twenty-five
“BEAUMONT, IF YOU DON’T SHUT YOUR TRAP, I’m going to gag you.” Crouching to remove a stone from one of his mount’s shoes, Jefcoat looked over his shoulder, a scowl making a straight line out of his thick dark eyebrows. He had become increasingly taciturn during the long ride back to Tupelo, which Schuyler took as a sign of both distrust and irritation.
Schuyler, forced to ride with his hands now in front of him, manacled to the saddle horn, had been allowed to dismount and stretch his legs. He grinned at his erstwhile tavern crawl companion. “I could always sing instead, if that would encourage a more cheerful disposition.”
Jefcoat snarled and turned back to the task at hand.
During the previous two hours of necessarily slow travel, Schuyler had used the time to engage his Negro captor in conversation. Besides the fact that information could generally be weaponized, he was genuinely curious about the unnatural alliance between a former slave and a demonstrably racist farm boy.
Tidbits he’d uncovered included the fact that, antebellum, Moore had risen to the position of overseer on the Jefcoat plantation. At the end of the war, he had been hired as a contractual agent between Jefcoat Senior and the labor needed to resume cotton production. Predictably, the freedman’s incentive to work for pennies on the dollar made Moore’s task both thankless and difficult. Still, his position was more desirable than the abject poverty of most of his peers. He had a tidy home, steady income, and little physical labor.
But Moore’s internal motives interested Schuyler far more than the economics of the situation. He sensed a roiling resentment emanating from the man that superseded all logic.
“Since my friend Jefcoat doesn’t seem eager for a joyful noise, Mr. Moore, perhaps you’ll indulge me in a little further explanation of how your sister came to marry this white schoolteacher you seem to loathe with such evangelistic fervor. Weren’t you raised in the same home?”
Moore, presently squatting on his heels, occupied in gnawing on a brick of hardtack taken from his saddlebag, gave Schuyler a scornful look. “I thought you was a Southerner. And you don’t know how that works? I’m not even sure Georgia and me had the same daddy. Yes, we’s in the big cabin with the other mamas and babies, but Mama was in the fields every day. When I got big enough, I went to work too. Georgia, being as pretty as she is, light-skin too, was sent to work in the house. Next thing I know she’s sent to the market in Memphis, and a man from somewhere up in Tennessee bought her—at least, that’s what I heard from some that came back.”
“So you didn’t see her again until you happened to be in Tuscaloosa at the same time?”
Moore shook his head. “No, but she’d learned to read and write somehow, and she wrote to my mother to let her know she was all right. We’d of never got those letters except Mrs. Jefcoat was a kind lady and read them to us.” Moore glanced at Jefcoat, expression unreadable.
Jefcoat’s shoulders lifted, and he turned his head.
“After the war,” Moore continued, “my mama died, but I got a letter from Georgia saying she was in Memphis—by this time I’d learned to read myself”—his lips tightened— “and she’d married a white man.”
Schuyler listened, gaze fixed on Moore’s face. The rest of the story was bound to come out. He prayed Jefcoat would remain silent.
“I heard from her again,” Moore said, “after they moved to Tuscaloosa. Apparently they had some kind of job as traveling schoolteachers. This new public school program funded by the government—” Jefcoat grunted as if in protest, but when he failed to comment, Moore shrugged. “I didn’t expect to ever see my sister again, but two weeks ago Mr. Jefcoat sent me over to Alabama to retrieve some runaway field hands. I visited Georgia, and she seemed to be doing well. At least they was living in a cabin with four walls and a roof. That was the first time I met Frye.”
“So you collected your workers all by yourself?” Schuyler gave Moore’s slight frame a once-over.
“I had some help from local white men—friends of the Jefcoats.” Moore glanced at Jefcoat. “Still, it took three runs across the state line to get them all. The second time, my sister’s husband took matters into his own hands. I’d been sent into the Negro quarter of town to sniff out our contraband. On my way back, Frye had a bunch of local liberals waylay me and beat me.”
