“Sadiki very hurt. Sadiki maybe die,” Tatu said. “Need doctor. Tatu sneak from field to find someone and hear you.” She took a tentative step toward him. “You help us, sir?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Nate promised. “How many slaves are there on the estate?”
“Tatu not count. A hundred. More, maybe.”
“And how many came over on the boat with you?”
“About half, sir. Rest come on other boat two weeks before we do.”
Nate pursed his lips. Jacques Debussy would not want to keep such a large number of illegal slaves on the estate longer than necessary, so it was possible Debussy was off somewhere arranging their sale at that very moment. Once he returned the whole lot would be taken away to their new home. Or perhaps they would be divided up and sent to different locations. “How many of you want to escape?” he inquired.
“Sadiki and Tatu, sir.”
“That’s all?”
“Rest very scared. They know we never see Africa again. No way back.”
That was true. But there were a number of antislavery groups who helped runaway slaves build new lives, and most prominent of these were the Quakers. If he could get Tatu and Sadiki to the nearest Quaker congregation they would get all the help they’d need. “How many speak English?”
“Just Tatu, sir. Tatu learn from missionaries in Africa. Learn fine, yes?” she asked, mustering a smile.
“You do right fine,” Nate complimented her, and stared thoughtfully at the floor, in a quandary. He would like to free the entire bunch but it would be impossible. There was nowhere he could lead them where they would be safe. Debussy was bound to have influential friends who would rally to his aid and dispatch a large force to suppress any rebellion, as had been done five years ago in Virginia where a slave named Nat Turner led about forty slaves in revolt and killed some fifty whites. Three thousand armed men hunted the rebel band down, killing almost every last one and hanging Nat Turner.
“You help us, sir?” Tatu anxiously prompted.
“If I do, where would you go? What would you do?” Nate rejoined.
“We go anywhere. We not be slaves.”
Nate rubbed his chin. Slaves ran away all the time. Not in large groups, as in the Turner revolt, but singly or a few here and there. It was nothing to alarm the average citizen or cause the owners of the slaves to become unduly concerned. Most were brought back by professional slave hunters who tracked the runaways down for a hefty fee. Occasionally runaways managed to elude them and begin new lives in states where slavery had been abolished. If he could sneak Sadiki and Tatu off the estate they might be able to find their way north to freedom. “How many guards does Debussy have?”
“Eighteen. And many dogs.”
“Can Sadiki walk?”
“If Sadiki have to.”
“You say he snuck away from your cabin?”
“Yes. Him try to find safe way out. Dogs see him, though.”
“How did you get away?”
“Guards not watch women as close as they do men. When us women sent into field to work I wait until guards are talking and laughing and crawl into weeds.”
“How soon before they notice you’re gone?”
Tatu shrugged. “Maybe not until near dark when they take women back to cabins for the night.”
“That gives us some time to plan,” Nate said. Suddenly shouting broke out in the garden. He stepped to the window and parted the curtain a bit. There were three pairs of guards, each with a dog on a leash, scouring the hedges and flower beds. “They know you’re missing already,” he announced.
Tatu gasped. “What Tatu do?”
As Nate turned he heard more shouting, but inside the mansion. Would they conduct a search of all the rooms? Turning, he hurried to the closet and opened the door. “Hide in here until it’s all clear.” He grabbed his rifle and stood back as she obeyed.
“Please protect me,” she pleaded, clutching his sleeve. “If they find Tatu they whip her like they whipped Sadiki.”
“I won’t let them take you,” Nate pledged, moved by the eloquent appeal in her frightened eyes.
“You good man,” Tatu said.
“It just goes against my grain to see anyone enslaved,” Nate responded, and added meaningfully, “I know the value of freedom.” He motioned for her to stand in a corner, and closed the door. The shouting was much nearer and he estimated the searchers were in the hall beyond his door. Dashing to the bed he sat down and aligned the Hawken in his lap.
Not five seconds later a heavy fist pounded on the door and a gruff voice called out, “Mister King? This is Yancy, the foreman.”
“Come in,” Nate said.
The door opened to admit Yancy, a guard armed with a rifle, and one other man, a man Nate hadn’t seen before, a thin man with exceptionally pale skin who was wearing black clothes and whose hard features hinted at latent menace and blatant arrogance.
“What is all the yelling about?” Nate asked with just the right air of casual curiosity.
“An accomplice of that horse thief we captured yesterday is on the property,” Yancy said.
“You certainly have a lot of problems with intruders,” Nate commented. “Don’t you have guards posted around the estate?”
“Naturally,” Yancy said, his tone flat.
The man in black took a stride forward. “We’re going to search your room.”
Nate rose, casually holding the Hawken in his left hand, his right free to draw a pistol if necessary. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
“The name is Rhey Debussy.”
“Are you related to Jacques?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Jacques and I are brothers,” Rhey said. He turned toward the closet and nodded at the guard. “Check in there.”
Exercising deceptive nonchalance, Nate rested his right hand on the flintlock and moved a pace to the left where he could better see the actions of all three men. “I’m afraid I can’t permit my room to be searched,” he said pleasantly.
