A Dream of Daring

by Gen LaGreca

  The sheriff nodded.

  Tom continued. “The senator came up with a further suggestion. He needed to go to the Crossroads early on the day of the funeral. So if he hauled the tractor there for me, then I could do him the favor of riding with Mrs. Barnwell and Rachel in their carriage later, to console them, he said. He didn’t want to leave them grieving without the benefit of his comfort, yet he wanted to arrive at Miss Polly’s plantation well before the ladies would be ready to leave. It also seemed as if he wanted to help me smooth things out with his daughter before I left town.”

  “Why was Senator Barnwell arriving early at the Crossroads?” asked the sheriff.

  “He said he wanted to look over the plantation journals and see that everything was in order because Ted Cooper was coming to inspect the place with an eye to purchasing it. The senator explained that the Crossroads had come into his hands upon Polly Barnwell’s death. At his age, he said, he couldn’t take on another plantation and would rather sell it.”

  The sheriff nodded.

  “Nash was there,” Tom continued. “He heard all of this.”

  “Is that so?” The sheriff turned to Nash.

  “I was at Ruby Manor to pay my respects,” said Nash. “I heard the senator offer to haul something to the Crossroads for Tom, so he could ride with the ladies. Now, had the senator asked me instead, I would’ve been quite happy to accompany the women, and I daresay I would’ve been more interested in them than in a chunk of machinery.” Nash, whose manner toward Tom oscillated between politeness because Tom was his banker and jabs because Tom was his romantic rival, smiled pleasantly, but Tom wasn’t amused.

  “So, Mr. Edmunton, you agreed to let the senator take your invention to the Crossroads?”

  “I was hesitant, Sheriff. Truthfully, I didn’t want to let the tractor out of my sight for a second. That’s why I wouldn’t bring it to the docks beforehand for storage or let a servant take it there. I was reluctant indeed. The senator seemed to read my thoughts, because he assured me he would take the utmost care of the thing. I trusted him above anyone, and if I hadn’t agreed, I feared it would seem I lacked that confidence. So I felt obliged to say yes. Early the next morning, the day of the funeral, I brought the tractor to Ruby Manor, which is the next turn off the main road to town from my place, and I entrusted it to the senator. Indeed, he was most careful, and the invention arrived quite safely at the Crossroads.”

  The sheriff said nothing. He stared soberly at Tom, digesting the story. Then he turned to Nash.

  “Mr. Nottingham, when did you arrive at the Crossroads?”

  “I rode there early on the day of Miss Polly’s funeral.”

  “When?”

  “In the morning.”

  “Why did you arrive so early, when the service wasn’t till the afternoon?”

  “After I heard the senator say he was going there early, I figured it’d be a good time to have a conversation with him . . .”—he glanced at Tom—“. . . in private.”

  “A conversation about what?” asked the sheriff.

  “Well, it’s really no one’s business.”

  “Sir, you’ll please answer the question.”

  “But I do have personal affairs, Sheriff.”

  “Either in private or at this meeting, you’ll please answer.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you’re one of only three men who were shown an unusual object. And one of those men is dead.”

  Nash sighed in resignation. “Okay, Sheriff, if you must know, I’ll tell you. After all, my affections are no secret. I was going to ask for Miss Rachel’s hand.”

  “Were you?” said Tom.

  “And I was going to ask for the Crossroads as a wedding present.”

  Tom looked incredulous.

  Nash smiled pleasantly, as if unaware of any impropriety. “Is that any more crazy than giving Rachel’s hand to an inventor who goes tinkering with dirty machines and blazing around the country with his wild schemes?”

  “You mean you were going to address your courtship suit to the senator on the day of a family funeral?” asked the sheriff.

  “The Crossroads was part of the deal. I heard the senator say he was fixing to sell the Crossroads to Cooper, so I had to act fast.”

  “So you wanted to get Rachel as part of a land deal?” snapped Tom.

  Nash laughed, unperturbed. “Look, old boy, I should think we could discuss this matter civilly. Before you moved back here, Rachel and I grew rather fond of each other. If I could obtain her father’s blessing, I had reason to hope she’d . . . well, see the folly of her ways with you and open her heart to a more suitable arrangement.”

