Secret Tides

by Gary E. Parker

  He squeezed his hands together, as if trying to press the blood from them. So what if he did? He’d go back to The Oak, do his job as long as Master Trenton would allow it. If the time came when Trenton got rid of him, he’d take the thousand or so that he had left and start out somewhere else. True, he’d never get his dream if he lost. But a lot of men never got their dream. Why should he expect any different? Why should fortune smile on him more than any other man?

  He thought back to the day he and Josh found the man at Mossy Bank, the way they’d talked about their hopes. Josh’s desires seemed so small; all he wanted was a simple life with a loving wife, a happy family, and a chance to serve the Lord. How could a man keep his view so low? Wasn’t there more to living than what Josh wanted? It seemed so little, so … well, so pointless. Shouldn’t a man want the kinds of things York sought? Shouldn’t a man desire to make his mark in the world; shouldn’t he want a fine house and lots of land and the admiration of his neighbors? Shouldn’t he want his picture hung over the mantel of a mansion? Why else did a man exist but to scrape and fight and claw as hard as he could to reach the top of whatever world he found around him at his birth?

  The hour of the first heat approached. York left the stands and made his way to the stables. Although staying out of the way, he eased in and out of the area that stabled the horses to run in the two-milers. He particularly watched the black, the chestnut, and the gray for any unusual signs. Although the chestnut seemed quiet, he didn’t know enough of the horse’s normal temper to figure if that should put him at ease or upset him. Not wanting to draw any attention, York soon left the area and made his way back to the stands.

  He pulled his hat—a new broad-brimmed black one that matched his coat—tight over his eyes. The next hour and a half would seal his fate. If the black won, he could take his winnings and move to the second part of his scheme. If the black lost, all that would end forever. No portrait for him over any mantel. No fancy school for Camellia. No mark made on the world. Nothing but daily work at the whim of another man for the rest of his days.

  The horses exited the stable, and York followed them out, a new chaw of tobacco in his cheek. People crowded in around him. The horses pranced onto the track toward the starting line. The jockeys—their colored silks bright in the spring sunshine—held the horses back. A light breeze whipped through the horses’ manes. The crowd whistled and cheered as one horse, a tall roan, reared up, his front legs pawing the air with eagerness to run.

  York stroked his beard, neatly trimmed for today. He felt as eager as the roan, ready for this to happen. Ever since he and Josh found the money at Mossy Bank, he’d sensed that something like today would occur. It just had to. That money had seemed destined for his hands, as if Fate had reached out and placed it in his lap. Since then he’d done all he could to make the most of it. True, taking money from The Oak bothered him some when he dwelt too long on it, but any sane man would see that he deserved those dollars. He’d responded just like any other normal man. He’d grabbed the chances that came his way and sought to make the most of them. Just as he’d told Josh he needed to do.

  The horses reached the starting line. The crowd rose to cheer them off. A man in a tall stovepipe hat and a navy frock coat stood at the starting line, a pistol in hand. The horses tensed. York held his breath. His chest ached with fear. The man in gray fired his pistol, and the horses darted away. When the black stumbled briefly, York thought he might fall, but the horse regained his footing and thundered off after the horses in front of him. He passed two of them by the first turn, his long mane stiff in the breeze. The dappled gray lay three horses off the lead, the chestnut just in front of him. A smallish bay led the race, but York didn’t worry much about him. Known for his early speed, he had failed at the end in every race he’d ever run.

  The first mile passed slowly, each of the horses trying to keep a steady pace. At the halfway point, the black passed another horse. Now he ran fourth—the bay, the gray, and the chestnut all in front and in that order. For another quarter-mile the black gained no ground. Sweat broke out on York’s face. His chest felt like someone had shoved a hot brick into it. He knew the black didn’t have to win all the heats, just have the best combined time in them, but he also knew that the first heat often set the stage for the next two. The four leading horses turned the last corner and headed for home. York began to shout.

