Текст книги "Mankillers"

Автор книги: Ken Casper

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

The next half hour was filled with a candid narrative of the lost years. The battles Buck had witnessed, the businesses large and small Grayson had watched collapse, and the families that had moved away. They were recounting pleasant memories of cotillions and barbecues, when a messenger arrived from Jeffcoat, announcing the funeral service at the synagogue would commence at eleven o’clock. Since they had an hour and a half until then, Gus suggested they proceed to his office at the Richland County Bank.

Once comfortably seated there and cigars lighted, Grayson became somber. “I’m so sorry about your father’s death. I wish—”

Buck sat upright in the upholstered chair. “Father’s dead?”

Gus stared at him. “You didn’t know?”

“I—”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, son. I only heard about it a month or so ago myself. I still don’t have all the details, except that there was a fire at the house. You and Raleigh had your differences, but he was in many ways a fine man who loved both his sons.”

“Did Clay know about Father’s death?”

Gus froze. “Did?” he repeated. “You mean—”

“He was killed by a sniper a few days after Lee surrendered.”

The banker shook his head as his eyes misted. “Not him too.” He stared at the desk blotter and mumbled, “Lord, I loved that young man like one of my own. So full of life and joy, and God, what a horseman.” He raised his head. Tears stained his cheeks. “Now he’s gone too, like my precious boys.”

He rose to his feet and paced behind his desk, head bowed. “So many lives ended.” He wiped his eyes and then resumed. “In the event of his death, your father left letters with me to give to you and your brother upon your return. Now, with Clay gone . . . I reckon they both belong to you.”

He went to the shoulder-high black-iron safe in the far corner of the room, spun the dial and removed two dun-colored envelopes. He handed both to his guest. Buck stared at his father’s careless handwriting, frowned and placed the missives in his coat pocket.

“You know, Buck, this country may someday recover from this terrible conflict. We might even eventually bind our nation of states closer together to make us a stronger Union, but, my God, at what a price! All the dead. All the crippled young men, North and South. I tell you, generations will pass before many of these families recover. I’ve heard over a quarter of the young men in the Confederate States have been killed or disabled. Nothing—state rights, abolishing slavery—nothing’s worth the price we’ve paid.”

He picked up his Havana. It had gone out. He set it back in the ashtray and shook his head sadly.

“And Columbia. This beautiful city, ruined, ruined! It’ll be rebuilt, and our state’ll recover, but it’ll take many years. Unfortunately, you can’t force people or legislate them to love one another.”

He leaned back in the swivel chair, then sat upright. “Enough of this philosophizing.” He reached for the dead cigar, relit it with a wooden match, took a deep puff and blew the smoke over his head. “What’re your plans now, son? I hope you’ll open your doctor’s office here in Columbia. You’ll be most welcome . . . and successful.”

Buck too puffed before he replied, “I’m afraid I’ll have to delay that decision for now. There’s another matter I’m obliged to deal with first.”

Gus waited expectantly. When Buck didn’t elaborate, he shrugged. “As you wish. If you require ready cash, it’s available. Raleigh deposited funds here for your medical school, but since you chose not to use them, I’ve invested them for you, and now, with Clay gone. . . . As the sole surviving son, you also inherit Jasmine—or what’s left of it. Give me a day or two to get all the legal documents filed, but—” he stared grimly through the fragrant smoke “—you certainly won’t have to concern yourself with earning a living right away.”

“I have a good horse—” Buck studied the glowing tip of his cigar “—and adequate cash for now. About this matter I alluded to . . . I need your advice. Do you remember Saul Snead?”

“That sorry overseer your father hired? I tried to warn him, but after your momma passed on, all your poppa seemed interested in was turning a profit.”

“I’ve learned Saul’s son, Rufus, is the mankiller who shot Clay. He and his gang also murdered Sarah’s father and wounded her.”

“God in heaven!” Gus wagged his head. “That whole family’s depraved. But this! That wretch’s got to be stopped.”

“My immediate concern is for the safety of Sarah Drexel and her mother.” Buck rose to his feet and strode heavily across the worn carpet. Retracing his steps he positioned himself directly in front of the banker’s desk. “Then,” he declared firmly, “I’m going to find Rufus Snead and kill the murdering bastard.”

Grayson stared up at him, speechless for a moment. “Buck, I’ve never seen you like this. You, a doctor who never even went on a foxhunt, are now talking about taking another man’s life?”

