Passion’s Joy
by
Jennifer Horsman
SMASHWORDS EDTION
*****
PUBLISHED BY
Jennifer Horsman on Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Horsman
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*****
The Girl Who Loved Freedom
Part One
Chapter One
The light of a single candle flickered in the small room, casting dark shadows over the neat white page where Joy Claret sat writing. She wore naught but a thin cotton night dress which, taken with her dark unbounded hair falling past the small of her back and the soft light illuminating the delicate features of her face, gave her a deceptively angelic appearance.
Fine blue eyes—eyes perfectly illustrating Shakespeare's observation that this feature was the window to the soul— were presently much absorbed in task; she was lost to the wealth of ideas and feelings that flowed into words as she wrote:
February 18, the year of our Lord, 1818
Dear Diary,
Dawn awaits, so do our three passengers hidden in the cellar of the infirmary, cloistered like so many before them in the cool holding cell beneath the floor. Oh, my dearest friend! I feel the excitement and fear common to all freedom seekers, and as I write this, my heart pounds and my pulse races at a pace befitting a chased pickpocket!
Chased we shall be! The two male passengers, both young and strong, worth much at the marketplace I think, have a bounty of fifteen hundred between them. The Reverend learned of it yesterday. That sum alone is sure to be of a size attracting the most infernal of bounty hunters. That is not all dear diary! We also carry a woman passenger this time, and her bounty is an unprecedented one thousand dollars gold! I feel compelled to explain—
The sound of a regretfully familiar cough came from the room down the hall. She stiffened, waiting, knowing exactly how bad the cough must be to wake her ailing guardian, and when it was mild enough to let him keep sleeping. It subsided quickly. The tension left her face.
The sounds of the city drifted in through the open window. She heard the boisterous noise of taverns that never closed: drunken laughter, talk, and music, the sound distant and faint like the echo of a dream upon waking. The brick bell-tower atop the Ursuline Convent sounded thrice. A carriage clamored down the street. The first faint bustles of the marketplace signaled the start of yet another new day. The soft sound of Cory's slumber came from within the walls of her own room.
Time was of the essence, and she returned to her writing.
—this matter at length, my explanation not merited by the incredible sum of the woman's bounty but by the passenger's uncommon circumstances. She goes by the common name of Mary and could be no more than my own seven and ten years, and my, but she is as pretty as a storybook princess. The characteristic most uncommon is her coloring. She is blue-eyed and fair, many generations removed from her Negro blood, and this—even Joshua concedes—will allow her to pass in a cooler climate, thereby providing her with the ultimate ticket to freedom. She was obviously a house servant, her smooth-skinned hands show no signs of arduous toil, and her speech and manners are polite and refined. For what lascivious practice her master put her to use—a practice worth $1000 to him—I dare not contemplate in my blissful innocence.
Danger shadows the day and my apprehension grows as I write, for Mary is also ill and weak. She has passed too much blood, even for a late monthly, and the good doctor's potion did little to ease her discomfort. The Reverend tried to postpone the run, but the receiving end said nay to this—today or the next month following. So I had Cory give Mary extra dowsing strips, and Sammy lined the cart with extra peat moss and hay. This, I pray, will suffice.
I offer to God's ear my traditional prayer for safe deliverance of our three passengers on to the blessed shore of freedom. The bright light of the North Star shines in my heart and I leave you as always, my friend, with the fervent hope for the freedom of all God's children— Cory rose with a start, bolting up in the small feather bed. Dolls lined the shelves of the room, and though each childhood treasure was by light of day familiar and cherished, the masked faces took on a demonic and ghostlike vision in her sleepy haze. Soft brown eyes immediately searched and found Joy Claret at her desk, and relieved, Cory eased her skinny frame back against the pillows.
She always woke like that on the mornings before a run, as though her anxieties and fears built through the night into a crescendo upon waking. She yawned and stretched, throwing back the covers to slip silently from the bed. The floor board gave a small creak as she lifted it to remove the small bundle of clothes hidden there. Holding the bundle, she came around the other side of the bed, and with disapproval in her gaze, she watched Joy Claret close the leather bound book and lock it with the tiny gold key before returning it to the drawer.
"That book's gonna send us all to the grave."
Joy gasped. "Honestly Cory! You move like a savage stalking deer!"
While Cory smiled, she was hardly deferred. "I've half a mind to tell Massa Joshua 'bout it, I do."
"You wouldn't!"
"No, but I should," she said softly. "I know I should. Come on, you need to be dressed by now."
Cory referred to the two commandments of conducting: never ask a passenger's name, their former master's name or from where they came, and secondly, never but never keep a written record of the runs.
"Of course, you're right," Joy admitted as she rose and, without token tribute to that coveted virtue of modesty, pulled off her night dress and stood in her bare skin.
Joy paid little mind to her unclad state. Hard work and exercise—far too much for a lady in the clerical class—kept her trim and slender. Nature had done the rest, endowing her with alluring feminine proportions. Of course, those few times she took stock of such things, she found fault with her shoulders. Even when she practiced in front of Cory, her shoulders steadfastly refused even a conscious effort to slope prettily in the fashionable way—a way that made a woman look somewhat whimsical and delicate. As though her dignity were fixed and unalterable, straight narrow lines drew her shoulders and the proud arch of her small straight back. Nature's gifts showed elsewhere; full and rounded breasts tapered to a small waist, while shapely lines drew slender hips and long legs. This was fortunate, for Joy possessed little patience for feminine fussing, and like many other women in hot and humid Louisiana, she could never imagine submitting to an hour long arduous tug of war with stays, huffing and puffing and feeling faint, all to get the slenderness she already had due to the rigors of hard work, the family's worsening means and quite literally not having adequate food stuff.
Presently though, danger and its close companion, excitement, fueled a tangible force in the room, and the tension brought an unnatural silence to the two as Joy stepped into the potato sack breeches, then pulled a red frayed shirt over that. The small, unloaded pistol slipped into her shoulder harness and a worn vest fit over it. Cory worked Joy's hair into long braids, a task made difficult by what she called the jitters.
