Passion's Joy (3 page)

With the malleable docility and fear common to any Negro confronting a white man's malice, Sammy shook his head. "Naw suh!""He hates lying niggers most."

Grunting assent, Davey pulled a knife from his boot for the next part. "Know what Davey does to a lying nigger, boy?"

"Naw suh," Sammy said in feigned alarm.

Davey rested the point of his knife over his abdomen in a not-so-subtle indication of a cruel practice.

"You ain't lyin' boy, are you?" "Naw massa, I sho ain't."

"Well now"—the Reverend had had quite enough—"if you gents don't mind, we'll be on our way. Gotta reach Carlisle by noon, I do. Unless mayhaps I can interest you in those medicines I was speaking of? As a matter of fact," he stated, flashing his most convincing smile, "I have one bottle left of Dr. Kent's gentleman's tonic, guaranteed to put the old spirit back in a man's vitals—"

"Oh hell! Go on, git old man." Cochran laughed suddenly, shaking his head. "Don't reckon I could stomach much more of your bull. Come on Davey"—he reined his mount around—"we got us some niggers to catch."

"No cause to be nasty," the Reverend muttered as he gave a slash to the reins. The two bays jumped, and the cart moved forward.

It was over, and Joy breathed a heavy sigh of relief, relief disappearing as the seconds wore on and Davey had yet to move. He remained mounted, staring after the cart. Impending danger filled the air; she stopped breathing as her gaze followed his. A small pool of fresh blood marked the middle of the road.

Davey spurred his mount to the spot and looking down, he laughed loud and clear, withdrawing a long pistol. This was cocked. A shot shattered the calm morning air. Libertine

bolted, throwing Joy Claret hard to the ground. Cochran raced back in a gallop, took one long look and within minutes, the cart had been stopped, and the Reverend stared at the long barrels of two ivory handled pistols.

"Why, peddler man." Malice filled Cochran’s grin now. "I do believe blood is dripping from your cart." Like barnyard cats, they would play with the mice before the mercy of a kill. "Looks like nigger blood, too, don't it Davey?"

"It sure as hell does."

"Blood ye say?" The Reverend pretended surprise and turned to look incredulously at the road. Now, the trick was to buy Joy time, while trying to get another shot fired. Two shots to a pistol, and if they could compel Davey to fire again, he’d be disarmed completely. "Well, I'll be a son of a gun! You hear that Sammy? The horses, boy! Get down and check the horses."

Sammy knew his part well, and as the men watched the Reverend, he found his own pistol in the pile of carpets. "Massa, I'se mighty 'fraid of de horses, you'se knows hit."

"Are you lookin' fer trouble now?"

"Naw suh, I sho ain't." The pistol slipped beneath his breeches; the cold sting of the metal felt like a dip in ice water, tensing the long length of his muscled back. "I'se just mighty fearful of dem beasts. Don' make me massa, please!"

"Why you insolent guttersnipe!" the Reverend yelled back. "You get the hell down here and check out the horses or I'll give you something to be fearful about!"

Joy Claret finally calmed Libertine enough to vault onto her back. She made painfully slow progress to the spot where the cart was stopped ahead, maneuvering slowly through the trees and brush. Each of Libertine's steps sounded like a trumpet announcing her presence.

"Massa, I'se beg you—"

A shot fired, whizzing close enough to the Reverend's ear for him to understand George Washington's famed remark that compared bullets passing his ear to the sound of music.

"Git off your seat, peddler man!"

The Reverend slowly eased to the ground. "Boy! Down!"

Careful to keep his back to the cart, Sammy's bare feet touched the cool earth. He slowly made his way to the Reverend's side, looking as scared as a child awakening from a nightmare. With hands behind his back, he kept the great width of his shoulders hunched and his gaze lowered.

He barely caught Joy's movement in the forest behind them. The horses danced nervously, sensing what the riders did not.

Sammy suddenly dropped to his knees before Davey. "Don' a shoot me, massa, don' a shoot me!" He pointed an accusing finger at the Reverend. "I'se didn' do hit! I'se a beggin' mercy, don' a shoot me!"

