Mrs. Tessier and her family came home at Christmas. The place shut down for three days of celebration, but York didn’t do much by way of enjoyment. In four months Master Trenton would wed Eva Rouchard, and all York’s dreams would end. The only thing that gave York any comfort was the fact that by the time Christmas had ended and Mrs. Tessier had taken everybody except Trenton back to Charleston, his cash total—the Mossy Bank money, his gambling winnings in the last couple of years, and his skimming from the plantation—totaled almost nine thousand dollars.
If circumstances had allowed him to spend the money, York might have felt rich. Next to the Tessiers, he figured he had as much cash as anybody in the county, and if it came down to paper dollars, he might actually have more. Yet his fear wouldn’t let him enjoy it. Trenton could discover his thievery; Hillard could show back up; Josh could stir up a hornet’s nest; or Ruby could spill his secret. How could a man feel any comfort with so many things out of his control? How could a man make use of his wealth if somebody could take it from him at any minute? York’s fears grew stronger.
As the year 1861 dawned, York slowly reached a point where he knew he either had to do something, or just give up and stop trying. Sooner or later somebody would find out about his money. When they did, he’d have no explanation for it, and they’d take it away. The time had come to do something bold, something that would either make him or break him. Chester’s death had pushed him to that conclusion. Life didn’t last long; you might be shoved out of it and into the dark of death at any minute. Best act when you got the chance. But what should he do—and how?
He thought some about all of the war talk that had become more serious since Abe Lincoln’s election in the fall and South Carolina’s vote just before Christmas to pull out of the Union. Would Lincoln truly go to war to keep the states in place if others followed South Carolina? How would a war affect York and The Oak if it happened? Not given to politics, he figured a war didn’t matter much to him either way. If one started, it’d surely end real fast. If anything, it’d push up rice prices in a hurry. Men fighting a war had to eat, and rice kept and shipped just fine. Maybe a war would be a good thing. Yet he also knew the Yankees would try to stop rice shipments if a war came. They’d try to bottle up the ports like Charleston and Savannah, maybe Beaufort too. Of course, they might not manage that. But if they did …
Unable to do anything either way, York put his worries about a war aside and went back to thinking about his situation and how to make the most of it. Near the middle of January, an idea came to him as he sat by the fire after Camellia and Johnny had gone to bed. It made so much sense once he thought of it that he wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him earlier. It gave him the one chance he’d always wanted, the moment to truly test his notion that a man had to depend on his own strength, his own abilities to make what he wanted of life. One way or the other, if he had the guts, this possibility provided him that opportunity: the horse races in Charleston, the first week of February.
The fire crackled as he weighed the idea. The wealthiest men from all over the South—Savannah, Raleigh, Macon, Columbia, and Charleston—gathered every February for four days of festivities. Money drenched the air. Women in colorful dresses under wide parasols with darkies beside them to meet their every need dazzled one another and their menfolk with their high-pitched laughter and genteel ways. Horses neighed and stomped in their stables. The smell of mint juleps and straight scotch whiskey rode whatever breeze the weather brought in the height of the day. Short, skinny jockeys, mostly black, wore silk blouses, shiny pants, black boots, and hats that matched the blouses. Races took place every day at the Washington Course near Charleston on the Saturday, Sunday, and Monday before the first Wednesday of February. Three races of four miles each on the first day; three races of three-mile heats on the second day; and three races of two-mile heats on the third.
York had attended the races many times, often with Mr. Tessier, and he loved them even more than a game of cards. He loved the smell of the stables, the lather on a horse’s neck after a run, the thud of hooves founding a corner as a finish line beckoned. Maybe most of all, York loved the wagering that always accompanied the races. From poorest to richest, every man with a nickel in his pocket laid down a bet or two. The wagering brought the blood to the sport, raised the heat of the excitement, and guaranteed that before the day ended, somebody would end up in a fight over disputed odds or an unpaid wager.
