The Night Angel (13 page)

“Don’t mean nothing to me.” But Cody was watching his brother more carefully now. He and Jeb made a good team because they both knew and accepted the others’ strengths. Cody was the doer, Jeb the thinker. Cody walked the line, kept things under control. Jeb plotted and dickered and traded. “But one thing I know for certain. He didn’t ride like no trail hand.”

The saddle creaked as Jeb eyed his brother. “Say that again.”

“You saw it same as me. That feller sat on his horse like a lump of cold meal.”

“Cody, you done put your finger right on it. Here I been, worrying it like a dog with an old bone. Who said you were dumb?”

“Nobody in shooting range, that’s for sure.”

But Jeb Saunders was off again, staring at the distance. “Feller said he was rounding up hands for a mine.”

“So?”

“So whoever heard of a mine overseer that couldn’t ride worth a hoot?” His fist struck the pommel. “Old man Burroughs.”

“Now you done lost me.”

“The merchant up Richmond way. That was his horse.”

Cody pondered on that. “Now you mention it, I do believe I recall seeing a white-maned mare in his pasture.”

“You know what I think? I don’t think there’s any mine at all.”

“What difference does it make? We’re the ones sitting here with the fool’s money in our pocket.”

“Which is why we can afford to ask around. See if this feller is up to something.” Jeb Saunders pointed back up the north road. “Why don’t you mosey up to Burroughs Crossing. Ask that innkeeper what he knows about this feller John.”

“First I’m gonna wet my whistle, eat me some good home-cooked grub, and get me some shut-eye.” Cody leaned over and punched his partner’s saddlebag. “But not before I watch you count out my share of the gold.”

Jeb’s grin was almost lost beneath his scraggly beard. “I didn’t know you was such a cautious one.”

“Don’t normally come upon a feller willing to pay double what the goods is worth. And do it in waxed gold coin.”

The grin vanished. “Which is exactly why we needs to be checking on John. If he’s a do-gooder, we know what to do next.”

Falconer sighed and settled his back against a longleaf pine. Overhead the clouds were giving way grudgingly, plucked aside by a rising wind. The trees whispered in a soft musical rush. He yawned and scratched his back against the tree trunk. He was as tired as he could ever recall. But he was too joyful to sleep. Falconer was not a man to apply such a word to himself. Yet joy was the only word to describe how he felt.

His charges were sprawled about the field, full with Joseph’s simple camp fare. The chains were heaped at the forest edge. The folks slept where they had fallen, so exhausted none even moved. Joseph slept with one arm wrapped around each of his boys. Their reunion had been a wonder to behold.

Falconer knew he and his kind had certainly contributed to this tragedy. Yet he could not keep lashing himself with guilt. He had done wrong in the past. He had come to the Cross. He had felt a call to this quest. He was doing all he could. Falconer yawned again, pleased with the morning’s accomplishments.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he was aware of was the fragrance of fresh-brewed coffee. Joseph must have seen him stirring and brought over a cup and the sack of sugar. He squatted on the earth next to Falconer with the customary silence. Even so, Falconer sensed a change. Joseph held himself more erect. His burdens were lighter. Falconer sipped the steaming brew. Then he said, “Tell me about this man Moss.”

“A gamblin’ fool,” Joseph quickly replied, clearly having expected the question. “I ’spect his daddy must be rollin’ in his grave.”

Falconer rose to his feet. Instantly the dusty gathering began to shift. They looked about with dull eyes, expecting nothing save another helping of sorrow. None would meet his gaze save Joseph. Yet this one change Falconer counted as a blessing and reward both.

“You are all free,” Falconer told the group. As with Joseph, the words simply did not register. “Free. I have bought you to repay an old sin of my own making. You can leave if you wish. Or you can stay and I will do my best to deliver you to a place of safety.”

He repeated it all once more. None moved nor looked his way. But several turned to watch Joseph. Falconer asked him, “How far to the Moss homestead?”