Buck stared at him. “I’ve already killed six men and haven’t regretted a single one of them. Now I’m a mankiller.”

The banker fell back in his chair, clearly appalled at what he’d heard. He started to bring his cigar to his lips, but his hand trembled so badly he lowered it to the crystal ashtray.

“My God, Buck. My God.” He covered his face with his hands. “What’s this war done to us?”

“I need to find Rufus Snead,” Buck said with cold calm. “He’s around here somewhere.”

Pulling himself together, Grayson tapped the ash from his cigar and took a puff. “My friend, I want you to get Clay’s murderer as much as you do, but the Sneads are a treacherous lot with a host of evil friends. It’d be foolhardy for you to go after him by yourself.”

“I can’t ignore him now.” Buck frowned. “Not when I know he’s so close.”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting you let him get away. I have ah . . . an . . . acquaintance who can find a gnat in a sandstorm, and squash him if necessary.”

Buck shook his head. “No, sir, I want that red-haired coward for myself.”

“I understand that. What I’m proposing is you let my man Tracker locate him for you. He’s a master of disguise who can slip into dangerous places without raising suspicions.”

“You’ve never steered me wrong, Gus. But I don’t want this to drag out. There’s no telling how many lives are at stake. Do you think Tracker can get the job done promptly?”

“I believe he can. Fortunately he’s in the vicinity. I’ll send word to him right away.” Gus pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket and snapped it open. “Time for us to pick up the ladies and proceed to the synagogue.”

#

Buck, Sarah, her mother, and the Graysons arrived at the synagogue in silence. Rabbi Mendelssohn greeted them with appropriate solemnity and introduced several members of the congregation—many were friends of the Graysons—so that there would be the ten male Jews required for religious services. Buck was unfamiliar with the rituals that followed but was captivated by the rabbi’s resonant, sonorously mournful chanting.

From the house of worship, they proceeded across the street to the Hebrew cemetery. Here the rabbi led a prayer which was recited by all those present, even Gus. Buck listened and found the words deeply comforting.

“Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name throughout the world which He has created according to His will . . .”

Gus prodded Buck and inclined his head toward a group of tombstones on their left.

“May His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity . . .”

A small figure, wearing a badly stained Confederate cavalry hat and tunic, crouched among the gravestones. When the vagrant realized he’d been seen, he scurried away. In his haste the hat fell off, revealing a long tangle of red hair.

“Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, beyond all the blessings and hymns, praises and consolations that are ever spoken in the world; and say, Amen . . .”

Buck almost gasped. By God! It’s Rufus Snead. What the hell is he doing here?

“May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen . . .”

Apparently the sniper hadn’t given up stalking him. Buck was tempted to pursue him but two things dissuaded him. He wasn’t armed, and he was loath to disrupt the service.

“He who creates peace in His celestial heights, may He create peace for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen.”

The ceremony concluded, Miriam came over to Buck and invited him to the house for a small reception. Buck hesitated, then accepted. His pursuit of Snead would have to wait—at least until he was armed.

The banker’s smoke-streaked residence on Senate Street was a sprawling three story brick building with a kitchen in back and beyond it a carriage house. A butler in patched livery greeted them at the front door, accepted the gentlemen’s hats and walking sticks, while female servants helped the ladies out of their cloaks and feathered hats.

The party proceeded to the drawing room in front, where a scant buffet had been laid out. Ruth was pouring sherry into small crystal glasses. Gus was at the other end of the long trestle table decanting modest portions of brandy into matching crystal snifters. The butler approached him quietly and waited until he was recognized.

“Yes, Quintus?”

“Beg pardon, sir, but a letter comed a short while ago for Mr. Jacob Greenwald.”

“I see. Where is it now?”

“In the hall, sir. You want me to fetch it?”

“Yes, please. But bring it directly to me.”

“Yessir.”

A minute later, the black man approached with a silver salver on which a yellow envelope lay.

Gus thanked him, dismissed him and then examined the document to verify the name of the addressee. He noted that Miriam had been observing him out of the corner of her eye while talking with her guests and discussing the Lord only knew what. It took the merest nod from him for her to excuse herself and join him. Her immediate reaction when he showed her the envelope was, “More bad news? Is this salt for the wounds?”

Together they went to Ruth and Sarah.

“Ruth, my dear, a letter has arrived addressed to Jacob.”

