A Dream of Daring

by Gen LaGreca

  Tom and Nash followed, with Tom swinging the door closed behind them.

  * * * * *

  The fire had dwindled to embers, its flames no longer reflecting on the shiny armoire. From the triangular slit in the drapes, a gray tinge of moonlight beamed into the room. Tom sat at a table before the fireplace, writing intently, his sleeves rolled up, his vest open, his jacket flung on the bed behind him. His lamp cast a shadow of his wiry figure against the carpet of his bedroom at the Crossroads.

  Before supper, Rachel Barnwell and her mother had left for home, with Charlotte commenting that the air at the Crossroads made her ill. Nash Nottingham and the other guests had left as well. Tom had remained for the night to get an early start to the docks with his invention the next morning. His host and the new owner of the Crossroads, Wiley Barnwell, had also remained, along with the prospective buyer, Ted Cooper, so that they could discuss business the next day. Tom, eager to excuse himself but fearful of appearing rude, had sat through a seemingly interminable supper followed by a smoke in the gentlemen’s parlor, discussing planting schedules, tillage methods, and cotton gins with the two older men. At eleven o’clock, when Barnwell and Cooper had finally decided to retire, a servant escorted Tom to his bedroom on the upper floor. Finally, he was free.

  Once relieved of social obligations, Tom jotted down a few thoughts. The discussion earlier that day about cotton seed had provoked new ideas that he wanted to pursue. The new seed was said to yield cotton that could be picked more readily. Cotton that was easy to pull off the boll. For the rest of the day, the matter of harvesting the cotton had sown its own seeds in his fertile mind.

  What if one day the new engine could be made so powerful that it would be able to do more than just drive itself and haul passive farm tools like a plow? What if this engine could also possess enough power to run active—motorized—farm equipment in the field the way a steam-powered or water-powered engine runs machinery in a factory? This was an idea that had never occurred to him before. He paused to ponder the matter. What if there were a machine to pull the cotton off the boll? And what if it could be powered by a tractor’s engine to do the cotton picking mechanically?

  He took a fresh piece of paper from a box of stationery, dipped his pen in its inkwell, and sketched the tool he imagined on that machine. He drew an illustration of a metal object shaped like a hand, with prongs that resembled human fingers, only they were thinner and pointier. Then he sketched a cotton plant and showed how the prongs of the spindle might mechanically grasp the cotton and twist it off the boll.

  Sitting there in the night, with only the fuel of his imagination, he had no way of knowing that a century later there would exist such a machine, twenty feet tall and just as long, yet delicate enough to weave between the rows of fragile, growing plants without trampling them. This factory-in-the-field would mechanically pick cotton by a method similar to the one he outlined that evening—performing work that had previously required one hundred men. Tom had no way of knowing that other harvesters, as they would come to be called, would pick a countless variety of crops throughout the world in quantities and at speeds that were unfathomable. He had no way of knowing that such mechanization would produce, with only a miniscule fraction of the labor used in his day, an unimaginable abundance of food.

  His hands stiffened as he sketched, and he realized they were cold. He looked up to find that the fire had gone out. A glance at the mantel clock showed that it was a few minutes past one. Suddenly aware that he was tired, he rubbed his eyes and yawned. He decided that he had written enough to capture his thoughts. He had to rise early for his travels, so he needed a good night’s sleep.

  He began unbuttoning his shirt when he remembered something. He had not put the engine cover back on his tractor after removing it earlier to show the motor to the senator and his companions. He would do that now to save time in the morning.

  He put on his jacket and curled his finger through the handle of his lamp; the candle flickered in its glass cylinder as he went down the stairs. In the parlor he found someone to help him with the bulky engine cover, a sole servant awake at that hour. It was Tucker, the young man who had earlier escorted him to his room and who was now placing wood in the fireplaces for the morning.

