To the best of his ability, when he wasn’t helping his kids pack for their move, Josh stayed alone a lot of the time, took long walks on the beach, tried to keep his thoughts away from the grief he felt about leaving Camellia. She deserved better than him, he knew that. But still he had feelings for her he couldn’t deny. And it wasn’t just loneliness anymore either, nor the desire to have a mother for Beth and Butler. No, it was more than that—deeper, he knew that. She possessed every trait he’d ever valued in a woman—honesty, goodness, intelligence, and natural grace. She loved the Lord and tried to live a holy life. In addition, she was prettier than the ocean at sunrise. Yet she belonged to another. So he might as well put her out of his head. In just a few days he’d leave The Oak, leave her and everything connected to her.
His preparations complete, Josh met with York near the end of the day, down at the beach where York would square off against Trenton the next morning. York paced off the distance that would stand between him and Trenton and checked the footing in the sand. Sea gulls squawked overhead; waves crashed on the shoreline. Josh looked out to sea, his heart heavy but resolute. York stepped to him and also scanned the horizon. A steady breeze blew in their faces.
“I wish it hadn’t come to this,” said Josh.
“Not my choosin’.”
“I’ve suggested a compromise. Give back the money; offer him that satisfaction at least.”
“We already spoke of this.”
Josh nodded. “The crop’s about planted. I’m ready to go. So I’m leaving early tomorrow. Before this happens. I don’t want to see it, either way it turns out.”
“I know.”
Both men fell silent. Josh kicked at the sand with his boot. “I feel like I’ve failed you. By deciding not to stand with you in the morning.”
“You ain’t failed nobody. Been a good brother to me.”
“Not like you’ve been to me.”
“I ain’t done much.”
“You stood by me after Mexico.”
York shook his head. “We’re even on that. You owe me nothin’.”
“I’m not a good man,” Josh said, a tear coming to his eye.
York put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re the best of men.”
“If I could just go back.” Josh sighed. “Do that one thing all over again, maybe then … ”
“What happened there just happened. Nothin’ you or anybody else could have done about it.”
“Wish life gave us a chance for do-overs,” said Josh sadly. “But once something is past, it’s over.”
York chuckled slightly. “I thought you believed in do-overs. Thought you believed the good Lord gave us all a chance to start again.”
Josh nodded. “I believe that in my head, but it’s hard to get it lodged in my heart.”
“You got to have faith,” said York.
Now Josh laughed. “You sound like a preacher.”
“Yes, and the salt in the ocean is really flecks of gold.”
Both men laughed.
“I’ll miss you,” said Josh.
“Likewise.”
“Take care of Camellia.”
“She is past the age she looks to me for much care.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You’ve done well by her. Be proud of that.”
York spat. “I did the best I knew how. You plan to tell Camellia bye?”
“No more than I already have.”
York turned and put a hand on his shoulder. “I wish you’d stay until this matter with Master Trenton is finished. Camellia might need you if I don’t come through it.”
“She’ll marry Trenton if that happens,” Josh replied quickly. “She won’t need me.”
“And if I kill him?”
“Then she’ll find another man to marry. She’ll have plenty of offers.”
York faced the ocean again. Josh put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. The ocean rolled and swelled, pushed in and out.
“May the Lord bless you,” Josh said.
“You too, Brother.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in the Lord.”
“I cover my bets, either way.”
Sleep came reluctantly to Josh that night, and about the time midnight came, he realized why. He had one more thing to do before he could leave, one more thing he wanted to finish. Climbing from his bed, he stepped to his closet, pulled out a couple of things he’d already packed, set them up, and started to work. It took close to three hours, and he wasn’t that pleased with it when he’d finished.
After putting his things away, he crawled back into bed and fell asleep this time, as contented as any man could be in his circumstances. Only a couple of hours after dozing off, he awoke suddenly, the sound of knocking bouncing through his head. It took him a couple of seconds to realize somebody was at the door. Hurrying, he slipped on his pants and a shirt and rushed to answer before the knocking woke the children. To his surprise, Sharpton Hillard was standing on his porch, his hat in his hands. The first streaks of the morning sun had just started to mark the sky. Josh stepped back and asked Hillard in.
“Sorry to come so early,” said Hillard, taking the seat Josh offered. “But the matter is urgent.”
Josh threw a log on the fireplace and lit a candle on the mantel. “You want some coffee? Take a minute to heat some, but glad to get it.”
“Not now. Just need to talk with you. I rode most of the night.”
“What’s the rush?”
“Guess you haven’t heard about Fort Sumter. South Carolina forces fired on it yesterday. It’s all the talk in Charleston. War is here for sure.”
“War is foolishness,” said Josh. “Lots of good men will die.”
“You are not a secessionist?”
“I’ve seen war. Nobody ever wins, no matter their cause.”
Hillard spun his hat on his fingers. “I didn’t come to talk about the war. Though that did give me cause for hurry. Want to get back North soon as I can.”
“This about Mossy Bank?”
“I found the grave,” said Hillard.
“Quincy.”
“Found the marker you left on it.”
“You find any money?”