  “Suitable for whom?”

  For a moment Nash dropped the glossy smile and replied earnestly, as if he understood something his rival had yet to learn. “Suitable for everyone concerned. Even for you, Tom.”

  “How’s it suitable for the senator to give his land and daughter away to someone who’s already depleted his own fields and whose financial mismanagement is no more a secret than his affections?” asked the man who was Nash’s banker.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Nash, his coolness returning. “By giving the Crossroads to me, the senator could secure his daughter’s future by his side. Our children would grow up sitting on their grandpapa’s knee.”

  “Did you ask the prospective mother what she thought of your scheme to produce babies for the senator’s knee?” asked Tom.

  “What was the alternative? To give Rachel’s hand to someone who was less . . . shall we say . . . stable?”

  Tom stared at his rival contemptuously.

  “With you as his son-in-law, a time could come when the senator would never see his daughter again. Why, she might have been hauled to the North, just like the tractor!”

  Nash then turned to the sheriff to press his case. “With Tom courting investors more ardently than he courted Rachel, what future did she have with him? I could offer Wiley Barnwell assurance that I’d never leave Greenbriar, and I’d never subject his daughter to the vagaries of an inventor’s life.” Nash turned back to Tom. “Look, old boy, even if you are my banker, for Rachel’s sake these things had to be said.”

  “And when you arrived at the Crossroads on the morning of the funeral, did you talk to the senator about your proposal?” asked the sheriff.

  “I had a few words with him. I told him I wanted to . . . acquire . . . the Crossroads. He said he thought my funds were strained. I told him I had a unique plan that might be amenable to him. He told me about Cooper’s interest in purchasing the place. But then he paused and added that he supposed it was good to have more than one potential buyer. It might raise the price.”

  “Did you tell him your plan wasn’t to buy the place, but to get it as a present, along with his daughter?” the sheriff blurted out.

  “No!” Nash seemed perturbed as he recalled the encounter. “I didn’t get a chance to explain the full nature of my innovative plan and its benefits to him. The senator said he had to go to town on a matter, so he instructed this man here”—he pointed condescendingly at Markham—“to show me around the place. The senator said that after I’d gotten a tour of the fields, we’d talk sometime soon.”

  “And did the senator go into town that morning?”

  “Why, I assume so,” said Nash. “I was feeling a touch of mal de mer from the coach ride, so I went into the house for a glass of claret before my tour commenced.”

  The sheriff turned to Markham for an answer.

  “Yeah, the senator, he gone to town that mornin’,” Markham offered.

  “Why?”

  “To sell a slave girl,” said the overseer.

  “You mean the senator went to town to sell a slave on the day of the funeral?” asked the sheriff.

  “’Twas Miss Polly’s servant. She was a whole lot o’ trouble anyways, and she warn’t needed no more. The senator said he was goin’ to Stoner’s. To find her a suitable place, was what he sa
id.”

  Since Greenbriar was a distance from the slave markets in the large cities, the local planters were known to meet informally to trade slaves at Stoner’s Saloon in Bayou Redbird.

  “So the senator went to the docks?”

  “He was gone for a bit, then he came back without the slave. Said he found her a nice family.”

  “Did this matter have anything at all to do with the invention?”

  “None far as I know,” said Markham.

  The sheriff turned to Nash. “Mr. Nottingham, could there have been any other reason the senator declined to talk to you? I mean, what was your relationship with him like?”

  “Oh, excellent. I had a fine relationship with the senator—even though he pushed me off to waste my time with someone who had no bearing on my affairs,” he said, offended, “and who couldn’t possibly be of any value to me.” As a king might scorn a pesky subject, Nash glared at the overseer.

  Markham bristled. The resentment he constantly held in his eyes now made its way out of his mouth. “If the senator liked you so much, why’d he throw you outta the kitchen?” The overseer leaned over the table to Nash, sneering like a dog baring its teeth. “Why don’t you tell the sheriff ’bout that?”

  Duran turned sharply to Nash. “You had a dispute with Barnwell?”