"Mercy," Cory's whisper finally broke the silence, "I'm as skittish as a fresh born colt. That Mary girl’s given me a might big pause for worry."
Feeling Cory's nervousness as her own, Joy replied with feeling, "We must pray for her safety."
"One thousand dollars gold! Lawd, but it don't do a soul a lick of good to imagine why a man would consider a woman worth such an outrageously high amount."
"No, it doesn't," she agreed as Cory placed the straw like blond wig ingeniously attached to a wide straw hat over the loose crown of her braids. "All I can think is she must have suffered terribly to risk running—"
The horses and cart pulled up outside interrupting Joy mid-sentence, and Cory, already holding an old jar of dirt, hurriedly smeared grime on Joy's pale face, then wiped her hands clean on the boys' breeches. With a quick kiss, they quickly bid each other goodbye.
Joy stopped at the door. "Joshua had a good night. He should be better today."
Cory heard the familiar hope lift in Joy's voice and knew what was being asked. "Don't worry. I'll take special good care of him."
Joy Claret nodded. "The medicine's low again. On the morrow, I'll try to work out another scheme to get the money for the next round."
"You'll think of something, you always do."
The vote of confidence brought a smile and Joy slipped through the door. Cory then blew out the candle and fell inelegantly into the desk chair. Sometimes life seemed filled from one day to the next with naught but worries: worries over medicine and money, worry over Joshua and bounty hunters. "Mercy but there sure is a passel of worries to fret over ...”
Pulled by two matching bays, the rickety looking peddler's cart made slow progress down the well-traveled river road. Piled clumsily atop the cart, the wares jostled in a continuous rattle; there were pots and pans, brooms, horse brushes and mops, a pile of nearly new carpets, along with bonnets and combs for the ladies, work shirts and belts for the men, slop jars and one pair of children's boots. There were Indian artifacts, none of these genuine, and an array of pocket and hunting knives. A whole cabinet full of medicines stood against one side. Inside this were cherry cough lozenges, vegetable tonics, headache and rheumatoid cures, a bottle of Fay's Female Elixir and unnamed potions for whatever ailment the ailing named. A pretty mare pranced in back, but a rain canvas and a tall pile of weightless bundles hid the mare's fine lines, leading the outside observer to think Libertine was naught but an old plow nag.
Seated in the driver's seat with reins in hand, the Reverend was dressed as a peddler. The old Irishman's short, five-foot two frame was clad in black, tattered and moth eaten shanks, frock coat and boots two sizes too large. A frayed, black top hat covered the strings that held an unkempt beard in place.
Thick spectacles hid lively dark eyes, eyes too sharp for the poverty-stricken scoundrel he pretended to be.
Joy smiled, affectionately patting the Reverend's knee as they rode along. If there was any one thing she had learned in her five years as an adventuress, it was that folks rarely bothered to look past the surface of things, and this worked to their favor time and again.
So long as she kept her mouth shut, she could fool everyone. With her eyes lowered beneath her hat in a convincing look of dull apathy common to poor whites and a quick swipe of a dirty sleeve to her nose, she fooled the most observant. No one could ever suspect the dirty peddler's brat of being the good doctor Joshua Reubens's lovely young charge, Joy Claret Reubens.
The river road paralleled the great waterway for hundreds of miles, and one could not pass an hour anywhere on the Mississippi without seeing at least one or more boats passing on their way to New Orleans. Hundreds of back river flatboats cluttered the waterway for miles north of the city and its marketplace. To the south, docked in rank order roughly according to size, rested the larger boats: houseboats, fishing vessels and medium sized cargo flats. The boats grew in size and importance until miles downstream rose the tall masts of the proud ocean-going vessels.
The river road south of New Orleans bustled with activity as these great ships were forever in the process of loading and unloading cargo, setting sail and docking. It was somewhat quieter now in the early morning hours. Taverns and houses—the small farming parcels that forever battled the encroaching claim of the forest—became increasingly rare, at least until Carlisle. The cart's destination lay a few miles past Carlisle, another eight to ten miles down the road where a small ship, the Nirvana, would be waiting. The ship's master and captain, Mr. Fairbanks, was the paid conductor. Although trustworthy, it irked Joy's keen sense of justice to pay Mr. Fairbanks for the passenger's safe deliverance into the good hands of the famed abolitionist Mr. Archibald Cox in Boston.
God's will should be done for honor alone, she thought.
Thinking of money and Joshua's medicine and all, Joy waited as two young boys with fishing poles passed before asking in a whisper, "Can I talk?"
The Reverend normally forbid her to speak. He usually explained to those few people who stopped them that his lad was mute, for Joy's voice quickly identified her sex.
"Clear back here," Sammy called from the pile of carpets where he kept watch on the back road.
"Go ahead, darlin'."
"I was just wondering how much the good Captain Fairbanks wanted this time?"
"Ten dollars a head."
Joy Claret's face registered quick shock. "Oh dear! Do you have it or will we have to beg a debt?"
"No, I got it." The old man smiled, patting his coat pocket.
"Where did you get it?" she asked too quickly, letting curiosity get the better of experience. Unless one wanted to hear a scandalous tale, she knew better than to ask how his pockets came to hold coins.
"Why darlin', it was simple."
"It always is for you, you unscrupulous fraud."
The old man laughed, pleased with this apt description of his character. "I arranged a small—tiny, really—cockfight at the Hampton's barn. Bunch of green seamen just stepped on land, and the lads seemed mighty anxious to part with their hard won earnings."
Intimately familiar with the Reverend's mendacity, Joy Claret knew that arranged meant fixed, and she laughed. The Reverend had only been caught once or twice at one of his numerous swindles. Back on the merry shores of England, fortune arranged the good doctor's presence at the Reverend's sentencing. Joshua had just testified in a hearing involving an old man's untimely death. When lingering on the unpleasant outcome, he chanced to overhear the Reverend's pleading—so convincingly!—for his fate. The magistrate thought the Reverend's face was familiar, and he was not as persuaded by the fine speech. Joshua however, always nourished an unquenchable faith in the ultimate goodness of many undeserving human beings. Taxing his meager savings and convinced he could reform the Reverend's petty criminal proclivities, Joshua bought his contract and, only then, found himself saddled with the most unlikely indentured servant, one whose presence in his life brought a continuous cycle of blessings and curses.