  The chestnut moved easily, seemingly without effort. York wondered if his late-night mash had messed up his stomach at all. The black lay just behind him, equally as fast. York breathed once but then stopped again. The little bay hadn’t faltered, neither had the gray. The two of them ran side by side, the bay near the rail saving ground on the turn. The black’s neck stretched forward, and his speed hit another level. His hooves pounded the ground. The crowd roared as the chestnut seemed to hesitate. Just like that, his legs seemed to move slower, as if somebody had poured swamp mud under his feet, and the black sped around him as if passing a stump in a field. Now the black gained on the front two. York punched his fist into the air over and over, keeping time with the pounding hooves.

  The three horses ran neck and neck as the black pushed his way between the bay and the gray. The bay veered out, and the three horses bumped. The gray hesitated, his hooves suddenly tangled, then he went down. The crowd gasped. The gray’s jockey rolled off the horse. The gray’s front legs collapsed and he rolled forward. York groaned. The last two horses shoved forward, less than five paces from the finish line. The black bounced into the bay once more. His neck reached for the finish. The bay arched his nose. The black pounded one last huge lunge and beat him by less than a neck.

  The crowd roared, some in triumph, the others in outrage. York ran from the stands toward the judges’ box at the edge of the track by the finish line. Three men with tall black hats talked quickly to one another. The crowd waited for the judges to decide if any foul had occurred.

  York glanced back at the track. The gray was standing, his jockey beside him, reins in hand, checking the horse’s legs. From what York could see, both horse and jockey appeared fine—shaken but not seriously hurt. He wondered if the gray would try the next heat or give it up for the day.

  He eyed the judges again. They continued to talk. Three other men had joined them; York figured they were the owners of the horses involved in the bumping. Each of them made their case; each defended their horse and jockey.

  Everybody else held their breath. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the tallest of the judges turned to the crowd. “The judges are all agreed,” he shouted. “In the first of the two-milers, the winner is Blacksmith, owned by Jeremy Ruger of Augusta, Georgia! Time is 3:16.”

  York almost collapsed. His knees wobbled. For the first time he could remember, he wanted to cry. Although he had two more heats to go, fortune had fallen well so far. The chestnut had quit in the last stretch; the dappled gray had taken a fall. Now only the bay seemed like a serious contender, and everyone knew the small horse had fine early speed but no staying power. If he ran true to form, the next two heats wouldn’t go well for him.

  York tried to stay calm while the horses rested for the next heat. If it all went as this first race had indicated … no he couldn’t count on that yet. He had to wait; had to stay patient.

  Within thirty minutes, the horses were back at the starting line, minus the dappled gray. The starter fired the pistol again. The horses galloped off. Again the bay took off first, but this time he didn’t last as long as in the first race. The chestnut ran well for the first mile but then started laboring with every step. By the time they reached the last half-mile, he had dropped to next to last. Blacksmith lay near the front until the final turn, then passed a thick-shouldered roan in the last hundred yards to win by three lengths.

  York dared to breathe again. The impossible now seemed possible. He sweated for the next thirty minutes, not looking at anybody, not wanting to break the spell of the moment. The third and last heat began. This t
ime the chestnut ran like everyone had expected him to run from the beginning and won the race by a neck over the roan. The black finished third, but it didn’t matter. His time stood at 9:52, the best by seven seconds over the next best finisher. The crowd roared—some with approval, some with disgust.

  As Blacksmith crossed the finish time, York didn’t even rise to his feet. His shock was so great he didn’t think his knees could hold him. For several minutes he stayed in place. Just like that, in three heats that lasted barely ten minutes, he’d moved from a low-class white to a man of means. Finally, that reality sank in, and he jumped to his feet. He spun around to find somebody to tell but found no one—nobody he knew, no friend. For a second his shoulders sagged. Here was the biggest moment of his life, and he had nobody with him. But then he remembered how much money he’d won, and all his sadness disappeared. How could he feel low? He had close to twenty-seven thousand dollars. Not enough to buy a plantation, but more than most men made in a lifetime.

