by Beth White
There was some question as to whether or not the amnesty would apply to war criminals, but he’d decided to risk coming back. He touched the patch over his empty eye socket. Even with his appearance significantly altered, it had seemed advisable to change his name. There were people in Tennessee, the families of the men he’d executed, who wanted him dead.
The light was on in the last little row house on the street. Daughtry had no idea if Scully lived alone, or whether his parents still lived. It never entered his head that the man might be married until he knocked, and the door was answered by a little dumpling of a woman wearing a fussy gray dress.
She clutched the broom in her hand across her body in an absurd gesture of protection. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you so late, ma’am.” Daughtry removed his hat. “I’m looking for Ford Scully. I was told he still lives here.”
“Mr. Scully!” the woman called over her shoulder. “Come here, if you please. We’ve a visitor.”
“I’d be obliged if you’d let me in, ma’am. It’s a mite brisk out here.” Daughtry took a step toward her, but before she could respond, Scully himself appeared, folding a newspaper.
“Who is it?” Scully moved his wife aside and peered at Daughtry. His mouth tightened. “What are you doing here?”
“Now, Scully, I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
Looking anything but happy, Scully stepped outside and shut the door in his wife’s face. “What do you want? You were going to stay in Tennessee.”
“You said you’d help me get settled if I came back.” Daughtry paused, tugging on his damaged ear. “Carson and Priester are both dead, but I want the Yanks who raided my plantation and murdered my wife.”
Scully glanced back at the closed door of his house. “Colonel, I got a family of my own now. Things are different.”
Daughtry smoothed his beard, not quite as full or neatly trimmed as it had once been. “Does the little lady know what-all you were involved in during the war?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m reminding you what I did for you, you ungrateful son of a gun. I have to set things right, and I need your help.”
Scully looked down. “I know what you did, and I know what I did. It was justified, and I’d do it again. But this has to end somewhere.”
“It will end when my plantation is mine again.” Daughtry clenched his fists. “And when I kill that two-faced crew and their boy commander.”
“How do you know who they are and how to find them?”
“There are records. People in the area know who was stationed there in the battles.”
“Colonel, the raid on your plantation didn’t happen during a battle. It was just a bunch of looters attached to Grierson’s band of thugs.”
“That’s where you come in. I’m going to hide out in the woods on my property. I’ll give you two weeks to make inquiries. When I come back, I’ll expect an answer.”
Scully stood there batting the rolled-up newspaper against his palm for a long moment. “I’ll try. Did you know your daughter Selah was on that train?”
“She was not! She’s safe at Ithaca.”
“I saw her myself. Wouldn’t have recognized her, but she sent a wire to her sister to let her know she was safe and sound. She’d been to Memphis and then came down to meet with a banker—” Scully swallowed hard. “Colonel, I would never have given you that information—you know this has gone too far, when our own families—”
“Enough!” Daughtry struggled through a red haze of horror. His memory, the headaches, right and wrong colliding like storm clouds. Events had gone too far—too far to go back. Breathing hard, he replaced his hat, then stepped off the porch and backed into the dark. “Every mission comes with a certain amount of risk. Just stay on the job and keep me informed. What else have you come across?”
Scully’s jaw shifted as if he might refuse to answer. Finally he said sullenly, “There was a man came through the office this morning. Asking questions about Priester, wanted to talk about the accident—said he was a lawyer. But he sent a wire to Chicago. I’m pretty sure it was coded, I’ve seen that kind of thing before.”
“What kind of code?”
“Words substituted, I’m almost certain. Now tell me, why would you go to the expense of sending a wire about continuing a search for a lost dog, unless it stood for something else?”
That had the ring of truth. “You think he’s a crook or a law man? What did this man look like?”
Scully reached into his pocket and withdrew a business card, which he handed over to Daughtry. “Like I said, he claimed to be a lawyer, but he didn’t have the slick look you’d expect. Dressed well, but nondescript—dark blue wool coat, military-style hat, plain boots but good leather.”
