A Dream of Daring

by Gen LaGreca

  “Mr. Cooper, how did you get the bruises on your face?”

  “Robbie, it’s me. You don’t have to act so stuffy with your uncle.”

  “You will please answer the question,” the sheriff said quietly.

  “I scuffled with him, like he said.”

  “And the bruises on your face, Mr. Edmunton?”

  “Cooper hit me.”

  The accused nodded in assent.

  “Let’s hear your side, sir.” The sheriff turned to his uncle.

  “Everything this crazy Yankee mechanic said is hogwash! I didn’t covet that invention. I disapproved of it and all his wild, seditious talk of transforming the South. You should’ve heard him. It was treasonous, I tell you!”

  Tom shook his head. “You had some misgivings, but you seemed quite interested. You asked questions—”

  “Did you express your disapproval earlier, when Mr. Edmunton showed you his invention?” asked the sheriff.

  “I did! But he was too raving mad to notice my displeasure. Besides, Robbie, I wanted a loan from his bank. I tried to temper my disgust when he rhapsodized on how his tractor would turn the earth topsy-turvy. I tell you, he’s crazy!” Cooper sneered, waving his hands and pacing agitatedly.

  “Then, sir, what were you doing in here?”

  “Barnwell was my friend. I would never harm him. You know me, boy. I could never do this horrible deed.”

  The sheriff whispered to his deputy. The man left, then reentered with Tucker. The slave’s wide black eyes glistened in the lamplight.

  The sheriff turned to him. “Tucker, tell me what happened this evening.”

  Cooper was aghast. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Robbie? You’re going to have a slave speak against your own kin? You know a black man can’t give testimony against a white in our courts.”

  “Regardless, I’m fixing to hear what he has to say.”

  The slave’s gentle manner and soft voice lent an air of truth to his report. “I comes in here with Mr. Tom. I sees him.” Tucker pointed without malice to Cooper. “He wuz a-standin’ over the dead man—the senator—sir. And I sees blood on his hands.”

  “Did you see anyone else come in here earlier in the night?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you see Senator Barnwell leave his bedroom?”

  “No, sir. I wuz in the woodshed on the other side o’ the house, gettin’ wood fer the fireplaces.”

  “That’s all, Tucker,” said the sheriff.

  Tucker looked around, quietly absorbing the situation, then left.

  “Two men place you with the body. I think you’d better explain, Mr. Cooper.” The sheriff’s wooden voice revealed the awkwardness of the situation for him. “What were you doing out here at one-fifteen in the morning?”

  Cooper stood before his listeners as the lantern cast his lanky shadow on the wall. He ran his hands through his hair, sighed in resignation, and began his tale. “I retired to my room at eleven, brooding over the impertinence of this Yankee recruit and his wild notions! I tried to dismiss my thoughts. I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. It was then that I formulated a plan—a quite ill-conceived plan, as it turned out!—and I arose to execute it.”

  He flashed resentful glances at Tom as he spoke. “It galled me, the sheer arrogance of that boy and his traitorous utterances.” He pointed to Tom, the shadow of his accusing finger elongated on the wall. “He was determined to shake up our world, by God, as if we didn’t have enough worries right now with our meddlesome foes up North. The world of his wild imaginings has no use for slaves, so he was planning to clear the fields of men. Poof, I thought—our peace and serenity are gone, and our very society becomes a prey to his madness.”

  “But, sir, if you thought Mr. Edmunton a madman and nothing more, then why would his ramblings disturb you so?” asked the sheriff.

  “Because I could see he was quite methodical. He had given the matter considerable thought. I believed he had something there with his device, and if I, a disapproving skeptic, found his invention plausible, there would surely be eager investors at the contest he was headed for who would believe his dreams quite willingly. Although I thought him mad, I also thought him dangerous because of his obsession. I decided to dash his wild scheme this very night, before it could become a plague on our lives.”

  The coroner had risen from his work. He stood with the deputies, the sheriff, and Tom. All listened intently, their eyes following Cooper as he paced nervously.

