Tail Gait

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Father, will you lend me Captain Schuyler for a brief time? I want to show him the back of our lands, where they adjoin the far reaches of the Harvey land and where you can see the Ashcombe land. I’d like to do this before the foliage thickens, obscuring the view.”

  “Captain Schuyler is in charge of the bridge, my dear. I don’t see how he can leave these men.”

  She looked directly at John Schuyler with vivacious eyes. “Will they do as you say?”

  “I think so.” He felt a shiver down his spine. “But your father and I must get this done before the snows melt upstream.”

  She laughed lightly. “Dear Captain, Jeddie and I will have you back before the snows melt.” Then she turned her irresistible charm on her father. “Father, I have been thinking how difficult transport can be and how much you must move goods both east and west. At the back of our land are a series of deep gullies. If these men can build a wider bridge over Ivy Creek, why can they not do the same over the gullies and the one ravine? A shallow ravine, thankfully,” she said to John, before looking back at her doting father. “Then you could have the wagons go directly into Colonel Harvey’s land, where the barracks stand, and the prisoners can unload the provisions. It would save so much time, Father.”

  The apple had not fallen far from the tree.

  Ewing Garth considered her proposal, a slow smile crossing his lips. “Well, my dear, I can rarely refuse you anything, and this is an unusual idea. Perhaps it will bear fruit.” He looked at his orchard when he said that, provoking smiles in all.

  “Might I take Corporal Ix and Lieutenant West, Sir?” asked John. “The corporal will give us the best advice. He certainly has been right about this bridge and creating the landings on the road. As for the lieutenant, he can make some sketches for you to approve.”

  “Wonderful idea,” Garth agreed.

  “Jeddie, go back to the stables and get two more horses for Corporal Ix and Lieutenant West,” said Catherine. “Bring them to the pin oak, the westernmost pin oak. We will meet you there.” She beamed, turning to her father. “I so want to help you, Father. I know you wanted a son to work with you, but I’m just as good, don’t you think?”

  Flustered, red-faced, Ewing Garth sputtered, “You’re quite better than that, Catherine. Your worth is far beyond the price of rubies.”

  She smiled at him. “I will pull my weight.” With that she turned and trotted off, Captain Schuyler replacing his hat, nodding to Ewing, hurrying to catch up.

  —

  Ewing Garth watched them and realized he would never understand his eldest. Her beauty was incomparable, her personality electric. Benjamin Franklin need never have put a key on a kite string. He had only to look at Catherine, Ewing was sure of that. With such prestigious gifts, why did she wish to be useful to him like a son? Well, he had never really understood her mother either.

  Nodding to West and Ix as they left the fire to follow Jeddie, he thought better not to trouble himself over understanding his daughter. Better to just love her, which he did.

  —

  Back in front of his house, dismounting, his butler’s son running out to take his cob, Ewing then walked into his house. He could hear Rachel practicing her French lesson.

  “Mademoiselle,” her tutor addressed her, frustration apparent in her strained voice.

  “Oh, piffle! Why can’t the French speak English?”

  Shaking his head, he walked into his office. A widower with two daughters, he felt outnumbered.

  —

  Catherine galloped ahead until John Schuyler came alongside, then she urged her horse to run faster. Side by side they thundered along, the cool April air in their faces. Laughing, she couldn’t help herself, she finally pulled up at the huge pin oak. John stopped too, a little out of breath.

  “I want to live forever,” she declared. “I want to ride, dance, read, and just feel the wind.”

  Speechless, he smiled, feeling entirely stupid.

  She beamed back. “And I really do want to help my father in his successes. Does that surprise you?” she asked.

  “Miss Garth, nothing about you would surprise me.” He noticed the first blush of spring on foliage, pale green buds on trees.

  “I simply cannot swoon over moiré silk, serve tea from good silver, and listen to endless boring, dull chat. I cannot do it. I wish I had been born my father’s son.”

  “I am exceedingly glad you were born his daughter.” John grinned, his teeth even.

