Free The Big Steal by Emyl Jenkins

the Depression,” Worth said. “Theirs was
tobacco
money.” He straightened up and grinned. “Alcohol and tobacco. The last things a man gives up in hard times. Of course there was prohibition, but some people said that just made cigarettes all the more popular. Oh no, the Wyndfields never lost any real money during that time. In fact, their fortunes grew.”
    â€œAnd they just traveled about? Carefree, gathering antiques?” I pointed to the photograph of the English Regency nesting tables pictured in the brochure.
    â€œMost of the time. Mazie and Hoyt met on one of those Mississippi River paddleboat cruises. That pretty much set the tone of their life together. Travel and romance. Hoyt was an avid traveler, but he always said he did it backwards. Said he saw the world before he visited his own country, thanks to the war. The First World War, that is.”
    â€œSo you knew Hoyt fairly well?” My interest piqued. “And his family was from here,” I said.
    â€œOh yes. Hoyt grew up a few miles from where we’re sitting. Talk about highborn families and FFVs. The Wyndfields settled here about the same time Jefferson and Madison’s families did.” Merritt chuckled to himself. “The Wyndfield men either went down to William and Mary or over to Mr. Jefferson’s University in Charlottesville. Except Hoyt. He broke the mold. Hoyt went to Virginia Tech. Passed up law or history to study farming.”
    I had heard enough about who Hoyt’s people were. I wantedto learn more about Hoyt. It was getting late, yet I couldn’t bring myself to force the moment … plus I was afraid I’d break Worth’s train of thought. I wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with the theft at Wynderly, or the fiasco at the board meeting, but my better sense told me to listen closely. This was, after all, the South.
    â€œAccording to my grandfather, it had all begun many years earlier with one of Hoyt’s ancestors, Tate Wyndfield. It was one of those old Cain and Abel situations. The good brother, that was Edward Wyndfield, and the bad brother, Tate Wyndfield. Now, Tate had a wild streak in him, and after a falling out with his brother he left these parts in the middle of the night sometime, oh, in the late 1830s or so. More than a little inebriated, of course. Four days later Tate found himself a hundred miles south, down around Powersburg. He was getting ready to make camp along the James River when he came on a, ah, a …” He started again. “One of those … ah … one of those flat-bottomed boats they used to ship tobacco on. Not a barge,” he said.
    I waited a moment before speaking. “Bateau?”
    â€œOf course. A bateau. Just wait till you’re my age. You’ll understand. So,” he said, “Tate came upon this
bateau
partly loaded with ‘bacca,’ as we call it, waiting to be shipped down the James River to Richmond. There was a full moon that night. Nearby, Tate spied a tobacco sled filled with the golden leaf waiting to be loaded on the bateau at sunrise.” Worth’s voice grew low and whispery. “And there, huddled close by the sled, in the light of a dim fire, was a group of men playing cards.” He paused to let the scene sink in.
    â€œTate saw his chance. In no time”—he snapped his fingers—“the sled loaded with tobacco was his.” He was grinning as broadly as if
he
had been the one victorious at cards.
    â€œBut you have to put something up to get into a game. If Tate left home in a huff—”
    â€œRemember now, Tate Wyndfield was an aristocrat from Orange and Albemarle counties. Some things never change. Rich families had a wide reputation, just the way they do today. Those Johnny-come-lately Southside farmers knew the Wyndfield name, all right. Thought they had a fancy-pants pretty boy joining their game. Little did they know.” Worth Merritt laughed