  “It galled me that this madman would be cooking up the same kind of schemes that were once brewed right near this very spot—schemes that almost led to calamity. You know that old textile mill that’s now in ruins just down the road by Cutter’s Creek? You’re too young”—he gestured to Tom and his nephew—“but Don, you remember how that confounded mill almost caused an insurrection.”

  “I remember the factory,” replied the coroner noncommittally.

  Cooper bristled. “That factory was going to transform the South too. Oh, it was going to open the area to manufacturing, just like up North. The owner wanted to employ our slaves. Now, everybody had extra hands that didn’t do much, so it seemed like a good idea at first to hire them out, even to give them a share of the money we got for their work. That’s when the factory got five hands from one planter, three from another, four from a third, and so on. Kept them a year at a time. Before anybody knew it, just as soon as those slaves got a taste of living away from their farms and mingling with the free workers, they formed a community, a ‘factory town,’ they called it.” Cooper sneered. “Well, pretty soon the slaves were acting just like free men. Some wanted to open their own shops in their new village. Others wanted book learning, so’s they could do the accounting or order the supplies or become supervisors and make more money. I tell you, factory life changed them.” Cooper’s voice hit low notes of fear. “They got . . . unmanageable.”

  He paused to observe his nephew and the others. No one offered a comment but simply waited for the rest of the story.

  “I remember when the slaves started pressing us,” he continued, “when they didn’t want to come home, when they wanted a bigger cut of their wages, when they started asking for more license with their time, when their asking turned to demanding—with eight of them to every one of us!”

  Tom knew about the abandoned cotton mill. He had seen its empty shell in the woods. He remembered how it had troubled him to find a factory in ruin, like a once-vital body that had succumbed to a fatal disease. He had wondered why the old factory failed.

  “Come a time, we all knew the factory had to go. I was a lad of twenty-five then, running the family plantation with my father. Wiley Barnwell was a little older, serving on the town counsel. That proved useful.” Cooper laughed shrewdly. “Wiley got a few laws passed—some taxes and fees on this and that, and regulations about manufacturing and shipping the goods, whatever. The new rules finally drove the factory out. You remember that, Don?”

  “I do,” said the coroner. “But Ted, what you’re talking about happened twenty-five years ago.”

  “No matter!” continued Cooper. “When Tom here started with those wild notions about slaves working on machinery, about us farming with machines, about letting the field hands . . . go free . . . ”—Cooper could barely pronounce the last word—“I knew he was dangerous.” The planter darted an angry look at Tom. “His wild schemes had to be stopped. But this time, I couldn’t count on Barnwell.”

  “Did you discuss your concerns with the senator?” asked the sheriff.

  “’Twas no use. Wiley didn’t seem to take the boy seriously. He acted as if Tom’s treacherous plan was just a schoolboy phase he was going through and that he’d settle down to a planter’s life. ’Twas obvious Wiley had his eye on Tom for his daughter. There aren’t many eligible men of means around here to keep Rachel living well and keep her close to her daddy. There’s Nash Nottingham, but Barnwell never thought much of him. I could tell that the senator was gr
ooming Tom for his son-in-law. So with Barnwell turning a blind eye to the danger, I had to handle the matter myself. That’s when I came up with my plan.”

  Cooper stopped pacing. He faced his audience and spoke solemnly, as if under oath.

  “Yes, I came out here. Yes, I harnessed my horse. Yes, I entered this old building to take the invention.”

  “You see, Sheriff!” said Tom.

  “But I came to haul it down to the bayou to sink it.”

  Surprised, the men stared at Cooper.

  “Sir, let me get this right,” said the sheriff. “You came here fixing to destroy the device?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I got here. The door was open. I saw a lantern shining inside. I saw that the tractor had vanished. Then I looked down . . . and found . . . Wiley . . . lying there,” Cooper said gravely, turning to the body. “I rushed to his side and searched for a pulse. But he was gone.” Sadness gripped his voice. “I stood up, with his blood on my hands, trying to imagine what could’ve happened and what I should do. That was when the madman and the slave walked in.”