“Nope. Found this, though.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper wrapper for a chaw of tobacco.
“So?”
“Mr. York chews store-bought. I’ve seen him with this brand.”
“This is not proof of anything.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Cain. I admire you trying to protect your brother, but maybe you weren’t the only man at Mossy Bank that day. Mr. York was there with you.”
“So?”
Hillard sat his hat on his knee and stared hard at Josh. “Look. I’ve done a lot of talking to folks these last few months. From what I hear, you’re a honest man, not given to bad things. But Mr. York, well, he’s got a different kind of reputation. Folks say he does what suits him, not a mean man but a cunning one, out to take care of his own interests before anybody else’s. He—”
Josh held up a hand. “He’s my brother. I won’t hear you bad-talking him.”
Hillard nodded, took a big breath. “Okay, I understand. Here’s all I’m asking. Was he there? Is it possible he took the money? Maybe you know about it and are covering for him, maybe not. Maybe he took it, and you don’t even know. That’s all I’m asking. Is it possible he has it?”
Josh stood and focused on the flickering fire in the fireplace. How could he tell Hillard what had happened? How could he turn in his brother? What would that do to York’s plans, even if he lived through the next hour or so? If he told on him and Hillard took the five thousand away, would he still have enough to keep The Oak from the bankers? If not, would Mrs. Tessier still marry him? If not, York would never get his picture over the mantel in the manse, and he’d blame Josh forever for his failure. Telling on York might destroy his whole life. Could he do that after all York had do
ne for him?
Yet, how could he tell a straight-out lie? Mr. Hillard had asked him directly about York and the money. Could he pretend he didn’t know about it? He thought of York, even now already at the beach, about to face off against Master Trenton. He might be dead within the hour. He faced Hillard.
“Tell me who Ruth Swanson is,” Josh insisted. “Who you work for and where this money was headed. You come clean with me, and I’ll come clean with you.”
“You’re asking a lot,” said Hillard.
“I know. But so are you.”
Hillard twirled his hat. “Okay, here’s the way it is.”
Josh sat back down. Hillard told him his story. As Josh listened, his eyes widened. What Hillard said changed everything.
Five men gathered on the beach right after sunup, each of them dressed in their best frock coats and ruffled shirts. As they had agreed, neither had brought any of the three witnesses the dueling code allowed them. York wore a new black hat, stiff of brim and braided with gold. Trenton came hatless, his close-cropped hair catching the first rays of light. Calvin stood by Trenton, Johnny by York. According to the code, both seconds had already searched each other to make sure neither carried any weapons. On this day, only the combatants could hold firearms. The doctor stood close to thirty yards away and out of line of any potential fire, no matter how wildly aimed. The sun warmed the men from the east. A touch of a breeze ruffled York’s beard as he stared at Trenton.
“As the challenger’s second, I am duty bound to give you one more opportunity to meet my demands and retire from the field,” said Calvin, his tone steady. “Will you apologize for your offenses, or shall we go forward?”
York simply spat tobacco juice for his answer.
“We’ll go forward,” Johnny called. “The claim to offense is without merit.”
York smiled proudly at his son for the way he had risen to this situation. No matter what occurred today, his boy had shown courage, and his chest swelled to see it.
“Then you give us no choice but to go forward,” Calvin proclaimed.
“The choice is yours,” said York, speaking for the first time. “I have no desire to shoot anybody, but I will if I must.”
“Do your worst,” Trenton replied, eyes narrowed. “And I’ll do likewise.” Calvin produced a coin from his pocket. “Choose heads or tails. Winner chooses firing position, loser chooses firing signal.”
Johnny nodded. York had spent the last few days teaching his son the dueling code, so Johnny now knew his rights. “Tails!” he shouted bravely as Calvin flipped the coin. The coin hit the sand.
“Tails!” shouted Calvin, eying the coin. “Choose your position!”
Johnny glanced at his father. York tilted his head left. He wanted to fire with the sun to his left, away from his dominant eye. Johnny walked to the spot his father had chosen.
Calvin nodded. “Firing signal is ‘Ready.’ I will call it.”
Everyone nodded. Trenton turned to Calvin, and Calvin lifted a rectangular box to chest level and opened it. A pistol lay in the box. Calvin lifted it out and handed it to Trenton.
“As we agreed,” said Calvin as Trenton examined the weapon. “Colts, 1851. The combatants will take ten paces in opposite directions. At the signal ‘Ready,’ they will fire their first round at will. If both men miss, the offender has another chance to make his apologies and retire from the field. If he refuses, the two combatants will again meet in the middle, will reload and commence action again, this time taking nine paces before firing. Such action will continue at closer ranges each time until one or the other of the men either retires from the field or receives a mortal or disabling wound. If both men take wounds but without any mortal or disabling wound, the combatants will then decide whether to continue or retire. Are these instructions clear?”
York spat and nodded.
“Yes,” said Trenton.