“Five, maybe six miles.”

Falconer said to the others, “Joseph and I must go away for a time.” He glanced at his pocket watch, then realized the hour meant nothing to them. “I will return by nightfall.”

“You just aim on leaving them here?” Joseph asked.

“Look at them. They’re half starved and worn out.”

“They’s also free. Or so you say.”

“We could go and come back in five hours, maybe less.”

“And them night riders could swoop down in five minutes.”

One of the women began to wail at the thought.

“We’d be back long before sunset,” Falconer said.

“Them night riders, they carry their own dark everywhere they go,” Joseph said.

“All right,” Falconer said to the group. “Those who want to come with me, let’s move.”

The Moss homestead occupied the southern slant of a long low hill, some hundred and twenty acres in all, according to Joseph, who had worked the soil since the age of five. The house was located on the pinnacle. The bottom acres were bordered by a creek almost broad enough to be called a river. The middle slope was given over to tobacco, the tall stalks stripped bare save for the last meager leaves. Joseph huffed in disgust at what he saw. The fields should have already been plowed under and prepared for spring planting, he told Falconer. Joseph pointed angrily at an orchard where fruit littered the ground. Falconer understood little save the man’s lifelong attachment to land that was not his.

The whole group except for one youth came with them. The young man had vanished somewhere along the road. Joseph had clicked his tongue and shook his head in worried disagreement but said nothing.

Falconer directed his motley band into the final line of forest, then walked the last part of the drive accompanied only by Joseph. The home looked impressive enough from a distance. Then the long drive entered a grove of poplars, and when it emerged, the house revealed its shabby state. Paint flaked and scattered gray petals over the front lawn. Two holes in the roof had been poorly repaired. A front step was rotted through, a window boarded over.

Falconer stopped by the final poplars, holding to shadows. “Will you be safe going off alone?”

“I know this land better’n my tongue knows my teeth,” Joseph replied. “Won’t nobody see me if ’n I don’t want ’em to.”

“Go find your wife. See if she’s up to the journey.”

Joseph did not show any eagerness to move. “Journey to where?”

“I don’t know.” Falconer saw no reason to give false hope. “Events have moved faster than I expected. I had planned first to find a proper route to freedom. But you see what has happened.”

Joseph studied him openly now. The eyes held a yellowish tint; the face was still bladed into deep caverns. Yet the man had been revealing a keen intelligence and a hunter’s intensity. “All you done told me, it’s the truth?”

“Every word.”

“You aim on buying a passel of slaves and setting ’em free?”

“Four hundred and nineteen.”

He shook his head. The man was evidently working on a decision. Falconer saw no reason to rush him. “You better have a pot of gold somewheres, the way you be spending it.”

Falconer said nothing.

Joseph nodded slowly, as though Falconer’s answer was what he had sought. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

He returned like a soft breeze, a quiet puff of sound, and suddenly Joseph was squatting on the earth beside Falconer. “She can move easy enough. She’s had a wet chest every winter since she was a child. But she’s a good woman, and strong.”

“Her name?”

“Geraldine.” The depth of his feeling was not revealed until that moment. For when Joseph spoke the name, his voice broke. Falconer did the decent thing and stared at the plantation home.

“My own name is John Falconer.”

Joseph gave that a moment’s respectful silence, then went on. “She says things is the same ’round here, only worse.”

“Moss is still gambling?”

“Had some of his wretched lot up to the house for a day and a night of sinnin’. Already lost what he got from selling my two boys.” Joseph tossed a stone. “When he ain’t gambling, he’s drowning in the bottle.”

“How many others are left?” Falconer asked.

“Slaves?” Joseph’s face tightened. “I ain’t much with numbers.”

“Try.”

“They’s two in the kitchen. Maybe fifteen in the fields.

Two workin’ the big house. And old Mammy, she don’t do nothin’ no more ’cept sit in the sun and suck on her corncob pipe.”