Daughtry gave an impatient slice of his hand. “A man can change his dress. What about the face and build? Young? Old? Any scars? How tall?”
Scully closed his eyes, as if reviewing a mental picture. “A little over six foot, built like a fireman. Young with old eyes, so my guess is war vet. Admitted he was from Illinois, so undoubtedly a Yank. I didn’t see any scars, but he favored his left upper arm. Slight stammer when he spoke.”
Daughtry looked down at the card, though the night was too dark to distinguish its lettering. Didn’t really matter what it said, anyway, since it would unquestionably be an alias. “I want the exact wording of the message he sent.”
“You know I’m sworn not to reveal message information. I’ve already told you more than I should.”
“That’s right. If I whisper a word of this conversation, you lose your job.” Daughtry let that sit in the frozen air.
“‘Lost dog in Tupelo. Following female.’”
“You think he was following my daughter?” Daughtry had a sudden mental image of the hero from the train, rescuing a beautiful young woman. She would have been about Selah’s age. He wanted to choke Scully, to somehow erase the information that now infused his brain.
“I don’t know, Colonel.” Scully’s voice was weary. “Like I told you, he asked after Priester’s kin, and we talked about the Beaumont whelp. He never mentioned a girl.”
“Beaumont? Which Beaumont?” The Beaumont clan was known to be seeded with traitors and spies. Daughtry’s rather simple plan now seemed to have as many tentacles as an octopus. He was going to have a hard time bringing it to a close.
“The youngest one, Schuyler. Don’t ask me what one has to do with the other, because I couldn’t tell you. I’m just the messenger.”
“Maybe he’s the dog our agent is following to Tupelo.”
“Maybe. I’ve told you everything I know. I’ll send word when I get the names you asked for. If I get them.” Scully opened the door behind him with a jerk. “Don’t ever come back to my house,” he said and disappeared.
Cogitating on everything he’d just heard, Daughtry strolled across the yard and headed for the square. That could have gone much worse. Scully was so easily intimidated.
It was clear that this old wandering dog must follow the lion to Tupelo and find out why his rebellious eldest daughter had gone to visit an Oxford banker. Past time to go home. Like the Good Book said, a living dog was better than a dead lion.
Seven
Ithaca Plantation
“I suppose he could prove to be useful after all.” ThomasAnne stood at the kitchen window, watching Wyatt skin a rabbit he’d trapped the previous night.
Selah, in front of the mirror tying the ribbons of her hat under her chin, paused to exchange amused glances with Joelle, who was at the stove. “Of course he will. You’ll be amazed how smart he is.”
“But he’s such a—such a—boy!” Letting the curtain fall, ThomasAnne flung her hands wide.
Joelle dumped onions and turnips into a bubbling broth on the stove. “Next you’ll tell us he likes to belch and go fishing. Of course he’s a boy! And it won’t hurt to have someone around who doesn’t mind chopping wood and mu
cking out the mule’s stall.”
“That’s true.” Selah wasn’t surprised that Joelle and brainy Wyatt had hit it off in short order. ThomasAnne had proven to be the more difficult party to convince. She frowned at her sister’s back. “You shouldn’t have started that. You’ll have to turn it off while we go to church, or you’ll burn the house down.”
“I thought I’d stay home with Wyatt today.” Joelle’s voice was suspiciously perky, and she didn’t turn to look at Selah. “We can get lunch ready for everyone. I’ll even make cornbread as a treat.”
“Joelle! That’s two Sundays in a row you’ll have missed services. What’s the matter with you?”
Joelle shot a guilty glance over her shoulder. “I just . . . don’t feel quite up to the mark this morning.”
ThomasAnne put her hands on her hips. “Joelle Alexandra Daughtry. Are you avoiding the Lord? Or are you avoiding the preacher?”
“Neither.” But the side of Joelle’s cheek that Selah could see was a violent shade of pink. “It’s true that I sometimes feel Gil is preaching right at me, but I would never—I’m not a child, ThomasAnne. If I don’t want to go to church today, you can’t make me!”