The new widow’s hands shook.

Sarah relieved her of her glass. “Momma, do you want to sit down?”

“Please. What does it say?” Ruth asked after she was seated. “Who sent it?”

“Would you like me to open it for you?” Gus asked.

The grieving woman nodded.

Gus was surprised when he realized his own hands were shaking too. He tore open the flap, unfolded the crinkly paper, scanned the terse words and quickly read them aloud.

“Franklin Drexel is contesting Sarah’s sole ownership of the brokerage and has obtained a court order closing it, pending court determination of his challenge. The hearing is scheduled for the 18^th. I require your original documentation to go forward with your defense. It’s signed Simon Weinberg.”

“Our family lawyer,” Sarah explained.

“Perhaps you would prefer to discuss this in private,” Miriam said, eyeing Buck.

“No.” Sarah replied. “Dr. Thomson’s aware of my situation with Randolph.”

Her mother frowned, doubt on her face.

“All of it,” Sarah declared.

“We must return to Charleston immediately,” Ruth said.

“No,” Sarah repeated. “You stay here. I’ll go back and take care of this.”

“I must—” Ruth started to say.

“Nonsense,” Miriam stopped her. “Sarah is right. You need to stay here and recuperate. Your daughter’s well qualified to deal with this.”

Ruth covered her face with her hands. “And we thought they were our friends.”

#

“Do you have any idea what the basis of their suit might be?” Buck asked Sarah who was sitting between her mother and Miriam.

“I can think of three possible causes of action. First, that the agreement to sever his junior partnership was obtained under duress. Second, that there was no compensation for value received, and third, that our religious divorce has no legal standing.”

“May I ask a few more questions?” Gus asked.

“Of course,” she replied. “I’m hoping you might be able to give us some ideas on how to proceed.”

The banker nodded. “Do you have any papers signed by Randolph renouncing his claim to the business?”

“Yes, they’re in our private safe in the office.”

“Is there anyone back there who has the combination to that safe and who you would trust to turn those papers over to your lawyer?”

“Arthur Saxe has worked for my father for twenty years, but he doesn’t have access to the safe and—”

“No,” Ruth said decisively. “I don’t trust him, not with something this important. I must go back—”

“Put the thought out of your mind, my dear,” Miriam rejoined. She turned to her husband. “What other questions do you have?”

“Were there any witnesses to your father’s confrontation with Randolph?”

“My mother and I . . . overheard their conversation.”

“But you weren’t in the same room,” Buck pointed out, remembering Sarah saying they were listening at the door.

“It’s my house,” Ruth snapped. “I have a right to know what’s going on.”

“Momma,” Sarah interceded, “I don’t think Dr. Thomson’s implying anything.”

Ruth made a harrumph sound, while Miriam poured a glass of water and handed it to her.

“No offense intended, ma’am,” Buck said evenly.

“May I continue?” Gus asked.

Ruth nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m just so—”

“Legally you and Randolph were still married at the time of his death,” Gus posited. “Is that correct?”

Sarah nodded.

“Are there any other heirs to your father’s estate besides you and your mother?”

“Aaron, of course,” Ruth said brightly.

“Momma—”

“He’ll come back. I’m convinced in my heart he will.”

“Ruth, dear,” Miriam said softly. “I know how hard it is, believe me. It took me a long time to accept that Bert and Harry were gone, that they will never be returning home.” Her eyes filled with tears. Gus moved up beside her chair and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“You said he was lost in the war, is that correct?” Gus pressed.

Sarah bit her lip, then stiffened her spine. “My brother was a blockade runner out of Charleston. He’d been sailing since he was a little boy and made dozens of trips safely, but we haven’t heard from him in over a year. The papers listed him as MPD, missing, presumed dead.”

“I don’t believe it,” Ruth interposed. “The war’s over, and he’ll be coming home.”

“Yes, Momma. But let’s not discuss it now. The question is what we’re going to do about Randolph’s father. You stay here with the Graysons, and I’ll return to Charleston.”

“Not by yourself,” Buck said firmly. “I’m going with you. I’ll check with the stagecoach company and see if they have anything available. How soon will you be ready to leave? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Leave tomorrow?” Miriam exclaimed. “That’s impossible. They must sit Shiva, after which they need to rest. I won’t hear of her leaving tomorrow. It’s out of the question.”

Buck shifted his attention from Gus’s wife to Mrs. Greenwald and finally to Sarah. “Excuse me. Sit what?”

