A Dream of Daring (5 page)

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 grooming 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 lands
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?”

“Live by myself, and no
one’s been a-visitin’. Nobody ever’s a-visitin’ here,” he complained. “My
sister, she ’casionally comes from New Orleans and tidies up the place, but she
ain’t been here since Christmas.”

“When I came over the
hill, I saw a man in the field near the cabins. I couldn’t make out his face or
clothing, but he was bending down and seemed to be digging into the soil. Would
you know who that was?”

“No, but it don’t
surprise me none. Slaves’re always up to mischief at night, moseyin’ ’round,
stealin’ an’ hidin’ things. They sell their pilfered stuff to the boatmen to
git money for drink, or perfume and the like for their women, or just for
runnin’ away. Can’t never trust a slave to be honest!” he said indignantly.
“They got no respect for people’s property. No, sir!”

Tom eyed Markham’s whip
and gun.

The overseer, in return,
eyed his unarmed questioner. “Say, you talk like a Yankee.”

Markham paused for a
reply, but Tom offered none.

“Maybe you don’t know
this area, mister, but it’s right foolish prancin’ ’round unarmed these days.”
Markham glanced suspiciously at the slave quarters.

The first rays of daybreak
lit the path that the two men took over the hill. Tom searched the sky. The
distant clouds he had seen earlier were now larger and closer, shrouding the
dawn in a dark gray that seemed to match the somber mood at the big house when
he and Markham arrived. They found a group of the plantation’s slaves—house
servants, groundkeepers, stableboys, and others—waiting to be questioned,
standing stiffly in the early morning chill.

With shoulders straight
and eyes alert, Sheriff Duran showed little sign of exhaustion from the
sleepless night. The focus on his work seemed so intense that it forced his
body to comply. Tom brought Markham to him, and the questioning began.

“Did you know about an
invention in the old carriage house?” asked the sheriff.

Markham shook his head.
“No.”

“Did you see anyone
lingering around the big house?”

“Just folks payin’
respects at the funeral.”

“Did you talk to any of
them?”

“No.” The overseer
frowned. “They don’t mix with me,” he added resentfully.

“Did you see anything or
anyone unusual here during the day or night?”

“Nope.”

“I saw something curious,
Sheriff,” Tom added. “As I was going to Mr. Markham’s cottage, I spotted a man.
I couldn’t see his face, but he seemed to have a shiny object with him, like a
piece of jewelry, a stone with a blue tinge that reflected in the moonlight. He
seemed to be digging it up, or else maybe burying it, when he spotted me
approaching and ran away.”

“Oh?”

“I checked the area where
he was, but I couldn’t find anything except stirred-up dirt.”

“Was he a slave?”

“I couldn’t tell. I saw
him just in shadow, with the moonlight catching the shiny object.”

The sheriff turned to
Markham. “What do you think?”

“Like I told the Yankee,”
he said, pointing to Tom, “I didn’t see nobody. ’Twas prob’ly a slave with
stuff he pilfered. It happens, ’specially here where the dis’pline ain’t no
good.”

The sheriff continued his
questioning, but Markham had nothing of substance to offer. Tom observed that
the slaves who lived in cabins around the big house also had nothing unusual to
report. When it seemed there wasn’t anything more to learn, he summoned a
servant to bring him a horse. He mounted the animal, his head low, his mood
solemn. He would not be embarking on the exciting adventure he had planned but
instead would be performing the most painful task of his life.

In the overcast dawn, he
headed for Ruby Manor, the senator’s plantation, to break the news to Rachel
and her mother.