The Night Angel (12 page)
Joseph weighed Falconer’s words. In the lowering sunlight the deep seams in his features seemed carved by a wicked blade. “Hour before dawn a carriage come by, heading fast and hard for Richmond. Fancy a rig as ever I seen.”
Falconer used his own shirt to lift the coffee pot, though he had little desire for more. What he wanted most was to move. He could feel his muscles quiver with the hunger he had not permitted himself to feel before now. How much he needed a new ally, someone he could trust when he needed to shut his eyes and forget the unattainable mission he had set for himself. “You notice a very great deal.”
“Slave wants to stay alive, he gots to stay awares.”
“You’re not a slave anymore.”
Falconer’s words hung in the warm air. Their meadow was ringed by tall pines and birdsong. Joseph remained immobile long enough for sunset’s border to rise up his shoulders and move across his chin. The stream chuckled a soft note to Falconer’s right. He sipped from his cup to give his hands something to do.
Finally Joseph spoke. “You asked was there something needed doin’. Something to make me believe what you been saying.”
“Just tell me what it is.”
Joseph’s entire body clenched with the emotion. “I had me a woman,” he said, his voice raw.
“Your wife?”
“We never stood before no preacher. But she was mine just the same.”
“And children?”
“Two boys. Nine and thirteen.” Joseph wiped his face with a shaking hand. “We was owned by a gamblin’ man. Bet against Burroughs in a horse race. The man lost the race and turned me over to him as payment. I worked the man’s fields since before he was born. He just signed the papers and walked away.”
Falconer tossed out the dregs of his cup. “Where is he?”
Joseph reached over and gripped Falconer’s wrist, his motion lightning swift. He looked at Falconer, his face holding a feverish gleam. “Don’t you be messing with Joseph. I ain’t got nothing. I ain’t never trusted no man. Don’t you be saying this and crushing me just ’cause you can.”
Falconer held the man’s gaze. “Where is this man’s farm?”
Joseph waited a long moment, then said, “Moss Plantation, down Petersburg way.”
“Can you find it in the dark?”
Joseph released his grip. “ ’Spect so. I done lived there all my life.”
Falconer rose to his feet. “Then let’s move out.”
They held to game trails until they had bypassed Burroughs Crossing. The gathering dark slowed them until they emerged from the forest. They faced a city aglow with firelight and lanterns. Richmond was built upon hills ringing the James River. The higher slopes contained the wealthier homes, and the deepening twilight revealed lights glimmering from a host of manors. Brick lanes shone like gold ribbons.
Falconer and Joseph chose a route that took them through Richmond’s darker south side. They paused only to ask directions from taciturn wagon masters. Toward midnight they joined the well-traveled Fredericksburg Turnpike. As soon as they left Richmond’s city lights behind, Falconer saw the stars were gone, the sky wrapped in yet more clouds. Thankfully there was no rain. They passed teams of oxen lashed eight to a wagon, and the occasional horse-drawn cart. They kept to the middle course and made good time.
Toward dawn they slipped off the road, then moved farther into the woods until they came upon a likely meadow. This one they shared with other travelers, most of whom were asleep. The sort of wayfarers who could not afford an inn were not likely to notice a lone man traveling with a servant, or so Falconer hoped. They shared another campfire meal while the horse and mules chomped oats in their feedbags. Falconer watered them at the neighboring stream and returned to find Joseph packed and ready to move out. A single glance at the man’s fevered expression kept Falconer from asking if he needed rest.
Morning was a feeble affair. They trekked up and down a series of steep-sided hills, every crest revealing an endless sky of bluish-gray hues, peaks and valleys and whorls that might have been beautiful were Falconer not so weary. The land through which they traveled was sharp in unattractive contrast. The constant rains had delayed the onset of spring. Hardwood trees were still bare. The tilled fields were brown and empty. The only humanity Falconer saw was there upon the turnpike. Now and then he glanced over at Joseph. The man sat well upon the mule, upright and strong, too intent upon what lay ahead to pay his body’s exhaustion any mind.
Suddenly Joseph raised up and squinted into the gray distance.
“What is it?”
