Tail Gait

by Rita Mae Brown

  Footsteps boomed down the stairway.

  John Schuyler hurried to the still-shivering man. “Lieutenant!”

  “Captain. I mean Major. I heard of your exploits.”

  “Sit down, man, for God’s sake.” John turned to Roger. “Surely there’s biscuits left. Something. This man is starved. Hot tea.”

  “We do meet again, God be praised,” Charles said to John, tears in his eyes. “Please don’t send me back to The Barracks.” Painfully he reached into his coat, handing John forged discharge papers.

  John flipped them open. “Yes, fine. Lieutenant, the war is over and the camp doesn’t need one more man. Plus, you have your papers. Here, let me help you into the kitchen. Best we go there.”

  With his hand under the elbow of Charles, who did not protest his assistance, John got him back to the kitchen. The cook, a slave with a gorgeous face, Bettina screamed when she saw him.

  “Oh, Lord, let me help you.” The middle-aged woman grabbed some biscuits, cold bacon, put the water up, looking for anything to nourish this man who was in sorry shape.

  Bettina was one of those women who knew only how to care for people. Fortunately, the centuries consistently produce such souls, regardless of station or gender.

  Hearing the commotion, Catherine came down the back stairs, Rachel behind her. They too stared in shock at Charles West.

  Rachel went over to Bettina. “Another pot of water for when he’s finished.”

  “Yes, Missus.” Bettina nodded.

  Catherine took one look and hurried back upstairs, returning with a shirt, underclothes, and a pair of breeches that might fit. “This will help after food and a bath. Where have you been?”

  “Camp Security,” Charles said with a bit of renewed vigor, thanks to the hot tea and the food being brought to him.

  Bettina winked at him, putting down food for Piglet. The little beast lived up to his name.

  Charles slowly felt his bones warming. The shivering stopped, the ice melted on his mustache and beard, for he hadn’t been able to shave in weeks. Bettina kept handing him towels to wipe the water off.

  Sitting opposite him, John smiled broadly. He looked at Catherine, who returned his smile. “I have stopped here before returning to see my mother and father,” he explained. “I have sought Miss Ewing’s hand in marriage, and she has accepted me.”

  “Congratulations.” Charles grinned at them both. “Fate. You are fated to be together.”

  “When you are thawed, bathed, and shaved, I will tell you about the campaign here and at Yorktown. Unless you would rather not hear of it.” John leaned forward, accepting a cup of tea, as Bettina poured another for Charles. “And your pistol did indeed save my life.”

  “Where is Mr. Garth?” Charles, although interested in his pistol, tried not to sound nervous, but he knew his future depended on Ewing Garth.

  “In his greenhouse. A new interest. It’s small, but affords free rein to his curiosities.” Catherine smiled.

  Weymouth, a slender fellow, appeared. “Roger says I am to bathe and shave the lieutenant.”

  Charles laughed. “I think Piglet needs to get into the bath with me.”

  —

  An hour and a half later, Charles, limping slightly, appeared downstairs in the library. The breeches bagged a bit, but the socks and shirt fit well enough. Surprisingly, Ewing Garth’s shoes fit him perfectly.

  Ewing awaited him in the library, greeting him with open arms. “Lieutenant, I trust you have decided to become a Virginian.”

  “I have, Sir.”

  “Good, good. We need skilled young men.” He smiled. “The major has explained to me your situation. He said you had proper papers. No need to report your return to The Barracks. All is well.”

  “I take it the camp is still full.”

  “Indeed it is. Until a proper treaty is agreed upon, those men remain here, although I do hear many stay on the farms where they are working.”

  “May I ask, Sir, if anyone has seen Corporal Ix? I know he was trying to make his way to you.”

  “And so he did. Like you, half frozen, starved, but he did arrive, and with his discharge papers as well. He will be back tomorrow. I sent him down to Scottsville to purchase tools. He lives in one of our dependencies. He has already improved his quarter and those of my other dependents, especially the draws in their fireplaces.” Ewing, a Virginian, did not like to use the term slave quarters.

