Passion's Joy (2 page)

Joy Claret's face registered quick shock. "Oh dear! Do you have it or will we have to beg a

"No, I got it." The old man smiled, patting his coat pocket.

"Where did you get it?" she asked too quickly, letting curiosity get the better of experience.

Unless one wanted to hear a scandalous tale, she knew better than to ask how his pockets came to hold coins.

"Why darlin', it was simple."

"It always is for you, you unscrupulous fraud."

The old man laughed, pleased with this apt description of his character. "I arranged a small

—tiny, really—cockfight at the Hampton's barn. Bunch of green seamen just stepped on land, and the lads seemed mighty anxious to part with their hard won earnings."

Intimately familiar with the Reverend's mendacity, Joy Claret knew that arranged meant fixed, and she laughed. The Reverend had only been caught once or twice at one of his numerous swindles. Back on the merry shores of England, fortune arranged the good doctor's presence at the Reverend's sentencing. Joshua had just testified in a hearing involving an old man's untimely death. When lingering on the unpleasant outcome, he chanced to overhear the Reverend's pleading—so convincingly!—for his fate. The magistrate thought the Reverend's face was familiar, and he was not as persuaded by the fine speech. Joshua however, always nourished an unquenchable faith in the ultimate goodness of many undeserving human beings. Taxing his meager savings and convinced he could reform the Reverend's petty criminal proclivities, Joshua bought his contract and, only then, found himself saddled with the most unlikely indentured servant, one whose presence in his life brought a continuous cycle of blessings and curses.

Of course, the Reverend claimed he simply couldn't help parting fools with their monies, and if someone was looking to be taken, it was his job to see the business done. There was little

doubt that the Reverend had a heart of gold; it seemed he took money from one pocket and put it into someone else's—a more deserving someone according to some odd sense of justice he alone understood. The Reverend never viewed his trickery as inconsistent with the doctor's high falutin’ principles of justice, liberty and freedom for all—the famed abolitionist cry, all of which the Reverend enthusiastically embraced. It was Joy, though, who harbored the unkind suspicion that the Reverend viewed the underground railroad as the ultimate and most exciting way to part people with their property.

Adding to his duplicity, unbelievably, the Reverend was known throughout Orleans Parish and beyond as the hellfire and brimstone Reverend Doddered. All manner of people called on him to strike the fear of God's wrath into the minds of the most indolent, idle and uppity Negroes with his Negro sermonizing. On the pulpit, the Reverend Doddered would tell the sea of Negro faces that, while their bodies belonged to their masters, their souls belonged to God. If they had any hope of finding God's freedom in heaven, rather than Satan's eternal chains in hell, they must repent their idleness and indolence; they must work harder for their good masters. As the Reverend helped the planter class with never ending Negro problems, Sammy crept around whispering to a carefully selected few just how a Negro might find God's freedom a bit before Judgment Day.

Joy was waiting as a chain gang of longshoremen passed. Led by an overseer on a mount, each man carried a huge bale of cotton on his dark-skinned back. Once the group was out of sight, she asked, "Is there enough left for Joshua's medicine?"

"Aye, and I believe a mite bit more for a new dress."

"A new dress!" She could hardly believe it, for it had been over two years since she had had a new dress. The thought of a new dress and Joshua's medicine sent her arms around the old man's neck in a demonstration of her gratitude. "Oh, Reverend! Whatever would we do without you?"

Sammy answered with a deep chuckle. "'About the same, I figure—only minus a load of never endin’ troubles."

As their easy laughter calmed, the Reverend cautioned against any further talking. Since the runaway slaves had been on the run a good two weeks or more and had not been caught, the bounty hunters would know the escape was aided by the loosely knit band of abolitionists that stretched from one end of the country to the other—the network of the underground railroad. They would be watching this road like hawks, knowing water was the only viable means to escape.

Still, there was no sign of danger. After they were already a good two miles from the marketplace, Joy felt her tension ease a bit as the landscape filled her senses with happier thoughts.

The great river widened slowly. For miles on either side of the water stretched dense forests of live oaks and water sycamores, berry briars and vines, all draped in dark Spanish moss and ivy. In the first blush of day, the dense foliage looked lush, dark, and shadowy. The noisy chatter of birds filled the warm morning air, which was pushed by an ever-present southern breeze. It was lovely; her senses rejoiced.