  York chuckled as he considered what he hoped to do. It might take him a while, and he’d have to take care to choose the right moment. But if he pulled it off, people would talk about him for a long time. If his scheme panned out, he’d make a mark all right, more of one than even he’d ever imagined.

  He put in a new chaw of tobacco and headed out of the stands to collect his winnings. Maybe he’d take a couple of days and celebrate, he decided. With the kind of money he now had, he could celebrate real well.

  Chapter Twenty -Five

  His hands in dishwater scrubbing out the frying skillet, Josh looked out the window at the rising sun and mapped out his work for the day. When York took time off like this for the races, he took on a lot of extra duties. The only way he could get them done and still take care of his family was to start early and stay steady. He thought of Ruby and knew that today he’d have to make a decision about what to do. When Stella had told him three days ago that she’d not come home the night before, he’d decided to give the situation a few days before sending out anybody to search for her. A lot of servants ran off from time to time but then showed back up with no real fuss. He wanted to give Ruby time to change her mind and come back. So far, though, she’d not come home, and something had to be done. If York came back and found out Josh had let her go without a search, he’d raise a ruckus.

  With Beth helping, he finished cleaning the dishes and got ready to leave. Slipping on his hat, he heard a knock on the door.

  “I’ll check it,” called Beth.

  Josh moved to the front room.

  “There’s a man here,” Beth called.

  Josh stepped to the front door. A man in a long black coat stood there, his hat off, his forehead wide, his eyes clear.

  Josh stuck out a hand and introduced himself. “You’re out mighty early this morning.”

  “I’m Sharpton Hillard,” said the man, shaking Josh’s hand heartily. “I checked at the manse. Master Trenton and Mr. York are both away. I was told you’re next in charge. Can I speak with you a minute?”

  Josh stepped back, let Hillard in, and pointed to a chair by the fireplace.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Beth asked him.

  “That would be mighty nice, young lady.”

  Beth disappeared to the kitchen. Josh noted Hillard’s accent but didn’t comment on it as he settled in his chair. Josh stood by the fireplace.

  “I’ll not waste your time,” said Hillard. “I rode through here back in November, talked to Mr. York. He tell you of my visit?”

  Josh shrugged but didn’t answer. Until he knew more, he wouldn’t let on to Hillard what he and York discussed or didn’t discuss.

  “Okay,” said Hillard, with a slight smirk. “I told Mr. York I’d come here looking for information about a man who disappeared somewhere between Charleston and Savannah a while back.”

  Josh fought to stay calm. He knew his face must have blanched white. “What’s that got to do with The Oak?” he asked quietly.

  “Nothing necessarily. Just that I’ve been looking for this man for quite a while. Trying to find out what happened to him. Asking from place to place, you know. Seeing if anybody knew anything.”

  “I suppose Mr. York said he didn’t.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why have you come back?”

  Beth entered with a cup of coffee. Hillard accepted it gratefully and took a sip. Josh tilted his head at Beth, his signal for her to leave the room.

  Hillard lowered the coffee cup. “Two reasons. One, I was told that a man named Tarleton has been looking for Mr. York.”

  Josh remembered the name from Sheriff Walt in Beaufort. “So?” He wondered if Hillard had talked to Walt, and if so, what Walt had told him. He hoped Walt had kept his mouth shut.

  “It seems Mr. Tarleton has gone missing.”

  “What’s that got to do with York?”

  “He was seen with Tarleton about the time he disappeared, in Beaufort.”

  “You accusing Mr. York of foul play?”

  Hillard held up a hand. “I’m not accusing anybody of anything. Just curious, that’s all.”

  “How does any of that connect to your missing man?” Josh sat down on the fireplace hearth. He felt like Hillard was weighing him, testing his mettle.

  Hillard drank from his coffee. “My man and Tarleton were traveling together.”

  “Sounds like maybe you need to find Tarleton. He might know what happened to your missing man.”

  Hillard nodded. “Tell me about Mr. York.”

  “He’s the overseer here,” Josh answered. “Well known in these parts. He’s some good, some bad … like most men, I expect.”

