Tail Gait

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Offensive but harmless,” Harry concurred.

  “The Downtown Mall isn’t my beat. The Charlottesville police will pick him up, I’m sure.”

  Harry laughed. “Wouldn’t it be funny if Frank stood on the county/city line? You all would come for him, he’d step into the city. And vice versa.”

  Cooper smiled. “One of these days, I swear it will happen.”

  In Virginia, cities are incorporated, having their own law enforcement, mayor, city commissioners. Counties had sheriff’s departments and a board of county supervisors. Often the towns weren’t large enough in the counties to have mayors. Some did, some didn’t, but the county courthouse was always the hub. Confusing as the system might be, it worked for Virginians, and Virginians were quick to note they had managed since 1624.

  Each of the original thirteen colonies kept their systems. Pennsylvania had townships, for instance. And not one of those former colonies would change its ways. As one moved westward, in theory, those states became easier to govern, or at least more streamlined. This fiction was easily exploded when a state squared off against the federal government. The attorney general of Missouri would fight just as hard as the attorney general of Virginia if he or she felt the clumsy hand of Washington squeezing its citizens or its coffers.

  Made life interesting.

  Tucker joined them at the alcove, looking up at Cooper with an expression of saintliness. “Might you have more bones?” asked the dog.

  “Ignore her, Coop.”

  “Oh, how can I? And it just so happens, now that I think of it, I bought some greenies. Plus I have a tuna bomb for the cats.” No sooner did Cooper distribute these treats than the three creatures entered a state of bliss.

  Coop sat back down at the kitchen table. “Do you want anything? I actually have deviled eggs.”

  “Oh, thanks, no. I ate my way through the reception.” Harry paused. “I’ll miss Ginger. He and Trudy were friends of Mom and Dad. I know you have to be, uh, careful about sharing information, but have you learned anything at all?”

  Cooper looked into her teacup. “Not a damn thing.”

  “I keep thinking it was a mistake,” said Harry. “Maybe the bullet was meant for someone else.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid you’re right, but Ginger’s death was like a bolt out of a clear blue sky. There’s no sense to it.” She finished her tea.

  “We’ve investigated the Hemings angle, and then the uproar over blacks, then women being admitted to UVA in 1972. Yes, Ginger got a few folks angry, but those that signed letters to the editors from that time are mostly dead.” She stopped for a moment. “Except for Carroll Kruger, who, about ninety, I figure, held forth on how admitting blacks and women to the University of Virginia has ruined—ruined, mind you—that once great institution and he will never give them a dime.”

  “He’s pretty rich.” Harry tapped the edge of her cup. “Do you think you ever completely eradicate prejudice?”

  “No, but it’s only the ancient and the cranks who cling to race and all this sex stuff. I think we’re beyond that, most everyone. But, you know, something else will take their place, some new category of outrage.”

  “Solves nothing and hurts many. And that’s what I keep coming back to, Ginger never hurt anyone.”

  “Frank Cresey.”

  “Okay, but Frank didn’t kill him.” Harry leaned back against the cushion on the alcove booth. “The only thing I can think of is it’s some form of academic anger, revenge. Far-fetched. His research consumed his life. Maybe he stepped over into someone’s territory and Ginger got the credit they thought should have come to them or he wrote about a subject first. I know professors and doctors are incredibly competitive regarding their research.”

  “We thought of that, Harry.” Coop held up her hands, empty.

  “When you combed through his desk at home and then at UVA, what was he working on?”

  “I’m not a scholar. I don’t know what’s significant or not. He had old maps. Trudy said he would consult the maps of the time because that was what the people used. She said how Ginger praised those early brave surveyors. Uh.” She tapped her forefinger on the table. “There were some first-person memoirs of the Battle of Saratoga and prisoner-of-war camps, and materials on old roads. Professor Brinsley Sims has been a big help. He went through everything and said he didn’t find anything incendiary, for lack of a better word.”

  “When the department is finished, might I look?”

