A Dream of Daring Read online

  “We’d better get this girl,” Duran said, looking grim at the thought of picking up a new trail on a case three months old. The clock in the parlor chimed three times. With the mood of the group playing on his nerves, the sounds were magnified in his mind like a warning that time was running out.

  “This meeting’s adjourned,” he said. “I’ll ride down to Baton Rouge to find Fred Fowler and bring the girl back to face questioning.”

  “If she lives long enough to face anything!” Cooper snapped. His words stirred the already turbulent air.

  The women rose to leave, their faces grave. Rachel walked up to the sheriff. “Maybe it’s best if you don’t bring her back here at all. This whole matter is unseemly, and I think Mother and I would like to put it behind us.”

  “It’ll be put behind us, Miss Barnwell, as soon as we get to the bottom of it.”

  “Any public attention about this would be dreadful—just dreadful!—for our family. Don’t you think we’ve suffered enough, Sheriff?” Charlotte asked reproachfully.

  The sheriff didn’t reply. He seemed sympathetic to their desire to avoid a scandal yet unable to assure them that it could be prevented.

  “Everyone knows there’s only one outcome for a slave who killed my father,” Rachel continued coldly. “So what’s the difference if we . . . settle . . . the matter there or bring her back here?”

  Tom was stunned. “You’re asking what’s the difference? Between murder and justice?”

  “Now whoever said that?” Rachel replied innocently. “Why, I declare, Tom Edmunton, you don’t understand us at all!”

  “No, I don’t!”

  “The girl must be hanged!” Cooper seized the idea hovering in the air like a ball in play. “We have to send a clear message to the rest of the slaves. And the sooner the better.”

  “Sheriff, you can spare us any further unpleasantness by taking care of the matter there!” Rachel repeated. “Maybe Nash can help . . . handle . . . things.” Rachel tilted her head down, looking up coquettishly at Nash, the way she used to look at Tom.

  Nash hesitated. He smiled to give her hope but stopped short of saying whether he would commit murder on her behalf.

  “Now see here, all of you! There will be no talk like this as long as I’m sheriff. I’ll bring the girl back. If she proves to be a suspect, she’ll be charged and get due process.”

  “Robbie, you know a slave won’t get a jury trial here. A few local slave owners and judges will hear the case and decide it for themselves.” Cooper smiled cynically. “They’ll all be our friends and people Wiley and I got appointed to the bench.”

  Among the Southern states, Louisiana was especially harsh toward slaves accused of crimes, providing for special tribunals of judges and slave holders to decide their guilt or innocence rather than giving them a trial by an impartial jury. And the ominous possibility loomed for Judge Lynch to open and adjourn the court, especially when the crime was egregious and stoked the planters’ fears of insurrection.

  “The outcome has to be what it has to be,” Cooper added softly, like a father instructing a son on a difficult matter, “or else the others will get dangerous ideas.”

  The sheriff responded sharply. “We haven’t even questioned her yet, and you’re out for blood. I’ll handle the matter. And you keep out of it.”

  “Robbie, how you talk to me!” Cooper’s face bore the disappointment of a father unaccustomed to being contradicted by a son.

  “All of you keep out of it.”

  “Sheriff,” said Tom, “this woman may be able to lead me to my invention, which I’m most eager to recover.”

  “You can be sure we’ll question her about that.”

  “And what if you find his confounded invention, Robbie?” asked Cooper.

  “If we locate the device, it’ll be returned to its owner.”

  “No, Sheriff, you mustn’t return it!” cried Nash.

  “That thing’s evidence of sedition. It has to be confiscated, so we can throw the Yankee in jail,” said Cooper.

  “We’ll give him a trial first, just to make it look good,” added Nash.

  The sheriff stared incredulously at his uncle and Nash.

  “Go home!” he ordered. “This meeting’s over. Everybody go home.”

  Tom remained while the others left the parlor. His eyes were distant and his face introspective as he assessed the situation. He felt an isolation beyond the empty room in which he stood. He realized there was no one around him—not even the woman he had loved—who recognized any glory in his invention. The crime now appeared to be related to a slave’s revenge against a man she had reason to hate, nothing more complicated. His device, the harbinger of a new age, seemed to be the accidental victim of a dying one.