  “Anybody could tell me that,” challenged Hillard. “I want to know what kind of man he is; what kind of character he has. Is he a liar, a cheat, could he kill a man?”

  Josh raised an eyebrow. “We could all kill a man,” he said gently. “Don’t you think?”

  Hillard let out a big breath. “I hear he’s your brother. You wouldn’t be protecting him now, would you?”

  Josh chuckled lightly. “I don’t think my brother needs a whole lot of protection. If you’ve asked enough to know we’re kin, you know that too, I suppose.”

  Hillard shook his head but didn’t challenge Josh further.

  Josh waited, kept his breath calm. In his gut, though, he started to fume. Why hadn’t York told him about Hillard? And did York know Tarleton? Had something happened between them?

  Hillard set his coffee cup on the floor.

  “You said you had two reasons for coming here,” Josh challenged.

  “Yes.”

  Josh sensed Hillard’s pleasure, like a man who’d just caught a bass bigger than his skillet could hold. His muscles tensed.

  “You ever hear of a woman named Ruth Swanson?”

  Josh’s hands clenched as he fought to stay easy. He figured Hillard had certainly talked to Sheriff Walt. “Don’t know a woman of that name,” he answered truthfully. “Why do you ask?”

  Hillard crossed his knees. “I hear a man of your description has been asking about a woman named ‘Ruth.’”

  “So what?”

  “Maybe Ruth Swanson is the woman you’re asking about.”

  Josh felt his heart speed up. Who was Ruth Swanson, and how did she connect to Mossy Bank? Was she the dead man’s wife? A daughter maybe? But what should he tell Hillard? Would Hillard accuse him of murder if he admitted to finding the man at Mossy Bank? Josh considered his choices. He could stay quiet, or he could come clean and see what happened.

  “I found a man,” he said calmly, careful to leave out anything about York. “At Mossy Bank Creek in early November, 1858. Somebody had shot him. He died within a couple of minutes. Before he passed, he spoke the name ‘Ruth.’ I tried to get more, but that’s all he said. I buried him there; you can find the marker if you go look.”

  “No sign of who shot him?”

  Josh thought a second, wanting to tell the truth but
not put York in any danger. “A search of the woods found no one.”

  “No horse or anything?” asked Hillard.

  Josh shook his head. “No horse and no papers.”

  Hillard put both boots on the floor. “You find any money on the man?” He asked the question almost lightly, as if he was talking about twenty dollars or so.

  “No,” Josh said quickly, glad Hillard had asked the question in a way that allowed him to answer correctly without lying. “Nothing on him at all.”

  Hillard’s brow wrinkled, and Josh decided to take a gamble. “Why are you looking so hard for this man? He kin or something?”

  “No,” said Hillard. “I’m just doing a job.”

  Josh kept the initiative. “So who is Ruth Swanson?”

  Hillard slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “Don’t worry. She’s nothing to you. You can stop looking for her.”

  Josh stood too. “I’d like to know. Feel kind of obligated. The man at Mossy Bank spoke his last words of her. I told him I’d tell her that.”

  “The man’s name was Quincy,” said Hillard. “He was delivering some money.”

  “To who?”

  “I don’t know. That part is not my business.”

  “You working for Ruth Swanson?”

  “That part is not your business.” Hillard headed to the front door,

  “Where you going now?” asked Josh, following him onto the front porch.

  “To Mossy Bank Creek.”

  “You looking for the money?”

  “Don’t you think I should?”

  “That would make sense.”

  Hillard put on his hat. The sun baked down on his face.

  “How much?” asked Josh.

  “Excuse me?”

  “How much money?”

  “More than you and I will ever see,” Hillard said. “That’s for sure.”

  As Hillard walked off, Josh watched him go. Somehow, though, he figured he’d see Sharpton Hillard again. A man like Hillard had some bulldog in him. Once he got his teeth into something, he didn’t let go too easily. What would happen then? So far Josh had protected York. But what would he do when Hillard returned? He couldn’t lie for York if Hillard pinned him down. Josh wouldn’t do that, not even for his brother.