Like all other men, York lost more wagers than he won. Yet, also like all other men, York felt certain that the next race he wagered on would surely come home a winner. After all, he knew horses better than most. He could tell by the lift or drop of a head how a horse felt that day; could see in a horse’s eyes whether or not he liked to run; could rub his hands over a horse’s flank and measure the power of his haunches. A man with as much horse knowledge could surely pick out a few winners if he really set his mind to it, he figured. Well, this year, he decided, he wanted to set his mind to it. He really did.
Four days before the races were to begin York packed up his finest clothes, told Camellia he’d return in about a week, and called Josh into his office near the barn. His beard trimmed, York pointed Josh to the chair across from the desk.
“You’re headed to the races, I guess,” said Josh.
“Yep, thought I would. Take some rest for a few days.”
“You deserve it. Worked hard all year.”
“Both of us did.”
Josh opened his mouth to speak further, but York stopped him. “No use sayin’ it. We both had some rough months, heavy grief. Talkin’ about it won’t make it any better.”
Josh rubbed his brow. “I’m not sure I agree with you. I feel like we need a long talk about a lot of things.”
“What kind of things?”
“I’ve been thinking,” Josh said slowly. “I feel like I need to make some changes. I’m not sure I’m as happy here as I once was.”
“Who is?” York threw in.
“We got things between us,” said Josh plainly. “Things that give me hard feelings sometimes.”
“We’ve men. That kind of thing happens.”
Josh nodded.
York considered telling Josh to stop talking with folks about Mossy Bank, but he knew it wasn’t the right time. Maybe when he returned from the races. “I’ll come back by the end of the week. We’ll get things straight then.”
He stood and put out his hand to shake Josh’s. When Josh looked confused at the gesture, York quickly pulled his hand away. Suddenly, York knew something really had changed between them, and it was all his doing. Against Josh’s wishes York had kept money belonging to a dead man. Then he’d stolen from The Oak. Finally, he’d killed a man to keep his secret. A little at a time he’d become a bad man, a man so bent on selfish ends that he did whatever it took to accomplish what he wanted, including blaming Camellia for what couldn’t be her fault—his son’s death and Trenton being a snake of a man.
York studied the matter for a second. Was this the way a man turned evil? Not in one big step, like going over a cliff, but a choice at a time—a little matter here, another minor choice there, each decision going further and further from the right way, each one leading him more and more down a path away from goodness?
“See you in a few days,” he said, hoping his voice sounded normal, not as mean as he felt.
Josh nodded and York walked out, climbed on his horse, and headed north. The sun rose to his right, and he settled his hat tightly on his head. Every dollar he owned lay in the saddlebags under his legs. With some luck and guts, who knew what he could win with it?
Her arms folded, Ruby stood quietly on the front porch of the manse and watched Hampton York ride out. She shivered in the light breeze of the clear day. Although months had passed since the fever hit The Oak and it had missed her entirely, she still suffered from a newfound fear in her bones. Her skin felt thin, as if somebody had brushed all the heaviness from it, and her eyes lay low
in their sockets, wary and unsteady. Worst of all, she’d had bad dreams almost every night since the malaria had come—dreams that brought a vision of the Death Man with them, the Death Man with yellow teeth, fingers like pointy sticks, and a voice that cackled worse than any crow. The Death Man wanted her, she knew it for sure. He didn’t care that she was still a young woman; he had set his red eyes on her head and planned on getting her soon.
As York disappeared in the cedars, Ruby felt tears falling on her skin. Guilt stuck like a wad of dirty cloth in her throat. She’d gotten settled on The Oak; had let her care for Obadiah cause her to forget her pledge to Markus and Theo. She’d curled up in her comfort like a turtle on a rock and taken her ease. What kind of mama would do such a thing?
She tried to calm her mind. The Death Man had showed her what she thought she’d put aside, maybe forever. If she ever wanted to see Theo and Markus again, she had to go now, because nobody ever knew when the Death Man might come and snatch them right out of life, right out of any chance to wait, right out of any chance to do something in some day yet to come. Truth was, nobody ever knew if tomorrow would ever get here. Lots of times tomorrow got stabbed in the heart and died before the sun ever rose on it. The country fever that had killed so many darkies had reminded her: If you want to do something, you best do it today.