  Would he ever retrieve his machine, and would the new age get its fair trial?

  CHAPTER 23

  As Tom left the big house, a fragrant whiff of wisteria provided a welcome relief from the stale air of the meeting. In front of him, standing by their carriage, Rachel and Charlotte conversed with Kate Markham. The well-groomed women, the shiny black carriage, and the purple wisteria arching on a bower by the road created a scene of gentility.

  Behind the house, a scene of violence was playing out. From the gallery Tom heard the snap of a whip and a victim crying out in pain. He rushed to the back of the porch, where he saw a man who had rearmed himself after the meeting and who lacked the self-control to wait until the guests had left to launch his attack.

  “Shut up! Shut up! You good-fer-nothin’ snitch!” Furious, Markham towered over Farley.

  Tom leaped off the veranda and jumped on Markham. The overseer broke away and in a fit of rage lashed the whip at Tom, leaving a burning slit across his cheek, from which blood trickled down his face. Markham gloated at what he appeared to see as one of the more pleasing moments of his tenure at the Crossroads.

  Tom wrestled the whip away from him and gave the overseer two swipes across his knees. Markham fell to the ground, groaning.

  The three women rushed to the back of the house to see what the commotion was.

  “My God!” gasped Charlotte.

  Tom stood with his face swelling where he’d been lashed. He brandished the whip in his hand, hovering over Markham. He could have struck the man repeatedly with it. Instead, he called out Jerome’s name, and the slave, who was investigating the operation in the nearby kitchen, heard and walked toward Tom.

  “Take Farley away. He’s coming home with us.”

  Farley’s shirt had several tears from the lash, but Tom had intervened before the damage was extensive. Jerome put a reassuring arm around Farley’s shoulder.

  Markham rose to his feet. “Who do you think you are, Yankee? You can’t take my field hand!”

  “Who do you think you are, beating up a man for speaking the truth?” said Tom.

  “He ain’t no man. He’s a slave.”

  “He spoke the truth, and you lied. If anyone should be whipped, it’s you.”

  Now in Tom’s protection, Farley apparently felt it safe to look at Markham with dark, shining eyes filled with contempt, too probing for Markham’s comfort. “Get back to yer cabin!” he roared.

  Farley looked at Jerome. Jerome looked at Tom.

  “Get the wagon, Jerome. You and Farley get in. I’ll be right there.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his face.

  “That’s slave stealin’, Yankee. I can shoot you fer that,” said Markham.

  “Go on, Jerome,” said Tom.

  Suddenly, Markham reached for his gun. Before the women had time to gasp, Tom snapped the whip over Markham’s hand, and the gun dropped.

  “Pick up the gun, Jerome,” said Tom.

  “Yer givin’ a slave a gun!” yelped Markham, his wrist beaded with red where the whip sliced it.

  Jerome calmly picked up the gun and gave it to Tom. Then he escorted Farley away.

  “Tom! Whatever are you doing?” cried Charlotte.

&n
bsp; “I’ll bring Farley back after Markham is gone.”

  What do you mean, gone?” Charlotte bristled.

  Tom turned to Markham. “You’re fired! Take the money Barnwell gave you to destroy my invention, and clear out. Now.”

  “Yer not my boss! Mrs. Barnwell, you see him stealin’ yer field hand. I was jus’ defendin’ yer property. You can’t let him get away with this, ma’am.” Markham pled his case to the new owner of the Crossroads.

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing, upsetting us all like this, Tom Edmunton?” Rachel crossed her arms in indignation.

  Markham shot a hopeful glance at the young woman.

  “I gave the field hand my word that he wouldn’t be harmed for speaking the truth.” Tom replied.

  “You don’t have to keep your word to a slave,” said Rachel.

  “But if he told me the truth, why would my word to him be anything less?”

  “The overseer handles the slaves. We don’t interfere, and we didn’t give you permission to interfere either,” Rachel continued, her mother nodding in agreement.