  “I hope I may be able to see him. I have come seeking employment with you, Sir.”

  Ewing smiled reflexively, looked at Weymouth and down at Piglet. “Might I have Weymouth fetch your papers?”

  “Yes. What remains of my pitiful belongings are next to the tub.”

  “I see that your dog has been properly beautified.” Ewing chuckled.

  “Piglet appreciates looking his best. I barely recognized myself when I looked in the mirror. Thank you for having Weymouth shave me. He’s an excellent barber.”

  Ewing inclined his head. “He will be glad to hear that.” Then he took the papers that Weymouth, just entering the library, handed him.

  Unfolding them, tears along the cracks, Ewing read with care. “I see both you and Corporal Ix were discharged by Captain Alexander Fraser, your commanding officer at Saratoga.”

  Charles swallowed, glancing at John, who betrayed no emotion. “Yes.”

  Both Ewing and John knew perfectly well that Captain Fraser was nowhere near Camp Security. But the papers looked convincing. Even the sealed stamp looked right.

  “Major, would you excuse us for a moment?” Ewing asked his daughter’s fiancé.

  “Mr. Garth, of course.” John slightly nodded and withdrew.

  Charles noted that the tall major had absorbed much of his gentleman’s training.

  Indicating that Charles sit closer to him in one of the large chairs, Ewing folded his hands together over his stomach. “You have endured much.”

  “I have learned much. I see clearly why you and others were willing to risk everything to break with the Crown.”

  This pleased Ewing tremendously. “What would you want of me?”

  “The opportunity to be your architect. To work with Corporal Ix and to work with your people here. I believe we can build anything, anywhere.”

  “Yes, yes, I quite agree. And what would you ask for compensation?”

  “I—” Charles stumbled, for his enthusiasm almost overtook him. “Sir, I am so grateful to be here, to be a new citizen of a new country. I never thought about compensation. Perhaps learning from you, such a successful man, will be compensation enough.”

  “Come, come,” Ewing indulgently replied. “I can and will do better than that, but you must make a bargain with me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your hand is remarkable. You can create anything.” He tilted his head. “Indeed, your hand is better than the clerks who write all these papers, writs, and so forth.” He waved his hand, as though dismissing hordes of clerks. “If you can create such papers for me, I will be happy to have you in my employ.”

  Charles couldn’t help smiling. “I trust, Sir, you need no discharge papers.”

  Ewing laughed uproariously at this. “My, my, no, but I need a bill of sale. Peter Ashcombe, a Loyalist, owns two thousand acres. He will never return to claim them and he has no heirs. He left in haste and in anger and unfortunate feelings still persist. Indeed, he would be foolish to return. I have taken the precaution of retaining his farm manager at a higher salary than that which he formerly enjoyed. I’ve told him I am in contact with Peter to effect this sale, but alas, that’s not true. I haven’t been able to reach Ashcombe. I would like to buy those acres, and with you, I shall.”

  “Have you a model?”

  “I do. I have had copies made of every land transaction I have ever concluded to my satisfaction.” Ewing emphasized the word satisfaction.

  “Have you parchment or vellum?”

  “I do, and I have good ink, sharp quills, and wax.�
�

  “Ribbons, Sir. We need ribbons.”

  “Ah.” Ewing sprang from his chair, opened the door.

  “Roger.”

  Immediately, the butler appeared.

  “Will you find one of my daughters and ask for fine ribbon?” He looked to Charles.

  “Silk,” Charles added. “Or satin, but good ribbons. In red.”

  Roger bowed and left.

  Ewing returned to his chair. “I can see you are a businessman.”

  “I have not your gift, but I do hope over time some of it rubs off.” Charles smiled, as did Piglet, at his feet.