Miriam patted Ruth’s hand sympathetically while explaining to Buck, “It’s our religious practice for the next of kin to remain in isolation for a period immediately following funeral services. All mirrors are turned to the wall or covered and meals eaten in seclusion. Ruth and her daughter will observe this custom in our home.”

“You mean she can’t travel? For how long?”

“Shiva means seven days. Actually eight, since the Sabbath doesn’t count.”

“That’s too long, Miriam,” Sarah protested. “Since we’re traveling I can satisfy the obligation by sitting Shiva for three days.”

“Is that when you’ll be ready?” Buck asked. “In three days?”

“I’m ready to leave immediately if that’s what’s needed. Right now saving the family business and our honor is more important than a ritual that can be performed later.”

Buck nodded. The woman had endured the violent death of her father, yet was still willing and eager to take on the world. One hell of a woman.

“I’ll check with the stagecoach company and find out what their schedule is and get back to you.”

“No, no,” Ruth objected. “It’s much too dangerous.”

“I’ll be traveling with your daughter to Charleston to insure her safety,” Buck informed her.

“For propriety’s sake,” Miriam cut in, “I’ll send Janey as your servant and companion.”

A few minutes later, Gus escorted Buck to the front door and put his hand on his young friend’s shoulder. “Well, doctor, as usual the women have everything well in hand. All we have to do now is exactly as we’re told.”

Buck grinned. “I’m eminently familiar with taking orders.”

#

Buck went directly from the Grayson house to his room at the Sand Hills Hotel. Today he’d participated in a strangely soothing ritual that reminded him that there can be death with dignity. So different from what he’d witnessed in the war; where torn-up bodies were carelessly discarded more often in pits than in dignified graves; where there were no markers to remind the world that here feeling men had yielded up their lives, limbs and dreams; where few words were spoken to commemorate their sacrifices, many of which the world had already forgotten.

He removed the two unread letters the banker had earlier given him from the inner pocket of his ill-fitting frock coat, and tossed the garment itself onto the back of a chair in the sitting room. Once again he studied the two envelopes and was surprised to see his hands were trembling. What last words had Raleigh had for him and Clay? What premonition might he have had of his own demise?

Sitting on the edge of the settee in the corner between the windows, he opened the envelope with his name on it.

To my elder son Buck:

One of the greatest joys of my life was the day you were born. The two greatest sorrows were the loss of your mother and that you and I parted with such rancor. But that does not dampen the pride I have for you and your accomplishments. Even as a boy you were more like your mother than me, with your compassion for wounded animals and your kindhearted care of our slaves. She and you touched the tender part of my soul. I need not remind you how profound was her loss on my nature. Perhaps it explains the inexcusable behavior I now so deeply lament.

I pray you will forgive me and in time recollect me with some fondness for those moments of happiness we shared. May you return safely from this terrible war, establish your medical practice here in South Carolina, and enjoy a long and successful life.

Your loving father,

Raleigh

Buck let the single piece of paper slip from his fingers and fall to the floor, overwhelmed with unexpected emotion. Gus had been correct. For all his shortcomings, his father had loved him. How much Buck himself regretted the hostility of their last meeting. If the war hadn’t intervened, would they have been reconciled? They’d always have differences, but Buck liked to think they’d eventually have found common ground.

He picked up the paper, refolded it and tucked it back into its envelope. Several minutes went by before he broke the seal on the other one. He felt unclean, as he opened this letter, written on the same personalized stationery. To read the private correspondence between his late father and his dead brother seemed somehow a sacrilege, yet it would be irresponsible and doubly disrespectful of their memories to ignore it.

He sat more deeply into the upholstered sofa. His fingers trembled as he read:

To my dear son Clay:

I pray your reckless exuberance for life has not placed you in harm’s way and you return safely from this dreadful war.

It was apparent to me from your earliest days that you appreciated the good life of a plantation owner and are unafraid to enjoy the pleasures and privileges it offers. I have therefore willed the entire estate of Jasmine to you. All pertinent documents are on file at the Richland County Bank in Columbia. Be discreet and generous in your affairs, but drink deeply of life and the joys it offers. Your memories of me will fade, but I hope from time to time, you may think of me and smile.

I have also established a trust fund with Gus Grayson to carry faithful Emma and the child through these troubled times. We owe her a great deal. God bless her.

