The Night Angel (11 page)

The house was called a drovers’ tavern in these parts, or a tippling inn farther north. Such places sprouted by the side of busy turnpikes like mushrooms in boggy soil. They served as gathering spots for the sort of folk not welcome closer into town. Men who bore the stench of animals, or the stain of danger. Wayfarers and wastrels and ne’er-do-wells. No wonder the drovers kept their weapons close at hand.

Falconer chose the bench that ran down by the horse trough, as far from the four drovers as he could manage. He set his satchel where it rested against one leg, leaned his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. The sun felt good on his bones. After a night without sleep, it would have been far too easy to doze off. But his quest was only beginning. Narrow heart, he reminded himself.

The black man came back bearing a tin plate and a cup of coffee. Falconer started to thank him as he set the items down on the bench. But he was already turning away. Joseph wore a slave’s cast-offs. The pants could have held two of him. Hemp rope cinched the trousers about his middle, and the ragged hems ended midway up his calves. The shirt was threadbare. Joseph’s face was tainted by a pain so deep it cut cavelike furrows across his forehead and cheeks. Falconer watched him shuffle away and felt himself convicted of all the silent crimes embedded in that man’s face and stooped walk.

Falconer finished his breakfast of beans and corn bread and fatback, washed down the last of his coffee, then rose from the bench. He carried his utensils in one hand and his satchel in the other as he entered the kitchen. “Thank you, Joseph. That was fine fare.”

“Suh.” The word was little more than a quiet cough.

“Could I trouble you for another cup of coffee?”

Wordlessly Joseph used the broom to indicate the pot settled by the fire.

Falconer used a singed rag to protect his hand as he filled his tin mug. “Where might I find the innkeeper?”

“Mas’ Burroughs is over opening the store, I ’spect.” The man did not lift his gaze. He had clearly come to know safety only through seeing nothing, acknowledging no one.

The dry-goods store was housed in what had once been a barn attached to the inn’s north side. The innkeeper scooped nails into a barrel. He said without looking up, “Breakfast is two bits.”

Falconer set his satchel and the coffee mug on the counter. He drew a leather pouch from his pocket and unknotted the drawstring. He pulled out one coin. And waited.

The innkeeper finally looked over, saw what Falconer was holding, and dropped his ladle with a clatter.

Falconer turned the coin so that it reflected the sunlight. “I told you I could pay.”

“Let me see that coin.”

“It’s real enough.”

“I said, let me see it.” The innkeeper moved swiftly for such a big man. Falconer let him take the coin. He watched as the innkeeper slipped it between thumb and forefinger, feeling the waxed surface. Falconer knew what the innkeeper was thinking. Highwaymen often used waxed coins, for the wax kept the money from clinking. The innkeeper’s features stretched tight with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You aim on paying for a two-bit meal with a twenty-five dollar gold piece?”

“I’m after a horse, two donkeys, and supplies for the road.”

The innkeeper made the coin disappear. “I can do that.”

Falconer added, “And your man.”

“Eh, what’s that?”

“Your man Joseph. I’ve taken a liking to him.”

The innkeeper was shaking his head before Falconer finished speaking. “Can’t do it. Old Joe’s part of the family.”

“Sell me a good fast horse, two mules, some grub and gear, and Joseph,” Falconer said. “I’ll give you a hundred fifty dollars in gold coin.”

Falconer knew such costs well. During his work against the Caribbean slave trade, he had run a chandlery, an emporium for merchant ships and island colonials. His clients liked nothing better than to compare the prices of man and horseflesh from South America to the southern United States. These days, a slave fetched anywhere from two to three hundred dollars, if the buyer paid in bank paper. A good horse started at fifty dollars, again using paper money. Payment in gold dropped the price by more than two-thirds.

“Show me the coin,” the innkeeper said.

“When you’ve shown me the horse and mules and we’ve shaken hands on the deal.”

The innkeeper tried for a laugh, but the sound came out a squeak. “You’re too low by half, stranger.”

“This is a take-it-or-leave-it offer,” Falconer replied.

“And what if I say no? You think a highwayman on foot is gonna get anywhere down Richmond way? Why, they’ll string you up in a Yankee minute.”

Falconer held out his hand. “Give me back the gold.”

The innkeeper realized he was losing out on a deal. “Now, you just hold on, stranger. There ain’t no harm in dickering.”