  Once Roger returned with the ribbon, Charles, sitting at the large, lovely desk, began work on a good sheet of vellum, using Ewing’s most recent land purchase as a model. He added flourishes of his own, quite happy that, although they were cracked a bit, his hands hadn’t been ruined by the cold. Cutting two ribbons set at an angle, he took a candle and dripped red wax where they joined, turning the stamp to smear it a bit, as they had no good stamp with the correct symbols on it. Gently shaking some sand on the document, he waited a bit, then carefully tilted the vellum so the sand would go into the wastebasket.

  “Mr. Garth, according to your instructions.”

  “Yes, yes. Now, what is this?”

  Charles read, “ ‘In the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty-two, February first, in the twenty-second year of the reign of His Majesty George the Third.’ ” Charles looked up. “Ashcombe is a Loyalist—this is his version from England. Now I must make one that records it for this country. You see, the recordkeeper will be either amused or angry at the mention of the year of George the Third’s reign. He probably will not look closely at these documents.”

  “Ah, Lieutenant, you are exceedingly clever.”

  Within short order, Charles completed the transfer for the county clerk. Both papers would be taken down to his office tomorrow.

  Ewing was barely able to contain his excitement, reveling in Charles’s fine work. “Those years when I thought I might be hung. And now this.” He looked at Charles. “Shall we start at ten pounds a month, living quarters and food, of course?”

  “Ten pounds.” Charles couldn’t believe it, for this was a very generous sum that he would be able to augment with drawings of people’s homes, carriages, plantings.

  “For your first year. I believe over time you will see thankful increase.”

  “Sir, I thank you.”

  “And I thank you. These are remarkable.” Ewing took a deep breath, then laughed with joy. “No one will ever know.”

  Dear Reader,

  In 2005, the National Trust for Historic Preservation named Camp Security in York County, Pennsylvania, on a list of America’s eleven most endangered historic places. For two hundred twenty-five years, the prisoner-of-war camp had suffered nothing other than normal farming disturbances. A local developer wanted to build a 105-house subdivision on this land, thereby rendering it useless to archaeological examination.

  In 1979, a team of professional archaeologists examined just two acres of the camp, recovering more than fifteen thousand artifacts. Given the severe time limitations under which they worked, there was no way to discover what remained hidden on the thirty acres remaining.

  Carol Tanzola, a luminous soul with a passion for history, for finding out just who we were and who we are, couldn’t abide this. Like many people who think about civilizations, the past, wars, et cetera, Carol knew that one can judge a time, a people by how they treat military prisoners, to say nothing of how they treat women, animals, or those unable to compete due to physical or mental infirmity. A woman with a deep sense of fairness as well as curiosity, she started Friends of Camp Security.

  As with all such nonprofit organizations, they discovered that fund-raising is the second oldest profession.

  Undaunted, they pressed on. The developer was not charmed. The Friends never gave up and over time the local newspaper began to keep track of goings-on. The York Historical Society also took note. (This organization is housed in a wonderful home off York Square.)

  More than twelve years later, Carol and the Friends have finally saved Camp Security for all Americans. Over the years much will be unearthed about how people lived, their pastimes, their old pipes, et cetera. There’s hope that the grave sites of those who died in the unfortunate sweeps of fever will be found. Perhaps the archaeologists will find medical information, as well. It’s quite exciting.

  On a personal note, Carol is a fellow foxhunter, and we met through this rapturous love at the Pennsylvania Horse Show held at the end of October. It’s the last of the great indoor shows. Madison Square Garden is gone. Washington hangs on but changes venue. But the Penn National remains what it has always been: fierce competition, elegance, and fabulous horses.

  Over the years we stayed in touch. I should add here that Carol, Jim, and their two daughters are all crazy fun so I looked forward to any communication and always to the big show.