The huge towering masts of a great ship rose in the distance, and as the peddler cart approached, Joy caught her breath at the sight of the largest, sleekest, and most magnificent ship she had ever seen. Little wonder why ships were referred to with feminine pronouns! As they came closer, she made out the bold name: The Ram's Head. "Of all the names." Joy laughed. A group of seamen splashed in the water off the ship's side. They must have just docked this morning, she realized, for the men boisterously made use of the suddenly unlimited fresh water.

An audible snore rose from the passenger's hold. Sammy's rich voice answered with one of those haunting songs common to field hands, songs that blended the despair of long days of endless turmoil with religious hope of redemption. It was a timely play, for the most arresting group of men rode up from behind.

Blue eyes widened enormously as Joy stared. Wild looking and dangerous, three mounted men led a larger group of men on foot. A huge half-naked Negro walked amidst the cluster of men as an equal. Another man, with a large barrel stomach and a bald head to match, displayed more gold chains around his neck than were in the front window of Ponce Fredrico's jewelry store. A tall, mean looking man had hair as long as her own. More remarkable for its color of angry fire, it was braided and worn like a rope wrapped around impressive biceps. Their clothes, mixed, matched, and no doubt stolen from the four corners of the world, were a fashion ensemble representing many different countries. One wore fancy, blue velvet breeches and a matching coat of an aristocratic Englishman, torn at the sleeves to fit larger shoulders. Another two wore garb she recognized from a book she had once read about an English gentleman's travels to India, and another wore red silk pants that spoke—like the small dark eyes of the owner—of oriental origins. She spied another rope of long hair, hanging from a man's belt like a trophy, and Joy, in a breath, prayed the woman had parted with her fine tresses willingly.

It required only the space of two minutes for them to overtake and pass the peddler's cart, but she took in everything. The leader—he must be a leader—rode ahead on a large, white stallion. He was a remarkably big man and looked even larger atop that white horse. His long, golden hair fell like a mane to wide shoulders, and his face was long and lean, almost handsome if his appearance weren't somehow so frightening. He wore plain, gray breeches, moccasin boots, and a cotton vest. She witnessed the laughter rising clear in his fine, hazel eyes, and this more than anything surprised her.

"Who are they?" Joy asked in a breathless and awed whisper.

"Don't have a farthing, lass." The old man chuckled. "But from the worldly looks of 'em, seems 'ole LaFitte is in for even more trouble."

The famed pirate was presently being pursued by relentless American authorities, who— unlike their French predecessors—nourished no fondness for lawless sea crimes.

"Pirates!" she exclaimed. "Well, my word, I never have seen—"

"It's them!" Sammy's whispered cry sounded the alarm. “Two comin' from the North! Move it, child!"

Tension burst into action. With a practiced motion, Sammy pulled the bundles from Libertine's back and untied her lead as Joy hopped from the moving cart and ran back. Sammy boosted her onto the mare's back, handed her the reins and then jumped back to assume his seat. Horse and rider disappeared into the forest only a split second before the two riders rounded the bend.

Sammy hit the plank board three times to warn the passengers before resumed his song. Joy's absence gave the Reverend freedom to remove a whiskey cask and enjoy a long draught.

Joy, trailing the cart through the forest, saw this, and instantly her mouth pressed to a hard frown. Drinking! Already he was drinking! Lord, but was there no end to his gall! It was a cry too late to scold him though, and the Reverend's grin told her he was well aware of the fact.

"Hold up thar, ole man!"

The Reverend brought the bays to a slow halt and turned around. As he and Sammy had anticipated, they were in for trouble, for these were not local boys parading for the day as paddyrollers. Hired professionals, no doubt. He took another long sip from an ever-handy cask.

Jimmy Cochran stopped his mount in front of the Reverend and leaned casually forward in his saddle, scrutinizing the old man with a cool dark stare, watching as the old man fumbled with the cask, nervously taking another draught while mumbling unintelligibly.

Short and not large for a man, Cochran's even blond features were shaded, nearly hidden by a wide brown hat. A red kerchief wrapped around his neck. "Well, well," he first said. "What have we here, Davey?"