The trio glanced at him in surprise, the guard freezing in midstride.
“Why the hell not?” Rhey Debussy asked.
“Several reasons,” Nate said. “First of all, I don’t like your attitude.”
Debussy’s pale features flushed crimson. His right hand moved the flap of his jacket aside to reveal a pistol. “You dare insult me, monsieur?”
“You’re the one who has insulted me,” Nate replied sternly, and gestured with the rifle at the foreman and the guard. “All of you. You come in here and flat out tell me you’re going to search my room without bothering to ask my permission. You treat me like a criminal and imply I have some connection to the horse thief and his accomplice.” He straightened, his voice hardening. “And here all this time I thought I was your brother’s guest.”
“But you are, sir,” Yancy said.
“Then why am I not being accorded the respect due a guest?”
Before either of them could answer, into the bedroom bustled Adeline Van Buren. She looked at Debussy, her anger transparent. “What is the meaning of this?”
Yancy bowed. “Your pardon, my lady, but we are hunting for an escaped …” he said, and caught himself. “Horse thief,” he concluded after a pronounced pause.
“In here?” Adeline snapped.
“The gardener thought he saw her come into the house,” Rhey Debussy said.
“So you took it on yourselves to disturb Nate?” Adeline said, her eyes blazing.
The man in black refused to be intimidated. “The gardener thought he saw her come in here,” he elaborated.
Nate deliberately laughed sarcastically. “Your intruder is a woman? Perhaps you should request federal troops to help you track her down!” At the mention of federal troops everyone else visibly tensed. Nate knew he had struck a raw nerve, knew Tatu had told him the truth.
“I find your humor deplorable,” Rhey said.
“I find you deplorable,�
� Nate countered.
The pale man flushed even redder and, began to advance, his right hand closing on his gun.
“Rhey!” Adeline declared shrilly. “That will be enough! Leave this instant and take these men with you.”
Debussy hesitated, his desire to kill as plain as the hooked nose on his face. His mouth quivered with rage as he abruptly wheeled and stalked into the corridor. The guard followed. Yancy bowed again to Adeline, then exited.
“My apologies,” she said to Nate. “Rhey always has had an uncontrollable temper. Jacques, who is eight years older, is the exact opposite. I’ve never seen him ruffled.” She stepped to the doorway. “I must go talk to Rhey. Please excuse me.”
He simply nodded as she closed the door, then sighed in profound relief. If they had discovered Tatu there would have been hell to pay! He sat down on the bed and tried to sort out the underlying current between the man in black and his former sweetheart. Rhey Debussy had impressed him as the sort of man who would back down for no one, and yet Rhey had backed down to Adeline. Why? And what would account for Rhey’s obvious hatred of him? From the moment Rhey stepped into the room Nate had sensed the man’s dislike, like an invisible wave of unbridled emotion washing over him. There must be an explanation but it baffled him.
He shook his head and headed for the closet. For now he must concentrate on helping Tatu and Sadiki. Once that was done he would get to the bottom of the mystery involving Adeline and the Debussy clan. And deep down he sensed he wouldn’t like what he would find.
Not one damn bit.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Night cloaked the countryside with an inky mantle when Nate cracked the window and listened intently. A cool breeze fanned his cheek. He heard crickets chirping in the garden, and somewhere to the west a bullfrog croaked. After waiting a suitable interval to satisfy himself there were no guards in the vicinity, he opened the window all the way and slipped outside, where he pressed his back to the wall and held the Hawken ready for use. “Come on,” he whispered.
As silently as a ghost Tatu joined him.
Since Nate had already extinguished the lamp in his bedroom, he didn’t have to worry about their silhouettes being outlined from within. Now he crept north along the base of the wall, staying low and hugging the darker patches. He stopped shy of a well-lit room and dropped to his knees to crouch under the windowsill. Once out of danger he rose and beckoned for Tatu to do the same.
In his mind’s eye Nate reviewed the layout of the estate as detailed by Tatu. The cabins where the slaves were housed were located northwest of the stables, a distance of five hundred yards or more. There was plenty of cover but there were also plenty of guards patrolling the property. He wasn’t worried about them so much as he was the dogs. With their keen senses of smell and hearing the dogs would detect scents and sounds the guards would not.
He had to duck under six more windows before he reached the northwest corner of the mansion. Squatting behind a rose bush he glanced at Tatu, and received a kindly smile. He returned the favor, then eased around the bush until he could survey the ground between the house and the shed, then the stretch between the shed and the stables.
Nothing moved.
In a crouch he darted across twenty feet of open space, and knelt in the shelter of a huge tree. Light footsteps to his rear told him Tatu was keeping up. He gazed past the tree, where the grass was dimly illuminated by the glow from a lantern hanging in front of the shed. Earlier he had observed a guard going around to various points where lanterns were hung to light each and every one. Jacques Debussy, apparently, was a thorough man who left little to chance.
