Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Lemme be, Buck. I can’t take no more.”

“You don’t want to do this, Asa. I know you’re hurting, but give it time. Things’ll get better. I promise. If you end it now, you’ll rob yourself of the chance to improve. Come on back, Asa. You can get through this.”

“I won’t. I ain’t never gonna be all right. Never again. What they done . . .” He was sobbing. “I can’t go on, Buck. Let me go. Please.”

“Asa, you’re my friend. I can’t let you go. Things’ll get better. Day by day. A little bit today. A little bit more tomorrow and the day after that. It’ll take time, but you have to give it a chance. You’ll be all right, Asa. I promise. Give it some time and everything’ll be fine.”

“It ain’t, Buck. I ain’t never gonna be well. Those men . . . what they done . . . I keep dreaming . . .” His voice was choked with tears. “They raped me, Buck. They . . . I’m better off dead. Lemme go. I ain’t no good no more. Please lemme go.”

Sarah was stunned. A man raped? Was that possible? The images the word stirred up in her mind revolted her and for a moment she felt sick.

As she fought the nausea, she realized Asa was struggling against the doctor’s arm lock, bending forward, levering Buck’s feet off the deck. Another concerted heave, and both men would be tumbling into the waters below. By the time she could raise an alarm they’d be lost.

She couldn’t let that happen. She stepped forward and touched the doctor’s arm.

Startled, he jerked his head in her direction, his eyes wide. He was about to say something, but she preempted him by removing her hand and placing it on Asa’s biceps.

Equally shocked, he twisted towards her. His face was wet with tears. In the moonlight, she could see his eyes were bloodshot from long crying. He scrunched them closed in abject humiliation at her being there, seeing him in these circumstances. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a man in such utter pain.

“He’s right,” she told him. “Buck’s right, Asa. You need to give yourself time to heal.”

“You don’t understand,” he argued, then got angry. “It ain’t none of your business. Go away. Leave me alone. Buck, lemme go.”

“I can’t, Asa. You’re my friend. I can’t let you go.”

“It’ll get better,” Sarah assured him. “You have to be patient, learn to accept what happened—”

“How would you know?” he demanded. “You don’t understand. How could you?”

She bit her lip, closed her eyes for a second, then said, “Because I was raped too.”

She felt both men staring at her, too stunned to say a word.

Forcing back her tears, she finally said, “Asa, please come back on board. You’re going to be all right. It does get better. The pain and humiliation you feel now will gradually fade. Not all at once, but every day it’ll be a little bit less. The worst is behind you. Please believe me. It really is.”

Dr. Thomson and his friend stared at each other and slowly Asa rotated around. Clasping the neck of his shirt securely with one hand, the physician used the other to help him negotiate the white iron rail.

“Are you all right, ma’am,” Asa asked when both his feet were firmly on the deck.

“I recommend a good night’s sleep,” she said in reply, doing her best to sound upbeat and positive. “I’ll see y’all at breakfast in the morning.”

#

Buck was cutting into his second rasher of bacon when Asa, sitting across from him, asked, “Do you think they’ve already eaten and we missed them?”

“I don’t think so. We were among the first ones here when they opened the dining room.”

“Maybe they’ve decided not to eat. Maybe they’re seasick.”

Buck had to resist the temptation to smile. Asa was remarkably solicitous this morning. He didn’t want to spoil the mood.

“I bet they’ll be . . .” He saw the three people standing in the doorway. The two women appeared tired while Mr. Greenwald seemed defiant. “There they are now.”

Even before Buck could rise, Asa had pushed back his chair and stood up, all his attention focused on the new arrivals. A waiter ushered them to the table. By then Buck was on his feet as well. The customary greetings were exchanged by everyone except Mr. Greenwald who insisted on remaining mute. When Sarah suggested he take a seat, he ignored her. Mrs. Greenwald then commanded him to sit down. Still he refused to cooperate.

To Buck’s astonishment, Asa circled the table and went up beside the old man.

“Sure would be nice if you’d join us, Mr. Greenwald. Why don’t you come sit by me?”

