Jo Goodman (13 page)

"Perhaps. The Sheridan Line. They make runs to Charleston from time to time, though I understand his trade isn't well received here. He's also Jonna Remington's fiancé."

"Your employer."

"Yes."

"I see." His flinty stare lifted to meet Decker's gaze. "And what would his interest in Falconer be?"

Decker shrugged. "Jonna says—"

"Jonna?"

"Miss Remington."

"Oh, I knew who you meant," Graham said. "I just wondered at the familiarity. But then you did tell me earlier that you fished her out of the harbor. I suppose that gives you some leave."

"Have a care, Graham. I may decide I won't tolerate being upbraided by a young pup, plantation aristocrat or not."

"Well," he drawled. "You be sure to tell me when your patience is at an end, and I'll be sure to duck." He lifted his brandy. "Right now I want to hear what Jonna says."

Decker raised his own snifter in a return salute. "She says that Sheridan might be willing to offer ships or money or some other kind of assistance to Falconer."

"Why did she confide this to you?"

"She was worried about Sheridan, actually. He's very active in the Boston abolitionist movement. One of Garrison's soldiers."

"Really?" Graham sipped his brandy. It went down smoothly, warming the pit of his empty stomach. "That's interesting. There are rumors here..." His voice trailed off as he reconsidered his words. Finally he shrugged. "It bears some thinking. I take it Miss Remington doesn't approve of Sheridan's involvement with Garrison."

"She thinks he's a fanatic. Lunatic was the word she had for some of his followers."

"And she would be right. They have a vision but no plan save violence. At least that's all I'm familiar with." Graham studied his brandy as he gently swirled the snifter. "What about Jonna? Does she hold any part of Sheridan's views?"

Decker almost laughed, thinking about his conversation with her. "She is ever the voice of temperance and reason," he said. "She's against the practice of slavery, of course, but for economic reasons. And never doubt that she's thinking of her own economy."

"Then her position is not so different from every other Boston merchant's."

"Perhaps a little different," Decker said. "She employs freeborn blacks, or at least she doesn't object when it's done. Her housekeeper hires the staff in her home, and Jack Quincy does most of the hiring at the shipyards. He takes men of color for construction jobs, but says Jonna won't let him use them on the clippers."

"Why not?"

"She's afraid of losing them. Thinks they'll be pulled off ships that do business here in the South and worries that they'll jump ship in European ports."

"She's probably not far off the mark."

"I told you: the voice of temperance and reason." He finished his drink. "You have some special cargo for me this trip?"

Graham nodded. "Upstairs. Do you want to see? It will be hours yet before we can load."

"I'd better have a look. I have to be sure I have accommodations."

"Very well." Graham stood. "Come with me."

Decker followed him through Michele's rooms to take the back stairs to the attic. Their passage was nearly soundless, though there was no reason for stealth. Beyond the stairwell was enough music and laughter and chattering to swallow a stampede of noise.

It was Graham Denison who opened the attic door, but it was Decker who raised the candle to illuminate the small closed space.

Six shiny black faces turned in their direction. Twelve pairs of dark eyes looked to the light. Save for a single word there was silence.

"Falconer."

It sounded like an answered prayer.

* * *

These people were not related. One was a mother without her children. Another a husband without his wife. A brother and sister were among the group, but they had different parents they barely remembered. The oldest was a grandfather who had seen his family sold off until no one remained; the youngest was a girl of seventeen, so new to these American shores that she spoke only the language of her native village.

The importation of men and women as slaves had been forbidden by the federal government since 1808, but the ban had yet to be enforced. Slavers saw the enormous profit and little in the way of risk, so ships still plied the waters on the African coast, bearing away human cargoes purchased for goods from victorious tribal chiefs, whose enslaved captives they were, or from the slave markets.

The people huddled in Michele Moreau's attic were not family, yet they had nurtured and supported one another as if their bond were blood. When Decker hunkered down beside the youngest in the group, she shied away fearfully into the arms of the mother.

Decker set the candle down. He had moved toward the girl because of the heavy bandage on her hand. Now he glanced over his shoulder at Graham. "What happened to her?"

"She got out of her irons by biting off most of the ball of her hand."

"Jesus," Decker said softly. The beads of perspiration that edged his upper lip had little to do with the close quarters. "She's from a slave ship?"

Graham nodded. "She doesn't speak any English, and no one here knows her dialect." He knelt beside Decker and held out his hand to the girl. She was gently urged to go to him and finally, shyly, laid her uninjured hand in his. Her skin was as smooth and creamy as dark chocolate. Graham's fingers closed over her slender ones. "The best we can determine, she escaped from
Salamander.
The ship was in the harbor a week ago. It carries legitimate cargo, but it's known to be a slaver. We think she freed herself then hid somewhere on board until the search moved to the wharf. Somehow she ended up here."

"Here? At Michele's?" Decker was incredulous.

"Amazing, isn't it?" He squeezed the girl's hand. She was watching them warily, seeming to know intuitively that they were talking about her. "Not directly, of course. She was passed from hand to hand and was lucky enough not to be passed back to the slaver. But this is where she finally landed."

