“It certainly appears he’s eminently qualified for the job,” Sarah observed.
“And mark my words,” her mother added, “focusing on someone else’s troubles is what that young man needs.”
“As usual, Momma, you’re right.”
“I’ll go over and talk to the rabbi and Molly immediately. Such a mitzvah they couldn’t refuse.”
“Let me go with you. If they agree, we can stop off at the hotel and discuss it with Dr. Thomson.”
#
“I don’t need no buggy, dammit. All I want is a horse to get me home to Columbia.”
“All right. All right.” The stable manager shook his head. “I just figured with your hurt neck a buggy would be more comfortable, and since there’s a doctor plans on driving a surrey to Columbia in the next day or two, thought you might want to check if he has room for another passenger. Be cheaper than renting a horse on your own.”
Rufus tried not to show a reaction.
No, it can’t be, he thought. Surely he’s not talking about Buck Thomson. But then how many doctors could there be going to Columbia these days?
“A doctor you say?” He struggled to sound only mildly interested. “Going to Columbia? I wonder if I know him. What’s his name?”
“Thomson.” The man rifled in a drawer and brought out a dog-eared ledger. “Elijah Thomson.”
Rufus had to keep from smiling. He’d taken his revenge on Clay Thomson. An eye for an eye. Or more precisely a death for a death. Now there was the matter of Rufus’s neck. That called for a wound for a wound. This might be the perfect opportunity to pay him back.
“He’s staying at the Isaac Hayne Hotel if you want to go ask him,” the livery man said.
“No. I don’t want to wait that long.” Or confront him face-to-face. “Just give me a horse. I can get there before he even leaves.”
And be waiting for him. The last of the Thomsons.
#
Buck was puzzled by the summons to the lobby of the hotel that evening to meet two ladies who were asking for him. It was a pleasant surprise when he saw Sarah and her mother on the settee across from the saloon. After exchanging greetings Ruth Greenwald told him in a concise manner of the arrangements she’d made for Asa to remain in Charleston and assist the Cohens, if he wanted the job.
“It won’t be a sinecure,” she pointed out. “He’ll be required to attend to all the aging rabbi’s personal needs under difficult circumstances. In return he’ll receive respect and support. Like everyone else these days they don’t have any cash, but he’ll at least get room and board.” Ruth then reiterated her firm conviction that helping others was the best way to help oneself.
“Absolutely brilliant,” Buck exclaimed. “I can’t think of better medicine for Asa than assisting someone in need. He excels at that.”
Momentarily excusing himself, he went upstairs and brought his friend down without explaining the reason for the summons. A small smile came to Asa’s face as soon as he saw the ladies. Ruth tactfully explained to him the duties he’d be called upon to perform if he agreed to come with them. For an all-too-brief moment, Buck glimpsed a spark of enthusiasm in the young man’s eyes. His verbal reply, however, was “Whatever you say.” Then he added to the ladies, “Thank you.”
At least he hasn’t forgotten his manners, Buck thought. He gave Ruth detailed instructions to pass on to Mrs. Cohen on how to attend to Asa’s lacerations.
“I’ll come and check up on you when I return from Columbia,” he assured his friend. “If you need anything in the meantime, you can contact me at the Graysons’.”
Together they returned to the room and assembled Asa’s modest belongings. Twenty minutes later, they again joined the ladies, this time in front of the hotel. Buck shook his friend’s hand in both of his. “By the time I see you again, I expect you’ll be healed and well on your way to a complete recovery.”
“I hope so, Buck.” His eyes became glassy. “Thanks for—” He broke off abruptly and climbed into the carriage and took the seat opposite the two women.
Buck felt a pang of loneliness as he watched them disappear down the busy street.
Chapter EIGHT
Early next morning the surrey Buck had rented pulled up in front of the Isaac Hayne Hotel, and the sullen driver grudgingly loaded his passengers’ portmanteaux. He was a large man, more mass than muscle, and it was manifest he hadn’t bathed in some time, perhaps since before the late war. After another restless wait of over
fifteen minutes a short pudgy guard with bleary eyes, lugging a 12-gauge shotgun, joined them. Reeking of last night’s alcohol he clambered onto the front seat without a word of greeting or apology, belched loudly and was snoring before they’d even reached the outskirts of Charleston.
It was going to be a long trip with these brutes, Buck decided.
The open carriage was more utilitarian than elegant, a flatbed wagon with two ranks of passenger seats on leaf springs, plus the driver’s bench behind an improvised dashboard. Mr. and Mrs. Greenwald sat in the rear, while Sarah and Buck occupied the front seat opposite them. This afforded him the opportunity to keep an eye on the road behind them, since both the driver and guard, when the latter was awake, were focused forward. The baggage was stowed behind the rear bench. It wasn’t an ideal setup, but at least they were out in the air instead of confined to a cramped coach interior. Gypsy was tethered behind the carriage.
Once what promised to be a tedious journey had begun, Mrs. Greenwald, in true southern fashion, initiated a conversation by inquiring into Buck’s family background.
“Dr. Thomson, by any chance are you related to the Thomsons of Sullivan’s Island?”
“No ma’am, all my family’s from lower Richland County near Columbia. I did have occasion to meet the Thomsons of whom you speak while I was attending medical school in Charleston. Delightful people. I wish I could claim them as kin.”
For a while, Buck and Mrs. Greenwald discussed family connections and he courteously sketched his past life for them as genteel manners dictated.
“My younger brother Clay and I were raised at Jasmine, a cotton plantation about fifteen miles from Columbia. Our mother, Mildred Lynch, died of yellow fever when I was thirteen and my father chose not to remarry.” He added, as if lightly, “I’m afraid I was something of a disappointment to him when I chose to study medicine rather than follow the family tradition and manage the plantation.”
“Family traditions are very important but the profession of medicine is a truly noble calling.”
“How long have you been a physician, doctor?” Sarah asked.
“I graduated from medical school three years ago and immedately joined the army, as did all my fellow classmates and professors. Now I’m returning home to visit my father and see what’s left of the family holdings.”
“And your brother?”
“Clay was killed near Burkeville in Virginia shortly after Lee surrendered.”