Catching on, the Reverend kicked Sammy good and hard. "Why you miserable, ungrateful black arse! I’ll teach you to turn belly up on me! I suppose you think I—"

The third shot fired, and the Reverend bolted back and fell to the ground. He was not hit, but his frail bones felt shaken out of their sockets. In the flash of the moment's distraction, Joy moved. Cochran heard her horse; but it took one too many seconds to crash into his consciousness, and a barrel of a pistol nudged hard into his back. "Drop it, bastard! Drop it or I'll blow your innards sky high!"

In the same instant, Sammy drew on Davey, bracing for the possible crossfire. Mercifully, none came.

Joy controlled her half-wild horse with two knees and answered Cochran's hesitation with another hard nudge. "Drop it Mister! I won't waste air tellin' you again!"

Pistols dropped to the ground, and the Reverend struggled up to recover his dazed wits. He was just getting too damn old for this kind of scam, good as it was to play. Joy backed up a few safe paces, then gathered her reins back in hand to stop Libertine's nervous prance. Cochran turned to see that the queer voice belonged to a pipsqueak of a boy. Size showed only in the width of the boy's grin.

It was Sammy's and the Reverend's show now. The bounty hunters were first ordered off their horses, then into the cover of the forest and onto the ground, stomachs down, and faces to the dirt. From the cart, Sammy produced ankle chains to secure their feet together, then tied their arms behind their backs with a rope.

Back on the road, Joy quickly tended to their horses, removing saddle and tack to set them free. Haste urged a fast pace, for there was no telling when someone would come along. Only luck had kept the road deserted so far. Uppermost in all three captors' minds was the small pool of blood lying in the road. Mary must be brought to the ship's surgeon as fast as possible.

The whole thing was managed in minutes. Joy remained to watch the road, while Sammy forced the two men farther into the forest. They fell hard every few steps due to the indignity of the

chains. A small clearing appeared not far from the road, and here, Sammy began tying the two together to the base of a huge oak.

"I don't believe you two gents had the benefit of proper introduction to my man Sammy,'' the Reverend said, as Sammy secured the ropes as tight as his great strength permitted. "As your dim wits might have allowed, Sammy here is not your average nigger."

"Naw sir, I sure ain't." Sammy grinned. "Know what kind of nigger Sammy is?"

Sammy stood before them, his huge frame drawing unmasked amusement to bellow like a sail with winds. He held Davey's dagger in his hands now, fondling it with a lover's caress.

"You see, Sammy here is a nigger who hates white men." "Yessiree! I sure do."

"Know what kind of white men Sammy hates most?"

Bright red fury mixed evenly with fear, but neither man would play this game, at least until the Reverend kicked Davey hard in the face. "I asked you a question."

"No!"

"Well, Sammy here, he hates bounty hunters most of all." "I sure as hell do! Yes suh!"

"Know what Sammy does to the bounty hunters we catch?'

Sammy positioned the knife over Davey's abdomen, smiling a grin of pure madness.

Cochran's gaze burned with furious rage, but Davey's nervously darted with sudden fear, as the inconceivable became suddenly feasible.

Abruptly though, the Reverend found an objection to that particular form of torture, complaining of the hours it took the last time to wash the blood from his clothes. Other forms of torture were discussed in detail but discarded one by one until Davey fell into incoherent mumblings for mercy, and even the cocksure Cochran twitched some with fear. Finally, Sammy decided to leave them as crow bait, despite the Reverend's objection that the death took too long and they always seemed to die of thirst long before the birds even got to their eyes.

Joy knocked on the side of the cart thrice. Her heart pounded furiously, as her gaze darted anxiously up and down the road. "Are you well?"

"Yes, maam." The masculine voice sounded low, barely above a whisper and unmistakably frightened.

"All's well, but Mary, is she all right?" asked Joy.

"Out cold fer de longest spell, but I'se feel her breathin' regular." "Hang on. It won't be long now."

Glancing in both directions, she nervously petted Libertine's neck, far more to calm herself than her horse. She could never stay for the final violence, for she could not abide it, even when it was necessary. Despite her proclivities for these noble but dangerous missions and though she never discussed it, violence, any violence, shook her to the depth of her soul. The chicken slaughter at the marketplace nearly brought her to her knees. Tender hearted she was, and though she loathed this feminine pretension, try as she might, she simply could not witness suffering of any kind.

She even refused to let Sammy load her pistol. She would more easily shoot herself than another person, even bounty hunters—who surely were the lowest and most undeserving of all God's creatures. Besides, threatening men with an empty pistol seemed to work just as well as a loaded one.

