He shouted to Asa over his shoulder, “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” and bounded down the Shenandoah’s gangplank. He raced to the other steamer where the bursar was busily checking off the names of departing passengers. Pushing ahead of several, to their loud objections, he demanded, “A small man with long red hair just left the ship. What’s his name?”
“Sir, please wait your turn.”
“What’s his name?”
Annoyed but not intimidated by Buck’s sharp tone, the crew-member replied officiously, “I’m not supposed to give out any . . .” He paused, however, when he saw the gold piece in Buck’s right hand. “But yes, yes, I believe I do remember him. Strange fellow.”
“What’s his name?” Buck repeated emphatically and slipped the coin into the man’s palm.
“Ah, here it is, sir. Snead. Lexington—”
A chill slithered down Buck’s spine. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.
“Snead? Did you say Snead?”
“Yes, sir, Rufus Snead, Lexington County, South Carolina. Milky left eye. Had a bandage on his neck as I recall. Is that the gentleman?”
Buck’s mind whirled. Images of the plantation overseer and his family crowded his brain.
The next man in line prodded him. Buck moved absently aside, muttering to himself, “Rufus Snead. Red-haired Rufus Snead.” He slapped his thigh.
My God, he’s that damn murdering Saul Snead’s boy. Couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen when I left Jasmine. Clay detested him. Always making mischief, taunting the slaves, stealing things. I reckon he’s headed back to Lexington County. Damn your soul, Rufus Snead. Now I’ll find you!
Buck returned to where Asa was leaning on the ship’s rail and asked him to wait on the dock with their luggage.
“Where’re you going?”
Buck hesitated. Did he want to tell his friend about seeing his brother’s killer, after all the young man had been through already? He decided not to. “I saw someone I need to talk to. I’ll be right back.”
Asa nodded. “Sure, Buck. Please don’t be too long. I don’t like it when you’re not around, especially with all these strangers.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes.”
The moment Gypsy was unloaded, Buck leaped into the saddle and began his pursuit.
By the time he’d entered East Bay Street the crowd of departing passengers had thinned. There was no sign of his quarry. Where would he go? Buck had no clue and decided to play the odds. Most unaccompanied men would head for the nearest watering hole, and the Sneads were a brood of heavy drinkers.
The closest saloon was The She Crab just ahead. Buck tied Gypsy to the hitching post and peered through the greasy window. The place was crowded. His prey wasn’t in view, so he went inside. The place reeked of unwashed bodies, stale smoke and cheap liquor. The long mahogany bar was straight ahead.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Buck squeezed between two rotund customers.
They both stopped, glasses halfway to their mouths, and stared at him. “Mister, good manners’ll never get you a drink around here. Yell or fire off that fancy pistol you’re toting under your coat. Gunfire tends to get people’s attention.”
“Especially the sheriff’s, if he’s still awake,” the other man said.
“Actually, I’m after information rather than a drink.”
“I hear they have free libraries up north,” the first man noted. “You ain’t one of them carpetbaggers, is you?”
“Lord, no,” the other drinker exclaimed. “Does he sound like a Yankee to you?”
“I’m from Columbia,” Buck told them, “if there’s anything left of it.”
“Took its licks, I hear. But what’re you doing in our fair city, if you’re from Columbia?”
“Trying to find a redheaded man. I thought I saw him come in here a few minutes ago.”
“Mister, we’ve been hanging onto this bar for more than three hours. Ain’t no redheaded man or woman been in here lately.”
“Must have gone somewhere else then. Thanks.” Buck wended his way back outside.
Another dead end, and a disheartening one, especially now that he knew who he was after. A blind chase in a city this size, however, would be a waste of time and effort. His gut said that, like him, Rufus Snead was going home.
Buck mounted Gypsy and loped back to the dock. Asa was sitting on a portmanteau, tapping his foot impatiently. He brightened with perceptible relief when he saw Buck.
“What took you so long? Did you find your friend?”
“No, but I will. You all right?”
“I feel like I’m still rocking on the boat.”
Buck laughed. “That’s perfectly normal, Asa. I feel that way too. But it’ll be gone after a night’s sleep. Come on, let’s get to our hotel.”
“I sure am hungry.”
“Good. A clean hotel room and a hot meal is just what the doctor’s ordering for both of us.”
#
They checked in at the Isaac Hayne Hotel, named for a Revolutionary War martyr hanged by the British, ate sandwiches in the dining room, then Buck settled Asa into their suite and suggested he rest. Satisfied his friend wasn’t inclined to wander—he’d probably take another nap—Buck went to the lobby, requested paper and pen and wrote a brief letter to Dr. Thaddeus Meyer, requesting an appointment for Mr. Jacob Greenwald. Buck put it an envelope and asked the clerk at the desk to send it with the next available courier to Columbia. He
paid generously for the service. He had no idea if it would get there—or when.
From the hotel he proceeded to the stagecoach ticket office several blocks away, only to discover a coach for Columbia had departed that morning. There wouldn’t be another one for at least a week, and rail service wasn’t expected to be available for several months. For a substantial fee, however, the depot master had a three-seated surrey available for hire. Buck inspected it, found it in good condition and rented it along with two horses. The stable manager then informed him he’d also have to pay for a driver and guard, who’d return the wagon from Columbia.
Buck shrugged, muttered, “Welcome home,” and signed the rental ledger. He wasn’t sure when they’d be leaving. It all depended on what provisions he could make for Asa.
#
“It’s so sad, Momma. Buck says—”
“Buck?” Ruth raised an eyebrow and smiled.
“I mean Dr. Thomson. He said Asa was the best orderly he’s ever worked with, that he was especially caring and kind to the sick and wounded.”
“And now he’s the one who needs caring for,” Ruth Greenwald remarked. “This terrible war . . . so many boys—”
“I’m sure Dr. Thomson—”
“You mean Buck,” Ruth teased.
“He won’t leave Charleston until he’s satisfied his friend’s in good hands. Is there anyone—”
“Hmm.” Ruth tapped a finger to her lower lip. “Let me think. The Fiddlesteins wanted a nurse to take care of their son who lost a leg at Atlanta, but I understand they found somebody. Myron Cantor’s boy was blinded at Chattanooga but his wife brought him home and is taking care of him. Oh, I know. Yes. Perfect. I know exactly who to talk to.”
“You always do, Momma.”
“That’s what mothers do, dear.”
“Well, who?”
“Mrs. Cohen.”
“The rabbi’s wife? She’s got Hazel Ann and Flory Jean. Why would she need more help?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you, dear? The rabbi had a stroke last month. His mind and speech seem unimpaired, but his right side’s completely paralyzed. He’s in a wheelchair now. The big problem is . . . well—” she lowered her voice “—his personal needs. He hates having women attending to them. Hazel Ann is an excellent cook and Flory Jean an exceptional housekeeper, but one doesn’t ask spinsters to deal with matters of that sort. Molly’s doing everything for him, and it’s wearing her out, especially since the rabbi is a rather rotund gentleman. She’s not exactly young anymore either. What Mordecai needs is a male nurse. Doctor Thomson’s friend sounds absolutely perfect, if he’s interested.”