  “Don’t you care to protect a man who spoke the truth in the case of your father’s murder, instead of the man who lied?”

  Rachel’s eyes flashed angrily. “Let me tell you something, Tom. My father was a kind master. He treated the slaves like his own children. But he knew when punishment was necessary, and he didn’t flinch from it. Will you ever be the man that he was?”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “You have to stand up to the slaves.”

  “Do you really think it’s a good idea to be at war with your workers—or to treat them like children?”

  “That’s not how we look at things. Mr. Markham knows how to keep the . . . workers, as you call them . . . in line.”

  “Your Aunt Polly wouldn’t approve of what he did. He has to go, Rachel.”

  “No.”

  Tom looked at her in disbelief. “You want him to stay? After he pulled a gun on me?”

  “But we can’t do without him! Have you forgotten in your arrogance that you and your invention got us into this mess? It ripped my poor father away from his family. And it foiled our plan for Mr. Cooper to buy the Crossroads. You know, Mother has spoken to him since he was released from jail, but he’s no longer interested.”

  “That’s correct.” Charlotte scolded Tom: “Mr. Cooper isn’t buying the Crossroads because you’re managing it, and he refuses to deal with you.”

  “You mean he’s not buying because I won’t give him a loan with no collateral,” Tom retorted.

  “After you chased away our buyer, you now want to leave us without an overseer too?” Rachel snapped. “After your foolhardiness led to Papa’s death, don’t you owe us some respect?”

  “Rachel, I don’t know what killed your father. All I know is he made a deal to kill my invention, and he treated a slave pretty badly, a slave he sold, who might be related—”

  “Oh, sweet mercy! What a horrible thing to say!” Rachel’s reproaches fell on a man who no longer was weighed down by them, a man whose face now was free of guilt for the death of her father.

  Tom turned to Charlotte. “Mrs. Barnwell, I have a capable overseer, Nick Bergen, whose brothers are also overseers. I think one of them is available for hire. He could come here temporarily, and if you like the job he does, he could be your man. If he’s half as good as Nick, he’ll give you a fine crop. And he’ll treat the slaves well too.”

  “I’m not interested in the least! Mr. Markham will stay. You have no right to fire him against my wishes, no right at all!” replied Charlotte.

  “That’s true, Mrs. Barnwell, I can’t fire Markham, but I can withdraw my loan offer to get you through the growing season.”

  “What!” yelled Rachel.

  “I don’t give loans to pay for the likes of Markham.”

  “Lord in heaven! How could you? That’s blackmail, pure and simple!” Charlotte put her hand on her heart, and her eyes rolled to the sky in despair. “Besides, if Mr. Markham leaves, then we’ll lose his sister too, and God knows, I haven’t a clue how I’d manage without her.”

  “Miss Markham is certainly welcome to stay. I have no quarrel with her whatsoever.” Tom bowed his head graciously to Kate.

  “My sister’ll stick with her kin. That’s how we do things here, Yankee.”

  “Certainly she’ll leave with her brother,” Charlotte said to Tom, “after you humiliated and degraded him. If he’s fired, she’ll go too.”

  “No, I won’t!” uttered Kate.

  “What in tarnation, Katy—”

  “Hush!” Kate ordered, and the man twice her size was silenced.

  Charlotte and Rachel looked astonished.

  Kate reassuringly placed her hands on Charlotte’s. “Mrs. Barnwell, trust me, you’ll be much better off without my brother. The servants were fond of Miss Polly. She treated them kindly.” She cocked her head in displeasure toward her brother. “Bret’s . . . sort . . . doesn’t belong here.”

  Kate’s comforting tone calmed the widow. Charlotte’s anger was cooling; she looked thoughtful.

  “I’ll help Mr. Edmunton and the new overseer get your crop planted, Mrs. Barnwell. Believe me, I can get in the field myself and manage the gangs if I have to,” Kate added, her cheerful self-confidence sweeping away Charlotte’s desperation.