  Looking at this handsome man made Catherine giddy, perhaps even indiscreet. Not that she would compromise herself, or her family name. Still, ideas and feelings erupted, and she made no attempt to bottle them up.

  “You flatter me.” She inclined her head. “Do you want a shadow, Captain?”

  “A what?”

  “Do you want a woman who shadows you, does your bidding, keeps to hearth and home?”

  “I never thought about it,” he truthfully replied.

  “Well?”

  He thought about it now. “I think a woman’s sphere can be taxing, and perhaps for you, as you indicate, boring. I would hate to think of you being bored! I— I am rather afraid I would bore you. I am not a wealthy or an educated man.”

  “But you are a brave one. You fought, and I suppose you will again.” Catherine stared intently into his eyes. “Captain Schuyler, if you would let me be me, you would never bore me. I truly do want to ride, dance, laugh, and I admire my father. He sees opportunities everywhere, and he works for them.” She rushed on. “My father is a builder. He is not a man to waste time. He cares a great deal about his place in society, and I don’t give a fig, but then I wouldn’t have my place in society were it not for him.” She abruptly shifted topics. “What is your mother like? Would I shock her?”

  He sighed. “My mother is kindness itself. Four of us survived. She and my father taught us, taught us many things. Would she be shocked by you? I do think she would be as dazzled as anyone who sets eyes upon you, but then she would look more closely.”

  “And would she like someone who serves a perfect tea?”

  “Miss Garth, my father is a carpenter. We have a small farm. Farming is much harder in Massachusetts than here. Mother tends the farm. She has rough hands, she walks with a limp, as she broke her leg years ago and it was not set properly. The hard life tells on her, but what she would really want to know is: Do you have a good heart?”

  Tears filled Catherine’s eyes. “How I envy you. She sounds wonderful.”

  “She is. And so is my father, although he speaks but little. I fear you would find us, what is the expression, ‘beneath the salt.’ ”

  Her face flushed, her eyes flashed. “Captain, I am not that superficial. And I hope someday I will have the honor to meet your mother and your father.”

  The two sat on their horses. Neither one knew what to say. John felt as though this woman could turn him inside out. He didn’t even know what was inside him to turn out.

  Jeddie and the two prisoners reached them at last and called out, “Miss Garth, you must have galloped the whole way.”

  Smiling at John, she turned, now in possession of herself. “I outran him.”

  —

  The group of five spent an hour looking at the two narrow gullies and the wider ravine.

  “It evens out a bit to the east,” Corporal Ix noted. “That’s a better place.”

  “It is, but that land belongs to Peter Ashcombe,” Catherine said. “We have heard that he was with Howe in Philadelphia. Others have said he went to Nova Scotia. The estate, which is sizable, two thousand acres, is in the care of a farm manager who is for our freedom, but he is loyal to Peter. He betrays nothing.”

  “I see,” the Hessian corporal murmured.

  While his legs were still cold and not dry yet, Charles West nevertheless sketched quickly, incorporating the Hessian’s suggestions. From her mount, Catherine peeked over Charles’s shoulder. “I’ll make this tidier for your father,” he said. />
  John Schuyler dismounted, lifted Catherine down. They tied their horses next to the other three, as Jeddie had brought halters and ropes.

  “It is possible,” Corporal Ix called out at the bottom of the ravine. “Can you tell me, Miss Garth, have you ever seen water flow through here?”

  “In very bad storms. Both there in the wider depression, and then also in the gullies, and the waters run faster in the gullies.”

  “M-m-m,” was all the engineer replied.

  Once mounted again, they rode back to the Garths’ house.

  “If you fell the thickest trees, hardwoods, we can sink them into the earth,” Ix said. “That will take a great deal of digging, but we can do it, then fill and brace around the logs. The force of the water in the narrow gullies demands a strong underpinning, stronger than the bridge we are finishing. That really is the most difficult part, but the timber is here.” The engineer thought it through.

  Catherine added, “We can cut our own planks. That will save hauling lumber to a mill and hauling it back…”

  “The trick is not to be the man in the bottom of the pit,” John Schuyler remarked, and the others laughed.