Of course, the Reverend claimed he simply couldn't help parting fools with their monies, and if someone was looking to be taken, it was his job to see the business done. There was little doubt that the Reverend had a heart of gold; it seemed he took money from one pocket and put it into someone else's—a more deserving someone according to some odd sense of justice he alone understood. The Reverend never viewed his trickery as inconsistent with the doctor's high falutin’ principles of justice, liberty and freedom for all—the famed abolitionist cry, all of which the Reverend enthusiastically embraced. It was Joy, though, who harbored the unkind suspicion that the Reverend viewed the underground railroad as the ultimate and most exciting way to part people with their property.
Adding to his duplicity, unbelievably, the Reverend was known throughout Orleans Parish and beyond as the hellfire and brimstone Reverend Doddered. All manner of people called on him to strike the fear of God's wrath into the minds of the most indolent, idle and uppity Negroes with his Negro sermonizing. On the pulpit, the Reverend Doddered would tell the sea of Negro faces that, while their bodies belonged to their masters, their souls belonged to God. If they had any hope of finding God's freedom in heaven, rather than Satan's eternal chains in hell, they must repent their idleness and indolence; they must work harder for their good masters. As the Reverend helped the planter class with never ending Negro problems, Sammy crept around whispering to a carefully selected few just how a Negro might find God's freedom a bit before Judgment Day.
Joy was waiting as a chain gang of longshoremen passed. Led by an overseer on a mount, each man carried a huge bale of cotton on his dark-skinned back. Once the group was out of sight, she asked, "Is there enough left for Joshua's medicine?"
"Aye, and I believe a mite bit more for a new dress."
"A new dress!" She could hardly believe it, for it had been over two years since she had had a new dress. The thought of a new dress and Joshua's medicine sent her arms around the old man's neck in a demonstration of her gratitude. "Oh, Reverend! Whatever would we do without you?"
Sammy answered with a deep chuckle. "'About the same, I figure—only minus a load of never endin’ troubles."
As their easy laughter calmed, the Reverend cautioned against any further talking. Since the runaway slaves had been on the run a good two weeks or more and had not been caught, the bounty hunters would know the escape was aided by the loosely knit band of abolitionists that stretched from one end of the country to the other—the network of the underground railroad. They would be watching this road like hawks, knowing water was the only viable means to escape.
Still, there was no sign of danger. After they were already a good two miles from the marketplace, Joy felt her tension ease a bit as the landscape filled her senses with happier thoughts.
The great river widened slowly. For miles on either side of the water stretched dense forests of live oaks and water sycamores, berry briars and vines, all draped in dark Spanish moss and ivy. In the first blush of day, the dense foliage looked lush, dark, and shadowy. The noisy chatter of birds filled the warm morning air, which was pushed by an ever-present southern breeze. It was lovely; her senses rejoiced.
The huge towering masts of a great ship rose in the distance, and as the peddler cart approached, Joy caught her breath at the sight of the largest, sleekest, and most magnificent ship she had ever seen. Little wonder why ships were referred to with feminine pronouns! As they came closer, she made out the bold name: The Ram's Head. "Of all the names." Joy laughed. A group of seamen splashed in the water off the ship's side. They must have just docked this morning, she realized, for the men boisterously made use of the suddenly unlimited fresh water.
An audible snore rose from the passenger's hold. Sammy's rich voice answered with one of those haunting songs common to field hands, songs that blended the despair of long days of endless turmoil with religious hope of redemption. It was a timely play, for the most arresting group of men rode up from behind.
Blue eyes widened enormously as Joy stared. Wild looking and dangerous, three mounted men led a larger group of men on foot. A huge half-naked Negro walked amidst the cluster of men as an equal. Another man, with a large barrel stomach and a bald head to match, displayed more gold chains around his neck than were in the front window of Ponce Fredrico's jewelry store. A tall, mean looking man had hair as long as her own. More remarkable for its color of angry fire, it was braided and worn like a rope wrapped around impressive biceps. Their clothes, mixed, matched, and no doubt stolen from the four corners of the world, were a fashion ensemble representing many different countries. One wore fancy, blue velvet breeches and a matching coat of an aristocratic Englishman, torn at the sleeves to fit larger shoulders. Another two wore garb she recognized from a book she had once read about an English gentleman's travels to India, and another wore red silk pants that spoke—like the small dark eyes of the owner—of oriental origins. She spied another rope of long hair, hanging from a man's belt like a trophy, and Joy, in a breath, prayed the woman had parted with her fine tresses willingly.
It required only the space of two minutes for them to overtake and pass the peddler's cart, but she took in everything. The leader—he must be a leader—rode ahead on a large, white stallion. He was a remarkably big man and looked even larger atop that white horse. His long, golden hair fell like a mane to wide shoulders, and his face was long and lean, almost handsome if his appearance weren't somehow so frightening. He wore plain, gray breeches, moccasin boots, and a cotton vest. She witnessed the laughter rising clear in his fine, hazel eyes, and this more than anything surprised her.
"Who are they?" Joy asked in a breathless and awed whisper.
"Don't have a farthing, lass." The old man chuckled. "But from the worldly looks of 'em, seems 'ole LaFitte is in for even more trouble."
The famed pirate was presently being pursued by relentless American authorities, who—unlike their French predecessors—nourished no fondness for lawless sea crimes.
"Pirates!" she exclaimed. "Well, my word, I never have seen—"
"It's them!" Sammy's whispered cry sounded the alarm. “Two comin' from the North! Move it, child!"
Tension burst into action. With a practiced motion, Sammy pulled the bundles from Libertine's back and untied her lead as Joy hopped from the moving cart and ran back. Sammy boosted her onto the mare's back, handed her the reins and then jumped back to assume his seat. Horse and rider disappeared into the forest only a split second before the two riders rounded the bend.