“Not if you have time to waste, which I don’t. Here’s the only dickering I’ll offer.” Falconer made his face go stone hard. “Do me wrong by this, and I’ll come back again.”

The innkeeper backed up as fast as a horse fleeing an open flame. He came up hard against the nail barrel. “There ain’t no reason to talk to me like that.”

“Either show me the wares or give me back that coin.” Falconer hated the sound of his own voice. “I won’t be asking you again.”

Falconer started back up the same road that had brought him to Burroughs Crossing. He rode a dappled gray mare with a broad back and a mane one shade off white. The innkeeper’s boy had wept aloud as Falconer had started off, for the mare had been his charge. Falconer had kept his face hard, though the boy’s sorrowful wails had pierced deep.

Joseph rode one of the mules and held the tether for the other one. He carried all his worldly possessions in a checkered cloth knotted to his saddle horn. His long legs almost scraped the ground as the mule trotted along. He had said nothing over his own sale. Just followed Falconer’s terse orders and kept his face clamped down tight.

Falconer rode along until there were two long bends between them and the settlement. He slowed and inspected the road in both directions. He could hear cows lowing off to the north, the creak of wheels rumbling across the bridge up ahead. But he saw no one. He turned off the road and took a path headed into the woodlands.

“Suh, there ain’t but one way ’cross that river,” Joseph called out, “and it’s straight on up ahead.”

“We’re going this way.”

Joseph shrugged, clucked, and said, “Come on, mule.”

The path was little more than a game trail. Branches closed in so tight on both sides Falconer finally dropped from the horse and led by the reins. The mules disliked the confined forest and brayed loudly. Joseph gripped the reins and tugged them along, saying nothing more.

As Falconer had hoped, the trail led to a meadow bordered on its north side by the swollen river. Others had clearly camped here, for there were several fire rings set with flat river-stones. Falconer tied his horse to a neighboring tree limb and loosened the saddle. He knew Joseph was watching him nervously. Falconer hated the man’s fear but knew there was nothing he could do about it except keep his motions slow and deliberate. “Tie up those mules and come over here, please.”

Falconer dropped his bedroll and satchel to the ground. He did not look up as Joseph approached cautiously. From his satchel he drew out the black-bound volume and held it out. “Do you know what this is?”

Joseph’s eyes flickered over, then away. Not once had he actually looked at Falconer’s face. “I ’spect it’s the Good Book, suh.”

“It is. Can you read?”

“Not even my name.”

“Are you a believer?”

This answer was far slower in coming. “I was, suh. Once.”

Falconer took hold of the Bible in both hands. “I stand before you at the beginning of a quest. I feel God has put it in my heart to make some small retribution for my sins. Not that I can atone for them. Only the Savior can do that.” Falconer paused long enough that Joseph finally raised his eyes, but he still would not look into Falconer’s face. “I was first mate and then captain of a slave vessel. The one voyage I made on that vessel brought me to the Lord’s saving grace. We carried four hundred and nineteen wretched souls. I do not know their names. I doubt I even saw one of their faces.”

Falconer knew the man probably did not understand one word in five. And those Joseph understood, he probably did not believe. Falconer went on, “My quest is to free a slave for every one of those I carried into bondage. You are the first.”

Falconer drew out Joseph’s bill of sale and knelt on the ground. From his satchel he pulled out a quill and a bottle of ink. He unstopped the bottle, dipped the quill, and wrote out the words. He offered Joseph the paper without rising. “This is yours. I offer it with my abject apology. Nothing I can do will ever wash away my sins. That was the gift of Jesus. This I do simply as a symbol of my repentance.”

Joseph made no move to accept the paper. His entire body trembled. “What you want from me?”

Falconer returned the cork to the inkwell and weighted the paper to the satchel with the bottle. He rose to his feet, keeping his motions slow. Even so, Joseph backed up a good half-dozen paces. His eyes scattered fear and incomprehension all over the sunlit meadow. Falconer showed him open palms, though he knew his actions meant less than nothing.

“You can leave now. Maryland is a day’s hard push along the turnpike. I will give you money. Or you can stay.”

Falconer repeated the words a second time. Then a third. Finally the man’s violent trembling began to subside.

“You jes’ be letting me go?” he asked.

“If you want.”