Falconer opened his satchel. He plucked out his final full pouch and slipped it into the pocket holding the other, which was almost empty. Not enough. Not enough by half. But he could not see himself leaving a single solitary soul in this dismal place. “You wait here.”

“What you be doing?”

He did not know was the answer. Falconer walked toward the house in silence, offering up a prayer of guidance, a swift plea for he knew not what. His concentration was interrupted by the sight of a figure flitting before an open window. There and gone in an instant. The sort of motion made by an enemy. Or maybe someone constantly living in fear.

Falconer stepped across the broken stair, crossed the veranda, and knocked loudly on the door. There was no reply. He pounded this time. His fist caused a booming echo through the downstairs rooms.

A woman, black face rather pinched, looked at him through a crack between door and jamb. “The house ain’t open to visitors.”

“I’m here on business.”

“Massuh Moss, he ain’t well.”

Falconer saw the tremor to her features. He knew what she thought. Here was yet another man coming to barter in human souls. “Ma’am, I mean you no harm.”

The words were meaningless. “You best be comin’ back another day.”

Falconer used the flat of his hand to keep her from shutting the door in his face. He spoke scarcely above a whisper, “Joseph is here with me.”

She held off a fraction. “Joseph been sold.”

“He is here. But please don’t tell anyone.” When he was certain she would no longer lock him out, Falconer dropped his hand. “May I ask your name?”

She squinted at the kindness in his tone. “Maybelle.”

“Miss Maybelle, I have urgent business with Mr. Moss. Business that will serve you and all the house well. I ask that you trust me on this.”

“Massuh Moss, he still layin’ abed.”

He spoke in the soft cadence he might use to calm a frightened child. “Please go tell him he has a visitor. One who has brought gold with him.” Falconer drew out the smaller pouch and extracted a coin. “Show him this.”

The trembling returned. “You gonna be after buying more of us, sure to goodness.”

“Ma’am, I am a servant of the Most High God. I speak to you as one who would never own another human being for fear of forfeiting his rightful place in heaven.” Falconer saw she was not taking in his words. “For all our sakes, I ask that you trust me.”

“What you said about Joseph, you wasn’t jesting?”

Falconer walked to the edge of the veranda, where he stood in full sunlight. The poplar grove looked empty. He waved his arm back and forth over his head. And waited.

A man stepped from the shadows. Falconer pointed and asked, “Do you see him there?”

From the doorway, the woman clasped her hands to her chest and murmured, “Never in all my born days.”

Falconer motioned again, and the man disappeared. “Do you think your master will speak with me?”

“For gold, Massuh Moss, he’d rise from the grave.” She turned back toward the inside, then said, “You be wantin’ to come inside, suh?”

Even standing in the doorway was enough to hint at the foul odors inside. “I’ll stay where I am.”

“I’ll have the girl bring you a pitcher of spring water and some biscuits.” She left the door open and shuffled away.

Falconer tested a high-backed porch chair before easing down. Truth be told, he was as weary as from a night of hard fighting. He was not made for a horse’s back, and the trek from Richmond had tired him mightily. He pulled the chair forward to where he could prop his feet on the railing. In three minutes he had fallen asleep.

“Who wants to talk with me about gold?” a voice demanded.

Falconer dropped his feet with a thump. It was unlike him to give way so easily to slumber, especially when in unknown surroundings. He rose to his feet. “My name is Mr. John, at your service.”

“John? Uncommon strange last name.” Moss was a pudding-faced man, lumpish with fat and foul ways. His hair was a scraggly mess and so pale as to be translucent. His eyes held a greedy tightness. “You’re not from around these ways.”

“No, sir. I hail from Washington now, but I have spent the past decade on the island of Grenada.”

“Is that a fact.” The man’s interest faded. He turned to the woman hovering in the doorway. “Where’s that coffee?”

“Done put it on to brew, suh.”