  A cacophony of songs from nocturnal animals and insects that were invisible to the eyes but whose presence was indisputable to the ears greeted the two men as they left the house. Tucker took the candle and led the way to the old carriage house. Tom looked up to see a sky aglow in the moonlight. Like so many planters, he had learned to search the heavens for signs of fair weather for planting, rain for crop growth, then fair weather again for picking the cotton before the winter storms came. In the distance he detected clouds forming and wondered if it would rain the next morning when he had to go to Bayou Redbird.

  As the men approached the old carriage house, they could see that the door had been swung open, to Tom’s surprise. A ribbon of lantern light streamed out the door. A horse in a harness stood outside the structure. The men moved closer. Tucker was the first one to reach the entrance and look inside. He gasped. The lamp rattled precariously in his hand. Tom grabbed the light to steady it. Then he looked inside. He too gasped, and the lamp rattled again.

  The tractor was missing. Near the spot where the device had stood, a man’s body lay in a nightshirt and robe on the floor, his face as gray-white as his hair, his chest covered with blood, his unblinking eyes frozen in a final moment of horror. It was Senator Wiley Barnwell. Standing over the senator, his hands spotted with blood, was Ted Cooper.

  CHAPTER 2

  The old carriage house was colder, darker, and emptier than it had been mere hours before when a young inventor, a new discovery, and an ardent dream had filled it with life. Now a jaundiced light flickered on Tom as he stood near the door, his features as frozen in horror as Barnwell’s. Fresh blood colored the side of his mouth where Cooper had punched him.

  Ted Cooper sat up against a wall in the shadows, his long legs stretched in front of him and his hands folded in his lap. A swollen bruise around one eye and blood under his nose told of a more heated moment, when he had tried to leave and had exchanged blows with Tom, who had finally knocked him down and forced him to remain.

  Both men waited, glaring at each other, while the corpse stared up vacantly in the eerie silence. After discovering Barnwell, Tom had rushed to check his pulse, found none, then sent a shaken Tucker into town to summon the sheriff. Too tense to sit, too shocked to pace, Tom now stood like a sentry guarding a prisoner.

  Finally, he heard the clatter of horses’ hooves. He stepped outside to find Tucker returning with four others. Tom recognized the men as local citizens whom he knew casually.

  A somber, light-haired man with a badge walked toward him. “Mr. Edmunton?”

  “Yes, Sheriff.”

  “Your man, Tucker, says there’s been a death here, that you two found a body on the premises.”

  “That’s right.”

  Sheriff Robert Duran spoke with the calm voice of a judge. His pale blond eyebrows seemed nearly invisible on his face, making his dark, inquiring eyes more prominent. He was not tall, but he did not seem to need height. His stocky build and solemn manner gave the impression of a firmness that was both physical and mental, imparting an air of authority to him beyond his thirty-two years.

  “You may know our doctor and coroner, Dr. Don Clark,” the sheriff said, pointing to the gray-haired man walking toward them with a saddlebag flung over his shoulder.

  “Hello, Doctor.” Tom inclined his head in greeting.

  “Good evening,” the doctor replied.

  The gravity of the occasion was softened by the doctor’s half-smile, as if, even in adversity, he retained the kindness of a healer. But adversity seemed to have the opposite effect on the sheriff, who was more stoical than Tom had ever seen him.

  “And these are my deputies, Jeff and Bart.”

  Tom nodded to the two men approaching him
.

  All four showed signs of hasty dress—a shirt only partially tucked into pants, a pair of suspenders twisted, pant legs caught haphazardly in boots, disheveled hair—attesting to their quick response in the emergency.

  “Come this way,” said Tom grimly.

  The lawmen and the doctor entered the old carriage house, their steps sounding in the silence at a steady pace until they saw the shocking sight, and then they rushed toward the body, stirring dust as they ran.

  “My God!” cried Dr. Clark. “It’s Wiley Barnwell!”

  The sheriff whirled to Tom. “Who did this?” he demanded.

  Tom’s face turned to the figure now standing in the darkness by the wall.