“Then we shall load weapons.” Calvin looked at Johnny, who pulled a Colt from his waistband, slipped a bullet into the chamber, clicked it shut, and held it ready. Calvin likewise prepared Trenton’s weapon. According to code, Johnny handed the pistol into York’s left hand, his least dominant one and Calvin did the same with Trenton, thus protecting against either man firing early. Johnny’s hand trembled as he pulled it away.
“Stay steady,” whispered York, seeing his son’s fear. “A man needs a clear head with matters like this.”
Johnny dropped his eyes. York quickly hugged him. “I’ll be fine,” he whispered. “But just in case, if anythin’ happens, go to Josh Cain. Tell him … tell him to provide for you … to … tell him he has my blessin’ regardin’ Camellia. He’ll understand.”
Johnny nodded.
“Move away now,” urged York.
Johnny stepped off about twenty steps.
York and Trenton glared at each other, as if one could scare the other away.
“Prepare to take your positions,” said Calvin.
York thought of Camellia. If Trenton ended up dead, she’d never forgive him. “Take places!” ordered Calvin.
York pointed his pistol toward the sky, his elbow at waist level, and moved to his spot. Trenton did likewise. The breeze played with York’s beard. He hoped the wind wouldn’t knock his aim off line. The ocean rolled in and he heard its rush. A bird chirped in the distance. York thought of Trenton. The boy had guts; he had to give him that. He wondered about Trenton’s thoughts, whether the boy truly knew that he might die in the next few moments. If it didn’t seem real to York and he’d killed a number of men, how could it seem real to a young man like Trenton?
York reached his spot and pivoted to face Trenton.
“Stand ready!” called Calvin.
York’s legs tensed, and his eyes narrowed. His finger twitched on the pistol trigger.
“Prepare!” yelled Calvin.
York switched his pistol to his right hand and tried to say a silent prayer but couldn’t. What did a man pray at such a time? That God would let him shoot down another man? He thought of Josh. Josh would pray for him; always had. Not that it did much good, but maybe it didn’t do any harm.
“Seconds retire!” yelled Calvin.
Johnny and Calvin stalked off another twenty paces from the duelists, then came to a stop and faced the combatants again. A second of quiet fell. York spat. A bird chirped. Clouds shifted. A fly buzzed. York’s mind raced. He thought of all he’d done, all he could have done. He hadn’t lived a good life and knew he ought to ask God’s forgiveness but didn’t know how. Would he die? Would Trenton die? What happened to a man after he died?
“Ready!” Calvin’s signal to fire cracked through the air.
York jerked his pistol to shoulder height, his eyes aiming the weapon even as he lifted it. He heard a shot fire and thought for an instant that his finger had squeezed off his weapon before he’d aimed. But then the dirt splashed at his right boot and he realized that Trenton was the one who had fired hastily, not him. His finger eased off the trigger, and he stared across the distance between him and Trenton, knowing that the boy’s inexperience had just cost him dearly. Trenton had fired his round and missed and now stood straight ahead with no protection and no choice but to stand and let York take his shot.
York kept the pistol aimed as his chest heaved! He was alive! Not even wounded! He wondered what would happen after he killed Trenton. Would everything change for the good? With Trenton gone, would Mrs. Tessier still marry him? Probably, he figured. She was like York—did what she had to do. He’d marry her with no more troubles. His picture would hang over the mantel! Would that satisfy him? Make him content? He didn’t know, but he’d sure like finding out.
“It seems you’ve missed your mark!” he shouted to Trenton.
“Take your shot!” responded Trenton. “That is what the rules require.”
York grunted at the young man’s foolish bravery. “The rules allow me to offer you the option of leavin’ the field. I now grant you that choice.”
&nbs
p; “I am a man of honor,” called Trenton. “And you are a thief! How can I retire and leave you to mock me? A man of your station making light of a man of mine? I could never show my face again. I will not leave the field without you taking your round.”
“Let it go!” shouted York. “You’re still alive. Nobody but us will ever know.”
“I’ll know!” argued Trenton. “That’s what matters most!”
“I offer you the choice one more time,” York called. “Leave me be and I’ll not shoot.”
“Let it end!” Calvin shouted to Trenton. “Your honor is not worth your life!”
“He’ll fire or I’ll kill him!” answered Trenton. “You know what the rules demand! As my second, you must enforce them!”
Calvin squared his shoulders. “You have heard his choice!” he shouted to York. “And I am a witness to it.”
“You leave me no release,” called York. “I’ll do what is required.”
Trenton stood to his full height.
York raised his pistol. Trenton stared straight at him. York imagined Trenton lying dead on the beach, his blood pouring into the sand. But would Mrs. Tessier marry him if he killed her son?
Confused, York spat and tried to clear his head. With Trenton gone, Mrs. Tessier would have no choice if she wanted to hang on to her fortune.
York aimed carefully. All of his anger suddenly poured into his fingers, anger at the way men like Marshall Tessier had treated him, anger at the way Mrs. Tessier had looked down at Camellia, anger at the fate that gave some folks a higher station in life than others. A man like Trenton Tessier deserved to die, he figured. He and others like him had laid hurts on the shoulders of others for a long time. He ought to suffer, to feel pain like others had felt it.
Secret Tides Page 37