  “How long might this take?” Catherine asked Corporal Ix.

  “That depends on the number of men available. If I had fifty men, I could sink the supports in three weeks. It’s more difficult here than rebuilding the bridge, as I said, and I wouldn’t want to build the bridge itself until we reinforced the supports.” He added, “All in all, figuring in the weather, three months for the supports and the bed. Remember we have to improve this old road to it. This is just ruts, a farm road.”

  Catherine smiled. “I think my father will be pleased.”

  He was. So much so that he didn’t notice when Catherine slipped upstairs to her bedroom, selected another book, and gave it to John Schuyler before he departed that afternoon.

  May 5, 2015

  “The dogwoods are finally open. It’s really spring.” Susan glowed as she and Harry, along with Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, bounced on a golf cart to the eleventh hole at Farmington. Ahead of them by one hole played David Wheeler, Paul Huber, and Rudolph Putnam. David, not ready to be buffeted by the winds of Susan’s emotion, had quickly organized the afternoon’s teams, giving himself Paul and Rudy for mates.

  Accustomed to Susan’s ups and downs, Harry paid them little attention. Marshall Reese and Nelson Yarbrough, the other two in their group, driving their own cart, carried on a heated discussion about what Virginia football really needed to improve. As they lurched to a halt at the eleventh hole, the subject was whether we need to lure the best high school prospects for defense or offense.

  “Defense, Nelson. I’m telling you.” Marshall, club in hand, bounded off the vehicle.

  Genial in most all circumstances, Nelson just shook his head, saying in his light, gravelly voice, “You guys don’t win games.”

  “Oh? Oh, so how can you say that? How many times did I help take down the opposing quarterback? How many times did I disrupt his timing?”

  “Marshall, you were outstanding, but that’s not putting points on the scoreboard.”

  “Will you two shut up and play?” Susan good-naturedly commanded, as she was now near the tee.

  Nelson grinned, shoved his tee down into the thick sod, and took a practice swing, saying, “Offense.”

  Susan pretended to be put out. “You two are overgrown boys.”

  “All men are overgrown boys,” Harry rejoined.

  They fell silent as Nelson hit a booming first shot.

  Marshall quietly groaned. “If I don’t match that shot, I’ll hear about it.”

  Susan goaded the still well-built fellow, “Well, blow right by him, then.”

  Nelson quietly observed this with a big smile on his face. He respectfully moved out of Marshall’s eyesight.

  Marshall really did rise to the occasion. While not as powerful as Nelson, he hit straight down the middle, giving himself a good second shot. He landed close enough to Nelson’s shot that he needed not be embarrassed. That is until Susan teed up and hit the ball so perfectly it sounded like a deep click. Her ball dropped near Nelson’s. Marshall had not played with Susan, as he usually played with his team buddies. He stared, his mouth open.

  Nelson hopped in the cart. “Let’s go.”

  Marshall dropped next to him. “Damn, that woman is strong.”

  “Perfect form,” said Nelson. “She’s fluid, economical, nothing is wasted. If we had her form, we’d be driving three hundred yards. Ever notice how the best at anything always make it look easy?”

  “They do,” Marshall agreed.

  Back in the “girls’ cart,” Susan allowed herself a small gloat. “I do so love to drive.”

  In the back, Mrs. Murphy asked Pewter, “Did you notice that redheaded woodpecker?”

  “In the old black gum tree?”

  “Right. That could mean the tree will come down sooner or later. Full of bugs.” Mrs. Murphy kept a sharp eye on avian behavior. “ ’Course the groundskeepers will find it. Must be a lot of work to keep up a golf course.”

  “It would be better if these were fields of catnip.” Pewter’s eyes half closed with pleasure.

  “Certainly would,” Mrs. Murphy readily agreed. “And they could even play their silly game through catnip.”

  The humans did play through the eleventh hole, pretty happy with their scores to date. Then they teed off on the twelfth hole, the lake hole, which was the fairway on which Ginger McConnell was killed. Not wishing to jinx themselves, no one spoke of it except the cats.