  The sheriff and his men were silent, thoughtful, digesting the story.

  “The cover is missing,” Tom noted. “The thief took precious time to put a heavy, bulky cover back on the engine. That risk would be taken only by someone who wanted to keep the engine intact, to protect it from mishaps in moving it and hiding it. There’s no doubt the thief intended to keep the tractor undamaged so that he could exploit it himself.”

  “I walked into the same scene you did. I didn’t see any cover or tractor. I didn’t steal your wicked device. And I didn’t kill Wiley!”

  “You expect us to believe that?” Tom persisted. “You expect us to believe someone else was here tonight besides you? Where’s the evidence? The only evidence is that you were here and you had blood on your hands. My invention was missing, and your horse was harnessed outside—”

  “I never rode that horse. It wasn’t even sweating. Did you notice that when you arrived?”

  “It’s a cool night,” Tom observed. “And you couldn’t have ridden very far with the tractor. Besides, the horse didn’t have the machine to haul on the return trip, so it would’ve had a chance to cool down.”

  “But there wouldn’t have been time for me to carry out your scheme.”

  The sheriff looked interested. “You may have a point. Mr. Edmunton, how do you figure Mr. Cooper would’ve had the time to do what you’re suggesting?”

  “Well, he had two hours and fifteen minutes, all told. So let’s say he allowed thirty minutes to ensure that everyone was asleep,” Tom reasoned. “And let’s assume another twenty minutes to harness the horse, position the engine cover, and hitch the tractor. Then five minutes more for his . . . encounter . . . with the senator. That uses up fifty-five minutes and leaves an hour and twenty minutes to transport the invention to a hiding place and return here. It could be done in the time he had.”

  Cooper faced the cool stares of the men, then turned to his nephew.

  “Robbie, you know I would never do anything like this. When your good-for-nothing father deserted your mother and you, who took you in? Who treated you like more than a sister’s son? Who helped raise you, boy? And who had the connections to get you in as sheriff?”

  The questions echoed in the hollow structure. The sheriff looked as stiff as the corpse.

  “What are you going to do, Robbie?” Cooper said softly, affectionately, hopefully. “Why don’t you let me go home now, while you think things over and investigate further to find the real culprit?”

  The suspect’s voice, tinged with fatherly affection, lingered in the air before the sheriff replied.

  “Regardless of the reason,” he said quietly, “whether you were fixing to keep the invention for your own purposes or destroy it or develop it up North, you did come here to steal it? You admit that?”

  “Why, yes, but—”

  “And the horse outside is yours, and you harnessed it to haul the invention?”

  “Why, yes, but Robbie—”

  “And you were standing over the body?”

  Cooper did not reply.

  “With blood on your hands?”

  Cooper closed his eyes.

  The sheriff shot an inquiring look at the coroner. Dr. Clark nodded, giving his answer to the unstated question. The evidence confronting them was sufficient for action.

  Duran walked to the coroner’s saddlebag, where a pair of handcuffs lay on the ground among the doctor’s tools. The lawman picked up the manacles. He stood facing his uncle. Cooper stared at him helplessly.

  The others watched the sheriff. A deputy stepped toward him and reached for the cuffs, as if to do the job himself, to spare the sheriff. But Duran pulled the cuffs away from his grasp.

  Cooper’s voice shook. “Now, Robbie . . . you can’t believe . . . that I—”

  The sheriff stared solemnly at the suspect before him. He walked behind Cooper, took his wrists, and drew them back. The iron shackles made a grating screech as he closed and locked them.

  “Mr. Cooper, you’re under arrest for the murder of Senator Wiley Barnwell.” He turned to his deputies. “Take him in.”

  Cooper stared incredulously at his nephew. The sheriff held his uncle’s gaze with a face that showed only a grim resolve.

  The deputies flanked Cooper and escorted him to the door.

  Tom stepped into the men’s path for a moment.

  “Where’s my tractor?” he asked the suspect.

  “In hell, I hope.”