Ruby remembered her dreams: Theo crying and calling for her, his little hands reaching out as if he saw her a few steps off but couldn’t reach her. He seemed pale and sickly in the dreams: His hair was gone, and it looked like he was losing his black, like somebody had rubbed the stain from his skin. She would reach for him in the dreams, begin to feel the warmth in his pale fingers … and then the Death Man would step between them, his yellow teeth bare and sharp, his cackling laugh a reminder that he saw and knew and wouldn’t let her touch her boy. She always woke up then, her breath gasping, her body wet with sweat, her heart pounding like a drum. She knew the meaning of the dreams. The Death Man wanted somebody—maybe her, maybe Theo, maybe the both of them.
The breeze whipped her skirt at the ankles, and she shivered again. The time had come. The dreams told her so. She had to leave now or forever give up her notions of doing it. Yes, she had come to care for Obadiah in ways she never expected, but he wasn’t Markus. Even if he was, she still had Theo; he still called her; he still had his vision. How could she, so long as she drew breath, give up her boy?
Her hands jumpy, Ruby left the porch and hustled to her bedroom. All around her the plantation seemed still, as if the weight of the dead still lay on it, causing everything to move in slow motion. What better time to take to the woods than now, while everybody remained cold from winter? With Master Trenton off with his fancy woman, making ready for his marriage, Mr. York gone away for some gambling, and Obadiah at his place for a few days, it gave her the perfect chance. If she did this just right, it might take a day or so before anybody but Stella would even know she’d gone.
In her room Ruby stopped and thought about what she’d need. Her old plans—buried in her head for longer than she wanted to admit—rose again. Although she had no idea exactly how long it’d take her to walk the seventy or so miles to Robertson’s place, she figured she could do it in four or five days—even with a lot of stops to hide and wait—so she’d need enough food for at least that long. She’d take a heavy shawl for the cold and rain and a hatchet in case she had to go through the woods and cut through heavy brush. She’d need her shoes too. Couldn’t go barefooted that far in February. She remembered the map she’d scratched out after seeing the one at the telegraph office and pulled it out from under her mattress. After brushing away the dust, she studied the rough markings and found them just as she remembered: pretty simple for anybody with a good head on her shoulders.
She’d leave after dark, go west on the main road that led from the ocean up toward Columbia. She’d keep her ears open for horses, wagons, anybody else on the road. If somebody approached, she’d run into the woods, hide until they passed, then go forward. She’d hide in the woods during the day.
According to what Camellia had told her, the road would fork about a day’s walk inland, and she’d need to take the north path. Another day’s walk and she’d have to head due east. Robertson’s place stood south and east of Columbia, not far after she crossed a small river called the Richland. Once across the river, she’d have to look for a road that curved off to the left. An old chimney stood right at the curve; she knew that because Camellia had asked her pa one day how to get to Robertson’s plantation, and not knowing why she’d asked, he’d told her. If all went well, Ruby would find it.
Ruby slipped the map into her pocket, pulled the blanket off her bed, and gathered up her two dresses, her three bandannas, her shawl, and the brush she used for her hair. She started to grab the stack of ribbons that Obadiah had given her, then hesitated. How would she explain them to Markus? She grabbed one of the ribbons, the brightest red one, and tied it to the handle of her brush—one to remember Obadiah, but no more.
After tying the bundle in the blanket, she hid it under her mattress, left the room, and hurried to the small building where Mr. York kept his office. A couple of minutes later she reached the back door and stepped inside as if going in to clean the room. After closing the door, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, then walked straight to Mr. York’s desk, opened a drawer, and took out a piece of paper and a writing pen. Her fingers scratched out a simple note.
Mr. York,
I am gone. I expect you know where. You ought to look in the wrong direction. You know why. You give me what I want; I do the same for you. Secrets ought to stay secrets. I expect you agree.