Everyone was surprised when he did. His wife nodded pleasantly to the young man. “Thank you, Mr. Boone. You have a gift.”

Asa merely bowed his head, clearly unprepared for the compliment.

“I hope you slept well,” Sarah said to him, while the waiter poured steaming coffee into their thick china cups.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll be in Charleston today,” Ruth went on, unperturbed by Asa’s sudden reticence. “I can’t wait to get home myself. It’s been such a long trip, and I miss familiar surroundings. How about you, Mr. Boone?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The waiter took their orders. Buck requested more coffee, Asa another plate of grits and eggs. The meal proceeded between fits and starts of conversation, mostly between Sarah and her mother concerning people Buck knew nothing about.

Finally Asa announced he was ready to go back to his room. “You gonna lock me in again, Buck?” he asked with a grin.

The jocular tone took Buck aback. It had been some time since Asa had displayed any sense of humor. “Should I?”

“I think we’ll both feel better if you do.”

Buck was flabbergasted. Asa’s moods seemed to swing from lighthearted to solicitous to shy and morose in a matter of seconds without apparent reason, yet through it all he gave the impression of being fully aware of what he was doing, the world around him and the impression he was making. Instinct told Buck Asa’s self-awareness was an encouraging sign, though he couldn’t explain why or figure out how to exploit it.

“Ladies,” he said pleasantly as he rose, “if you’ll excuse us, please. I’ll return in a few minutes.” They made their way along the inside passage to their room. “You seem to be feeling much better this morning,” Buck observed.

“Better than what?”

Buck glanced over and was relieved to find Asa smiling.

“Sometimes I feel all right, and . . . sometimes. I hate this, Buck. I hate being who I am, what they done to me.”

“I wish I had words to make it all better, Asa, but I don’t.”

“Just being able to talk to you, knowing you understand, helps. There ain’t nobody else who—” He didn’t finish the sentence because he’d choked up.

“She’s right,” Buck told him. “Sarah is right. Give it time. Be patient. After a while you’ll have more good feelings than bad.”

He had to wonder though if the bad feelings would ever completely go away. Probably not, but if there were enough good times to outweigh them, maybe it wouldn’t make any difference. Didn’t he have things he wanted to forget—like a brother being killed right in front of him?

Assured that his friend was comfortable with the door locked—in fact Asa seemed to welcome it—Buck hurried back to the dining room. The companionship of a beautiful woman was a pleasure he’d long been denied. Too long.

The first thing he noticed upon reentering the long, low-ceilinged refectory was that Sarah was alone. Waving off the attention of an approaching waiter, he weaved his way directly to her table.

“Where’re your parents?” He resumed his former seat across for her.

“Poppa was getting restless. Momma decided to take him out on the upper deck to see if fresh air and open spaces would help relax him. He’s never liked to be confined.”

“Almost everyone’s cleared out. Would you like to sit here, drink coffee and bask in my sterling company, or perhaps take a walk on deck too?”

“Do you want another cup?”

“Only if you’ll join me.”

“I’ve had enough, thanks. I’d much rather stroll the promenade deck in the sunny salt air.”

“Sea, salt and sun at your disposal.”

He was acutely aware of the sway of her full skirt as she preceded him down the narrow passage and the subtle scent of gardenia wafting back at him.

Outside, she paused at the rail and gazed out over the gently undulating waves. He came up beside her.

“Do you envision any hope for my father?”

“I’m no expert on matters neurological, and I’ve had little opportunity to study up on them—”

“What you’re trying very diplomatically to say without saying it is that you don’t, that he’s not going to recover.”

Buck didn’t want to see the pain he knew he’d find in her eyes, so he continued to peer straight ahead. “I wish I could be more encouraging. Perhaps Dr. Meyer will be able to give you better answers to your questions and reason to hope. I’m sorry I can’t.”

She turned into the soft breeze blowing off the starboard bow and leisurely sauntered forward. The rhythmic puff of the engine two decks below throbbed beneath their feet.

At the white iron rail, she gazed once more at the heaving surface of the ocean. Buck again stood by her side. Several minutes went by in silence.

