The Night Angel (23 page)
The boy had clearly never been spoken to in such a way by an adult before. His tears forgotten, he asked, “Are you a highwayman like they say?”
“My world is the sea, lad. Or it was. Upon the open waters they would be termed pirates. And I never was one. But I was other things.”
“A slaver. I heard you say that to my mother and Uncle Joshua.” He scrambled off the bench, almost tripping over the puppy. “Have you been to many lands, sir?”
“Aye.” Falconer could not help but touch the lad’s shining hair. “Many times many.”
“Will you tell me of one?”
“If you like.”
“Sir, I should like it ever so much. Where—” His words were cut short by the ringing of a distant bell. Matt’s eyes grew wide. “Church! I forgot about church! Sir, are you coming?”
“I’m right behind you.”
Matt leaped away. “We must hurry!”
The church was built of the same red brick and oak beams as the rest of the village. The entire community, as uniform as the surrounding buildings, streamed toward the central structure. There was a quiet joy to the day, an orderliness won from a grudging and reluctant world. The men were stout and strong, with hands and faces hardened by endless work. The women looked like gray doves, with traces of white at their heads and wrists. The men wore dark coats and hats, their boots scraped clean of the red earth. Falconer’s first impression was how the children appeared as eager as their parents to enter the sanctuary.
One of the younger men Falconer had last seen at the farm greeted Falconer with a handshake. His grip was firm, his skin as callused as tree bark. He directed Falconer upstairs, to what in other churches might be the choir loft.
He found himself seated among others who were clearly strangers to this world. There were traders and travelers and several black families. Falconer chose a place by the front railing so he might observe the community. He saw Ada Hart enter with her son. The woman moved with an erect grace. Matt turned and craned upward as they walked the central aisle. When he spied Falconer he grinned hugely and waved his free hand high over his head. Ada Hart turned to see what was attracting her son’s attention. Her face creased and her step faltered when she spotted Falconer. He raised his right hand in an unobtrusive greeting to them both, wondering anew what he might have done to offend this good woman.
Ada directed her son into a pew occupied mostly by older women. She did not follow Matt, however. Instead she stepped to another pew, where a stout man rose to accept her greeting. Ada spoke briefly. The man nodded twice, then turned at her direction and looked up at Falconer. The man standing beside Ada nodded agreement to whatever she said and bowed as she turned and walked to where her son was seated.
The congregation appeared shaped of curious groupings. The left front pews were all young men. The right, where Ada and Matt were seated, were mostly older women. There were a few children near young ladies, but not many. All were dressed the same, in the gray dresses and the starched white caps. The men were hatless now, their faces sunburnt where the hat’s protection ended. Some talked quietly among themselves. Most, however, sat in the peaceful calm of people content simply to be where they were.
The seat next to Falconer was taken by a scrawny man whose breath smelled of plug tobacco. He leaned upon the railing and murmured, “Makes for a pretty sight, don’t it.”
“Indeed.”
“Name’s Johanson. Wagoneer. Make the run from Columbia to Danville twice a month. Always try to stop off here for the Sabbath. Got a special feel, this place does.”
He paused then, and Falconer knew he was looking for a response. But Falconer had no interest in offering his own name. “This is my first time in the area.”
“Them Moravians, they’s a closed lot. They welcome my trade, but I ain’t never been inside a home. And I been making this run for almost five years.” He pointed with his chin to the congregation below. “They’s got a special way of sitting together, don’t they. Called choirs. Up front is the bachelors’ choir. There to the right is the widows’ choir.”
“Of course,” Falconer murmured.
“Married folk are all in the back. I hear tell them choirs ain’t just for singing. It’s how they manage life. I’m told they share all they have—a third to the church and a third to the choir. ’Course, since nobody gets inside the homes, it’s hard to tell what’s truth and what’s fable.”
A voice spoke from behind them. “John Falconer.”
“Yes?” He turned to see the young farmer who had greeted him in the vestibule.
The farmer murmured, “Come with me.”