  “Oh, that?” Nash laughed. “That was nothing, just a trifle!” He turned to Markham. “How dare you insinuate—”

  “You had some words with Wiley Barnwell? In the kitchen?” The sheriff pressed.

  “It was later that day, after the funeral service and the little engineering lecture from our Yankee-schooled friend. It seemed the senator was bent on courting Cooper as a buyer that evening, so I figured I’d best be on my way home. I was ready to leave and looking for my coachman. He was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t in the stable, and since I know he has a fondness for food, I surmised where he might be. I wanted to catch him at his dalliance myself, you know, put some fear into the lazy scoundrel, so I went into the kitchen to look for him. The senator observed me, and I’m afraid he got the wrong idea.” Nash laughed. “It seems he had the preposterous notion that I was chasing after a slave girl! He told me to leave.”

  “Throwed you out, I’d say,” Markham volunteered.

  “How very rude of you! Why, Sheriff, it appears this crude man wants to misinterpret my activities out of sheer malice.”

  “I seen what I seen,” Markham insisted. He turned to the sheriff to explain. “The Barnwells offered me food after Miss Polly’s service. But they didn’t say to join the reception and mingle with their kind, no sir! They pointed to the kitchen, so I told one o’ them slaves there to run a platter to my cottage. Then I left the place to go back ’cross the hill, when I seen fancy boy here headin’ into the kitchen. Caught my attention ’cause his kind don’t never go near slaves. Couldn’t hear nothin’, but I seen Barnwell watchin’ him, and the senator, he don’t like what he sees one bit. I remember the senator frownin’ when he seen fancy boy that mornin’ too. He was none too happy with the likes o’ him from the first. Next thing I know, the senator follows him in the kitchen. Then he shoves him out the door so hard he skids to the ground and gets a good dustin’ on his purty suit.”

  “Perhaps the senator got a bit ruffled,” said Nash unperturbed. “But then I explained the matter. I told him why I was there. I apologized for the misunderstanding, and the incident was over. I found my coachman and left on amiable terms with the senator, quite amiable.”

  “Didn’t look none too friendly to me,” Markham grumbled.

  “Did you see the incident, Mr. Edmunton?”

  “No, Sheriff, I didn’t.”

  “Mr. Nottingham,” said the sheriff, “did your chasin’ a slave girl around the kitchen have anything at all to do with the invention?”

  “The incident had nothing to do with Tom’s machine. And I most certainly was not chasing a slave girl!”

  “Were you angry with the senator for treating you like he did?”

  “No, Sheriff. The senator might have sometimes failed to accord me the esteem I deserve, but I was always confident that he would recognize my value to him in the end.” He looked pointedly at Tom.

  “Was there anything else you did to anger Wiley Barnwell?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Nash looked at Markham crossly. “Sheriff, you might want to direct your suspicions elsewhere, because I saw Mr. Markham come out of the old carriage house that morning when I arrived.” He turned to the overseer. “Did you tell the sheriff you were in there with the machine?”

  Nash seemed pleased that he had gotten the stone-faced Duran to arch his eyebrows.

  “What about it, Mr. Markham?” The sheriff’s voice hardened. “I thought you knew nothing about the invention.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then what were you doing in the old carriage house?”

  “I seen the thing. Looked like a heap o’ iron junk with wheels. Was nothin’ to me. I paid it no mind.”

  “Then what were you doing in there?”

  “The senator said a slave needed a little educatin’, so I done it.”

  “You mean you whipped a slave?”

  “A few stripes, Sheriff.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I did it in the ol’ carriage house, but it had nothin’ to do with the machine there. The wench was disobeyin’ orders, not doin’ her chores, nothin’ out o’ the ordinary for that place. I tell you, some o’ them slaves need educatin’ bad. ’Course, Miss Polly never allowed it! That didn’t stop her none from gripin’ to me how the hands didn’t work hard ’nuff. Why, I was glad to see the senator had more sense and some discipline was bein’ enforced.” Markham’s eyes suddenly came alive. “I was happy to help on that score!”

  “And where were you all evening?”

  “Like I told you before.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “In my cottage, like always, where the gentleman here found me later and told me ’bout the killin’.” He gestured to Tom.