Joelle was clearly avoiding Gil’s romantic overtures, but Selah knew her sister well enough to know that she wouldn’t admit it to their older cousin. She’d never had reason to doubt Joelle’s spiritual depth, but she didn’t want to argue in front of ThomasAnne. She shot ThomasAnne a cautioning look. “You’re right, Jo. You’re an adult. Perhaps you can get out your Bible and read to Wyatt, after the stew gets to simmering.”
“That’s a good idea.” ThomasAnne, perennial avoider of arguments, reached for her own hat and cape. “And with that broken-down axle on the wagon, if we’re going to get to church on time, Selah, we’d better start walking.”
The weather was cold but clear this morning, and Selah enjoyed the exercise. Letting ThomasAnne carry on a monologue involving speculation as to Joelle’s sudden heathenish reluctance to attend services, Selah walked along nodding and “hmming” at appropriate pauses, while keeping an eye out for ruts in the road and hoping someone would come along and offer them a ride. There was rarely any traffic on the plantation road, but a couple of farmers still leased acreage from the Daughtrys, and the neighboring McCanless family were also members of the Methodist church—had in fact hosted the fledgling congregation in their home for the first year of its existence. Perhaps they would happen by.
They were still a mile from the wooden church building, and she’d developed a painful blister on her instep, when the sound of approaching wagon wheels made her turn eagerly.
She waved. “Horatia! Mose!” The former slaves were dressed in shabby but fastidiously clean and neat Sunday best. “We’re so very glad to see you!”
Horatia Lawrence’s dark face broke into a broad smile as she waved a gloved hand. “Miss Selah! It’s been quite a time since we laid eyes on you ladies.”
Mose slowed his mule, pulling the wagon to a halt beside Selah and ThomasAnne. He touched his hat in a courtly gesture, eyes twinkling. “Guess as a general rule we don’t head to church at the same time. I told Horatia we was gon’ be late this morning if she didn’t hurry up and make a decision on which hat ribbon to wear. They need me to lead the singing. And the later we start, the longer old Reverend Boykin gon’ carry on into dinnertime.”
Selah laughed. “And here we are, making you even later! I don’t suppose you’d drop us off at our church on the way to yours?”
“Why certainly we will!” Horatia started to climb down. “Miss ThomasAnne, you come sit up here with—”
“Mercy, no!” ThomasAnne gave Selah a horrified look. “We wouldn’t dream of putting you and Mose out.”
Selah ignored her cousin’s frantic hand-fluttering. “Of course we wouldn’t. ThomasAnne and I will sit in back. Horatia, you stay right where you are.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Horatia sat back down and elbowed her husband. “Mose, give me the reins and go help the ladies into the wagon.”
In short order they were jouncing along the rutted road behind a mule with a gait like a square whiskey keg. Maintaining conversation would have been difficult under the best of circumstances, but ThomasAnne seemed frozen by mortification. Selah knew why, of course. It just wasn’t done, associating with one’s former slaves, particularly in the back of their wagon.
But she didn’t care. Her feet hurt, and besides, Mose and Horatia were the two kindest people she’d known in her entire life and she missed them. Horatia had been her mammy during her childhood, a source of comfort and wisdom and instruction. And after Mama died, the Lawrences hadn’t run away like most of the field slaves. They’d chosen to stay and make sure the Daughtry girls didn’t starve. Even when they were freed at the end of the war, they’d taken Selah’s offer of a little house of their own, about a mile from the big house. It wasn’t the same as having them right at hand, but knowing they were close by provided a reassurance that Selah barely understood.
She stared at the back of Horatia’s straw hat covering the neatly braided hair. The former slave sat ramrod straight, thin shoulders braced against the motion of the wagon. Did she and Mose have enough to eat? He was a knowledgeable farmer with a wealth of stored wisdom, Horatia a capable home manager. But if Selah and Joelle and ThomasAnne were struggling to make ends meet, how much harder must it be for the Lawrences?