Sammy hit the plank board three times to warn the passengers before resumed his song. Joy's absence gave the Reverend freedom to remove a whiskey cask and enjoy a long draught.
Joy, trailing the cart through the forest, saw this, and instantly her mouth pressed to a hard frown. Drinking! Already he was drinking! Lord, but was there no end to his gall! It was a cry too late to scold him though, and the Reverend's grin told her he was well aware of the fact.
"Hold up thar, ole man!"
The Reverend brought the bays to a slow halt and turned around. As he and Sammy had anticipated, they were in for trouble, for these were not local boys parading for the day as paddyrollers. Hired professionals, no doubt. He took another long sip from an ever-handy cask.
Jimmy Cochran stopped his mount in front of the Reverend and leaned casually forward in his saddle, scrutinizing the old man with a cool dark stare, watching as the old man fumbled with the cask, nervously taking another draught while mumbling unintelligibly.
Short and not large for a man, Cochran's even blond features were shaded, nearly hidden by a wide brown hat. A red kerchief wrapped around his neck. "Well, well," he first said. "What have we here, Davey?"
The other man circled the cart thrice before finally facing the wagon. "Looks like a peddler man, don't it?"
The Reverend scrutinized the big, ungainly, and dark haired man. A menacing grin revealed two missing teeth, the rest an unpleasant yellow from tobacco. About as ugly as they come, the Reverend thought unkindly, noticing the unsightly pockmarks scarring the large boned face, and a swollen, crooked nose that had been hit once too often. The sleeves of a frayed, once white work shirt rolled over his forearms, displaying a notably unimaginative tattoo of the name Ann circled by flowers.
"A good day to ye gents," the Reverend offered a greeting in his most affable Irish hit while tipping his hat. "What can I get fer ye? Got some fine English work shirts, just off the boat... or mayhaps a shawl for ye misses?" His chuckle echoed with the very word congeniality. "Nothin' warms a lass's heart like a pretty new rag, and when 'er little heart gets warmed, the heat's bound to spill over to your bed. Men like women and women like rags and—tell ye what I'll do, seein' 'ows there be two of ye. I'll give you—"
"Hold that tongue, ole man. We ain't interested in any new rags—'' Cochran stopped and spit, but the Reverend never gave him a chance to resume.
" Oh? Well then, mayhaps you'd like to see me brand new line of the finest boots this side of the Atlantic. Last a lifetime, they will—" -
"Shut the trap, ole man," the small man snapped more in exasperation than anger, then had to steady his mount. "The name's Jimmy Cochran and this here's Davey. We've been hired to track us down some runaway niggers."
"Darky hunters, are ye?"
"Sure are. You seen any suspicious niggers in these parts?"
"Can't say as I have." The Reverend replied in a marked tone of disinterest before taking another long draught.
Suspicion remained, but after an uncomfortable pause, Cochran suddenly chuckled. "Why Davey boy, don't this ole man look like that Yankee scoundrel folks been talking about?"
"You mean that fellow who's been swindlin' poor old widows?" Davey grinned hugely. "Come to think of it, he does."
"I'll have you know," the Reverend pretended great affront, "I've never, not once, been called a yeller Yankee. I be Irish! And you do me grave dishonor to think Otherwise."
"Then tell me, ole peddler man, what's the likes of you doin' in these parts, so close to the Orleans' market?"
"I picked up a few goods, that's what, and now me and my boy Sam is headed for Carlisle to visit me mate before headin' north to escape the infernal heat of your upcoming summer."
"What's this friend's name?"
"Grady O'Neill, not that it's any of your concern."
The two men exchanged glances, their suspicions still plain. Davey suddenly fixed his gaze on Sammy and then led his mount to the back. Cochran followed.
They were on to them, and there was only one thing that could give the charade away, and Cochran, with a parrot-like cock of his head, asked, "What's a piss poor peddler doin' with this young buck?"
"Sammy? Oh, had him fer years now. Bought him from an old lady when he was just a young pup, knee high to the ground, up thar in Beinville Parish. Been with me ever since."
Sammy only stared at the ground.
A calloused hand reached down to jerk Sammy's head up, a thumb pushed open his mouth. "Just look at them gleamers," Davey whispered and withdrew his hand, wiping it on his pants as he appraised Sammy's impressive build. "Hell, a buck like this could go stud on a pickaninny farm. How old are you boy?"
"I’se twenty come summer,'' he replied with a meekness common to a beaten field hand. "Das de truth, massa," he added in feigned simplicity.
"Why haven't you sold him?" Cochran asked. "Worth more than your whole wagon load of crap."
"Sell him? Hell no! My boy is worth his weight in gold! Aye, come summer in the Carolinas, I have the only darky in the whole town of Sommerville. I lend him out fer fifty cents a day, sometimes seventy-five, depending on the work, meals included of course, and—"
"Jesus, if you don't run on worse than a coyote at the moon!" Cochran laughed, amused and oddly not angry. He then proceeded to make a long ceremony out of finding a tobacco pouch in his saddlebag, working it into a chew. "You seen any runaway niggers back here, boy?" he asked Sammy.
"Naw massa!" Sammy shook his head. “'I’se don' seed no niggers, naw suh."
"Davey here." Cochran motioned to his companion. "Well, he hates all niggers, but you know what kind of niggers he hates most?"
With the malleable docility and fear common to any Negro confronting a white man's malice, Sammy shook his head. "Naw suh!""He hates lying niggers most."
Grunting assent, Davey pulled a knife from his boot for the next part.
"Know what Davey does to a lying nigger, boy?"
"Naw suh," Sammy said in feigned alarm.
Davey rested the point of his knife over his abdomen in a not-so-subtle indication of a cruel practice.
"You ain't lyin' boy, are you?"
"Naw massa, I sho ain't."
