by Naomi Finley
Copyright @ 2018 Huntson Press Inc.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN: 978-1-7750676-7-2
Cover designer: Victoria Cooper Art
Website: www.facebook.com/VictoriaCooperArt
Editor: Scripta Word Services
Website: scripta-word-services.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Epilogue
Author note
Coming Next
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For my husband
Livingston Plantation, 1851
ON SCHEDULE, CHARLES HENDRICKS’S PRIVATE carriage rolled down the lane and through the gates of Livingston Plantation a few hours after sunset.
The man on the ridge leaned forward, arms resting on the neck of his mount, awaiting the outcome of his earlier sabotage of the carriage. If all played out as planned, Hendricks would take his last breath tonight.
He’d cleanse the earth of the Hendricks and Shaw bloodlines once and for all, breaking the curse Olivia Shaw had placed on his family all those years ago. Even the hangman’s noose hadn’t snuffed out her witchery.
He inhaled deeply of the cigar clutched between his teeth, the hot, sweet smoke slithering down his throat to circle in his lungs. Removing the cigar with a gloved hand, he puffed out billowy gray rings of smoke. The rings floated into the starless darkness above, shifting form before vanishing into the autumn night.
Below, the carriage began to sway violently from side to side. A warmth radiated through his chest as he watched Hendricks fight to regain control. Before his hungry eyes, the moment he’d waited for played out. The watcher lurched forward as the carriage rolled over, eager to see its demise.
The piercing squeals of the horse shattered the quiet of the night as it went down thrashing. In the wreckage, the carriage lantern set fire to the surrounding grass and brushwood. The man sat mesmerized by the beauty of the flames as the fire took life, the drumming in his chest elevating to a roar in his ears. Squinting past the glow of the blaze, he located the form of Hendricks, pinned beneath the carriage.
The watcher released a long, slow breath of satisfaction. He’d put his plan in motion; he would become master of everything the Hendrickses owned, and he’d incinerate anything or anyone standing in the way.
His brother would delight in his achievement. Revenge would be theirs.
With a jerk of the reins and a kick of his heels, he dug his spurs into the sides of the horse, and it leaped forward, bound for home.
Sometime later, the man veered his mount off the main road and bent low under the hanging vines of the cypress trees. He guided the horse onto the serpentine path on the other side.
The trail ended at an untamed, moon-drenched meadow. The gray, weather-beaten barn’s shadow devoured the smaller building next to it—a windowless, one-room cabin suffocating in the entanglement of evergreen vines. Dismounting at the barn, he lifted the board barring the doors. Groaning in protest, the doors swung open. He lit the lantern hanging on a beam near the entrance, the jagged yellow glow the lantern cast elongating his dark silhouette across the barn floor.
Whimpering to the right made him spin on his worn heels to face the handful of slaves he’d taken from the freed Negro’s plantation a few miles over. A sinister smile crept over his unshaven face. The man reveled in the sight of the slaves’ bulging eyes as they sat huddled together with their hands chained above their heads.
Filthy animals! Damn Negroes, going around thinking they can sow the same ground as the white men. The rich Negro got what he deserved.
The drunken singing of his father floated in from outside.
Grumbling to himself, the man urged the horse into a stall. He shoved at the horse’s hindquarters to get by the animal and removed the saddle. The horse nudged him from behind as he slung the saddle over the side of the stall. Cursing, he drove a fist against the side of the creature’s head, then kicked the gate to the stall closed and left the barn, barring the doors shut behind him.
He found his half-naked father riding his horse up to the cabin. A bottle of whiskey swung in his hand as he continued to belt out a tune. “Useless bastard,” the man said, storming toward him.
He pulled his father off the horse and slung him over his shoulder, grimacing at the overpowering stench of body odor, whiskey, and jasmine. Women and gambling were his religion. Kicking the cabin door open,
he carried the unconscious man to the far corner of the room and deposited him in a heap on the bed there. Straightening, he peered down at his pathetic excuse of a father.
One quick slash of his throat and the burden of him would be gone, the constant gibbering in his head slowed to say. End his life. Make him pay for what they did to you.
“Silence!” He cuffed his own ears with his hands as he moved away. He slammed the door, and it shook on its rusted hinges. His father’s weakness for women sickened him. Had his mother taught him nothing? Women were the demise of all men.
