Mankillers

#

Buck slept fitfully that night. He woke several times with images of Emma crowding his thoughts. He considered riding over to the Grayson estate and checking on the old slave woman, but he’d left word for them to send for him if he was needed, and he knew from experience that deathly ill patients could survive far longer than expected. He had no doubt that Emma was dying, but she might not pass for days. He turned over and finally fell back to sleep.

He rose with the sun, dressed and was about to go down to the dining room when there was a knock on the door. He swung it open and was startled to see Gibbeon standing there.

“Dr. Thomson, sir, Mr. Grayson send his compliments and asked me to inform you that Emma passed in her sleep during the night. I’m sorry, sir.” His eyes were misty. “Mr. Grayson is making arrangements with Jeffcoat’s to take her to Jasmine tomorrow for the funeral.”

“I thought of going to her last night and didn’t,” Buck murmured. “I should have.”

“Sir, Sophie sat with her all night. She says after you left Emma never opened her eyes again. She passed in her sleep, peaceful.” His voice was choked.

The two men said nothing for almost a minute, then Gibbeon added, “Mr. Grayson, he sent me with the buggy if you care to return to the house with me. I can wait, if you need me to.”

“I’ll come now.” Buck retrieved his coat from the arm of a chair, put it on and followed the tall, lanky black youth down the stairs.

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Franklin Drexel was enjoying his second cup of Irish breakfast tea from his secret hoard when he heard a woman scream. “What now?” he murmured to himself. Probably that new chamber maid frightened by another mouse. He shrugged and resumed reading the Charleston Courier report of cotton prices. A few moments later he heard male footsteps approach from the foyer. The butler, no doubt, to explain the disruption of the morning routine.

Without looking up, he asked, “What’s going on, Clarence?”

When the butler didn’t answer immediately, he looked up.

“Hello, father.”

The bone china cup in Franklin’s hand fell to the marble tile floor and shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Randolph?”

“In the flesh.”

“But—”

His son guffawed. “You should see the expression on your face, dear father.”

“But . . . we were told you were dead, killed in a Yankee prison camp.”

Randolph laughed. “Surely you don’t believe Yankee lies.”

Franklin slumped against the back of the Louis Quatorze armchair. “This is quite a surprise. Why didn’t you get word to me—”

“Dead men don’t write.”

The older man sucked in a deep breath and motioned to the chair opposite him. “Sit down.” He picked up the crystal bell beside his plate of grits, eggs and biscuits and rang it. When the butler appeared, he ordered a full breakfast for his son and a pot of coffee. “And have someone clean up this mess.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you, Clarence?” Randolph asked.

“Well, sir, thank you. Welcome home, sir.”

Randolph chuckled when the major domo left the room. “If he gets any more pale, I swear he could pass for a white man.”

“Well,” Franklin said sternly. “Explain. What happened?”

A girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen came hesitantly into the room with a hand broom and dust bin and began sweeping up the broken china. As soon as she was finished, she fled as if she were on fire. Randolph watched her go and smiled lasciviously.

“I asked you a question.”

Randolph snorted. “It’s a long story.”

“Shorten it.”

“I was in a prison near Baltimore and was offered parole on a condition of a fee. I wrote to Sarah and told her to pay it. Several weeks went by, and I hadn’t received an answer. I had no idea if she’d gotten my request or if she’d chosen to ignore it. Anyway, one day in the yard two men were fighting over a scrap of moldy fatback, when one stabbed the other to death. The captain of the guard arrived some minutes later. The culprit had fled into the crowd by then. The captain, a sorry excuse for an officer even by Yankee standards, directed the body be taken to the mass grave they’d prepared for the ones who’d died during the night. When he asked who the victim was, I told him his name was Randolph Drexel.”

Franklin stroked his chin pensively. “That explains the report that you were dead. How did you escape?”

“They turned us all loose a couple of months ago. Without a pe

“No, and I don’t intend to. How’d you get home?”

“I walked every damn step of the way here from Maryland. Where the hell’s Sarah? I went by our house. It was all locked up.”

Clarence reentered the room with the same scared black girl carrying a heavy silver tray. He supervised her setting the place where Randolph sat and putting the steaming food in front of him. Randolph didn’t thank her, but he did ask her name.

“Topaz, sir.”

“You’re very pretty, Topaz. I’m looking forward to seeing more of you.”

She mumbled something and darted from the room.

“Prison certainly hasn’t changed you,” Franklin remarked.

Randolph smirked, picked up the Sterling-silver fork and began shoveling poached egg into his mouth. The yoke dribbled down his chin, but he ignored it. Franklin observed him with quiet disgust.

“I repeat—” his mouth was still half-full “—where the hell is my wife?”

“You divorced her, remember?”

“There is no divorce in South Carolina.”

“Makes no difference. You’re legally dead.”

“What are you trying to tell me, dear father?”

“Your widow has sold everything here and gone to Columbia with another man.”

His son glared at him in astonishment and slammed down the silverware, toppling another china cup to the floor.

“That slattern.”

“There’s more,” Franklin said, enjoying his son’s ire. “I tried on your behalf to lay claim to the estate and the brokerage but was thwarted in my most sincere efforts.”

“On my behalf, father, when you thought I was dead?” He laughed viciously. “Perhaps you better fill me in on all the details.”

#

“So you refuse to help me regain my property.”

Simon Weinberg sat straight in his chair and faced the man he’d once thought a good match for Sarah Greenwald. How could he have been so wrong?

“You’re legally dead, and as far as I’m concerned you can stay that way.”

“A self-righteous lawyer.” Randolph laughed. “But don’t worry, counselor. I know she’s gone to Columbia with Buck Thomson. It shouldn’t be too difficult finding her in what Sherman left of that charming city. Father has already provided me with traveling funds—if only to get me out of Charleston.”

“Let her be, Randolph. Nothing good will come of your causing her more grief.”

“Oh, I’ll let her be after I’ve settled a few scores. Her father ruined my reputation and destroyed my livelihood, but he’s dead. Excuse me if I don’t mourn him. Her mother had me sent to the battlefield and ultimately to a prison camp. As for Sarah, she started it all by betraying me. Vengeance is sweet. Or will be on her and her goyishe paramour.”