The Night Angel (34 page)

Afterward, when the entire congregation was feeling satisfied in every way, the pastor prayed for half an hour, asking the Lord’s blessing upon the planting, the new arrivals and their travels north, the community, and on specific members who had ailments or special needs. The last name he mentioned was Falconer, asking first for safe travels and then for his safe return to Salem. When the chorus of amens ended, Falconer found several people watching him, Ada and Matt among them. Only then did he realize the full import of the pastor’s final blessing.
Return to Salem
echoed through his mind and heart. He dared not look at Ada again.

Emmett Reeves made preparations to leave with the banker Grobbe and a half-dozen men from the bachelors’ choir. The desire to help Theo Henning and the prospect of double wages paid in new gold coin encouraged the village elders to grant the men temporary leave. The sight of this strong band blessed by the pastor before setting off eased Falconer’s worry over how Theo would fare at the Gastonia mine.

The next morning Falconer walked the length of the village. Ada joined him, while Joseph rode a dozen paces behind. Falconer was leading as fine a horse as any he had ever seen, much less ridden. Matt was sitting in the saddle and listened to every word his mother and Falconer said while his pup gamboled about the horse’s feet. The gelding was on loan from the banker Grobbe, on the promise that Falconer would keep it safe and return it as swiftly as possible. Falconer needed no further reason to come back to Salem.

“How long will you be gone?” Ada asked at his side.

“Let’s see,” Falconer began, walking with the horse’s reins draped over his shoulder. The chestnut mare gleamed like autumn gold in the morning light. “We must reach the Moss Plantation within three days to stay within his time limit. A day to complete the business, perhaps two.”

“That could stretch into a week,” Ada noted, a wistfulness in her voice that made Falconer want to embrace her on the spot. “And even then you probably will not be able to start back.”

Falconer found himself unable to suppress a chuckle.

“You find that humorous?”

“No, Ada. I am laughing because of this tumult I feel in my heart.”

Her upturned face was solemn. “You are thinking of the woman in Washington?”

“No again. I wonder at that, I tell you quite honestly.” He looked down at her. “But just now I find myself only able to think about the woman walking alongside me.”

She flushed and dropped her gaze. For a brief heartbeat of time their hands brushed together. Falconer felt a lingering fire long after she had stepped away to a proper distance.

Ada asked, “And after the farm you must go to Washington?”

“Yes. I have other responsibilities, as you know. The man who sent me on this quest is no doubt concerned by my long absence.”

“The woman, Serafina—is it her father?”

“Alessandro Gavi. Yes.”

“You will see the young woman again.”

“Yes, I will.” He wanted to tell Ada that it did not matter. But he could not until he stood before Serafina and knew the truth in her presence.

Ada did not respond as he might have expected. Instead she said, “I sat by my husband’s grave yesterday. For a long, long time. I wondered at how I could still love that good man and yet now find my heart expanding, possibly for another.”

“Ada—”

She halted him with a slight motion of one hand. “I beg you to wait and speak when you can do so with an open heart and clear mind.”

“Aye,” he said softly, marveling at her wisdom. “Aye.”

They said nothing more until they reached the village border, and Falconer lifted Matt down. He hugged the boy twice—once for himself and once more for what he wished he could give Ada.

Ada waited until he swung into the saddle. Then she gripped her son before her with both arms across his chest, in a manner that told Falconer she too wished to hold someone else. “Just tell me one thing,” she said and could not keep the tremble from her voice.

“Yes, Ada. You don’t need to ask. Yes.”

She did nonetheless. “Tell me that you shall return, John Falconer.”

Matt turned and buried his face against his mother’s shoulder. Falconer said, “May the Lord our God keep you safe, Ada Hart.” He took a breath to try and still the quake in his own voice. “You and your wonderful son. May He bless you and yours until I am back with you again.”

“The only blessing I shall ask for, John Falconer,” she said and wiped away a single tear, “is that you return swiftly home.”

The horses were far more rested than the ones who rode them. Three hours into the journey, Falconer’s two days of respite in Salem vanished. The horse’s gait jarred his very bones. No doubt Joseph felt the same, but the man made no protest. They left the Wachau Valley behind and soon came upon the stubby Virginia hills. Though the forest closed in and the trail narrowed, they made good progress. By the time they halted at midafternoon to rest their horses, they had covered more than their group had during two full days on the journey south.

The two men rode on until darkness threatened the horses’ footing. They halted in a defile carved by floodwaters between the river and the cliff face, and ate a good meal from Ada’s larder. Falconer stared into the fire, yearning after more than the woman’s food.

Where the road broadened in the approach to Danville, they urged the horses to a trot. They saved half a day, perhaps more, by riding straight on through the town. They spent the night in a drovers’ corral, then joined the Richmond Turnpike and pushed harder still, arriving at the Moss farm toward late afternoon.

At the point where the plantation turnoff met the road, Joseph pulled his horse up hard. He slipped from the saddle and stood easing his back and staring at the ground.

“Isn’t this our turning?” Falconer asked.

Joseph raised his head to point at a stone milepost beside the plantation path. “For most of my life, that marker shaped the border of my world.”

“Then why are we stopping?”

Joseph pointed at the ground by his feet. “Looks like a lot of folks been coming and going down the Moss trail.”

Falconer slid from the saddle and studied where Joseph was pointing. He saw just prints of boots and horses’ hooves. “Are you certain?”

Joseph squinted at Falconer. “You don’t see nothing?”

“Ask me about the feather of wind upon high-topped waves,” Falconer replied. “Tell me to read the portent of an approaching squall. But markings in road dust are an alien script to my eyes.”

Joseph harrumphed once, then returned his attention to the road at their feet. “I count a whole passel of riders. Can’t say for sho’ how many, but it weren’t that long back.”

