Before climbing into the wagon himself, however, he walked over to the burly dead man who’d killed the driver. Bending down, he examined him more closely. He’d never seen the shooter before. The other killer, the thin one, was sprawled on his back in the middle of the road. Buck removed the shapeless hat from the teenager, exposing short, kinky hair with a reddish hue. Buck pulled the killer’s collar aside. There was no scar on his neck. Two red-headed men? What were the odds? It didn’t make any difference. What did matter was that Clay’s killer was still at large, deep in the swamp by now. Buck muttered an oath.
He hoisted the bodies of Mr. Greenwald and the driver into the bottom of the buggy, then, removing clothing from the luggage stowed behind the back seat, he used it to cover them. Meanwhile the two women were clinging to each other. Sarah was sobbing, while her mother held her in her arms and rocked her gently, whispering a rhythmic refrain in a language Buck didn’t recognize.
Praying there were no other gunmen in hiding, he mounted the front seat, gathered the reins, and urged the horses into a brisk trot.
#
Soon they entered the total devastation inflicted by Sherman’s legions upon Columbia. Row upon row of formerly majestic houses had been burned to their foundations. Broken furniture littered ruined lawns. Charred cotton bales, obviously used to obstruct the streets, were strewn like giant burned pillows. Buck drove for blocks without sighting a single inhabitant. Where were the people? Had they all perished? Had they all fled?
Dominating the landscape was the smoke-streaked capitol building, pock-marked from the impact of cannon balls. General Washington, the father of his country, molded in proud bronze, still guarded the front steps, but now his cane was crippled. Only Trinity Church, across the street, seemed to have escaped the wrath of victorious Yankee troops.
Buck came upon a solitary white man in a torn maroon frockcoat scavenging through the rubble of what may have been a parlor. As Buck drew nearer he heard the old man mumbling, “I’ve got to find her picture.”
“Sir,” Buck called out.
The man started to run away, clumsily climbing over an overturned piano bench that was missing a leg.
“Sir,” Buck called out again, hoping he sounded less threatening. “Can you help me, please?”
The man stopped, froze, listened, then turned, as if to an old friend. “How may I assist you, sir? I’d offer you a chair, but—” he peered around, as if confused “—I don’t know where they’ve put them. I must find Lucy Jean’s picture.” He resumed his pawing through broken shards of china and glass.
“Be careful,” Buck warned. “Can you direct me to the nearest undertaker?”
“Jeffcoat’s? She’s not there anymore. We buried her.”
“Where?”
“In the cemetery, of course. Weren’t you there?”
This poor man, Buck thought. Who was Lucy Jean? His wife? His daughter? But he didn’t have time to dwell or help the elderly gentleman. Jeffcoat’s. He remembered now. The name of the largest funeral home in Columbia. Just a few blocks from here.
After a short drive he arrived in front of what appeared to be a typical southern mansion, columns painted a dull white and fronted by a manicured green lawn. Only a large stone etched with the word “Jeffcoat” identified it. He jumped down from the seat, tied the wagon’s reins to a metal post, then turned to Sarah and her mother. With her arms around her daughter’s waist, Mrs. Greenwald gazed at Buck for a moment, then life came to her swollen eyes.
“Where are we?” Before he could answer, she took in the stone tablet and the building. “Oh. Yes, of course.” Sarah sat without moving until her mother whispered in her ear, “We need to get down, dear.”
“Let me help you.” Buck extended his hands.
Sarah reached for them, then made a mewing sound and pulled back. Firmly grasping her waist, Buck lifted her from the carriage and gently deposited her on the ground. As he did so, the older woman glanced at the clothing-covered outline of her dead husband. Then, without a word she accepted Buck’s help and stepped into the street.
“Sarah,” she said, “let me see your shoulder. Good, it’s stopped bleeding,” she noted with approval.
“Nevertheless,” Buck insisted, “we have to clean and dress it quickly.”
He placed his arm around Sarah’s waist and guided her toward the imposing façade. While her mother held her daughter’s hands, Buck knocked sharply on the front door.
An impeccably attired black man opened it immediately. “Yessir, may I help you?”
“I’m Dr. Thomson. A lady has been injured. I require a private room with a washstand, warm water, soap and a clean cloth. Then I need to see Mr. Jeffcoat right away.”
“Yessir. Y’all come in, folks. I’ll go fetch Mr. Jeffcoat directly.” He led them to a small reception room across from the massive staircase and hurried out to complete his assignment.
Before Buck could help Sarah and her mother to the settee, a stocky, balding man with a brown-dyed handlebar mustache, wearing a black frock coat, gray vest and striped pantaloons, hurried to meet them. His visage was one of practiced concern, his voice soothing as trickling water.
“Good evening, ladies, sir. I’m Otis Jeffcoat. How may I assist you?”
Buck offered his hand. “Permit me to introduce Mrs. Greenwald and her daughter, Mrs. Drexel. I’m Dr. Buck Thomson. I must attend to Mrs. Drexel’s shoulder immediately. We’re also in need of your services.”
The black man appeared in the doorway, carrying a basin with a pitcher in it, a towel slung over his arm and a piece of soap balanced on top of it. With amazing dexterity he deposited them on a side table and removed a roll of white cloth bandages from his vest pocket.
“Doctor,” Jeffcoat said, “when you’re finished, Dolfus will be waiting outside the door to escort you to my office.”
Observing the appropriate modesty, Buck engaged the assistance of her mother in removing enough of Sarah’s clothing for him to properly attend to her injury. Impressed by the young woman’s uncomplaining compliance with his directives, which undoubtedly caused her pain, he proceeded to cleanse and dress the wound. After giving her a few moments to rest, Buck opened the door and they followed Dolfus to the funeral director’s office down the hall.
#
When everyone was seated in the tastefully appointed room Ruth Greenwald allowed Dr. Thomson to recount the events that had brought them there. He did so concisely and with professional detachment. Buck then deferred to the older woman.
“Are you familiar with Jewish burial customs, Mr. Jeffcoat?” she asked.
“Madam, I’ve had the honor of handling the funeral arrangements for all the Jewish families here in Columbia. With your permission, I’ll send a messenger immediately to Rabbi Myron Mendelssohn, who, I’m sure, will be a great comfort to you in this difficult time. Do you have any relatives here in Columbia with whom you can sit Shiva?”
Ruth was pleased that the officious man was apparently as knowledgeable as he claimed. “Not relatives but friends. But first there’s the matter of a burial plot.”
“I’m sure Rabbi Mendelssohn can be of assistance in that regard.”
Buck raised his hand. “Perhaps you could also send a message to Gus Grayson and his wife. Miriam’s Jewish.”
“The banker and his wife! Yes, yes!” the undertaker agreed. “I know them well. I’ll send someone to notify them straightaway.” He paused, then inquired of the physician in almost a whisper. “And the present location of the deceased?”