“Are you sure it was Frye?” Schuyler asked, skeptical. “He doesn’t seem the violent, coercive type to me.”
“They were costumed, and it was dark, but the leader called me by name and accused me of things only my sister would know. They said I had to understand I couldn’t force free men to come back to Mississippi and work under what amounted to slave conditions anymore. That if I knew what was good for me, I’d leave Alabama and never come back.” Moore let out a harsh breath. “Which I confess I was ready to do. But then they offered me more money to go back for the rest—after all, those men were indentured under a legal contract—and sent along more protection. The timing was interesting, because we got to Tuscaloosa right when the rally was scheduled to start. I saw Frye in the crowd, along with the Negroes I knew from the Jefcoat plantation. I heard the speeches from Reverend Thomas and Perkins. I saw your father get shot, and I saw the riot start—but I couldn’t get out of the crowd.” Moore’s hands were shaking. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his sweating face.
Schuyler couldn’t help a certain sympathy for all the man had endured, but many of his actions seemed to have been not only greedy and self-serving, but cowardly. “I was at the hearing. I heard your claims against Frye. Some of them don’t match what you just said. You told the judge you identified your attacker.”
“I did!” Moore exclaimed. “I know it was him!”
“And you’re dumb as a fence post,” Jefcoat said suddenly. “I never did understand why my father depended on you so much. I tried to tell him I could do a better job at managing the property—which he claimed was why he sent me away to college in the first place.” He flexed his big, meaty fists. “I never wanted to be sitting in a classroom. By the time I got my diploma and came back home, he’d already elevated his colored son to the overseer’s house.”
Schuyler, incapable at that point of coherent speech, looked from Jefcoat to Moore. He couldn’t help thinking of a pair of biblical brothers fighting over their father’s blessing. That had not turned out well for either brother, at least in the short run.
Jefcoat stood, his long shadow falling across Moore’s smaller, folded figure. “I put those stripes on your back, you fool. You think you’re so smart, but I used you to lure out the schoolteacher. None of us left with property and a name are going to stand for what’s ours being ripped away by people who didn’t earn it.”
Schuyler stood apart, absorbed in the drama playing out in front of him. “Moore, do you know who shot my father? You said you saw it happen.”
Moore shook his head. “I swear I didn’t—”
“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Jefcoat said. His face above the beard was pasty, sweating, and his hands moved in agitated circles. “I would never shoot a white man on purpose. I was aiming at the preacher, just to scare him, but your pa moved, got in the way, and it was too late.”
Schuyler stared at him. “You were in Memphis that night. With us at the opera. Drunk.”
“Of course I was drunk. I got on the next train out of Tuscaloosa and found the first saloon out of the Memphis station. I never killed anybody before.”
Schuyler lunged at him, manacles and all, catching Jefcoat off guard, knocking him to the ground. The handcuffs crossed the hairy throat, pressed in, while Jefcoat’s face purpled. A roaring took over Schuyler’s brain as he shoved down with his wrists. The large body beneath him writhed but could not dislodge him.
“Schuyler!” someone shouted.
He ignored the voice and kept pressing.
Then he found himself wrenched sideways to the ground, several bodies holding him down. He struggled against the restraining hands, groaning in rage. “Let me go! He did it!”
Reason returned, little by little, along with vision and other senses. He recognized Levi’s face above him.
He relaxed, tears leaking from the sides of his eyes. “He killed my father.”
Levi, face compassionate, grim, let him go and extended a hand. “Yes. I’m sorry, brother. Come on, get up. We’ve got him in custody.”
Taking Levi’s hand, Schuyler let himself be pulled to his feet. Disoriented, he looked around and found two men he didn’t recognize holding a very subdued Jefcoat by the arms. Moore stood off to the side, shaking and silent.
“Here, let’s get those off you.” Levi unlocked the handcuffs with a key he’d apparently gotten from Jefcoat.