"Well now"—the Reverend had had quite enough—"if you gents don't mind, we'll be on our way. Gotta reach Carlisle by noon, I do. Unless mayhaps I can interest you in those medicines I was speaking of? As a matter of fact," he stated, flashing his most convincing smile, "I have one bottle left of Dr. Kent's gentleman's tonic, guaranteed to put the old spirit back in a man's vitals—"
"Oh hell! Go on, git old man." Cochran laughed suddenly, shaking his head. "Don't reckon I could stomach much more of your bull. Come on Davey"—he reined his mount around—"we got us some niggers to catch."
"No cause to be nasty," the Reverend muttered as he gave a slash to the reins.
The two bays jumped, and the cart moved forward.
It was over, and Joy breathed a heavy sigh of relief, relief disappearing as the seconds wore on and Davey had yet to move. He remained mounted, staring after the cart. Impending danger filled the air; she stopped breathing as her gaze followed his. A small pool of fresh blood marked the middle of the road.
Davey spurred his mount to the spot and looking down, he laughed loud and clear, withdrawing a long pistol. This was cocked. A shot shattered the calm morning air. Libertine bolted, throwing Joy Claret hard to the ground. Cochran raced back in a gallop, took one long look and within minutes, the cart had been stopped, and the Reverend stared at the long barrels of two ivory handled pistols.
"Why, peddler man." Malice filled Cochran’s grin now. "I do believe blood is dripping from your cart." Like barnyard cats, they would play with the mice before the mercy of a kill. "Looks like nigger blood, too, don't it Davey?"
"It sure as hell does."
"Blood ye say?" The Reverend pretended surprise and turned to look incredulously at the road. Now, the trick was to buy Joy time, while trying to get another shot fired. Two shots to a pistol, and if they could compel Davey to fire again, he’d be disarmed completely. "Well, I'll be a son of a gun! You hear that Sammy? The horses, boy! Get down and check the horses."
Sammy knew his part well, and as the men watched the Reverend, he found his own pistol in the pile of carpets. "Massa, I'se mighty 'fraid of de horses, you'se knows hit."
"Are you lookin' fer trouble now?"
"Naw suh, I sho ain't." The pistol slipped beneath his breeches; the cold sting of the metal felt like a dip in ice water, tensing the long length of his muscled back. "I'se just mighty fearful of dem beasts. Don' make me massa, please!"
"Why you insolent guttersnipe!" the Reverend yelled back. "You get the hell down here and check out the horses or I'll give you something to be fearful about!"
Joy Claret finally calmed Libertine enough to vault onto her back. She made painfully slow progress to the spot where the cart was stopped ahead, maneuvering slowly through the trees and brush. Each of Libertine's steps sounded like a trumpet announcing her presence.
"Massa, I'se beg you—"
A shot fired, whizzing close enough to the Reverend's ear for him to understand George Washington's famed remark that compared bullets passing his ear to the sound of music.
"Git off your seat, peddler man!"
The Reverend slowly eased to the ground.
"Boy! Down!"
Careful to keep his back to the cart, Sammy's bare feet touched the cool earth. He slowly made his way to the Reverend's side, looking as scared as a child awakening from a nightmare. With hands behind his back, he kept the great width of his shoulders hunched and his gaze lowered. He barely caught Joy's movement in the forest behind them. The horses danced nervously, sensing what the riders did not.
Sammy suddenly dropped to his knees before Davey. "Don' a shoot me, massa, don' a shoot me!" He pointed an accusing finger at the Reverend. "I'se didn' do hit! I'se a beggin' mercy, don' a shoot me!"
Catching on, the Reverend kicked Sammy good and hard. "Why you miserable, ungrateful black arse! I’ll teach you to turn belly up on me! I suppose you think I—"
The third shot fired, and the Reverend bolted back and fell to the ground. He was not hit, but his frail bones felt shaken out of their sockets. In the flash of the moment's distraction, Joy moved. Cochran heard her horse; but it took one too many seconds to crash into his consciousness, and a barrel of a pistol nudged hard into his back. "Drop it, bastard! Drop it or I'll blow your innards sky high!"
In the same instant, Sammy drew on Davey, bracing for the possible crossfire.
Mercifully, none came.
Joy controlled her half-wild horse with two knees and answered Cochran's hesitation with another hard nudge. "Drop it Mister! I won't waste air tellin' you again!"
Pistols dropped to the ground, and the Reverend struggled up to recover his dazed wits. He was just getting too damn old for this kind of scam, good as it was to play. Joy backed up a few safe paces, then gathered her reins back in hand to stop Libertine's nervous prance. Cochran turned to see that the queer voice belonged to a pipsqueak of a boy. Size showed only in the width of the boy's grin.
It was Sammy's and the Reverend's show now. The bounty hunters were first ordered off their horses, then into the cover of the forest and onto the ground, stomachs down, and faces to the dirt. From the cart, Sammy produced ankle chains to secure their feet together, then tied their arms behind their backs with a rope.
Back on the road, Joy quickly tended to their horses, removing saddle and tack to set them free. Haste urged a fast pace, for there was no telling when someone would come along. Only luck had kept the road deserted so far. Uppermost in all three captors' minds was the small pool of blood lying in the road. Mary must be brought to the ship's surgeon as fast as possible.
The whole thing was managed in minutes. Joy remained to watch the road, while Sammy forced the two men farther into the forest. They fell hard every few steps due to the indignity of the chains. A small clearing appeared not far from the road, and here, Sammy began tying the two together to the base of a huge oak.
"I don't believe you two gents had the benefit of proper introduction to my man Sammy,'' the Reverend said, as Sammy secured the ropes as tight as his great strength permitted. "As your dim wits might have allowed, Sammy here is not your average nigger."
"Naw sir, I sure ain't." Sammy grinned.
"Know what kind of nigger Sammy is?"
Sammy stood before them, his huge frame drawing unmasked amusement to bellow like a sail with winds. He held Davey's dagger in his hands now, fondling it with a lover's caress.
"You see, Sammy here is a nigger who hates white men."
"Yessiree! I sure do."
"Know what kind of white men Sammy hates most?"