  As luck would have it, Marshall hit into the woods. He blamed the bad shot on his sore hands, which Harry noticed were bandaged. Both Nelson and Susan stayed on the fairway, but Susan had a difficult shot up to the green, thanks to the angle at which she found her ball. Such challenges revved Susan’s motor.

  Marshall, on the other hand, cussed a blue streak in the woods. Harry, taking pity on him, went in to look too. The cats, the best scavengers of all, trotted after her, their tails straight up.

  “I knew it,” he fumed. “I knew the minute I hit it that it was mishit.”

  Harry prudently said nothing but continued to search. She saw the sawed-off trunk where she’d found the spike marks right after Ginger’s murder. She walked up to it. The cats continued the ball search.

  “Harry, I don’t think I hit it that far,” Marshall called out.

  “Right, I was just looking at something.” She walked back to continue the search.

  “Found it,” he said, relieved.

  “I found it first,” Mrs. Murphy corrected Marshall, as she was sitting right next to the ball.

  “Murphy, don’t waste your time. Humans are notoriously ungrateful.”

  Hands on his hips, Marshall mournfully squinted, looking through the trees. “I haven’t got a prayer.”

  “It’s a Houdini shot,” Harry concurred.

  “I’ll take the penalty stroke. Otherwise, I’ll waste ten minutes of everyone’s time.”

  —

  The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough. Marshall shot in the low nineties. As just lately he played little, he was happy enough—rusty, but he could work on that.

  Nelson came in fifteen over par, right on his handicap so he, too, felt he would improve. It was the beginning of May. Lots of time.

  Susan shot an 83. Immediately after the game, she was already replaying every hole in her head, figuring where she made a mistake, where she could shave a stroke.

  They all sat outside at the Nineteenth Hole. A bit cool, they wore their jackets but enjoyed the beautiful patio views of the golf course. The two cats nestled under Harry’s chair, alert to anything dropped.

  “Feels good to be back out again,” Marshall said as his hamburger was delivered. “So much has been going on, I haven’t played for two weeks.”

  “Has been intense,” Harry agreed.

  “Thank you for helping me search for my ball b
ack there on the twelfth. What a rotten shot.” Marshall pulled a face.

  “I wasn’t but so much help, I got distracted by a stump in there.”

  “Harry, not that again.” Susan rolled her eyes.

  “Are we missing a good story?” Paul Huber smiled. “You know, a remembrance from your wild youth on the twelfth hole?”

  “No, after Ginger was killed, I couldn’t help myself and I dragged Susan out to crawl over the twelfth hole and the holes close to it. I found spike marks on this clean-cut stump, the toes of which pointed in the direction where Ginger stood.”

  “And I told her how lots of people get up on that stump to look for a lost ball,” Susan replied.

  “If I’d known that, I would have gotten up there,” said Marshall. “Might have found my ball sooner.”

  “Harry, you really can’t help yourself, can you?” David teased her. “You’ve watched too many mystery and crime shows.”

  “I know. I know.” Then, to defend herself, Harry said, “But I think this all has something to do with The Barracks, the prisoner-of-war barracks.”

  They fell silent, staring at her.

  Finally, in a polite voice, Rudy responded, “Going from 1779 to today is quite a leap.”

  “I know.” She grinned mischievously. “But if it’s true, what a story.”

  In the spirit of the teasing, David said, voice commanding, “As an accountant, I can tell you without a doubt, it has to be about money.”

  This got them all chattering.

  Susan said, “Whatever happens, Harry will blame it on the cats or Tucker. You know, the cat found a bracelet or whatever. She can’t admit she is nosy beyond belief.”

  “Hey, my dog and the cats did find Frank,” said Harry.

  Again the conversation stopped.

  “I had heard that,” Rudy replied. “Maybe it’s best we don’t think about it with our food.”

  “Hear, hear,” David seconded the thought.

  —

  Later, walking back to their carts, out of earshot of Harry, Marshall whispered to Paul, “Where does she come up with this stuff?”