“You were following me too. You didn’t go to Tuscaloosa.” Schuyler eyed Levi resentfully, rubbing his raw wrists. “You could have told me.”
“Didn’t have enough information.” Levi tossed the handcuffs to one of his deputies, who proceeded to cuff Jefcoat. “We suspected Jefcoat had been in Tuscaloosa that day. A man of his description was reported at the station later. But no one saw who pulled the trigger on your father. I knew he’d follow you if I sent you this way, looking for Moore.” Levi’s smile was wry. “The only person I know better at getting people to blurt things out than me—is you.”
“I’m glad to know I was good for something. While I was busy thinking I was about to die.” Schuyler released a disgusted breath, glancing at Jefcoat and then Moore. “But am I right in thinking this thing is not exactly wrapped up? As bad as they are, those two are just pawns on the evil side of this chessboard.”
“You’re right. One murder solved. But we don’t know who killed the judge and ordered that church to be burned. So I’m sending you on back to Tupelo to try to draw out the king, while I deliver Jefcoat and Moore to the closest federal officer. But don’t worry—as soon as I do that, I’ll be right behind you, watching and waiting.”
At dinner that evening, in a belated attempt to practice her recently attained skill in noticing things, Joelle scanned the company seated around the formal dining table. General Forrest, Mr. Hixon, and Doc, who had been invited for the evening, were dressed in black suits with starched white shirts and black ties. The European Mr. Volker wore a more eclectic style of evening garb, his vest a miracle of gold-and-burgundy brocade, the jacket sporting matching stripes at the cuffs. The women had adorned themselves in their finest silk evening gowns, even Joelle conceding to formality by donning the dress she’d worn to the opera and allowing Aurora to style her hair in a scalp-stretching concoction of curls and braids.
She was not comfortable by any means, but at least she didn’t feel like a country cousin amongst this well-dressed crowd.
The eight-foot table itself was beautiful too, covered in a fine ivory-on-ivory embroidered cloth. The gaslight chandelier threw grotesque shadows over the food presented in silver tureens and on decorative platters, her mother’s best imported dinnerware polished to a gleam. Horatia had outdone herself with yeast rolls, roasted new potatoes, capons in wine sauce, and bacon-wrapped green bean bundles. There would be raspberry tartlets for dessert, one of Joelle’s favorites.
Unfortunately, she found her appetite ruined by anxiety over Lemuel and Georgia Frye, hiding in her bedroom; wondering where Schuyler was; and concern for Levi, presumably arrived in Tuscaloosa by now. Furthermore, she couldn’t help thinking of Mr. and Mrs. McCanless dealing with the loss of their entire business. She could have at the very least invited them to come to dinner. Maybe they wouldn’t have come, but the gesture would have been neighborly.
Now it was too late. But she would send a note with Wyatt, first thing in the morning, inviting them to tomorrow’s evening meal.
Comforted with that thought, she looked around and noticed one more thing. Frowning, she turned to Hixon, seated to her left. “Excuse me, Mr. Hixon, but do you know where your friend Mr. Jefcoat has been the last day or so? I don’t believe he has been down for a meal today at all. I hope he’s not ill.”
Caught in the act of putting most of a roll into his mouth, Hixon choked and coughed violently. Finally he was able to gasp, “Er, no. Can’t say I do. I mean, I’m sure he’s not ill. Fairly sure. I don’t know.” He gulped his water. “Is there any wine?”
“Yes, after dinner, to go with dessert.” Joelle regarded him, puzzled. Mercy, what a reaction to a simple question. “Please tell Jefcoat I asked about him, next time you see him.”
“Certainly. Will do.” Hixon subsided once more into his food.
Joelle, picking at her own plate, caught General Forrest’s eye across the table.
He smiled. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I believe I heard Mr. Jefcoat say he was going hunting this morning. The woods hereabouts are full of game, and Jefcoat seems to be an enthusiastic sportsman.”