Bright red fury mixed evenly with fear, but neither man would play this game, at least until the Reverend kicked Davey hard in the face. "I asked you a question."
"No!"
"Well, Sammy here, he hates bounty hunters most of all."
"I sure as hell do! Yes suh!"
"Know what Sammy does to the bounty hunters we catch?'
Sammy positioned the knife over Davey's abdomen, smiling a grin of pure madness. Cochran's gaze burned with furious rage, but Davey's nervously darted with sudden fear, as the inconceivable became suddenly feasible.
Abruptly though, the Reverend found an objection to that particular form of torture, complaining of the hours it took the last time to wash the blood from his clothes. Other forms of torture were discussed in detail but discarded one by one until Davey fell into incoherent mumblings for mercy, and even the cocksure Cochran twitched some with fear. Finally, Sammy decided to leave them as crow bait, despite the Reverend's objection that the death took too long and they always seemed to die of thirst long before the birds even got to their eyes.
Joy knocked on the side of the cart thrice. Her heart pounded furiously, as her gaze darted anxiously up and down the road. "Are you well?"
"Yes, maam." The masculine voice sounded low, barely above a whisper and unmistakably frightened.
"All's well, but Mary, is she all right?" asked Joy.
"Out cold fer de longest spell, but I'se feel her breathin' regular."
"Hang on. It won't be long now."
Glancing in both directions, she nervously petted Libertine's neck, far more to calm herself than her horse. She could never stay for the final violence, for she could not abide it, even when it was necessary. Despite her proclivities for these noble but dangerous missions and though she never discussed it, violence, any violence, shook her to the depth of her soul. The chicken slaughter at the marketplace nearly brought her to her knees. Tender hearted she was, and though she loathed this feminine pretension, try as she might, she simply could not witness suffering of any kind.
She even refused to let Sammy load her pistol. She would more easily shoot herself than another person, even bounty hunters—who surely were the lowest and most undeserving of all God's creatures. Besides, threatening men with an empty pistol seemed to work just as well as a loaded one.
The Reverend and Sammy finally returned.
"Are they out?" she asked.
"Out cold." Sammy's huge hands rested on his hips and he smiled. "Joy Claret, child, you did good, real good. But it's a sure thing that you gotta stay."
She nodded, having expected it. Someone had to watch until the passengers reached safety, making certain the men didn't wake and try to alert a passerby.
"How's the girl?" the Reverend asked as he quickly ascended to the driver's seat.
"Unconscious but still breathing." Anxiety marked Joy's features. "Surely she needs a doctor; make all haste!"
"I’ll have her to the ship surgeon inside of two hours. Don't worry, darlin'. Now lass, I want to see you perched up in some branch and remember, if there's any trouble, any trouble at all, you're to—"
"Fly with the wind," she and Sammy both finished the familiar warning before laughing at the synchronicity. She watched as the old cart disappeared down the deserted road. Taking hold of Libby's reins, she turned to lead her mare into the forest.
The sun's position announced a ten o'clock hour. Shadows shifted and shortened by the minute. The moist air filled with the rich scents of spring growth: trees, ferns, shrubs and always that putrid, though hardly unpleasant, smell of the river nearby. Birds called distant and near, and the flight of unseen creatures gave the familiar landscape a lush exotic feel.
She might have been lost on a deserted island.
In a small clearing the size of a decent parlor, Joy Claret found the two men unconscious beneath a wide oak tree, safely bound, tied and gagged, looking far more like drunken fools than the nefarious devil-doers they were. She kept at a distance. Close inspection of the surrounding trees led to many possibilities. She finally chose another old oak, one with a fairly low hanging branch, directly across from her charges. She positioned her mount beneath the chosen branch, and with a remarkable agility few of her sex possessed, she swung onto the branch. "Stay close, my pet, stay close."
Libertine tossed her head in agreement and wandered nearby to graze. Joy settled against the upturned and moss-covered branch, and after a careful inspection for spiders, ants and any other unwanted companions that might think to share her space, she settled her gaze on the prisoners for the long wait.
A narrow hunting path led into the small clearing, and as she noticed it, her fanciful imagination flew down the escape way it presented. She was soon lost in a pleasant daydream: She was an Indian maiden, separated from her tribe and family, and through a quick succession of unlikely events, she was in perilous need of rescue. The same boy would always magically appear to rescue her. He was blond, blue-eyed and handsome. Like Joshua, he was not as strong of build as he was clever. A series of more unlikely events followed in her mind's eye, until this unnamed boy, by virtue of wits alone, rescued her, declared his affection, and ended the dream with a kiss.
She woke from her dreamy haze with a blush, an inexplicable warmth moving through her limbs. She could not make sense of it. Lately, as she lay in bed at night or during the family reading time and once right in the middle of old Miss St. Ivy's tea, these silly school girl dreams would take hold of her mind!
What in heaven's name was wrong with her? The daydreams were bad enough in themselves, but after a conscious review of the content, it irked her to realize she was always in need of rescuing, instead of doing the rescuing. Yet, whenever she changed the circumstances to suit her well-defined character, whenever she became the rescuer, the dream suddenly had as much appeal as a slice of moldy bread.
A low groan interrupted her musings, and as she sat up, a shrewd cautious gaze instantly replaced the dreamy one. The dark-haired devil lifted his head but with a great effort, then it fell back with another low muffled growl.
Alertness fixed in her large, blue eyes.
A dog barked in the far distance. The sound came from the forest rather than the road. A quick glance behind reassured her that Libertine was near, but the mare's ears were pricked with sudden caution. The sound drew closer still, and as her gaze riveted to the hunting path, she withdrew her pistol.
It was the habit of Ram Barrington to run for no other reason than the sheer joy and exhilaration of physically exhausting himself. He'd developed this odd habit as a young boy; it helped him escape the pain and terror of a troubled childhood long forgotten. Later, running had eased the accumulated tension and restlessness of many long sea voyages taken as a young boy aboard his great uncle Sir Admiral Byron's English man-of-war. Then, as a young man, it helped ease the tedium, his impatience with the slow peaceful pace of India's eternal summers. The habit carried over into adulthood, and he sometimes chuckled to himself with a vision of himself as an old eighty-year-old man, cane in hand, still passing an early morning hour or so trying to run.