“Last night,” he said quietly. “What you said . . . It’s none of my business . . . but is it true?”

She hesitated before answering. “About being raped?” Another pause, this one longer. “Yes, it’s true.”

“I’m sorry.”

They remained side by side for several more minutes. The pounding of the steam engine seemed to accelerate, or perhaps it was his heart rate growing more intense. Primitive instincts battered nurtured behavior. He ached to wrap his arms protectively around her. His hand inched closer to hers until they touched.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked quietly, as he focused on the flat horizon.

“Why?” The single word wasn’t a challenge but a simple question.

“Because sometimes it helps. If it means anything, let me remind you I’m a doctor. Whatever you tell me will be in absolute confidence. I can assure you it’ll never be repeated to anyone.”

“You really want to hear about it?”

“If it’ll help you. I’ll protect your privacy as a professional, but I’d also like to help you as a friend.”

Anxiety dulled her dark eyes. He recognized the latent, unjustified but all too real sense of shame that victims of violence inevitably experienced, the unreasonable guilt of not being strong enough to conquer unconscionable evil, that somehow they were complicit in their own defeat. He saw too her fretful eagerness to unburden

herself warring with apprehension of the pain the revelation would inevitably impose.

“Let’s sit in these deck chairs here in the shade,” he offered, taking the initiative. “No one will hear us and we can see anyone approaching.”

#

“It started,” Sarah said when they were seated, “three years ago. Randolph Drexel, the son of a friend of my father’s, came to work in our accounting department. The scion of a distinguished Jewish family in Charleston, he was handsome and smart, quick-witted and charming. When, after the customary rituals of courting, he asked Poppa’s permission to marry me, I was thrilled. Within a few months of our wedding I was carrying his child, and Randolph had accepted my father’s offer of a junior partnership in the company. We felt blessed.”

A gust of wind ruffled her raven hair and threatened to undo the black-lace mourning veil. In an automatic gesture, she re-secured it.

“Fort Sumter had been fired upon and the war had begun by then. Randolph was able to obtain a captain’s commission in Colonel Steward’s infantry regiment as the quartermaster in charge of purchasing food, clothing and munitions for the troops. To my great relief and satisfaction his duties required him to remain in Charleston where we had numerous business contacts who were able to supply the large quantities of scarce goods our fighting men depended on.”

“Were you involved with the brokerage business?” he asked.

“I’ve worked for my father—not officially, of course—since I was a little girl. I think I probably learned double-entry bookkeeping with my arithmetic tables. After our marriage Randolph insisted a wife’s place was at home, and for several months I confined myself to domestic duties. But again the war intervened. All the young men, and many of the older ones, were drafted or volunteered in the fight against the northern aggressors. Cotton was piling up on wharves and in warehouses because of the Yankee blockade. Randolph’s contracts with the army had become our primary source of income. Naturally that was where my bookkeeping attention was focused.”

“I have to admit I don’t know much about accounting,” he commented.

“It’s simple in principle—” she smiled “—but can be convoluted in practice. It took me awhile therefore to discover a series of transactions that suggested goods were being sent to parties I suspected were sympathetic to the Union cause.”

“What did you do?”

“I had no choice. I presented my findings to Randolph, fully expecting him to either explain that I had misinterpreted the data or confirm my findings and take vengeance against the traitor in our midst.”

“Did you have any idea who it might be?”

“I suspected Boyce, a junior bookkeeper who’d been less than conscientious in his duties. My father had been getting ready to sack him when Boyce decided to enlist in Colonel Steward’s outfit. Imagine the shock, when, upon being told of my findings, Randolph erupted in outrage at me for spying on him. My first mistake was not recognizing that he’d been drinking. I knew he was under a great deal of pressure, and I’d noticed he’d begun consuming wine with our evening meals. That afternoon he’d started early and was already intoxicated when I served dinner. On hearing my report the first thing he did was pour a stiff brandy and gulp it down. I credited it to nerves. The war was going badly, our resources were dwindling. We had huge accounts receivable that no one was paying. And, of course, he was double dealing. After a second drink he insisted the transactions I was complaining about were all perfectly innocent and appropriate. I wanted to believe him, but the more I questioned them, the more confusing and contradictory his explanations became. My second mistake was telling him I needed to present the matter to Father so he’d be aware of it in case anyone else ever raised questions. I was hoping too that Poppa would be able to clarify the situation for me, because I was thoroughly confused by it.”