I trust you will be able to put behind you the tragedy of our failed cause and the sorrows it has brought. May this meager bequest help you fulfill your dreams. I could not have asked for a finer son and heir.

Your loving father,

Raleigh

His throat tight, his hands still trembling, Buck managed to return the document to its envelope, which he laid on the side table at the base of a whale-oil lamp. Folk wisdom said time healed all wounds, but the scars left by some injuries never completely disappeared, and the pain of some afflictions remained with a man for the rest of his life.

Though the day was still young, Buck removed his boots and crawled on top of the faded four-poster bed, overwhelmed with fatigue and a sense of guilt that was more deep-seated than mere physical exhaustion. The rawness of the pain radiating from his soul, however, did not diminish his commitment to rid the world of the evil around him.

On the contrary, he was more determined than ever to find the deformed caricature of a man responsible for Clay’s death.

He would track down Rufus Snead, and he would kill him.

#

“He saw me,” Rufus told Zeke. “He recognized me.”

“You sure?”

“Of course he’s sure,” Hank put in. The three of them were sitting at the table closest to the plank bar in the Whiskey Jug, a tankard before each. “His pint-size was a hint, but the long red hair was a dead giveaway.”

Rufus would have favored cutting the man’s gizzard out. He didn’t appreciate being reminded he was small, only a hooter over five feet. As for the red hair, he supposed he could cut it short like Floyd had done his, or dye it a different color, but cut it once and he’d have to keep cutting it. As for dyeing it . . . out of the question. He wasn’t no Mary. Besides, that’d be even more work.

“If my dad-blamed hat hadn’t come off,” he explained, “the folks at that burial would have figured me to be somebody come to visit a dead relative.”

He hated cemeteries. Always had. His old man had bound him to a tombstone one night to teach him a lesson. Couldn’t remember what he’d done wrong. Didn’t matter. The sot didn’t need a reason. Rufus had learned his lesson though—to stay as far away from the crazy lush as he could after that. Done all right too until the night the bastard started beating on Sally Mae.

“Then that banker noticed me and nudged the doc.” Rufus realized too late he should have ignored them. The oversized hat would have shielded his face.

“Well, if the doc didn’t know he was being followed before,” Hank commented between gulps of warm beer, “he does now.”

“Don’t matter,” Rufus told him. “I know where the doc is, but he don’t know where I am.”

“Why didn’t he go after you?” Zeke wondered.

Rufus had been thinking about that too. “Maybe ‘cause he didn’t want to upset his friend’s funeral.”

“To go after his brother’s killer?” Hank obviously didn’t cotton to the notion. “So he interrupts a funeral. Big deal. The dead don’t care, and he could always explain it to the living.”

“Maybe he didn’t have a gun with him and thought Rufus did,” Zeke suggested.

Hank put his finger to the side of his nose. “I like that better.”

Rufus smiled. “If that’s the case, I reckon I ought to arrange another funeral for him to go to.” He snickered. “Make it his funeral too.”

Shifty brought him another tankard of beer. Time to think.

Doc Thomson knew Rufus was watching him.

Thomson was an expert marksman.

Except for maybe church, even Jewish churches, and funerals, he probably wouldn’t go anywhere without a gun, and he was supposed to be every bit as good with a pistol as he was with a rifle. Rufus knew how good that was.

Should be easy enough to follow him wherever he went, but shooting him in town probably wasn’t a good idea. The locals might catch him, but worse, them damn Yankees might, and they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him on the spot or take him somewhere and hang him, or at least treat him real bad.

Better for him to pick the time and place, rather than waiting for a chance that might never come. But now that the doc had seen him, it would be too dangerous to go after him alone.

“Think the boys might be willing to help me out, Hank?”

“Told you, everybody liked Floyd and Fat Man. They want their killer almost as much as you do. What do you need?”

Chapter ELEVEN

The following morning after breakfast in the hotel dining room, attended to by a slow-moving but remarkably efficient old black man, Buck went directly to the stage office. The next coach to Charleston wouldn’t be leaving for three days. Good timing. He sent a messenger to Sarah informing her of the schedule, then spent the next couple of hours searching for better clothing at a price he was willing to pay. Confederate money was worthless. Federal currency was in short supply. Most commerce for ordinary people was conducted at the rudimentary barter level. Even the barest of necessities were in short supply. Everything above mere subsistence was now considered a luxury.