He had cleared a good six or seven miles, with another mile or two left in his legs, when Rake, his great mastiff dog, caught scent of something and dashed on ahead, barking. The narrow path ran alongside a fair-sized stream. Ram spotted the pond, dammed by two large fallen trunks, and after a quick inspection, the cool depth could not be resisted.
As he rested, drying in the sun, he suddenly realized Rake had not returned or stopped barking. Not particularly wanting a dead rabbit dropped at his feet, he set off in pursuit.
The path led abruptly to a small clearing. Agitated and still barking, Rake held an attack stance in front of two bound, gagged and apparently quite unconscious men.
"What the devil is this?”
Joy Claret was asking herself that exact question as she stared in great alarm. She could not explain the threat she felt from this man's inexplicable presence, but he was like no other man the innocence of her eyes had ever beheld. She felt the danger—danger that moved as a physical force through her frame, causing her breath to catch and a cold numbness to seep into her hands. Her hands tightened around the pistol.
The blatant masculinity of his imposing form as he stood there, hands on hips, staring at the bounty hunters, seemed at once more dangerous than ... than even those pirates she watched pass on the road! Half naked and bootless—this did seem the day for affronts to her sensibilities—the bronze frame was tall, taller even than Sammy, and he wore only sun-washed white breeches, cut at the knees, and a black belt. His bare form radiated a threatening and well-exercised strength. Muscles, he seemed nothing but muscles. Numerous scars marked the wide breadth of his bare muscled chest—testament to what could only be too many battles fought and won. Thick, raven-black curls crowned distinctly aristocratic features. As if an artist painted the square cut to his jaw, his wide firm mouth, fine large nose and markedly prominent forehead, his features were all drawn with clean strong strokes. Yet the final stroke, she saw with a small gasp, was a black patch that covered one eye.
Alarm rose not from any one of the recklessly handsome features but by the complete impression. She had no strength, depended solely on her wits, and what frightened her the most was the sense that he also had an intelligence so quick and sharp it could swallow hers in a bite.
She had yet to take a breath when he moved toward the captives. The pounding of her heart produced the idea of remaining silent and not alerting him to her presence. It was no use; surely he'd spot Libertine and then her. And oh God, where had her senses fled? If he should be allowed to rouse the captives, all would be lost.
A long jeweled dagger, pearl inlaid and sparkling with rubies and emeralds, appeared in his hand, and when she saw this, she found her voice. "Hold it right there, mister! Or I'll blow you to bits!"
Ram stopped and froze, his normally quick mind requiring several long seconds to give reality to the squeakiest, queer voice he had ever chanced to hear. He turned slowly and found the owner of this voice perched in the tree like a parrot. Surprised by so unlikely an event as being held at gunpoint by a small brat and out in the middle of nowhere, his amusement took some seconds to overcome his incredulity.
"What mischief is this?'
Joy Claret knew the exact moment laughter warmed the cold, dark gaze. The man's amusement, to say nothing of the arrogance of his demand, spoke wagonloads for her trouble. "Whatever it is, mister, it is not your concern!''
Simultaneously, both their gazes turned to Rake. The huge monstrosity of a dog maintained an attack stance on the two bound men, completely ignoring what anyone else might think a real threat to his master. This brought Ram's gaze back to the tree, and with sudden renewed interest, he started toward her.
"Hold it!"
He stopped, now only four paces from her.
"That's right, just stand still while I reason out your fate."
A dark brow lifted. "Indeed!" He chuckled. "I hardly intend to rest my fate in your ah, trembling hands." He watched the sky-blue eyes look to her hands, as if to ascertain the reality of the assertion.
Joy desperately attempted to steady her aim.
"I’ll tell you once, brat," he said more gently. "You'll fare far better if you drop to the ground now and start explaining this mishap."
Anger flushed her cheeks. She couldn't believe it, him, his unequaled arrogance! "News to you—you nefarious scoundrel—I have a pistol pointed at you!"
Dark brows drew together with confusion. Nefarious scoundrel? Hardly the curse words of a backwoods brat. Damn that voice too, so curiously feminine, as though the lad was a recent audition for the Vienna Boys' Choir—
The thought brought a quick appraisal of the boy's hands. In all his years, he had yet to see a boy—any boy—with clean and manicured nails, let alone fingers so obviously thin and feminine.
He stared long and hard at the delicate and lovely features that were suddenly far too feminine, even for a pretty boy. Quick anger arrived, controlled only by a sudden—and for him, rare—curiosity. He would play her game only long enough to know where it led.
"Now—" she desperately attempted a gruff, mean, and male tone that remained infuriatingly out of reach. "You just sit where you stand, while we wait."
"Wait for what?'
"For my friends. I can't very well keep a pistol to you and tie you up at the same time, can I?" she explained. "So, we'll just have to wait for my friends.''
"And how many, ah, friends are we expecting?"
Two—I mean twenty!" She quickly changed her mind. She had to sound meaner, much meaner. "So sit, mister!"
"You shouldn't threaten a person with a gun if you don't have the necessary inclination to use it."
Her gaze narrowed. "What makes you think I won't use it?”
"Had you or your, ah, twenty friends been murderers, no doubt those two fools there," he motioned, "would have bullet holes where only bruises show."
Disarmed by his quick reasoning, Joy tried to dissuade him from this belief. "I assure you, sir, I'd be just as pleased to shoot you as to look at you!" She misread plain malice as fear, and ridiculously, before she thought better of her natural inclination, she said, "Oh, don't worry, I truly won't shoot if you just do as I say."
"Ah! I suppose this means I can stop my quivering!"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and while his wit disarmed her again, she wisely concluded his charm best ignored. His hand still held a dagger, and she saw this as her first exercise in authority.' "You can drop your dagger first off."