He lowered himself into a chair in front of the fireplace. Pulling off his boots, he stretched his legs out in front of him. The throbbing in his right foot grew worse with each passing year. Damn Virginia and that blizzard! It had claimed three of his toes.
Turning to the warmth of the crackling fire, he slid his hat down over his eyes and tried to shut out the grating of his father’s drunken snores.
Charleston, 1852
SHIVERS RACKED MY BODY. MY shoulders ached with the tension from my white-knuckled grip on the reins that bit through my brown leather gloves. Bile scorched the back of my throat. Beside me, my friend Whitney clung to the side of the wagon, jaw tense with worry and yes, fear.
We must make it! We must! Squinting through the relentless rain blinding my vision, I scanned the horizon for the edge of town. He can’t die. Please let him make it alive. I winced with each jaw-rattling jolt of the wagon, worrying for the gravely wounded slave hidden behind the false plank under the wagon seat.
We pushed through the rain-filled ruts suctioning at the wheels with each rotation. Droplets of cold muck splattered our clothing and faces.
Last evening, the slave had shown up at Livingston, pounding on the front door as blood pooled on the veranda from the gaping wound in his midsection. Leaning on the frame, he gasped for air, his eyes wild with fear. He cried out repeatedly, “I come seekin’ de Guardian.”
The risk of keeping him at Livingston past morning had been too high. He’d killed the overseer over at the Thames Plantation. Art Thames would be out for Negro blood, and that of anyone harboring him. Despite his condition, we had to try to get him out on the afternoon ship leaving for Baltimore. The dark, early morning skies had held the promise of a downpour, but we’d hoped to reach town before they unleashed their torrent.
The edge of town stretched out before us, but as we rounded the bend, my breath caught at the sight of four riders galloping toward us. Rain glistened on the coats of the charging beasts. The horses’ hooves kicked up the wet ground and surrounded them and their riders in a cloud of black liquid.
Whitney’s hand moved to the rifle leaning on the seat between us.
Deafened by the thrashing of my heart as they drew near, I focused my line of vision straight ahead.
The horsemen pulled their mounts to a stop in the middle of the road. One held up his hand. “Halt!”
I eased the wagon to a stop.
The speaker moved his horse to my side, and I gulped back the lump forming in my throat as I locked eyes with Art Thames. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed another man taking up a position alongside Whitney. He was none other than Richard Carter, the father of the town gossip, Lucille. The other two men circling the wagon were strangers.
“Is there something we can help you with?” I cocked my head in Art’s direction.
“We’re looking for one of my niggers who ran off last eve. He was injured and couldn’t have gotten far. You didn’t happen to see a stray nigger, did you, Miss Hendricks?”
Holding his yellow-tinged eyes with mine, I said, “No, but if I do, I’ll certainly let you know.”
The men at the rear threw back the oilskin tarp covering the goods in the bed of the wagon.
Forcing myself to breathe evenly, I asked, “What does the man look like?”
“Average height; really ugly. The slave’s a problem and has been since I bought him. He’s got a well-deserved scar running from the top of his forehead down to his belly.”
A gnarly scar, I recalled all too well. I’d gotten an up-close view of the scar when Mammy had cut off the man’s blood-drenched shirt to sew him up. Someone had found pleasure in torturing the slave, and that someone sat in front of me.
My throat tightened. The desire to hang the slave’s master by his thick, hairy neck surged through me. But a lynching would be too easy for the brutality he’d dealt out.
The man’s eyes drifted to Whitney.
“So he’s recognizable,” I said, lifting my hand to my chin as if pondering. “As I’ve said, I haven’t seen him, but I’ll be on the lookout for a slave matching your description.”
“You do that,” he said. “All right, let’s go.” He pulled his reins and kicked his heels into the sides of his horse.
We sat still until the thundering of the horses’ hooves faded, leaving only the pelting of the rain on the wagon.
“Bastards!” Whitney cursed as she jumped down to secure the canvas. “No respect for any persons or their goods.”
I gave the removable plank under the seat a light kick with my heel.
“You all right?”
A weak, muffled noise came from within.
“We’re almost to town, and soon you’ll be far away from that madman.”
No reply came.