  “I understand you were dressed and about to go out when Mr. Edmunton came for you. Where were you going at that hour?”

  “Checkin’ on the field hands. Seein’ they was in their cabins and not makin’ mischief, like I check on ’em every night. Just like I told the gentleman.” Markham forced an anemic smile at the man who apparently was to be his new boss, at least until the Crossroads was sold.

  Tom listened quietly, having nothing to add. He was convinced that Cooper was the murderer and hadn’t heard anything at the meeting to the contrary.

  When the sheriff had exhausted his list of questions, he rose to end the meeting. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

  Tom lingered after the other men had left. He wondered if he could get a clue to the tractor’s whereabouts from Cooper. He went to the jail, but predictably, the prisoner refused to speak to him. It would be tantamount to admitting guilt if Cooper let slip any information leading to the recovery of the device. He would have to find it himself, Tom figured, sighing at the daunting task.

  Walking toward his horse, he observed the people of Greenbriar. A man in a wagon carrying sacks of cornmeal passed him on the road; another man entered the general store; a woman with a small parcel left the post office; a few neighbors chatted pleasantly by an open carriage. As Tom stood high on the bluff, away from the rowdy saloons, gambling dens, and noisy steamships of Bayou Redbird, he thought that Greenbriar, with its sleepy streets and sprawling plantations, seemed to be a place of calmer waters. Or was it? he wondered. Though he saw a tranquil surface, his thoughts were pulled by the undertow of violence at the Crossroads.

  After his sleepless night at the murder scene, Tom had spent the past night at Ruby Manor. With Mrs. Barnwell overwhelmed by the prospect of handling the plantation’s business affairs and Rachel showing no interest in doing so, he had stayed the evening to discuss the most urgent matters weighing on Charlotte. Then, too exhausted to ride home, he accepted the women’s offer to s
tay the night. He had come directly from there to the sheriff’s meeting. Now, as he was about to return home for the first time since departing for Polly’s funeral, he felt a sudden uneasiness, wondering what new mischief he would find from those who were tied to him against their will.

  As he reached his horse, a quiet figure down the street caught his attention. It was a young woman sitting in the open wagon of the town’s slave patrol. He recognized the runaway whom he’d helped in the woods. Gone was her proud stance and fiery spirit. She stared numbly, with her mouth gagged, her hands tied in front of her, and her feet bound. Her horse was tied to the side of the vehicle, its muzzle stretching into the cart to nudge her face. The animal seemed to sense its mistress’s distress and to want a comforting pat from her to dispel its uneasiness. Tom saw one of the slave catchers go into a tavern. His partner stood near the wagon with their bloodhound, while the captive grimly awaited her fate.

  Soon the first slave catcher walked back to the wagon, accompanied by an unkempt man, about forty years old, carrying a saddle. The man paid the slave catchers, who then deposited the girl on the road, untied the animal from the cart, and rode off with their hound.

  The large, dirty man saddled the horse. Then he towered over the girl’s slim frame. He walked around her slowly, ominously. A sneer on his unshaven face made the girl tremble. With a pocket knife, he cut the rope around her ankles. He yelled at her, smacked her across the face, then pulled her toward him lecherously. Tom grimaced, guessing the reason why she had run away. Her tormentor untied the cloth gagging her mouth and cocked her head for a kiss. The girl snapped her face away in revulsion. The gruesome man forced it back. She bit his hand. That enraged him. He scowled, swore, and smacked her again. Blood dripped from the side of her mouth.

  The man reached for a rope hanging on his saddle. He made a noose and swung it around her neck. As he tightened the noose to fit snugly, her eyes flashed in horror. Then he mounted his horse, grabbed the reins, and glanced at her slender form standing helplessly alongside him. She stood still, with her hands tied and a distant stare of the doomed in her eyes. She straightened her shoulders and breathed deeply in what seemed like an effort to control her terror and brace herself for the coming ordeal. Wretched with dirt and mud, she looked like an animal captured after a fierce fight and now left with no escape possible. Tom was held by the intensity of her face, for she seemed to be making an extraordinary attempt to focus coolly on the road ahead and to survive—if she could.