Her voice shook at the memory. “That’s when Randolph reminded me my name was no longer Greenwald but Drexel, that he was my husband and that I’d do well to keep my mouth shut and obey his commands. I was stunned. Then, as the truth finally penetrated, I became sick at heart. I’d never imagined the possibility that he might be involved in treachery. I was also furious. I shouted at him that I was not a slave, that I wouldn’t stand by and allow him to destroy everything my father had worked for his entire life.”

She paused, stared out to sea. “That’s when he hit me. And kept hitting me.”

#

She glanced sideways and saw the expression on the physician’s face change from distaste to anger to outrage.

“Perhaps I could have escaped further humiliation if I’d accepted the first blows, run from his presence and remained silent. But I fought him—” she closed her eyes tight “—in my bitter anger I fought him and he raped me to prove he was a man.”

She couldn’t restrain the tears now any more than she’d been able to repulse her husband’s violent invasion of her body. The physical pain was gone, but not the humiliation of being battered and abused by a man she’d thought had loved her. The betrayal of that trust would haunt her for the rest of her life.

“Next morning,” she resumed after brushing away the tears and regaining control of her voice, “he was obsequiously repentant. He groveled and begged for my forgiveness. He promised, swore it would never happen again, that he’d never touch another drop of liquor. In retrospect I think he was more afraid of what my father would do to him than he was concerned about my feelings.”

She fell silent for close to a minute. “I don’t know if you can understand this, Dr. Thomson, but I wanted desperately to believe him. I was three months along. I wanted us to be a happy family. I told myself what happened was my fault, that I’d been insensitive to his needs, to the enormous pressure he was under trying to support our family and the ever failing war effort, that he’d became enraged because I’d offended his honor. He couldn’t have betrayed our cause or compromised my family’s integrity.”

“But he had,” the doctor remarked, “hadn’t he?”

She ignored his question, steeled herself and, voicing a deep sigh, went on. “Two days later I miscarried. Momma saw the bruises on my body, brought me home and kept prodding me until suddenly the whole sordid story came tumbling out.”

Buck gazed at her sympathetically. “What did she do?”

“She told Poppa. He became so angry I was afraid he was about to have a stroke or a heart attack.” She glanced up. “The man you’ve met isn’t a shadow of the hero I’ve known. He sent a messenger to Randolph summoning him to the house that very afternoon. When Randolph arrived, Poppa confronted him with a loaded pistol and issued a series of ultimatums.”

The doctor cocked his head attentively, clearly hanging on to her every word.

“Poppa presented him with a blank piece of paper and dictated his letter of resignation as a partner in the firm without compensation. He told Randolph if he ever touched me again, he’d kill him. Next Randolph had to reimburse the firm for the funds he’d embezzled within thirty days or face criminal charges. The scandal alone would ruin his family socially. Finally and most importantly, Poppa demanded that Randolph go to our rabbi within twenty-four hours and start the process to obtain a get, a Jewish divorce.”

“Your father told you all this?”

Sarah smiled thinly. “I listened at the door. But I wasn’t alone. Momma was right there at my side listening too.”

The doctor nodded. “Go on.”

“A month later Colonel Steward ordered Randolph to join the regiment which was then bivouacked in Virginia. Randolph was captured on the second day of the battle of Darbytown Road and was taken to a Yankee prison camp not far from Baltimore. Shortly thereafter I received a letter from Randolph pleading with me to pay

his parole.”

“Surely you didn’t.”

“I debated hard with myself,” she replied uncomfortably. “He’d ruined my chances of ever having children. Our religious divorce had been granted, but as you probably know there’s no civil divorce in South Carolina. My parents were adamantly opposed to my rescuing him. I reminded them that honor doesn’t come from dishonor. He was legally still my husband. I owed him something.”