He swung to the right, avoiding the circle of light, his moccasins making no noise on the soft carpet of lush grass. Ten yards from the
tree was a bush, and he was nearly there when voices arose at the house and a door slammed shut. Instantly he flattened in the shadows rather than risk going on and being spotted. Twisting, he discovered two men had emerged from a side door and were standing under a lantern while one of them lit a pipe. A yard away lay Tatu, as rigid as a log.
The pair began conversing in French.
Nate had no idea what they were talking about. He waited impatiently for them to move, the Hawken on the ground beside him, his right hand gripping the hilt of his butcher knife. If he was spotted he intended to dispatch them swiftly and silently.
The man with the pipe laughed at a remark by his companion, and together they strolled to the east. Eventually they walked around the corner and were gone.
Upright in a flash, Nate ran for the bush and sank to his knees. Tatu’s hand touched his shoulder and pointed, and he swiveled to see a pair of guards and a dog crossing the garden from south to north. They hiked past a hedge and were swallowed by the darkness.
Every nerve tingling, Nate continued. Without mishap he passed the shed and gave the stable a wide berth. Beyond reared trees, part of a tract of woodland. When he was crouched among the trunks he felt temporarily safe, and turned to his newfound friend. “Are the cabins in these woods?”
“No, sir. The woods end soon. The cabins are in a field.”
Unfortunate, Nate reflected, because it would have made their task so much easier. He rose and stealthily moved to the northwest, moving as an Indian would, testing the ground with the thin sole of each moccasin before placing a foot fully down. With practice a brave could feel twigs and branches underfoot and avoid snapping them, and many of the mountaineers who had lived with the various tribes had developed the same skill.
The woods ended at the border of a well-defined dirt footpath winding like a dust-hued snake in the direction they were going. To take the path would court discovery, so Nate remained in the trees. He traveled over a hundred yards, then drew up short on hearing muted voices and distinguishing vague shapes coming toward him.
Easing to one knee Nate extended the Hawken to Tatu, and after hesitating briefly she gingerly took the gun. He drew his tomahawk and butcher knife and coiled both legs under him.
Soon the shapes materialized into another pair of guards, only these didn’t have a dog with them. They were chatting idly, their rifles cradled in the crooks of their arms, at ease and paying no attention whatsoever to the woods.
Nate debated whether to let them go or to ambush them. If he was smart he would kill them simply because they might pose a threat later. But he wasn’t a cold-hearted murderer and couldn’t bring himself to snuff out another human life unless his own or those of his loved ones were being actively threatened.
His loved ones?
The thought startled him, vividly reminding him that those he had cared for the most were irretrievably gone. Poignant sorrow overwhelmed him, commingled with acute remorse. He had been so busy dwelling on Tatu’s dilemma that hours had elapsed since last he thought about Winona and Zachary. What manner of husband and father was he to so readily forget about those who had touched his soul the deepest? Or was it better that he had this situation to deal with since it gave him an excuse to suppress the tormenting memories until the job was done?
The guards narrowed the distance.
He loosened his grips on the knife and tomahawk, his mind made up. Unless they saw him he would let them live. He became aware of Tatu’s eyes on his back, although he couldn’t say exactly how he knew she was looking at him in anticipation of the moment when he would strike. What would she think when he did nothing? Would she assume the religion she had adopted was a factor?
Tatu had related details of her life in Africa earlier in the day. She had told him about being reared in a large village where her father had been a chief, and how she had been the envy of most of the other women because she lived in the largest hut and her father owned the most goats and cattle. In her tribe the men hunted and defended the village while the women took care of the stock and tended garden plots in a special section of fertile ground known as the “women’s land.” Pride had entered her tone as she told about the excellent bananas, melons,
peppers, and beans she had grown.
For years she enjoyed her tranquil existence, and then the first of two disruptions occurred. On the scene came devout missionaries, men of God who had done their fire-and-brimstone best to convert the natives to Christianity. Some adopted the new religion, which caused rifts in families and between former friends as the two factions treated one another with derision and contempt. The missionaries aggravated the disputes by branding those who failed to convert as vile sinners doomed to a fiery eternity in Hell. Tatu was one of those who adopted Christianity, although as she admitted to Nate, she never stopped praying to the old gods just in case she had made a mistake.
Not a year later fierce raiders swept down on the unsuspecting village one stormy night and wiped it out of existence. Those not taken to be sold on the slave market were ruthlessly slain; old men and women too feeble to make decent slaves, the young children who would make poor workers, and the ill ones were butchered like so many defenseless cattle.
Tatu was taken to a remote cove on the coast where she and many others were hauled aboard a mighty sailing vessel and lowered into a dank hold where they were kept for the duration of the Atlantic crossing. Their rations were meager, barely enough to sustain life. They were denied clothing and heat and compelled to huddle together to keep warm. Fully a third of the captives perished before reaching America.
Nate could readily imagine the sheer horror of her grueling ordeal. He admired her courage and perseverance, and found himself despising the slavers with a heated passion. In his estimation, to treat other human beings like animals was the most vile of practices, and he was determined to do whatever he could to help Tatu and Sadiki.
The two guards strolled on by, talking about a certain woman who worked at a bawdy house in New Orleans who was renowned for her amorous nature and athletic prowess under the sheets.
Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One) Page 19