“Oh! That makes perfect sense.” She nodded. “Have you had a chance to take out a gun yourself? My papa used to all but live in the woods whenever we girls would get too giggly.”
“Not yet, though I plan to do so, at some point, before we leave the area. I’m fond of hunting bear, and I hear there’s a big one terrorizing the livestock.” He reached for his wife’s hand. “But let us not discuss such masculine pursuits over dinner. My Mary Ann assures me the ladies prefer to keep dinner talk focused on lighter topics.”
There was something oily about the general’s tone that set Joelle’s teeth on edge. She’d watched him in church yesterday too. Though he seemed sober and attentive, he wasn’t a demonstrative man. During the war, Confederate newspapers proclaimed him to be a gifted horseman—even earning the nickname “Wizard of the Saddle”—a charismatic leader, and brilliant battle strategist. But she’d also read reports of relentless cruelty to the enemy. Could the villain of Fort Pillow, who had reportedly led the massacre of nearly two hundred defenseless Negroes, have really changed?
Then again, who was she to judge whether or not a man had repented?
She turned her attention back to her meal and let Aurora and the effervescent Delfina carry the conversation.
The maids had begun to serve the tartlets, wine, and coffee, when she heard the doorbell ring. After a few moments, Mose, in serving livery for the evening, came to the dining room doorway.
Joelle went to him. “What’s the matter, Mose?”
He handed her an envelope. “The man at the door said deliver it to Mr. Hixon immediately.”
“At dinnertime? That’s odd.” She turned the envelope over and frowned at the slashing masculine script. “It’s addressed to Schuyler.”
“He said if Mr. Beaumont wasn’t here, to give it to Hixon.”
That was even more strange. “Thank you, Mose.” She wandered back to the table and sat down.
By this time, Hixon had gulped down two glasses of wine and was looking about for more. When she handed the envelope to him, he took it with disinterest and laid it beside his plate, then leaned forward, peering past Joelle. “Somebody pass the wine, please.”
How had Schuyler tolerated this sot for so many years? What if the message was something important?
Picking up the envelope, she laid her hand on his sleeve. “Mr. Hixon.”
He flinched and blinked owlishly at her over his wineglass. “Ma’am?”
“I think you should open this, to see if it’s something that needs to be dealt with. I’m not sure when Schuyler will be back.”
Hixon looked fairly cross-eyed with the effort to exercise his brain. “Beaumont didn’t say anything about opening it. Come to think of it, he told me to watch out for you too, but you seem to be capable of taking care of yourself. You open it—you’re a lot smarter than I am.” He seemed relieved to pass responsibility to someone else.
Joelle reached for one of the dinner candles and held the envelope above it just long enough to loosen the wax seal. Sliding her thumbnail beneath it, she opened the flap, removed the paper, and read it quickly.
I want your information. Meet me tonight at midnight at the smokehouse.
Heart thumping, hands shaking, she slipped the paper back into the envelope and resealed it.
Information? What did that mean? Hixon clearly knew nothing and wanted to know nothing. Obviously Schuyler wasn’t here, so she couldn’t simply ask him. But his warning had left her jumping at shadows all day, and the arrival of the Fryes this afternoon multiplied her anxiety.
What should she do? If Levi were here, she would go to him—but he was gone too. The next smartest person in the room sat at the other end of the table, relentlessly teasing her cousin ThomasAnne.
She got to her feet, swaying dramatically. “Oh my, I’m not feeling well. I’d better go lie down.”
As she had predicted, Benjamin Kidd immediately got up and came to her. “What’s the matter, Jo?” He waved everyone else to their seats as he put an arm about Joelle’s waist and cupped her elbow. “No, I don’t need an audience. Come in the parlor, Joelle, and let me take a look at you.”
Joelle stumbled along trying to look sick. When they got to the parlor and he’d shut the door, she whirled and grabbed Doc’s hands. “Ben, I’m so worried, and I don’t know who else to go to. I’m afraid Schuyler is in trouble.”