“If I
want
? Whatever in this whole world is about what I
want
?”

Falconer shut his eyes and prayed, not so much a prayer of words as a silent plea for help. He held to this with as strong a grip as he knew how. But all he felt was weary.

When he opened his eyes once more, Joseph was looking at him for the very first time. “I walk that road north, don’t matter what no paper says ’bout words I can’t read. I’d be picked up and sold ’fore sunset.”

“Then you can come with me. Only as a free man, though. I have work to the south. When it’s done, I’ll take you north myself.”

“You’ll take me far as the free states?”

“And give you money to start you on your way.”

Joseph kept his head cocked to one side, his neck twisted as unnaturally as his body. He blinked slowly. “I asked you afore. What you want from me?”

“I need help.” Falconer knew he should be saying it all better. But he had not slept a decent hour for a week now. Fatigue coated his thoughts and his tongue like tar. “You know what they do to people who free slaves?”

“Every slave knows that,” Joseph replied. “They brand ’em and lash ’em and then they hang ’em. The man who frees ’em and the slaves both. Put a sign ’round the man’s neck saying let this be a warning.” He was watching intently now. “Hang ’em high.”

“Four hundred and nineteen souls,” Falconer repeated. “I need help finding them, and I need help buying them, and I need a way to get them north. So this is what I want. Give me something I can do to win your trust. You don’t have any reason to believe a word I’m saying. But if you can think of anything that might make you accept what I’m saying as the simple truth, then I’ll do it.”

Falconer turned and headed for his bedroll. He was so tired he stumbled. His quest was started, and all he could think of was where to lay his head. His last thought was of how he was failing yet again.

Chapter 10

Falconer awoke to the comforting smells of campfire, coffee, and hot food. He tossed aside his blanket and rose to his feet, feeling rested after a few hours of sleep. The sun was lowering into its afternoon slant. Midway across the meadow, set where the afternoon light warmed and dried the surrounding earth, Joseph had built a strong fire, then let it burn down to a heap of coals. The fire was banked around a pair of flat river stones. On one sizzled cuts of fatback from Falconer’s recently acquired stores. Nestled in the grease were six lumps of cornmeal frying into crisp griddle cakes. On the other stone simmered a pot that emitted the fragrance of brewing coffee.

Falconer walked to the stream, washed his face, and combed his hair with his fingers before retying his ribbon and returning to the campsite. “I half expected to find you long gone.”

Joseph’s only response was to use his shirttail to lift the pot and pour Falconer a tin cup full of coffee.

Falconer walked to where his saddlebags were slung over a tree limb and extracted a cloth sack containing squares of brown sugar. He squatted beside the other man and dropped five cubes into the tin cup. Joseph watched this carefully. Falconer offered him the sack. Joseph hesitated long, then carefully extracted one square. He slipped it into his mouth, sucked, and shut his eyes with pleasure.

Falconer took his time over the mug. It was a true campfire brew, as strong as tar and cooked long enough for the grounds to settle. Joseph forked the fatback and corn fritters onto two plates. He watched Falconer bow his head over his food, then slowly did the same. The two men ate in silence. Falconer set down his plate and held out his cup for a refill. “I have forgotten just how good food can taste when cooked over an open fire.”

Joseph still said nothing as he poured the coffee. Falconer dropped in another five sugar lumps, offered Joseph the sack, watched the man take a single lump, and put the sack on the ground between them.

Then he waited.

Joseph took his time sucking on the brown sugar. Finally he squinted into the waning sun and said, “Seem mighty strange how a man come walkin’ into Burroughs Crossing. Buys himself a fine horse, two mules, a man.”

“I told you the truth about this quest.”

“This man don’t have nothin’ to his name ’cept a purse of gold,” Joseph went on, gazing toward the setting sun. “Don’t even have tin plates for his supper. Gotta buy everything, right down to the sugar he’s wasting in his coffee.”

“It’s a seaman’s weakness, the use of sugar.” Falconer felt his pulse quicken as he sensed the testing in the man’s voice. “I have been given an impossible task. A second quest, besides the freeing of slaves. This other quest is one I do for another man. One that must remain secret until I am certain you’re with me. It has meant I’ve had to depart by stealth. I traveled far as the bridge with others. I slipped away under the cover of night, leaving everything but this gold behind. For now, even my name must remain a secret.”