Ruby
She folded the note, put it in her pocket, and hurriedly left the room. The cookhouse was her next destination. To her relief, nobody was there. She quickly pulled several cuts of bread, a large piece of cured ham, and a sack of pecans from the cabinet, and wrapped it all up in a burlap sack. Next she took two canteens from a shelf by the window, filled them with water, and hid them in the sack with the food.
Her excitement rising, she headed to the door. Stella almost ran into her as she darted out. Her eyes bugged wide. Stella glanced at the sack of food, then up at her.
“You mighty hungry it looks like.”
Ruby nodded, her eyes down.
Stella grabbed her elbow. “You up to somethin’, I can see it.”
Ruby glared at her. “You got it right!” she growled. “I am doing what I said all along I was going to do. I’m leaving this place. Figured now was the time.”
“I thought you had settled with Obadiah. Ain’t he treatin’ you right?”
“He treats me fine, but I got a baby in Virginia, a husband at Robertson’s. I made them a vow, and I aim to keep it.”
Stella squeezed her elbow. “You gone get yourself whipped is what you gone do. Runners don’t never get away, you know that. They set the dogs on you.”
“I’ll be long gone by the time they get the dogs out. Unless you tell, nobody will miss me for a long time.”
“They’ll know where you goin’. Mr. York knows where they took Markus.”
“Maybe, but it will take him a while to get home and head there. If I go fast, I can get Markus and be gone before anybody ever reaches us.”
Stella let go of her elbow. “You don’t even know if Markus is still there,” she warned. “Maybe they sold him off.”
“If I don’t find him, I’ll keep on going. North next.”
“You crazy, that’s for sure. A woman right in the head would stay with Obadiah. He’s a good man.”
“I know, but I got to do this. The malaria killed a lot of folks. So what if I stayed alive this time? You get that close to the Death Man, it teaches you a lot about living. How you got to grab hold of it for all its worth while you got it.”
“I lived a long time, so I reckon I know that’s for true. I seed lots of folks alive and kickin’ one day, deader than a hammer the next. Ne
ver know what day the Lord’s gone call a body home.”
“I got to go,” said Ruby. “Got to see my man again, my baby.”
“I ain’t gone stop you,” Stella said. “You do what you got to do.”
Ruby hugged Stella, then stepped back. “Take this,” she said, pulling the note from her pocket. “Give it to Mr. York when he comes back. Give it to him when he’s alone.”
Stella took the note. “What’s it say?”
“It’s a reminder, you know, what I told you about Mossy Bank Creek. With me gone, he got nobody who can tell what happened back there.”
“Nobody but Mr. Cain, his brother.” Stella put the note in her pocket.
Ruby nodded, then thought of Sharpton Hillard. “One more thing. This man came by here. Name of Hillard. He asked about Mossy Bank.”
Stella’s eyes widened. “What’d he want?”
“Asking Mr. York what he knew, didn’t know. Mentioned a name, a Wallace Swanson. Wanted to see if Mr. York knew him.”
Stella’s mouth stopped gumming. “What’d he say about him?” she whispered.
“Not much. Just wanted to know if Mr. York knew him or not.”
“How’d he answer?”
“Said he knew him, so what?”
“That all?”
“Yes, who is Swanson?”
A tiny grin appeared on Stella’s face. “He be a ghost. Done raise up from his grave.”
“Now you’re the one talking crazy.”
“I reckon I am.”
“Well, I’m leaving at dark,” Ruby insisted. “Tell Camellia she’s a good woman and to stay patient. The right man will surely show up someday.”
“I’ll say that to her.”
“And tell Obadiah …” Ruby choked as she thought of him, how well he had treated her. “Tell him he is a good-hearted man and that I’m not running ’cause he’s not. Tell him if I didn’t already have a baby, a man I loved, I couldn’t find no better man than him.”
“I’ll tell him your words.”
Secret Tides Page 27