  “I’ll ask Rick, but why?”

  “I’m born and bred here. I might be able to pick something up, you know, from his going through old family Bibles.”

  “Harry, what could that have to do with Ginger’s murder?”

  “Maybe an old crime provoked a new one.”

  “It would have to be a very old crime.”

  “Maybe, but then again, it kept being brought forward, in ways we don’t understand but Ginger did. I can’t think of anything else. And I know it’s out there, but, okay, think of this. The Constitution says that in order to be president of this country, you must be born here. Ever wonder why?”

  “No. I figured it was one more rule, like initially only giving the vote to white male property owners.”

  “Aha! You do know some history.”

  Cooper smiled. “Enough to know the fussing and fighting will never end.”

  “There is that.” Harry’s animals came over and flopped down, though they were listening. “If the presidency were available to a naturalized citizen, of course that person’s early years would have been somewhere else. Our Founding Fathers knew the experience of the New World was just that: A person from another place, from Europe, no matter how brilliant, ought not be trusted with being our chief executive. They can hold any other office, but not that one. You have to be of this soil.”

  “Never thought of that.”

  “They did, because they saw how feudal past continued to affect Europe even in the eighteenth century, and really even today. We were born of the Enlightenment. No feudal past. We truly are significantly different from Europe and Asia.”

  “Well, okay.”

  “See, these were the kind of conversations Ginger would have. The man just loved what he did. It spilled over and out of him, and he was never pedantic or boring at it.”

  “The past is prologue,” Cooper repeated the famous axiom.

  “The past can kill you.”

  Cooper looked at Harry, then said, “I’ll see what I can do. I have nothing else to go on.”

  “Good. It will keep me off the streets at night.”

  Mrs. Murphy said to Pewter and Tucker, “No, it won’t. When she gets like this, she—”

  Pewter interrupted. “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

  Mrs. Murphy thought Pewter might be onto something for once. After all, there weren’t too many angels in Virginia.

  September 7, 1780

  Gorgeous early fall weather made up for the work in a sweltering summer. No one complained about the labor. Two Hessian prisoners of war had broken their ankles sliding down as they worked to ease the grade on Ewing Garth’s wagon road. Other than that, no injuries.

  At three in the afternoon, tired men picked up their tools. The walk back to their barracks would take forty-five minutes. Captain Schuyler pulled his horse out of the stables, where Garth allowed him to put the sturdy fellow.

  Captain Schuyler unrolled the light blanket across the horse, then rolled it up, throwing it across the front of the saddle. “Almost done for the day.”

  As he easily mounted, a figure slid through the barn doors opened for her. Captain Schuyler swept off his hat, bowed as low as he could while on the horse.

  “Captain,” she greeted him. “Do you read, Captain?”

  “I do, Miss Garth.”

  She smiled again, incandescent. “I have brought you something. I imagine the nights at the barracks can be tedious.” She reached under her silk s
hawl to bring out a small volume wrapped in heavy white paper, tied with raffia. “I have not been able to thank you properly for the assistance you gave me when Renaldo misbehaved.” She drew in a deep breath. “Father doesn’t like me out of his sight when the prisoners are here, so you and I have enjoyed few conversations. I have not been able to show my gratitude.”

  “He is quite right to protect you, although I do not think there is a man among the prisoners who would harm you.”

  “But would they harm you?”

  His black eyebrows raised. “Me? I don’t think so.”

  “Should we lose this war, Captain, you will be branded by the British a traitor. My father fears he will lose everything and die a pauper for aiding our great cause. We must win our freedom.”

  He smiled as his horse stamped a foot, eager to go as he heard the traces on the wagons jingle. “Miss Garth, we will win this war. I have seen the British in battle. They are disciplined but not so well led. Many of their soldiers are paid men from other countries. We are fighting for our land and”—he grinned—“we are paid infrequently.”

  She had not known about the realities of the army, the haggling with the Continental Congress. “But still you serve?”