“Horatia,” she said suddenly, “would you and Mose like to join us for our meal after church?” She ignored ThomasAnne’s squeak of dismay.
Horatia glanced over her shoulder at ThomasAnne, then frowned at Selah. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Selah, but we’re having potluck at the church.”
“Oh.” Selah swallowed, feeling oddly relieved and disappointed all at once—and consequently disgusted with herself. “Well, then we’ll do it another time. Maybe one evening later in the week. And Charmion and Nathan can come too.” In for a penny, in for a pound. The Lawrences’ daughter had been a playmate for the Daughtry girls until Charmion got old enough to serve as a maid and seamstress. Selah hadn’t had a conversation with her since Charmion and Nathan married about a year ago.
Horatia didn’t answer, perhaps aware that ThomasAnne would intervene to make sure no such thing happened. And that thought cemented Selah’s determination to make sure it did—because Miss Mercy Lindquist of the Holly Springs Female Institute had done her work well.
“So you can see why I’m eager to make sure Ole Miss students have adequate transportation to all parts of the state.” With a cheerful whistle, Schuyler Beaumont checked the horses, sending the hired carriage tooling around the corner of a graceful Greek Revival–style building. “And if someone’s going to turn a profit on their accommodations at either end of the line, it might as well be me.”
Levi’s opinion of Beaumont had undergone several adjustments as Sunday morning progressed. Eager to pursue the conversation begun at last night’s dinner and continued during the hotel’s entertainment, he’d accepted the young entrepreneur’s invitation to attend services at the Old Chapel on campus. Certainly he’d begun the day in a state of deep suspicion as to both the young man’s motivations and his ability to bring his plans to fruition. But Beaumont’s hearty joining of the hymn singing and sincere reverence during communion hinted at greater depth of character than Levi had first surmised. And it was not likely that degrees in mathematics and engineering from this highly regarded university would have been bestowed upon an intellectual lightweight. Beaumont was fluent in both Latin and Greek, and had held up his end of a discussion of the structural implications of Friday’s catastrophic accident with ease.
In short, the more he thought about it, the stronger grew Levi’s conviction that Schuyler Beaumont might hold an important key to solving his case. He just had to figure out the right questions to ask. “Well,” he said, “there are profits, and then there are legal profits.”
Beaumont laughed. “There’s nothing illega
l about buying a tumble-down pigsty and turning it into a thing of beauty that might make us all a fortune.”
“Who, exactly, is ‘us all’?”
“My father and m’brother and me, to begin with. And you, if you join us in the venture.”
“I’m considering it.” Levi paused to admire a three-story domed building which proclaimed itself, in large gold lettering, the Barnard Observatory. “But I’d want to inspect the property before committing myself.”
“Naturally. But you’ll have to operate around the Daughtry sisters. They’ve virtually—ahem—banned me from the property.”
“What are you going to do if I decline the offer?”
“Something always works out,” Beaumont said with an insouciant grin. “Government loans are at the ready, especially for development of the rail system. And managers—” he snapped his fingers—“a penny a dozen!”
“Is that so?” Levi felt a hundred years older than this man-child, who was probably only a few years his junior. “I can’t help wondering why the Mississippi Central hasn’t availed itself of those loans you mention. I walked nearly twenty miles of track with the constable yesterday morning, and their ties and rails—not to mention the bridge trusses—are in deplorable shape.”
Beaumont sobered. “You’re right. And that will be the first thing we address when we take over.”
“When you—” Levi stared at him as though he’d never heard of this apparent bombshell. “What do you mean? Is there a merger in the works?”
“Nothing official, of course.” Beaumont glanced over his shoulder, though they were bowling along at a rapid clip, and the streets of Oxford were all but bare on this quiet Sunday morning. Still, he lowered his voice. “But the Central is struggling to stay afloat, and merging the two lines would be to our advantage, if you know what I mean.”