Whitney boosted herself onto the seat. I whipped the reins, and the horses lurched forward.
ADGER’S FOLLY WAS BURSTING WITH activity. Brick warehouses cast shadows over the granite bridge. The harbor was congested with steam engines, and further out, the dots of sailing vessels threaded toward the open sea. Endless piles of cotton and rice ready for shipping lined the wharf.
We located Captain Gillies out in front of Hendricks Enterprises’ warehouse, shouting orders to the dockworkers loading wooden crates and bales of cotton onto a flatbed wagon.
He turned to face us as I pulled alongside him. He stood with his shoulders curved forward against the cold and the rain. “Miss Willow, Miss Whitney, I wasn’t expecting you until the end of the week.”
“We came to make a delivery to the general store, and I thought I’d stop by to check on things here.”
His bushy copper brows lifted, and his keen blue eyes studied us intently. Several seconds ticked by before he shrugged and said, “It’s always a pleasure to see you ladies. Days on end filled with these grimy sailors can get to a man after a while.” The captain clapped the shoulder of a black sailor as he passed. The sailor grinned up at us and nodded.
My eyes flitted from the captain to him. “Afternoon.”
“Afternoon,” he said and continued on down the dock.
“Can I talk to you privately?” I asked, loosening my grip on the reins as the horses jerked against them.
Captain Gillies’s expression grew serious. “Let me get this last load of supplies tended to for Captain Phillips so he can depart on schedule.”
“Hurry. It may already be too late,” I said.
He stiffened before he whirled and started barking orders to the men with heightened urgency.
As Whitney and I climbed down, a whistle from a steam engine startled me, and I fell backward, crashing onto the dock with a brain-shaking thud. Whitney hurried to help me to my feet. Frowning, she said in a hushed tone, “What are we going to do? We need to get him on the ship today.”
“We will. I need to get Captain Gillies alone to inform him we have cargo.”
Captain Gillies, my father’s confidant in all matters to do with Hendricks Enterprises, had schooled Ben and me on how my father had run his ships. The captain had shown us the trapdoor under the pile of nets and ropes that gave access to a hidden room. Father had concealed fugitives there until he could deliver them to the next station along their journey to freedom. Captain Gillies’s desire to aid my father, and now us, in our cause derived from his family’s years as indentured servants.
Soon the captain’s loaded wagon made its way toward the ship, and
he joined us.
“We have cargo, and it needs to be on that ship.” Whitney nodded at the Olivia I.
“What?” He tipped his face up to address her. “We hadn’t planned on—”
“The cargo arrived late.”
He took a wide scan of the dock. “Bring the wagon inside,” he said, and disappeared into the warehouse.
I led the horses inside, and Captain Gillies closed the doors behind us and dropped the board into place to bar it closed. Whitney hurried to slide open the plank under the seat. The slave tumbled out onto the floor of the driver’s seat.
He lay unmoving.
No! I lifted his wrist to take his pulse. Nothing. “Whitney…”
Whitney pushed me aside and took his wrist between her fingers. Moments later, she lowered his arm to his chest. Sadness permeated her green eyes. “He’s gone.”
Tears itched at the corners of my eyes. As I’d feared, the man’s wounds were too severe. Each loss of a human life entrusted to my care etched a little more out of my heart.
A year had passed since my father’s death, but it felt like forever. Ben Hendricks—my father’s brother and my birth father—and I had spent countless hours discussing Hendricks Enterprises with Sam, my father’s lawyer, and Captain Gillies. Collectively, we’d decided that with the help of Jones I’d tend to the matters at the plantation and Ben would see to the importing and exporting.
Before Whitney, her twin siblings, and I returned from Rhode Island at the end of summer, Ben had left for England on business.
“What do we do now?” Whitney rubbed a slender hand over the nape of her neck.
“We can’t chance taking him back with us to bury.”
Captain Gillies removed a canvas draped over some crates and dropped it on the floor. He lifted the body of the slave and gently laid it on the canvas. “I’ll get rid of the body. You ladies head on out of here before someone grows suspicious of you delivering goods on a day like today.”
“It’s our Christian duty to at least offer a prayer for the man,” I said, and held out a hand to Whitney.
Captain Gillies stood and removed his rain-drenched hat. Heads bowed, we said a prayer for the dead man.
