As if by instinct the young man said nothing. He simply turned toward the house with him.

“Please extend my thanks to the Graysons and the ladies. I’m going to my hotel. I can be reached there.”

“Yes, sir,” the servant replied and disappeared into the house by the back door.