The other man circled the cart thrice before finally facing the wagon. "Looks like a peddler man, don't it?"

The Reverend scrutinized the big, ungainly, and dark haired man. A menacing grin revealed two missing teeth, the rest an unpleasant yellow from tobacco. About as ugly as they come, the Reverend thought unkindly, noticing the unsightly pockmarks scarring the large boned face, and a swollen, crooked nose that had been hit once too often. The sleeves of a frayed, once white work shirt rolled over his forearms, displaying a notably unimaginative tattoo of the name Ann circled by flowers.

"A good day to ye gents," the Reverend offered a greeting in his most affable Irish hit while tipping his hat. "What can I get fer ye? Got some fine English work shirts, just off the boat... or mayhaps a shawl for ye misses?" His chuckle echoed with the very word congeniality. "Nothin' warms a lass's heart like a pretty new rag, and when 'er little heart gets warmed, the heat's bound to spill over to your bed. Men like women and women like rags and—tell ye what I'll do, seein' 'ows there be two of ye. I'll give you—"

"Hold that tongue, ole man. We ain't interested in any new rags—'' Cochran stopped and spit, but the Reverend never gave him a chance to resume.

" Oh? Well then, mayhaps you'd like to see me brand new line of the finest boots this side of the Atlantic. Last a lifetime, they will—" -

"Shut the trap, ole man," the small man snapped more in exasperation than anger, then had to steady his mount. "The name's Jimmy Cochran and this here's Davey. We've been hired to track us down some runaway niggers."

"Darky hunters, are ye?"

"Sure are. You seen any suspicious niggers in these parts?"

"Can't say as I have." The Reverend replied in a marked tone of disinterest before taking another long draught.

Suspicion remained, but after an uncomfortable pause, Cochran suddenly chuckled. "Why Davey boy, don't this ole man look like that Yankee scoundrel folks been talking about?"

"You mean that fellow who's been swindlin' poor old widows?" Davey grinned hugely. "Come to think of it, he does."

"I'll have you know," the Reverend pretended great affront, "I've never, not once, been called a yeller Yankee. I be Irish! And you do me grave dishonor to think Otherwise."

"Then tell me, ole peddler man, what's the likes of you doin' in these parts, so close to the Orleans' market?"

"I picked up a few goods, that's what, and now me and my boy Sam is headed for Carlisle to visit me mate before headin' north to escape the infernal heat of your upcoming summer."

"What's this friend's name?"

"Grady O'Neill, not that it's any of your concern."

The two men exchanged glances, their suspicions still plain. Davey suddenly fixed his gaze on Sammy and then led his mount to the back. Cochran followed.

They were on to them, and there was only one thing that could give the charade away, and Cochran, with a parrot-like cock of his head, asked, "What's a piss poor peddler doin' with this young buck?"

"Sammy? Oh, had him fer years now. Bought him from an old lady when he was just a young pup, knee high to the ground, up thar in Beinville Parish. Been with me ever since."

Sammy only stared at the ground.

A calloused hand reached down to jerk Sammy's head up, a thumb pushed open his mouth. "Just look at them gleamers," Davey whispered and withdrew his hand, wiping it on his pants as he appraised Sammy's impressive build. "Hell, a buck like this could go stud on a pickaninny farm.

How old are you boy?"

"I’se twenty come summer,'' he replied with a meekness common to a beaten field hand. "Das de truth, massa," he added in feigned simplicity.

"Why haven't you sold him?" Cochran asked. "Worth more than your whole wagon load of

crap."

"Sell him? Hell no! My boy is worth his weight in gold! Aye, come summer in the

Carolinas, I have the only darky in the whole town of Sommerville. I lend him out fer fifty cents a day, sometimes seventy-five, depending on the work, meals included of course, and—"

"Jesus, if you don't run on worse than a coyote at the moon!" Cochran laughed, amused and oddly not angry. He then proceeded to make a long ceremony out of finding a tobacco pouch in his saddlebag, working it into a chew. "You seen any runaway niggers back here, boy?" he asked Sammy.

"Naw massa!" Sammy shook his head. “'I’se don' seed no niggers, naw suh."

"Davey here." Cochran motioned to his companion. "Well, he hates all niggers, but you know what kind of niggers he hates most?"