  “With all my heart. I languish here at the camp, and I hope in time I will be recalled to my regiment so I can fight.”

  She stared at him, saying nothing.

  He blushed under her gaze. He tried to remember what Charles taught him. “Making your acquaintance has sweetened my current situation.”

  Finally, her cheeks flushing too, she replied in her beguiling alto, “You are a brave man, Captain Schuyler, but I do so hope there is no”—she paused, searching for the right words—“foolish risk.” Then she collected herself, turned, and opened the barn doors even though Jeddie was ready to do so. “Might you keep the book’s giver to yourself, Sir? Father would be upset.”

  He tipped his hat again. “Yes. And I am grateful as the nights are endless.”

  —

  As Captain Schuyler rode away, Catherine pressed three coins into Jeddie’s palm. The fourteen-year-old slave looked up at her.

  “Miss Catherine.”

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence because she whispered in his ear, “Jeddie, if you will keep your own counsel and occasionally assist me, I promise more.” She paused significantly. “You know how my father can be.” A gap-toothed grin revealed that Jeddie knew Garth’s ways only too well.

  Catherine hurried back to the house, slipped into the kitchen, threw off her shawl. Rachel tiptoed down the back stairway.

  Catherine shot her sister a look. “Better view from the top windows, Rachel?”

  Ignoring her sister’s tone, the younger girl giggled. “He’s so handsome.”

  Catherine shrugged. Sounding nonchalant, she said, “I suppose he is, in a rough way. I owed him something for his pains. This is the first time since Renaldo’s theatrics that I’ve been able to see the good captain by himself. I can’t stand the thought of an audience—like you, for example.”

  “Oh, Cat, don’t be a toad. I’m not spying.”

  “I’m not a toad. But there’s always someone around, watching, listening.” Catherine yanked her shawl off the table, wrapped it over her sister’s head, and slapped her bottom.

  Laughing, they both walked down the hallway to their reading room, where the fire would ward off the coming night’s chill. Catherine kept thinking about how it felt to have Captain Schuyler’s arms around her. She’d never felt anything like that shot of heat. How powerful he was. Not for the first time, the young beauty wished she had her mother to talk to, to ask questions. Her mother had been both wise and uncommonly sweet.

  —

  Some men rode in the wagon, but most walked, the movement keeping them warmer. Captain Schuyler rode up next to Charles West. “You take your gloves off when you draw. I doubt I could hold a quill, a piece of charcoal, or anything in heat or cold. I can hold a sword or an ax handle, but nothing so narrow.”

  “I have to work fast. Then I go back to add more details. As to the road to the bridge, I keep reviewing with Corporal Ix. I am not sure of the proper grades.”

  “Can’t be that far off.”

  Charles half smiled. “I hope not. And as to gloves.” He pulled his gloves from his breeches’ pocket, many of the fingers were now missing. “You know, Captain, I had hoped to add to my slender purse with some bounty from victories, but as you see…” He held up his open palm.

  “No bounty for you, and I have your fine pistol.” Schuyler touched the handsome flintlock gun.

  “Indeed.” Charles glanced down at Piglet, happily trotting beside him. He scooped up the dog, carrying him for a while.

  Captain Schuyler nodded and rode forward.

  Once back at the camp, his horse untacked, brushed out, a light blanket over him, fresh water in his bucket, John Schuyler opened the wrapped book. It was Aesop’s Fables, with illustrations. An inscription in French was written in a flowing, artistic hand.

  Slipping it back into his tunic, he saved the paper and raffia, for he wanted everything her hand had touched. He briskly walked to Charles’s barracks, twilight enhancing even those rude structures. Opening the door, he felt a bit of warmth from the fire. The men stood up as he entered.

  “Lieutenant West, would you step outside for a moment?”

  Grabbing his outer coat, Piglet at his heels, Charles followed John Schuyler outside.

  “Will you read this for me? I cannot read French.”

  Charles gingerly took the book. “Ah, I remember this.”