  I could never write big checks. I live with the typical writers’ curse: chicken one day, feathers the next. But I promised Carol that I’d find a way to put Camp Security into a mystery. And so I did. I will continue to revisit the camp and York in the future. In fact, I’m surprised that York County, in particular, and southeastern Pennsylvania, in general, haven’t been the backdrop for more novels. Apart from the area’s physical beauty and history, the people present an array of delicious contradictions. What writer could ask for more?

  Well, I’ve nattered on but the long struggle to save Camp Security reaffirmed my faith in Americans. One person can make a difference.

  In this case, it was Carol Tanzola.

  Well done, Madam.

  Always and Ever,

  With gratitude to

  Carol Tanzola

  Acknowledgments

  Nelson Yarbrough, D.D.S., and his wife, Sandra, also D.D.S., have put up with me for just about four decades. Last year, I inflicted myself on Nelson, the quarterback of the 1959 University of Virginia football team, for an overview of UVA, as well as college football, during that era.

  Not only did he teach me, delight me, and make me think on topics I had not examined, but I stayed so long that he fed me. Because of his insights and his gentle way of getting his point across, I will come back to this generation again. It seems to me there has been a significant break in behavior since Nelson’s college days and today. I could have sat there and listened until the cows came home, and when I left, my cows were coming home.

  As always, I thank him for his time and patience. So many of us in central Virginia thank both Drs. Yarbrough for their countless acts of unobtrusive kindness.

  Books by Rita Mae Brown & Sneaky Pie Brown

  WISH YOU WERE HERE • REST IN PIECES • MURDER AT MONTICELLO • PAY DIRT • MURDER, SHE MEOWED • MURDER ON THE PROWL • CAT ON THE SCENT • SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS • PAWING THROUGH THE PAST • CLAWS AND EFFECT • CATCH AS CAT CAN •THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF • WHISKER OF EVIL • CAT’S EYEWITNESS • SOUR PUSS • PUSS ’N CAHOOTS • THE PURRFECT MURDER • SANTA CLAWED • CAT OF THE CENTURY • HISS OF DEATH • THE BIG CAT NAP • SNEAKY PIE FOR PRESIDENT • THE LITTER OF THE LAW • NINE LIVES TO DIE • TAIL GAIT

  Books by Rita Mae Brown featuring “Sister” Jane Arnold

  OUTFOXED • HOTSPUR • FULL CRY • THE HUNT BALL • THE HOUNDS AND THE FURY • THE TELL-TALE HORSE • HOUNDED TO DEATH • FOX TRACKS • LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE

  The Mags Rogers Books

  MURDER UNLEASHED • A NOSE FOR JUSTICE

  Books by Rita Mae Brown

  ANIMAL MAGNETISM: MY LIFE WITH CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL • THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK • SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN • A PLAIN BROWN RAPPER • RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE • IN HER DAY • SIX OF ONE • SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT • SUDDEN DEATH • HIGH HEARTS • STARTING FROM SCRATCH: A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS’ MANUAL • BINGO •VENUS ENVY • DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR • RI
DING SHOTGUN • RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER • LOOSE LIPS •ALMA MATER • SAND CASTLE

  About the Authors

  RITA MAE BROWN has written many bestsellers and received two Emmy nominations. In addition to the Mrs. Murphy series, she has authored A Nose for Justice and Murder Unleashed, the first two mysteries in a dog series, and the Sister Jane foxhunting series, among many other acclaimed books. She and Sneaky Pie live with many other rescued animals.

  SNEAKY PIE BROWN, a tiger cat rescue, has written twenty-five mysteries including this one—witness the list at the front of this novel. Having to share credit with the above-named human is a small irritant, but she manages it. Anything is better than typing, which is what “Big Brown” does for the series. Sneaky calls her human that name behind her back after the wonderful Thoroughbred racehorse. As her human is rather small, it brings giggles among the other animals. Sneaky’s main character—Mrs. Murphy, a tiger cat—is a bit sweeter than Miss Pie, who can be caustic.