  Duran followed Tom’s glance. He gasped incredulously. Seconds passed before he found a whisper of his former voice.

  “Uncle Ted!”

  “Hello, Robbie,” said Cooper.

  Tom’s voice was hard. “When Tucker and I walked in here earlier, we found the senator lying there as you see him. And we found Ted Cooper standing over the body with blood on his hands. Mr. Cooper tried to leave the scene. He’s here now only because I blocked his departure.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide,” Cooper protested.

  Sheriff Duran gaped at his uncle in dismay.

  “It’s not what he’s implying!” Cooper told his nephew.

  “It’s not?” The inventor looked as if a pressure valve inside him was blowing open. “You standing over the body? You murderer!”

  “That’s a lie. A lie, you scoundrel!” Cooper leaped at his accuser.

  Tom lunged at him in return.

  The sheriff, having recovered his presence of mind and his voice, wedged himself between the men and shouted, “Get back! Both of you!” He pushed them apart. More quietly, he added, “I’ll hear you out presently, one at a time.”

  The deputies moved closer to ensure that the two men heeded the order.

  The sheriff left his deputies with Tom and Cooper for a moment while he kneeled by the coroner. Dr. Clark was crouched over the body, already at work examining it and measuring the wound, with instruments from his saddlebag spread before him.

  “Where’s the murder weapon, Doctor?” asked the sheriff.

  “It’s not here.”

  “What happened?”

  “The senator was stabbed on the left side of his chest. The weapon penetrated just above the heart.” Dr. Clark pointed as he spoke, looking back and forth from the glassy eyes of the deceased to the intelligent eyes of the sheriff. “It appears a knife was thrust downward in one sharp blow, then was removed.” He picked up the bottom of Barnwell’s robe, where dark red streaks ran across the light brown fabric. “The weapon was apparently wiped here, and then it was taken away. I’ll conduct a search to see if we can recover it.”

  The sheriff rose and walked toward Tom and Cooper.

  “Did either of you see a weapon?”

  “No,” they each replied.

  “I want to hear exactly what happened. First, Mr. Edmunton. What were you doing here, and what did you see?”

  His voice heavy with despair, Tom began. “Sheriff, I first have to tell you about something that was in here earlier and that’s gone now, because it appears to be the reason the senator was . . . attacked.”

  Tom related the story of his invention—what it was; where he was going with it; how it happened to be placed in the old carriage house during Polly Barnwell’s funeral service; how he had shown the device to the senator, Cooper, and Nash Nottingham that afternoon; how he had come out with Tucker that night to put the cover back on the engine; and how they had found the invention missing, Barnwell murdered, and Cooper standing over the body. Tom led the sheriff outside to a horse in harness standing where he and Tucker had found it at one-fifteen that morning, when they had arrived at the carriage house.

  “So you see, Sheriff,” Tom said, walking back inside with Duran, “my invention was stolen, apparently hauled away by the horse, and a man who treated me like a son, a man who appears to have . . . defended . . . my device, was . . . killed.”

  “Now, why would anyone want to take your invention?”

  “There’s a fortune waiting for the man who develops a way to mechanize farming. An ambitious man could recognize the implications of my tractor, which I had described to Cooper, the senator, and Nash Nottingham earlier when I showed it to them. A clever mind would surely realize that the new device had the potential to transform the South. During our conversation, Cooper asked me if I had a patent on my invention. I told him I hadn’t applied yet. So he knew there was as yet no legal protection for it.”

  Cooper listened, his arms folded in indignation, shaking his head.

  “It seems Cooper saw an unusual opportunity. He knew my invention would be gone in the morning, so he had to act tonight while everyone was asleep.”

  “You were staying here overnight?” The sheriff asked his uncle.

  “I was thinking of buying the Crossroads, and Wiley Barnwell was fixing to show me around the place in the morning. So after Polly Barnwell’s funeral, I supped with Wiley and our overzealous inventor”—he pointed to Tom—“and then I settled in to stay the night.”