  “As for you, Bret,” Kate said sternly, “before Polly Barnwell’s even cold in her grave, you’re trying to make trouble here! I’ll give you the two hundred dollars, and you can clear out before sunset. If you’re smart, you’ll take it and find another line of work.”

  She turned to Tom. “The furniture in Bret’s cottage belongs to Miss Polly. He came with nothing and will leave with nothing. Only the clothes—and the weapons—are his.”

  The women were speechless.

  Tom smiled. “I guess that settles it.”

  Charlotte sighed wearily. “Okay, Tom. I’m in too much need of your help and your loan to argue.” She turned to the overseer, whose mouth was agape and eyes were bulging in utter dismay. “Mr. Markham, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

  “But . . . but Mrs. Barnwell—”

  “The decision is final, sir.”

  “That ain’t right, ma’am!” Markham growled at Charlotte.

  The new mistress of the Crossroads silently stood her ground.

  Finally, Markham shrugged resignedly, then turned to his sister. “Get yer stuff together. Yer comin’ with me.”

  “No, I’m not! I’m going to stay on here and help Mr. Edmunton and the Barnwells.” She turned to Tom. “I’ll be sure he clears out before sundown.”

  “Katy! How could you desert yer own kin?”

  “And you can leave Farley with me, Mr. Edmunton. I assure you he won’t be harmed.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Tom trusted the woman who seemed more like his own kin—in sentiment, if not in blood—than like Markham’s. He called to Jerome, who was waiting in their wagon at the front entrance. “Bring Farley to Miss Markham.”

  Farley walked toward Kate, who flashed him a kindly smile. “You stay here with me tonight and help the house servants.” That seemed to allay his fears.

  Kate turned to her brother and pointed in the direction of his cottage. “Go now. Pack your things. Find a laborer’s job that keeps you away from the slaves. You have enough trouble managing yourself, without having to handle them.”

  Markham walked up to Tom and held out his hand for his gun and whip. Tom appraised him thoughtfully, then decided to give him the weapons.

  Markham grabbed them, his eyes filled with hate.

  He turned to gape petulantly at Charlotte, giving her a start. “This soil here’s been planted with my sweat. You wronged me, ma’am. You done me wrong!”

  “Is that a . . . threat . . . Mr. Markham?” Charlotte’s voice was reduced to a whisper.

  Markham didn’t reply. He turned to Tom.

  “You don’t belong h
ere, Yankee. You’re the one should be clearin’ out. You’re gonna pay fer this.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Tom returned home with the throbbing cut on his face a constant reminder of his abrasive encounter with Markham. His head throbbed too with the stinging revelations of the day. The man he most admired had betrayed him. The four men who knew about his invention had tried to destroy it. A man who had spoken the truth was lashed for it. A woman who might have information about his tractor was in danger of being lynched. And the woman he thought he loved had sided against him.

  There wasn’t any noble ally who had given his life to save the invention. Apparently, there wasn’t even an astute, albeit perverted, thief who had grasped the promise of the tractor and committed murder to attain it. It seemed there was only a badly treated slave who sought revenge. Tom now knew that everyone in his circle was against him. The realization was like a blanket of gloom smothering him in loneliness.

  What could he do to shake off this intrusion choking his spirit? he wondered. With his invention missing and his work halted, how could he breathe fresh life into his dream?

  He sat down to a late-afternoon tea prepared by Jerome’s budding apprentice, Brook. Still reeling from the day’s events, however, he found he had little appetite. After half a cup of tea and a few morsels of cake, he headed outside to see what the slaves had been doing in his absence. Passing the open door of the library, he saw Solo at the desk. He recognized the latest agricultural journal in her hands. As was her habit, she had turned it to the back page of advertisements, where rewards were posted for runaways. He paused to observe the woman who had shared nothing about herself with him.

  She no longer scurried away when he spotted her in the library, as if she had no right to be there. Now she looked at him calmly from what had become her classroom. Her expression instantly turned to shock when she saw the lash across his cheek, but he volunteered no comment on it.

  Seeing her with the journal, he thought of his own fruitless hunt for his invention and wondered if she too were engaged in a painful search. “It’s sad to be looking for something without any luck, isn’t it?”