Buck was at an unexpected advantage. Asa had refused to even touch the gold and silver Buck had collected from the men who’d attacked him, and as much as Buck loathed its source, he realized it would be foolish to ignore it. Instead, he hoarded it in a way his upbringing never taught him and haggled in a manner his father would have spurned. He also kept careful track of every coin he spent and vowed to return a like amount to his friend at a future date.

It was close to noon by the time he set out on a journey he knew would be as unsettling as his father’s written farewell. It had been nearly six years since he’d left Jasmine, seemingly at peace with his resolution to never set eyes on it or his father again. But learning his father was dead, he realized he’d undergone a sea change. It was one thing to resent and hold at arm’s length a living man with whom there was still the possibility of reconciliation, and quite another when that person was dead. The same was true but in reverse regarding Jasmine. Dissociating himself from something that was sacred to another member of the family was much easier when he didn’t expect to own it. Now, as the sole heir of the ancestral estate, he had no choice but to return, even if it was for the last time.

Mounting Gypsy, he set off for the plantation, fifteen miles away.

The day was bright and sunny, a sharp contrast to his mood and to the desolate condition of the countryside through which he rode. Houses, humble and grand, had been burned, battered and ruined. Fields, once fertile and productive, lay uncultivated and weed-choked. Even the ancient trees lining stately and fashionable avenues had paid the price of Sherman’s wrath. Their outstretched boughs had been reduced to stumps, like the many human limbs Buck had amputated.

At last he came to the long, canopied drive to Jasmine, the Thomson family home. By some miracle the stately oaks had escaped the Yankee vendetta. As Gypsy’s shod hoofs clattered along the red-brick pavement, Buck’s mind slipped back to the last time he’d seen his father, a memory he wished his mind could erase.

#

April, 1859

Jasmine Plantation

South Carolina:

Buck rapped on the door of his father’s study and entered before there was time for a response. Raleigh, seated behind the desk writing in a ledger, looked up. His annoyance quickly faded at the sight of his first-born.

“Welcome home, son,” he said cheerfully. “How was Columbia?”

“Hot and humid. But I’m not here to talk about the weather. Mose just told me Claudius was whipped to death by that son of a bitch overseer of yours.”

Raleigh’s face reddened. “Don’t use that kind of language in my house, son. You know I don’t allow it. Claudius was whipped . . . and then he died. I’ve already fired Snead.”

“Fired! You ought to have shot the son of a . . . that man long ago. He’s been nothing but trouble.”

“He was responsible for a good deal of the success we’ve enjoyed here. He worked hard and expected others to do the same.”

Buck put his hands on his father’s desk and leaned forward. “He beat those people unmercifully, Father. He’s done it for years. I’ve seen the results of his beatings and treated them myself. I’ve told you this many times before, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you’re culpable in a murder.”

Raleigh stood up suddenly. His face was close to Buck’s. “How dare you speak to me that way. I told you Snead’s gone. That’s the end of it.”

“Hell it is. Claudius’s blood is on your hands. You can’t wash it off this time.” He pulled away from the desk, turned his back, then spun around to face his father. He would have liked to shout, but the breeding of good manners won over the base urge. “It’s wrong, Father. This whole business is wrong. Slavery’s wrong. You know it and I know it.”

“Now you listen to me, young man. You sound like one of those damn abolitionists.” Raleigh Thomson was livid, shaking with rage. “Those high and mighty Yankees condemn us for having slaves, but they’re the ones who buy them in Africa, build the ships to bring them here, and sell them in Charleston. They’re willing enough to purchase our cotton, picked by those same slaves, for their factories—factories where they employ children and immigrants unable to speak English, to whom they pay starvation wages.” He took a deep breath. “That’s their form of slavery.”

“But they don’t beat them to death!” Buck retorted, his voice finally raised. “They don’t sell them or rip their families apart for profit.” He headed for the door. “Slavery. I’m sick of this whole damn business.”

“Stop,” Raleigh bellowed.

Involuntarily, Buck did.

“You self-righteous hypocrite. You despise slavery yet you’re willing to accept the fine, luxurious home it’s provided you, as well as an expensive education. You say you hate our whole way of life—hunting, riding with foxhounds—yet you’re the best rifle and pistol shot in this part of the country. And what do you shoot? Pine cones and paper targets. Some of my friends wonder if you’re not a ‘fancy boy’. Still, you’re not above asking me to pay for medical school.”