“How can you tell?”

“See there, the markings in that print?”

Falconer bent closer still and shook his head. “No.”

“You can see the maker’s mark on that horseshoe, plain as the nose on your face.”

Falconer gave up, straightened, and looked up the empty road. “How would our hunters know to find us here?”

“Now you’re askin’ something I can’t answer.” Joseph’s features tightened. “But I got me that creepy crawly feelin’ under my skin.”

“As do I,” Falconer said slowly.

“What do we do?”

Falconer tightened the belt about his middle, as though it still bore sword and pistol. “We plan.”

Falconer approached the Moss plantation with his senses on full alert. At a narrow stream that formed one of the orchard’s borders, his horse dropped his head to drink. The fields seemed in far worse shape now, for weeds were the only crop he could see. Falconer looked over his shoulder and tried to spot Joseph back in the woods at the bottom of the hill, but he could see nothing.

They had made their way through the forest on the closest approach to the slave quarters. Joseph had left Falconer minding the horses and crept forward on foot alone. He was back soon enough, shaking his head and announcing the quarters were empty. Twice Joseph had given his one-word judgment over the state of the plantation land. “Evil,” he said, shaking his head.

The house simply looked asleep to Falconer. Like the entire hilltop had elected to separate itself from the normal course of farming life and changing seasons. The paint still flaked and scattered. Rotting fruit still added a fermented tint to the air. The crows still cackled from the trees. But there was no other sound. No lowing cattle, no sound of activity from within the house.

After remounting his horse, he rode past the nearest outbuilding and entered the plantation’s swept front yard.

“Anyone there?” Falconer’s greeting drifted unanswered. He spied a shifting of the outbuilding’s shadow. And knew he was not alone.

“Mr. Moss? It’s John Falconer. I’m here to—”

“Oh, we know what you’re up to.” A vaguely familiar figure stepped around the corner of the front porch and stood with gun aimed directly at him. “John Falconer, that what you said your name was?”

Falconer remembered where he had seen the man before. “You’re that slaver. Saunders, is it?”

“And you’re that man up to no good.” Jeb Saunders motioned with his percussion musket. “Drop the reins and lift those hands up where me and my men can see ’em.”

Falconer did as he was ordered, glad he had traded mounts with Joseph, leaving Grobbe’s horse safely out of harm’s way.

Two more men separated themselves from the outbuilding while another four appeared from either side of the house. All aimed weapons at Falconer. “I’m not armed,” he told them.

“Dangerous way for an anti-slaver to travel these parts. Alone and unarmed.” The musket motioned once more. “Drop out of that saddle. Nice and easy, now. I’ll shoot you if I have to. You’re worth more to me alive, but not enough to put up with any nonsense.”

Falconer kicked free of his stirrups as rough hands pulled him from his horse. He managed to stay on his feet. Two men kept their weapons on him as another jerked his hands behind his back and tied him tightly. Another rope was laced around his ankles. Then a bearish-looking man with a heavy beard stepped out in front of Falconer. “Remember me?”

Falconer ignored Joyner’s leer and watched as a man he recalled from his meeting with Saunders went through his saddlebags. The young man called up to the man on the porch, “The gold ain’t there, Jeb!”

“Which means he ain’t traveling alone after all. Cody, you saddle up and go hunt down this feller’s friends.”

The man sprinted toward the outbuildings as Joyner demanded of Saunders, “What gold are you goin’ on about?”

“Why, the gold he done took from your mine.” Jeb Saunders came down the plantation’s front steps. “You don’t reckon he’d just mosey on up here empty-handed, do you?”

“When were you gonna tell me about that?”

“You got a good-sized head on you, I reckon you oughta have brains enough to figure some things out on your own.” Jeb kept his eyes on Falconer as he ambled over. “Yep, you’re as big as I remember.”

Joyner wheeled about and roared at Falconer, “Where’s my gold?”

“Save your breath. I know this kind.” Jeb’s smile was as empty as his eyes. “He ain’t gonna give you a thing but trouble.”

“He don’t look like much of a nuisance with his hands tied, does he?” Joyner turned back, his breath raspy with rage. “I got something for you, mister.”

Falconer ducked the punch, or tried to, but Joyner’s fist approached with the speed of a cannonball, connecting on his forehead with a force he felt to his toes. His entire body went numb. He sensed his legs giving way and noticed with mild interest the approach of the earth. He felt nothing, not even as he landed hard. Falconer fell into a pit without a bottom, and darkness was all around.

Chapter 28

Nathan Baring had begun stopping by the Gavi home after work. He did so with great deference, never wanting to bother the family and usually declining their invitation to stay and dine. He would come in and seat himself in a corner of Serafina’s atelier. That was the one change to their house since the legate’s aide had visited; no longer did anyone refer to it as the dining room. The table had even been moved into the parlor for their meals. Nathan would gratefully accept a cup of tea from either Bettina or Mary, then seat himself where he could view Serafina at work. That was his only request—that he might sit for a time and watch her paint. Serafina had been concerned that the man’s presence would prove a distraction. Instead, there was comfort in his quiet sharing of the afternoon hours.

That particular afternoon, however, a knock at their front door announced a change to the quiet routine. Mary swiftly entered the room, round-eyed with astonishment. “There’s a great fancy carriage as ever I have seen!”

Nathan was instantly on his feet. The knock came louder this time. Serafina followed Nathan into the front room, where Alessandro and Bettina both peered through the drapes. Nathan asked, “Do you recognize it?”

“I fear the worst.” Alessandro dropped the curtain. “My dear, you and Serafina retire to the kitchen. Alert Gerald and the other guards.” When his two ladies had moved down the hall, he pulled his waistcoat tight over his front and said, “All right, Mary.”