The Reverend and Sammy finally returned. "Are they out?" she asked.

"Out cold." Sammy's huge hands rested on his hips and he smiled. "Joy Claret, child, you did good, real good. But it's a sure thing that you gotta stay."

She nodded, having expected it. Someone had to watch until the passengers reached safety, making certain the men didn't wake and try to alert a passerby.

"How's the girl?" the Reverend asked as he quickly ascended to the driver's seat. "Unconscious but still breathing." Anxiety marked Joy's features. "Surely she needs a

doctor; make all haste!"

"I’ll have her to the ship surgeon inside of two hours. Don't worry, darlin'. Now lass, I want to see you perched up in some branch and remember, if there's any trouble, any trouble at all, you're to—"

"Fly with the wind," she and Sammy both finished the familiar warning before laughing at the synchronicity. She watched as the old cart disappeared down the deserted road. Taking hold of Libby's reins, she turned to lead her mare into the forest.

The sun's position announced a ten o'clock hour. Shadows shifted and shortened by the minute. The moist air filled with the rich scents of spring growth: trees, ferns, shrubs and always that putrid, though hardly unpleasant, smell of the river nearby. Birds called distant and near, and the flight of unseen creatures gave the familiar landscape a lush exotic feel.

She might have been lost on a deserted island.

In a small clearing the size of a decent parlor, Joy Claret found the two men unconscious beneath a wide oak tree, safely bound, tied and gagged, looking far more like drunken fools than the nefarious devil-doers they were. She kept at a distance. Close inspection of the surrounding trees led to many possibilities. She finally chose another old oak, one with a fairly low hanging branch, directly across from her charges. She positioned her mount beneath the chosen branch, and with a remarkable agility few of her sex possessed, she swung onto the branch. "Stay close, my pet, stay close."

Libertine tossed her head in agreement and wandered nearby to graze. Joy settled against the upturned and moss-covered branch, and after a careful inspection for spiders, ants and any other unwanted companions that might think to share her space, she settled her gaze on the prisoners for the long wait.

A narrow hunting path led into the small clearing, and as she noticed it, her fanciful imagination flew down the escape way it presented. She was soon lost in a pleasant daydream: She was an Indian maiden, separated from her tribe and family, and through a quick succession of unlikely events, she was in perilous need of rescue. The same boy would always magically appear to rescue her. He was blond, blue-eyed and handsome. Like Joshua, he was not as strong of build as he was clever. A series of more unlikely events followed in her mind's eye, until this unnamed boy, by virtue of wits alone, rescued her, declared his affection, and ended the dream with a kiss.

She woke from her dreamy haze with a blush, an inexplicable warmth moving through her limbs. She could not make sense of it. Lately, as she lay in bed at night or during the family reading time and once right in the middle of old Miss St. Ivy's tea, these silly school girl dreams would take hold of her mind!

What in heaven's name was wrong with her? The daydreams were bad enough in themselves, but after a conscious review of the content, it irked her to realize she was always in need of rescuing, instead of doing the rescuing. Yet, whenever she changed the circumstances to

suit her well-defined character, whenever she became the rescuer, the dream suddenly had as much appeal as a slice of moldy bread.

A low groan interrupted her musings, and as she sat up, a shrewd cautious gaze instantly replaced the dreamy one. The dark-haired devil lifted his head but with a great effort, then it fell back with another low muffled growl.

Alertness fixed in her large, blue eyes.

A dog barked in the far distance. The sound came from the forest rather than the road. A quick glance behind reassured her that Libertine was near, but the mare's ears were pricked with sudden caution. The sound drew closer still, and as her gaze riveted to the hunting path, she withdrew her pistol.

It was the habit of Ram Barrington to run for no other reason than the sheer joy and exhilaration of physically exhausting himself. He'd developed this odd habit as a young boy; it helped him escape the pain and terror of a troubled childhood long forgotten. Later, running had eased the accumulated tension and restlessness of many long sea voyages taken as a young boy aboard his great uncle Sir Admiral Byron's English man-of-war. Then, as a young man, it helped ease the tedium, his impatience with the slow peaceful pace of India's eternal summers. The habit carried over into adulthood, and he sometimes chuckled to himself with a vision of himself as an old eighty-year-old man, cane in hand, still passing an early morning hour or so trying to run.