"Did she swim ashore?"

"That's what we think."

"And you want to send her north with me?" Decker ran a hand through his hair as he considered what this meant. "I'm not going to London this trip," he said. "It would be easy to deliver her there. But not Boston. No one's going to mistake her for freeborn, not when she can't speak any English."

"She
is
freeborn," Graham reminded him. "Just not on these shores."

Decker sighed and looked sideways at his friend. "You knew I'd do this, didn't you?"

Graham was smiling at the girl, but his words were for Decker. "Let's just say I hoped and leave it at that."

* * *

Jonna let Jack Quincy help her up from the table. He had abandoned two crutches in favor of one and was managing to do better than she was with her cane. "We're a fine pair of bookends, Jack," she said, leaning on her ebony-handled walking stick. "I had expected to be getting around without any assistance from this."

"Sprains take their own time."

"Whatever that means."

"It means it will be better when it's better," he said. "And not before."

Jonna glanced at his splinted leg. "And don't you think you're taking too much on yourself?"

Jack slanted her a grin. The weather-beaten lines of his craggy face deepened with amusement. "I find that sage advice works best when I give it, not take it."

Looping her free arm in his, Jonna leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. "What would I do without you, Jack? What would I ever have done?"

He shrugged, embarrassed.

Jonna opened the dining-room doors and led him into the hallway. Drinks were waiting for them in the salon. Jonna had tea. Jack sipped port. "I mean it," she said to him when they were seated. "You're the only person I truly trust."

Jack frowned. "I don't think I want that burden. Don't know that any man would. What if I failed you, Jonna?"

"You never have."

"Even when I turned
Huntress
over to Thorne?"

"Even when you pretended to break your leg in order to do it," she said.

Jack Quincy almost lost a mouthful of good port. He managed to choke it back, but it was a narrow thing. "You know about that?" he asked.

"Let's say I had my suspicions and you just confirmed them."

Rather than being disappointed by his failure, Jack was admiring of her success. "There's no getting anything past you, is there?"

Jonna's humor faded, and her violet eyes were grave now. "I'm not certain about that any longer," she said. "I wondered if I—"

She was interrupted by Mrs. Davis who had entered the room without knocking. "I'm sorry," the housekeeper said. "But there's someone here from
Huntress.
The ship's just arrived, and there's a problem at the harbor." Mrs. Davis moved aside to make room for the young man who came up behind her. He was holding his hat in hand and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked nervously at Jonna who was coming to her feet.

"It's about the captain, Miss Remington. He wanted you to know they're putting him in jail."

Chapter 4

Jonna had never been to the jail before. Until now there had never been any reason. She did not thank Decker Thorne for providing one.

Jack Quincy offered to handle the matter himself. Over the course of his employment with Remington Shipping, Jack had had occasion to visit both the jail and the magistrate's office. Decker Thorne was not the first employee he had had to provide bail for, only the first employee of rank and considerable responsibility.

Jonna had politely refused his assistance but agreed to his company. Jack wondered that she had even accepted that. The few times he broached conversation during the carriage ride to the jail he was met with silence. It wasn't simply that she was ignoring him, he realized, but that she had not even heard him.

Now that Jonna knew his injury was a sham, Jack abandoned any pretense of a limp along with the props. He hopped lightly down from the carriage and helped her out. Her hand was cold, and her eyes were only marginally less so.

"Jonna," he said. "You don't have to—" He broke off because she was already moving up the steps of the jailhouse. Sighing, Jack motioned to the driver to wait down the street and then hurried after her to open the doors.

* * *

As cells went, it was not the worst one Decker had ever been in. It was cleaner than Newgate and for the time being, at least, it was private. He imagined that would change as the night wore on and the constable gathered up vagrants and drunks and whores from the waterfront. He rather hoped it was a slow night. If he had to spend it in jail, he preferred to spend it alone.

Decker sat on the edge of his cot, his forearms resting lightly on his knees, his hands folded together, and took stock of his situation. There was no escape from the basement cell, not without hurting someone, and Decker had no wish to compound his problems by laying out the turnkey. He had been in Boston four years now, yet this was his first acquaintance with the legal system. He supposed that might be seen favorably, at least by some people.

Decker's slightly crooked smile was rueful. He had no expectation that Jonna Remington would be one of them.

If there had been a way of not involving her, Decker would have taken such a measure. His smile vanished as he thought about the six people who were hidden in the hold of
Huntress.
Their freedom depended on him, and now he was depending on Jonna.

He drew in a slow breath then let it out with even more care. In spite of this precaution there was still a sharp pain in his left side. Easing himself back on the cot, Decker leaned against the cool stone wall. He drew up his knees, and the position supported his rib cage better. The next breath was slightly less painful.

Decker's hand went to the back of his neck, and he kneaded out the tension there. Informing Jonna of his incarceration had been a gamble. He couldn't be sure if she would get the message this evening, and if she did, he was even less certain of her response. The one thing he knew without any doubt was that if she decided to act on his behalf he would be out tonight. That was the kind of power she could wield. Much to Decker's regret, it was the kind of power Jack Quincy did not have.