  “That gave you the opportunity to steal my device, hide it in the woods, then return to your room. In the morning, you could’ve acted as surprised as anyone that my tractor was missing—”

  “That’s not what happened. It’s pure speculation, Robbie.”

  “I’ll hear it out regardless,” Duran told his uncle, then nodded to Tom to continue.

  “I told Cooper that many modifications needed to be made to refine the design. So why not steal such a device in its infancy, then quietly enlist engineers to make the adjustments? After a series of improvements that would alter the device, and with my having no patent claim, how could I prove any ownership?”

  “I had none of those thoughts! None at all!” shouted Cooper.

  “After everyone had retired for the night, Cooper could have quietly left the house, harnessed his horse, and come here to haul my invention away. The senator could’ve heard him, because his room was on the first floor, facing the carriage house.”

  “Show me,” said the sheriff.

  Tom went to the door and pointed toward the big house.

  “The senator had the room on the first floor with the open window there in the corner. It’s near the parlor where we were conversing. I saw him go into it at the end of the evening.”

  Looking past Tucker, who was standing near the horses, the sheriff peered at the back of the big house. The open casement window in the corner of the house was visible in the moonlight, its drapery swaying in the night breeze.

  “And where were you?” Duran asked Tom.

  “I was on the opposite side of the house and up a flight, so I heard nothing,” Tom continued. “But Senator Barnwell could well have heard noises through his open window when the thief put the cover on the motor and hitched the device to the horse. The senator might then have lit a lantern, put on his robe, and come out to investigate. He could have caught Cooper in the act of stealing the engine.”

  As his agitation grew, Tom’s voice rose.

  “If he caught Cooper, the senator would have been outraged. Because he was like a father to me and because he’s an honest man, he would’ve tried to protect my invention. For Cooper, it would’ve been too late to retreat from his vile deed. The senator might have threatened to use his power and influence to smear Cooper’s reputation and even harm him financially for his attempted thievery. The senator might have told Cooper as much when he caught him in the act of stealing.”

  “Utter poppycock!” Cooper injected.

  “Being unable to retreat and faced with disgrace, Cooper could have panicked and attacked the senator,” Tom continued. “Then he could’ve quickly hauled the engine away and hid it in the woods. The knife he used in the attack might have been traceable to him—perhaps it bore his initials or was in some other way distinct
ive—so he could have taken it with him and hidden it along with my tractor. Then, of course, he had to come back here, where he was spending the night. So he would have returned to put the horse in the stable and slip into bed. But on his way to the stable, he stopped where he had committed his crime. Maybe he was tempted to ensure that the senator—the tragic victim and sole eyewitness to identify him—was indeed dead. So he stepped in here, perhaps intending to stay only an instant. That was when Tucker and I walked in on him.”

  “That’s all humbug! Preposterous!” Cooper shouted.

  “Sheriff, there’s a princely sum to be made in the development of that tractor. People have killed for far less. Why, the senator even joked earlier in the day that Cooper would sell his own mother for gold. His passion for wealth is well known.”

  “But my passion for crime is merely a fantasy of your perverted mind.”

  The sheriff’s face was a stone slab. “How much time passed after the three of you retired for the night and you came out here?” Duran asked Tom.

  “Let’s see,” Tom said, figuring. “I found Cooper here at one-fifteen, so two hours and fifteen minutes had passed since he, Senator Barnwell, and I had retired to our rooms at eleven o’clock. That could be time enough to execute the scheme I described. Furthermore, when I saw Cooper . . . leaning over the . . . senator . . .”—Tom’s eyes closed painfully at the memory—“. . . he tried to leave. He’s here only because I forced him to stay.”

  “I was leaving, not fleeing. There was no point in staying here to subject myself to this boy’s wild accusations. Robbie, you know where to find me, anytime, in the house where you grew up!”

  The sheriff’s eyes sank to a spot on the ground where he seemed to be staring at a torment of his own. Then he slowly raised his glance to meet the eyes of the man pleading with him.