  He opened the cover, looked at the beautiful hand, did not comment, and translated, “ ‘How true these are. Catherine.’ ” He handed the book back.

  “Thank you.”

  “I quite like ‘The Fox and the Grapes.’ ” He waited for a moment. “A gentleman would read this, then write back a thank-you, perhaps with something witty or amusing regarding one of the fables.”

  “I can write, but it’s a scrawl.” His face registered disappointment.

  “My hand is good.”

  “She doesn’t want her father to know she gave me this.” Captain Schuyler slipped the book back into his coat.

  “Ah, well, that changes things.” Before the Continental soldier took his leave, Charles inhaled the cold air. “Let me think on this, and”—he inclined his head slightly—“if you can learn anything of our fates, that would be most kind.”

  As they parted, Charles returning to his makeshift cot, he thought that while he was a captive, he was not nearly so much a captive as John Schuyler. Odd? Fate? He had no idea. Piglet jumped up, in answer, snuggled next to him, and they fell asleep fatigued by the long day’s work.

  April 28, 2015

  Harry spent the morning in Ginger’s office. Trudy was delighted to have her there, as both Olivia and Rennie had returned home: Olivia to New Orleans, and Rennie to Virginia Beach. They chatted a little, but Trudy was busy, doing her best to set things in order and send thank-you notes regarding the service at UVA for her husband. Having been given permission by Sheriff Shaw, once in Ginger’s office, Harry read everything on his desk.

  Ginger had maps in a neat pile, in an editor’s cabinet, maps from Revolutionary times, maps drawn twenty years after the conflict ended, and current maps. He’d marked some large estates, but Harry wasn’t certain why. One or two of the properties remained in family hands throughout the centuries. Most were broken up, divided among children or sold for profit by some—especially once the magnets of the great, growing cities beckoned, and along with them, riches, if one was shrewd. Men like Thomas Fortune Ryan, who left central Virginia to become one of the five richest men in America in the early twentieth century. But even before that man’s phenomenal rise due to equally phenomenal intelligence, men and women left Albemarle County for the cities or for the West. Many who had prospered during the Revolutionary War shrank into self-satisfaction. The energy moved away from the state
that created a nation, the state on which Europeans managed finally to live in 1607. Lulled by good living, glutted with blood snobbery, the old Virginia names had little to really brag about now other than their old names.

  Sitting at Ginger’s desk and looking at the changes on the maps made her think. It was only now, in the early twenty-first century, that Virginia was again open to and rewarding of new thinkers, innovation in business and science. These days the flood of new people irritated many, but they were a bright hope in saving this gorgeous state from becoming a museum.

  Back home, looking out at those mountains, her touchstone, Harry could almost see the past, present, and future. She wasn’t one of the bright ones, the entrepreneurs, the scientists. She was the product of an old line, but she was open to new ideas. In her own way, she could feel the excitement, and wondered what it had been like back in the eighteenth century. Once we’d kicked out the British, anything was possible.

  At the desk she pulled a piece of paper from underneath Pewter, a born paperweight. “Pewter, a little decorum, please.” Harry rubbed the gray cat’s ears. The other two grumbled but moved closer to Pewter for a rub.

  Harry copied a rough drawing from 1789 of The Albemarle Barracks, by then empty of prisoners. All those log barracks, each with a log chimney, made her realize how much activity flourished at the prison camp. Outbuildings, horses, crop patches were visible on this drawing, and not one palisade. Clearly no one was much worried about escapes…or maybe the guards welcomed them.

  She’d read in Ginger’s papers about how the farmers and blacksmiths, coopers, et cetera, used the free labor, much of it highly skilled. The Barracks was a gold mine. Needing to see for herself, she hopped in her truck, animals in tow, and headed toward The Barracks. Her farm lay eight miles west of the turnoff to The Barracks.

  From the entrance to Barracks Stud, a driveway forked to the left. The drive down to the stables and indoor riding arena gently curved right. Harry peered at the lay of the land.