Falconer followed the farmer out of the loft and down the rear stairs. The farmer pointed him toward a man encircled by a half-dozen graybeards. All eyes turned at Falconer’s approach. Some were cautious, others seemingly hostile.
The central figure wore a pastor’s white cloak. “You are John Falconer?”
“I am, Reverend.”
“Joachim Schmidt.” He was not as tall as Falconer, nor as robust. Yet he commanded respect with a presence that shone from his features. His gaze was brown and piercing, his hair long and silver-white. He took his time inspecting Falconer, giving no indication whatsoever that the entire village waited for him inside the nave. “Where did you gain that scar, John Falconer?”
“On the foredeck of a slaver, I’m sorry to say, Your Reverence.”
He nodded, as though approving of the answer. “The entire village is speaking of little else besides your act of generosity.”
“I do not see it as a generous act myself, sir.”
“No? How would you describe it?”
“Penance, Your Reverence. For the woes and sorrows I have wreaked upon the innocent.”
Again there was the fractional nod in response. “I am told you felt God’s voice leading you, John Falconer.”
“Sir, my greatest fear is that I am so tainted I may have misheard His direction.”
The pastor turned to one elder who bore a hostile expression. “What say you, Brother Rupert?”
“We close ourselves off for a purpose, Pastor Joachim.” But there was uncertainty now in his voice.
“I will not insist, Brother. Nevertheless, I do ask this of you.”
The older man sighed. “I do not stand against this, Pastor.”
“Very well.” The pastor turned to Falconer and continued. “I would ask that you take the second reading today, sir.”
A bolt from heaven could hardly have surprised him more. “You want. . . ?”
“You shall enter with us and stand where directed. Upon my signal, approach the altar. Your reading is from the fifth chapter of James, the first eight verses.” Before Falconer could shape a response, the pastor said to the others, “Brothers, I wish you a blessed morning service.”
At the murmured response, the pastor turned and led his elders into the church.
A wave of quiet astonishment followed Falconer’s appearance up the aisle. He kept his focus on the men before him, looking neither to the left nor the right as he proceeded toward the altar. He felt eyes upon him from every side, but only one voice carried clear to his ear. He heard Matt say, “Mama,
look
!”
He took his appointed spot by the front left window. From this position he could angle himself so that he watched the altar instead of the congregation. He could do nothing, however, about the eyes he felt boring into him with questions and uncertainty. The pastor came to the podium, offered a Sabbath blessing, and spoke a few words.
Then the singing began.
Falconer was transported beyond his self-conscious concerns. For these voices did not merely sing. They flowed together in beautiful harmony. They called with a joy that would not be denied. To begin, a woman hummed a single note. This was taken up by the congregation at large, and this then was transformed into words and song. And what song. Three hundred voices and more, from the graybeards to the youngest child, all singing with the heartfelt power of those who
lived
for such moments.
When the song ended, they began another. And a third. A fourth. When they finished, the chamber echoed for a long moment, then fell silent. Falconer breathed out slowly. No matter where he went, how far he traveled, he would carry the memory of that time of worship in song with him all his days.
The singing left him so euphoric he forgot to be nervous, even when the pastor turned and motioned him forward. As soon as he saw the passage opened on the pulpit, he understood the pastor’s choice. He read in a clear, strong voice, powered by the truth displayed before him:
“Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you. Your riches are corrupted, and your garments are motheaten. Your gold and silver is cankered; and the rust of them shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as it were fire. Ye have heaped treasure together for the last days. Behold, the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept back by fraud, crieth: and the cries of them which have reaped are entered into the ears of the Lord of sabaoth.”
Falconer paused a moment, his hands gripping the sides of the podium. Then he raised his voice on the last verses.
“Ye have lived in pleasure on the earth, and been wanton; ye have nourished your hearts, as in a day of slaughter. Ye have condemned and killed the just; and he doth not resist you. Be patient therefore, brethren, unto the coming of the Lord. Behold, the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he receive the early and latter rain. Be ye also patient; stablish your hearts: for the coming of the Lord draweth nigh.”