The doctor’s expression intimated he agreed with her parents.

“But they loved me and insisted on accompanying me to Maryland where the Yankees were holding him. Poppa carried the necessary funds, as well as a loaded Colt. I’ve often wondered if it was to protect us or to kill Randolph.”

“Would he have? Killed him, I mean?”

“At that time, yes. He was that angry. But he never got the chance. Upon our arrival at the prison camp, the commandant informed me that Randolph had died of wounds received a week previous. He was buried with the others in an unmarked grave. By chance I learned he’d been stabbed by one of his fellow prisoners for reasons the exact nature of which are unclear.”

“You did more than he deserved, more than I would have under those circumstances. You can rest with a clear conscience.”

“You must understand, Dr. Thomson, I never wished evil to befall my husband, but these past weeks and months have taught me very clearly that he wasn’t the man I thought he was, nor was he a man of honor. Nevertheless, our southern customs and my faith dictate that I show respect for the dead, and I shall fulfill that obligation, but allow me to add that it’s a formality rather than any lingering emotional attachment. I did what I felt I had to do. As you might surmise from all this, I am a woman in mourning, but I am not grieving.”

He reached over and took her hand gently in his. “Thank you for telling me. The courage you’ve displayed in coping under such difficult circumstances inspire respect and admiration.”

He raised her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed it. “I understand your desire to maintain decorum and I shall certainly honor it, but I also hope that, when it’s more appropriate, you might allow me to call on you.”

She grinned, feeling genuine warmth. “You are a gentleman, sir. When the time is right, I shall welcome the pleasure of your company, Dr. Thomson.”

“Under the circumstances, please call me Buck.”

She bowed her head, secretly pleased. “And I’m Sarah. But now, Buck, let’s talk about your friend Asa. Can you tell me what happened to him?”

#

Buck took a deep breath. Asa deserved the same degree of privacy he’d offered Sarah, but he also felt he could trust her with the basic facts of the situation, especially since she’d already learned the most humiliating aspect of it.

“Asa Boone was my hospital orderly in the last year of the war. We all called him Kentucky. Strong but compassionate, he proved willing to undertake the kinds of duties most people recoil from. There are men alive today because of his care and dedication. Since we were both from South Carolina, we decided to travel home together. After a couple of days on the road, I left him to set up our campsite, while I rode into the neighboring town to pick up fresh clothes and supplies. I returned after nightfall to find him tied to a tree and being mistreated by three men. Asa Boone spent three years in the war treating the weak, the suffering and the dying with tender kindness, and these animals were inflicting the kind of pain and humiliation few people can imagine and none should have to endure.”

“My God.” She clasped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes watered. When she lowered her fingers her lips were pinched and it was with visible effort that she spoke. “I had no idea such things happened. That poor man. What action did you take against the fiends who were doing that to him?”

“I killed them. All of them.”

This time her eyes went completely round in shock at his cold, unmerciful statement, and her jaw dropped. No doubt at that moment she considered him a fiend as well.

Perhaps she was right, yet Buck felt no remorse, no shame or guilt for what he’d done. Continuing to gaze across the deep waters Asa had found so inviting, he remained mute, daring not to add that, given a chance, he’d do it again—and without compunction.

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 Savannah. His father’s the overseer there.”

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 Savannah and Charleston, he wreaked a lot of havoc in the rest of South Carolina. She tells me Portland Plantation was in his path and didn’t do well.”

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 beginning to leave the ship.

“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?”

Annoyed but not intimidated by Buck’s sharp tone, the crew-member replied officiously, “I’m not supposed to give out any . . .” He paused, however, when he saw the gold piece in Buck’s right hand. “But yes, yes, I believe I do remember him. Strange fellow.”

“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!

Buck returned to where Asa was leaning on the ship’s rail and asked him to wait on the dock with their luggage.

“Where’re you going?”

Buck hesitated. Did he want to tell his friend about seeing his brother’s killer, after all the young man had been through already? He decided not to. “I saw someone I need to talk to. I’ll be right back.”