In response, Joseph kicked the mule’s sides. The two beasts, roped together as they were, began cantering away. The mules had a curious gait—not a gallop like a horse, yet surprisingly fast. Falconer let Joseph take the lead. The turnpike was forty feet wide as it swooped down the hillside. The bottomland was flanked by a broad stream. Where the road narrowed to cross the plank bridge, two wagons approaching from opposite directions had become tangled. The drovers were shouting and the oxen lowing. Joseph did not even slow as he twisted the mule’s reins and led the beast away from the impassable bridge, down the slope, and into the stream.
At the stream’s central point, the water rose and wet Falconer’s boots in a chilling rush. The mare was surefooted and rock steady, which was fortunate, since Falconer had little experience at riding. After a night in the saddle, his back ached and his thighs burned. He could not imagine how Joseph felt, nor what drove the man forward with such urgency.
The mules were lathered and snorting hard by the time they crested the next ridgeline. Joseph pulled up sharp, squinting into the distance. “Oh Lawd, no, no,” he cried, “it’s more than a body can stand.”
Falconer had a seafarer’s eye, trained by studying distant horizons. Yet all he could see was a line of people walking upon the next hill. A dozen of them, silhouetted against the murky sky. A horseman appeared to lead while another followed the group.
When he realized what he saw, a cold wash of dread swept over him. “You recognize them?”
“My boys.” Joseph’s words were a groan.
“You’re certain?”
“Solomon’s walking third in that devil line. Isaac is fifth. Sure as my heart is breaking.”
“You hold to a steady pace. We can’t blow the mules.” It was Falconer’s turn to dig in his heels. “Hyah!”
The mare was bigger and stronger than the mules. Even so, by the time Falconer crested the next ridge, the horse’s chest was heaving and its sides were lathered. The hill’s southern slope was far more gentle, leading not into yet another valley but rather sliding gently through well-tended farms. Smoke rose in steady plumes from beyond the next line of hills, marking the turnpike’s approach to Petersburg. Falconer spotted the human train less than a quarter mile ahead and slowed to a walk.
The horsemen fore and aft kept their charges tight against the roadside, allowing the swifter wagon traffic to pass unheeded. Falconer knew he should be planning what he was about to say, but his mind was locked down tight by the spectacle.
The rear horseman rode a speckled gelding and held to a pace that was easy on his horse. His charges were bent with fear and fatigue. Falconer’s hands gripped the reins so tight the horse whinnied and skittered nervously. An approaching drover cracked his whip and cried, “Guard yer course, there!”
The two horsemen turned at that. The rear guard carried a leather quirt strapped to his right wrist and resting upon his pommel, which would make it difficult for him to pull the pistol from his belt. The lead rider had no such problem. He swiveled his steed about and drew a bead with his musket.
Falconer forced his hands to unlock, though there was nothing he could do about the rage scalding his face and throat. “Hold hard there.”
“I ain’t in the habit of taking orders from strangers creeping up on me.” The lead rider shifted the muzzle a fraction. “You best cross over to the other side and keep on going.”
“I’m after doing business with you.”
“And I ain’t asking you again.” The lead man cocked his weapon. “Now git.”
Falconer kept coming. “I’ll pay in gold.”
The man lowered his weapon a notch. “Talk is cheap, stranger.”
“I need to reach into my saddlebag.”
“Use your left hand. Keep the other up high there, ’less you aim on eating lead for breakfast. Ain’t much chance of me missing at this range.”
Falconer fumbled with the buckle, for he was reaching across the saddle while holding his horse steady with the wrong hand. Finally he managed to unknot the tie and draw out a leather pouch. He used his teeth to pull the drawstring and let two of the coins slip free.
“Cody, you keep a sharp eye on this feller.”
The other man slung his quirt on the saddlehorn and drew his pistol. “I got him covered.”
The lead rider lowered his weapon, then leaned over his pommel to eject a long stream of tobacco juice. He wiped his mouth with a stained sleeve. “Which ones you after?”
“All of them.”
“Is that gold eating a hole in your pocket?” The lead rider’s sweat-stained hat was pulled down low over his forehead. “Mister, you ain’t even checked ’em out.”
Falconer knew he was expected to get off his horse and make a slow procession down the line. But he feared the inner fury such an action might unleash. Falconer had sworn an oath never to take another life, not even if it meant giving up his own. Yet he found it nigh on impossible to keep his hands where they were. He dared not even look at the people in that line. “I’ve seen enough.”