Falconer stepped down from the dais and felt the village’s eyes follow him down the central aisle. His footsteps sounded upon the wooden stairs as he climbed back to the loft. Several dozen astonished faces greeted his arrival, none more surprised than the wagoneer. Falconer slipped back into his seat and looked forward, only to discover that the pastor still watched him from the front of the sanctuary. The gray-bearded man nodded once, very slowly, then continued with the service.
“Well, well, there’s no question as to who you might be. No sir, not a hint of question.” The speaker was the gentleman Ada Hart had approached at the beginning of the service. He stood now to one side of the square fronting the church, some- what removed from the chattering throng. He offered Falconer his hand. “Paul Grobbe at your service, sir.”
“An honor, Mr. Grobbe.”
“I don’t suppose you have the slightest idea who I am, now, do you?”
“Only that I saw Ada Hart speak with you, sir.”
The man was portly and red-cheeked and spoke with a boisterous, cheery air. But his eyes were the color of tempered steel, and just as hard. “I understand you are in need of assistance, sir.”
“Truly so, sir, and in so many directions, I scarcely even know what to ask for.”
“Come, then, let us sit ourselves down upon this bench here.” The largest oak fronting the square was encircled by a wooden bench. Their progress was slowed by many wanting to speak with Paul Grobbe, or so it seemed to Falconer. Yet no one approached once they were seated, though glances were continually cast their way. “Now take your good time, sir. The Sabbath is the one day where hurrying is truly ill-advised. Tell me what it is you are looking for.”
Falconer’s thoughts remained somewhat scattered by the experience within the church. Each time he began, he found himself hearing the singing anew. But he managed to press his way forward with the task at hand. “I am utterly broke, sir. I need funds—a loan—sufficient to buy supplies and horses. I also require the expertise of someone who knows his way around a gold mine. Someone I can trust. And contacts in the area, if you have any. People I might turn to in a time of dire need.”
When he finished, the portly gentleman stroked his beard for a moment, then said, “I run a bank, sir, by the name of Wachovia. That is, my brother and I run it, in care for this entire community. Wachovia is a rendition of Wachau, the estate where our greatest benefactor once lived. But never mind. My brother operates our branch in Charlotte, which is the trading center closest to the Carolina gold mines. I shall write a letter which you must present to him.”
“Sir, I am most—”
“Now then. As to your other needs.” The man clearly had no interest in Falconer’s gratitude. “If I have your good word that you shall endeavor to pay what you owe, I am willing to loan you whatever sum you care to name.”
Falconer leaned back until he came up square upon the tree trunk. “I do not know what to say.”
Grobbe rose to his feet. “The reverend said something very interesting after the morning service, John Falconer. He called you a righteous man. In our community, it is a term used only for one of the brethren. I cannot recall it ever being said about a stranger before.” He nodded his approval. “I will give further thought about someone to assist you with your gold-mine survey. I bid you good-day.”
“This is Meyer’s glass and pottery shop,” the boy was saying. “He does the fancy stuff. There’s a lantern and window store down the street there. Meyer does real pretty things, and folks come from all over for his pressed glass.”
“His wife is an artist.” Ada Hart spoke so quietly that Falconer had to lean over to hear her. He had the feeling that she was participating against her will. Which was very strange. For she had offered to join them as soon as her son had suggested he take Falconer on a tour of their village. “She paints their pottery and ceramics with lovely designs. They also make etched glass, which she adorns with gold.”
“He has his very own kiln out back.” In contrast, Matt constantly seemed ready to either laugh or sing. “Folks call it the groundhog kiln because of all the little friends he has in the ground through the winter months. Guess they like the heat.”
“Last winter Mr. Meyer put Matt to work stoking the kiln,” Ada mentioned, looking to the ground at her feet. “Then he came down with a chest croup that kept him in bed for a month.”
The boy could not skip because the dog kept pulling on the leash, tugging in one direction or another. He cheerfully waved at everybody, gathering smiles as if he were harvesting a midmorning crop. “I had to stoke the kiln every half hour. I was freezing by the woodpile and sweating by the kiln. It’s the only work I didn’t like even a little bit. Well, I don’t like mucking out the barn all that much either.”