  “Look, Cooper, your story doesn’t wash. You say you didn’t want to profit from the device, only to sabotage it, but why would you want to destroy an invention of great promise? An invention that could transform farming? That doesn’t make sense. You’re a planter and a businessman, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a Southerner first.”

  CHAPTER 3

  While the sheriff and coroner remained at the carriage house, Tom walked over the hill toward the fields to summon the overseer. From the vantage point of Polly’s funeral earlier, he had seen the dwellings now coming into view in the moonlight—the rows of chimneyed brown blocks that were the slave cabins and, a short distance away, the overseer’s cottage with the white picket fence. Behind him, the grounds of the plantation home were now punctuated with lanterns and busy with servants gathering for questioning. As he rounded the hill, the scene of the violence vanished from his view. But there was no way to block out the agony he felt—and the torment yet to come, when he would face Rachel and her mother.

  When he reached the bottom of the hill, he saw a shadow in the moonlight. It was a human figure in the distance, stooping down at what appeared to be the slaves’ garden, a small field of tilled earth near their cabins. He couldn’t decipher any features, only the dark outline of a man who seemed to be digging something up from the soil and putting it into a small sack. Could he be retrieving something hidden there? Something stolen? Tom wondered. To his dismay, he thought that he might be witnessing yet another shady act in the night.

  He took a few steps toward the stranger. The man looked up and seemed to spot Tom. Quickly, he ran away. As the figure darted off in the night, something on him flashed in the moonlight. It was a blue object that shined like a gemstone, perhaps the size of a large brooch. Tom rushed to the site, but the man had vanished, leaving only an empty hole dug in the ground. When he felt around in the dirt with his feet, Tom found nothing. He shrugged and continued on his way.

  Was the stranger a runaway? he wondered. Or a slave living on the plantation? Slaves were known to bury stashes of money or other things to be used later when needed. Stealing seemed to permeate Greenbriar, Tom thought grimly. Masters stole the lives of their slaves, and the bondsmen in turn stole the possessions of their masters. Tonight someone had stolen the senator’s life and the device that was key to his future. Theft and violence—were they the hidden blight under the lush l
ands and fortunes of the South? Tom’s shock at the night’s event had now turned to melancholy.

  From outside the gate, the overseer’s home had the charm of a cozy cottage. But as Tom climbed the front steps, he noticed overgrown shrubs, torn curtains, and tools cluttering the porch—the signs of a house in which a man lived alone. He knocked on the door and was startled when it opened instantly. Bret Markham, fully dressed and fully armed, seemed startled too.

  “Mr. Markham, I believe we saw each other at the funeral, but we haven’t met. I’m Thomas Edmunton, a friend of the Barnwell family.”

  The courteous bow of Markham’s head seemed forced, whereas the suspicion in his voice seemed natural. “Whatcha want at this hour?”

  “Something’s happened, a . . . terrible . . . tragedy. . . .”

  Tom relayed the news. Markham at first said nothing, merely staring at Tom like a dog ready to bite a trespasser.

  “Lord!” he finally gasped. His astonishment quickly turned to worry. “The senator . . . he was fixin’ to tell the new owner to keep me on. Now . . . what . . . ?”

  “Were you just coming in, Mr. Markham?”

  “Jus’ goin’ out. What’s it to you?”

  Tom smelled whiskey in the air around Markham. “The sheriff will be asking you some questions momentarily, Mr. Markham. As I explained, my property was stolen in the crime, so I’m involved with the matter too.”

  “I got nothin’ to hide. You say you got the killer anyways.”

  “I said we have a suspect. Where were you going just now?”

  “Check on the slaves, like I do every night.”

  “Where were you all evening?”

  “Will you be runnin’ the place now for the senator’s missus?”

  “That could very well be.” Tom forced a tone of intimidation unnatural to him, trying to give the man what he seemed to respond to best. “Now, where were you all evening, Mr. Markham?”

  The authority in Tom’s voice seemed sufficient to loosen Markham’s tongue. “Right where yer seein’ me now.”

  “Was anyone with you?”