“We gonna sit here chawing or are you gonna—”
Falconer said the first thing that came into his mind. “I’m taking charge of a mine down Gastonia way.”
At that, three of the older people in line, a man and two women, began wailing. It was a wordless cry, a dirge so hopeless it caused the passing oxen to low in fear. Falconer’s heart felt wrenched from his chest.
The lead rider, however, grinned broadly enough for yellowed teeth to appear within the tobacco-stained mouth. He flipped back his hat so it hung from the leather strap around his neck. His eyes were as empty as his grin. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I knew you for a hard man first time I laid eyes on you. Which mine you overseeing?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Naw, guess not.” The lead rider pointed a thumb toward the south. “We got us a dandy auction right down there in Petersburg. First in nigh on a year. Hear tell they’s gonna be all sorts of folks looking for good stock. Don’t see how I could take less than top dollar from you.”
“How many will be offering you gold?”
“Yeah, you got a point there, I can’t deny it.” The lead rider shot out another brown stream. “I’ll take twelve hundred dollars for the lot.”
“Too much.”
“All right. All right. You’re a hard man, didn’t I say it? Nine hundred for all twelve. That’s my last and final price.”
Falconer knew he was overpaying. Knew also he was expected to dicker. But his hands were itching to pound this pair into the earth. Rage made his entire body stiffen as he counted out the coins and turned his voice to a growl. “Make out the papers.”
The people in line were all wailing now, caught up in the fear of those who understood what it meant to work the mines. The two riders paid them no attention.
The lead man passed the musket to his fellow and counted aloud as he let the coins fall through his fingers. “Don’t believe I caught your name, stranger.”
The misery chained in that line left Falconer feeling as though eternal darkness seeped from the earth, rising up to blind him. “John,” he murmured, scarcely aware he had spoken at all.
“Nothing else?”
“John will do.”
The slaver dropped to the ground, pulled a sheaf of papers from his saddlebags, and signed them with broad strokes. “There’s your titles, free and clear, Mr. John. I’ll even throw in the chains and a pair of canteens to show there’s no hard feelings. You’ll be needing these keys. Now then. You aim on taking this load south all on your lonesome?”
Falconer found himself unable to look the rider straight in the eye. “My man’s leading mules off behind.”
“They’s good ’uns, you’ll see. I deal strictly in quality merchandise.” He offered Falconer his hand. “The name’s Jeb Saunders. This here’s my brother Cody. You be wanting more of the same, I work mostly out of Rock Hill.”
Falconer pulled the horse’s reins away from the man’s hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
“You do that, Mr. John.” The slaver let his hand drop with another barren grin. “Always a pleasure dealing with a man who pays in gold.”
The empty-handed slavers headed south, casting a few glances over their shoulders. They soon left the straggling band far behind. The older one, Jeb, kept his horse reined in tight to his brother Cody’s side, their legs almost touching as they entered Petersburg.
Jeb Saunders scarcely seemed to notice the city or take heed of where he was going, Cody noted. This was most unlike his brother. Most times, Jeb would crow for hours over taking a man like he just did back there on the road. Cody shook his head and shrugged.
Jeb kept just enough grip on the reins to head his horse for the lone tavern fronting the slave docks. Petersburg was a strange sort of town—neither this nor that. The families with power put on airs like they were as good as folk up Richmond way. The town itself was as old as any. But where Richmond and Williamsburg had grown and prospered, Petersburg had festered. It did not expand so much as sprawl. Cody had heard it described as all mouth and dark underbelly. Which was why it contained one of only two permanent slave docks in all Virginia, the other being by the port of Norfolk and almost never used these days.
The tavern was just the sort of place they liked—dark and quietly welcome. Tipplin’ hours meant nothing to a place like this. Cody started to climb down from the saddle. His brother remained where he was. “You aim on sittin’ there all day?” Cody demanded. “My throat’s bone dry with road dust.”
Jeb continued to stare at nothing. “I knowed that horse.”
“What you goin’ on about now?”
“The one that feller was riding.” Jeb slapped the reins on his leg. “I seen it before.”