"My thought exactly." He lifted the dagger as though to drop it, but with a casual flick of his wrist, it sliced through the air in a flash, expertly hitting its mark right between her open legs. Joy gasped, tried to catch her balance, but fell backward, landing with an ugly thud to the ground. Although the wind was knocked out of her, she quickly scrambled to her feet with a speed that impressed her audience of one. He let her run a few paces to satisfy a desire to see her backside before he tackled her to the ground in three easy strides. Strong arms braced her, and she cried out as, curiously, those same arms cushioned her fall, allowing an impact no more jarring than a tumble to hay.
Then his weight came upon her.
Joy had the good sense to be frightened at a distance, but now she knew terror as his hard form pressed intimately upon her, stifling any thought of a struggle. He pinned her arms to the blanket of moss, and her terror grew as his gaze raked over her in unsurpassed scrutiny.
"God, girl," his gaze finally returned to her face. "There’s enough femininity in this package to arouse a blind man. I don't know how you thought to disguise it."
Until that moment, she hadn't known he had guessed her sex. A maiden's fear sprang quickly in her enchanting eyes, real, tremendous, and forever alien to him. Why this bothered him, he couldn't say; she at least deserved the fear.
"Your explanation had better be good, brat. That a young girl mustered the audacity to behave so is only slightly less infuriating than the thought of the man who put you up to it."
He saw she could barely comprehend, let alone venture a reply, the enormity of it was so great. Her breath came in huge gulps, and she looked as though she fully expected a blow to her face. "Rest easy, brat," he said slowly. "I’ve never had the inclination to molest young girls by the roadside."
She remained perfectly still, the words penetrating slowly, but bringing little reassurance.
This brought some small amusement. "Even if I had though, you'd have naught to worry. You're pretty enough, I suppose," he ventured, lifting partially from her to again review her assets. "Provided one had the imaginative facilities necessary to see through this garb. But this skinny slip of a figure hardly offers a temptation."
Comprehension sank through her fear, and then only partially, the terror of being caught, held and helpless left her nearly deaf and certainly dumb. All she gathered from his speech was the subject of molestation. "Please don't hurt me..."
This plea utterly disarmed him, doing more for her case than a hundred jurists, not just because it accurately revealed the extent of her desperation, so markedly incongruent with the boldness of her behavior, but because of the tone. Her voice sounded frightened, altogether feminine, and held an alluring blend of accents—an English hit mixed with soft Southern lyricism.
"After I turn you over my knee for a well-deserved thrashing, I won't hurt you. Probably."
She frantically searched the devilishly fine features to finally discern his amusement.
He thought of her as nothing but a misbehaving child, she realized and relief swept over her form. Once released from the burden of that fear, she was suddenly, acutely conscious of the great inexplicable warmth of his body pressed on hers, the shocking intimacy and feel of his hard muscled strength. "What then shall you do?" she asked rather breathlessly.
"That depends wholly on your story," he said, glancing up at the two bound men. "Now, what has happened here?"
One coherent thought rose through the waves of her pounding temples. Sammy and the Reverend would not return for over an hour, and somewhere in that time she must escape from this man to warn them. Libertine neighed angrily nearby, making plain her displeasure with her mistress' situation. "Please, loose me—"
"Not in your wildest dreams," he said simply.
"Oh but…” She squirmed to give credence to the complaint, "You're hurting me so."
"What an inconsistent little fool," he chuckled. "After holding me at gun point, you would now beg privileges of your sex?"
"But I can't talk like this! Truly!"
"You better try because I've already mentioned the only other position you're likely to get from me."
This confirmed the growing suspicion that he was hard-nosed and mean, cruel in the extreme. She had not lived with the Reverend's mendacity without picking up a few tricks. "I know what this must look like," she began dramatically. "But honestly, you mistake the circumstances! You see," her tone lifted higher as the lie came to her. "My uncle, Sammy and I are the victims here! We were traveling to Carlisle when these two ... bandits over there tried to rob us. Well! Few men can best Sammy—our Negro—or my uncle. And I can assure you—and you can see for yourself—they soon reversed the situation. They tied the highwaymen up and knocked them out, as you see there, and left me to guard them while they went to fetch the proper authorities."
Nothing in all her life, even in these last awful minutes, scared her as much as the changed emotion on his face. He said only, "The next lie you tell will be your last; I will make you regret the breath it was uttered in."
She waited for her next breath, which would not come. The silence filled with the sound of rushing water and the ever present cries of birds, flying with a freedom she had cause to envy.
"I'm growing impatient with you." The hard lines of his face gave credibility to the statement.
Joy in no way wanted to discover what happened when his small patience wore thin, yet all she could think of was--"I can't tell you."
"Only slightly better than a lie. Why not?" Now his tone suggested the casual interest of teatime chatter, and his apparent capriciousness left her stunned.
"It could risk the lives of many innocent people," she replied.
"Innocent?' He chuckled. "I've seen more innocence in the spread of a whore's thighs."
Unbelievably, the metaphor brought quick color to her cheeks, and this, more than any one thing, surprised him. He stared in sudden wonder. Try as he would, he could not reconcile that single blush with the girl's behavior. This added dangerously to both his curiosity and impatience, and he was just about to make his threats explicit when suddenly one of the bound men groaned and tried to lift his head again.
Still maintaining the lowered attack stance, Rake barked angrily, and Ram glanced up, for a moment distracted. Joy Claret saw the chance—her only chance—and before her fear could caution her, she stiffened purposely, cast her gaze behind her captor and screamed, "No! Don't shoot him!"
She never wasted a moment to marvel at the speed of Ram's reflexes. The words had not left her mouth, and Ram was off her, standing in his own attack stance at an invisible perpetrator. Alerted and barking, Rake dashed to his master's side, adding confusion to the startling few seconds it took Ram to search the surroundings and see that no one was there. Just as he turned back around to catch her, Joy vaulted her nervous mount with an agility that gave lift to Ram's brow. Libertine leaped into the air, and the last thing Joy heard—the only thing she heard—was the fine sound of Ram Barrington's laughter.