The Night Angel

by T. Davis Bunn

  Chapter 22

  The three riders covered the distance to Charlotte in two very hard days. Up with the sun, into the saddle, riding until the road was all they could taste and smell. Two brief halts to blow the horses. Cold coffee and apples and good Salem soda bread for breakfast. Apples and cheese and well water for lunch, while the horses munched two handfuls of grain from their nose bags. The day’s only hot meal was at sunset—beans and smoked beef and more soda bread. Ada Hart had packed what she referred to as her road bags, and Falconer was certain he could catch a hint of her fragrance whenever he opened the satchels. The last task before they unfurled their bedrolls was to set a pot of coffee by the banked coals to brew all night long. They did not take time for a fire at dawn.

  The weather was neither for nor against them. The sky remained mostly sullen and the road muddy. Springtime seemed lost, a word for some other world. But no more rain fell. Twice they passed wagons mired to their wheel rims in boggy pits, lowing cattle straining against the mud. Like other travelers on horseback, Falconer held to narrow tracks that paralleled the main road, such as it was. The North-South Turnpike was somewhere off to the east, running from Richmond to Raleigh to Atlanta. The Salem-Charlotte road was adequate in some spots but mostly rough. The people who traveled it were cautious and well armed.

  The wind blew a damp warning of further storms to come. The men cut wide circles through the surrounding forests as they approached the two main towns along the road, Salisbury and Davidson. They spoke to no one the entire journey.

  Theo Henning gave no sign he thought anything untoward about their pace or their solitary ways. Nor did he give any notice to how Joseph stayed to one side, both on the road and off.

  Their most difficult challenge was lighting a fire for their evening meal. All three men scavenged for dry wood and a place to refill their canteens whenever they stopped. By nightfall they had enough moss and branches lashed to their saddles to cook, but the last glowing embers soon faded, and by morning their muscles were tight with cold and damp.

  So it was that three road-weary men entered Charlotte late in the afternoon of the second day.

  To Falconer’s mind, Charlotte was an odd sort of place. The outer rim was rather wild in nature. Weary as he was, there was no mistaking the tension and threat. The two women he spotted on the road were both running. One held a basket of groceries while the other gripped two children by their upper arms. They all sprinted across the muddy road. The women’s faces were shadowed by large sunbonnets, but their fear was clear enough. A group of men outside a saloon watched the women with speculative eyes. The men’s hats hung on their backs, slung on woven leather cords. The upper halves of their faces were white, while arms and necks and hands were almost black from sun and hard toil. Theo Henning spoke one word of explanation. Miners.

  A sharp crack from farther down the street drew their attention. Theo started to unholster his gun but eased it back into his belt when he spotted a mule skinner plying his forty-foot whip. The train was twenty-two animals long, each with two poles strapped to its back. The poles were as thick as Falconer’s thigh and twice his height.

  “Mining ties,” Theo Henning explained. “I heard tell the mines are moving underground.”

  Falconer asked, “Where is Grobbe’s bank?”

  Theo Henning pointed with the hand gripping his horse’s reins while keeping the other on the butt of his gun. “Further south. We see it soon.”

  Falconer glanced at the westering sun and mused aloud, “If we stop to wash off the road dust, they’ll be closed up for the night.”

  Theo came close to smiling. “Them bankers, they work with miners all the day. They don’t care about dirt. Gold washes easy.”

  A half-mile farther, they passed beyond an invisible marker. The road broadened and turned to brick. The homes were far more grand, with well-tended yards and broad porches and peaked roofs and front doors with oval stained-glass windows. Brass knockers and hitching rails gleamed in the lowering sunlight. Private guards strolling the cobblestone lanes watched the trio’s progress and patted their billy clubs in silent warning.

  The Wachovia Bank was the tallest building in Charlotte’s central district. Falconer eased himself down from the saddle. A muscular guard stood by the bank’s front door, smiling without humor as Falconer stretched the kinks from his back and legs. “Help you?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Samuel Grobbe.”

  The guard called to Theo Henning, who remained up in the saddle, “You vouch for this feller?”

  “Paul Grobbe does, so I do.”

  That looked to be good enough for the guard. “He’s gone uptown for a spell. Be back before too long.”

  Falconer unlashed a saddlebag and brought out the oilskin pouch. He sorted through the documents until he found the Charlotte lawyer’s name. “Can you tell me where I’d find an attorney by the name of Emmett Reeves?”

  “Reckon so, since I can see him from where I’m standing.” He pointed across the street. “He’s that nervous-looking feller looking out that upstairs window over yonder.”

  Falconer knew he had to act fast. “Joseph.”

  “Suh.”

  “Ride round the building. You see anybody making for the rear exit, you hold him tight and fire a shot in the air.”

  Joseph wheeled his horse around and raced away.

  “Let’s go,” Falconer said. Theo slid off his horse and tied the two to the hitching post before hurrying to catch up with Falconer.

  The broad redbrick building occupied the better portion of a city block. The downstairs was given over to an emporium, with lace gowns sharing the front window alongside an assortment of fancy household implements. The two used a side entrance that led upstairs to the offices. The foyer and stairs and upstairs hall were floored in unvarnished slat boards, sanded smooth by years of miners’ boots. A half-dozen green doors lined either wall. Falconer passed a doctor and a tooth-puller and a land surveyor. He knew because their professions were stated upon brass plaques. The door belonging to Emmett Reeves, attorney-at-law, was open. The front office was empty. Falconer marched through and opened the inner door without knocking. “Emmett Reeves?”

  “Y-you must be Mr. Gavi.”

  “Near enough. My name is John Falconer.”

  The man might have been worried about the sight of two tough and road-worn strangers looming over his desk. But he was also a lawyer. “Can I . . . may I see some form of authorization?”

  Falconer pulled out the oilskin pouch and handed over the notarized document stating that one John Falconer acted on behalf of Alessandro Gavi in respect to all matters related to a certain gold mine and its ownership.

  “This appears all in order, sir.” The lawyer had a remarkably deep voice for such a slender form. He wore a coat of blue serge and a stiff-collared shirt. His fingers were long and nervous. “Please, won’t you sit down?”

  Falconer remained standing before his desk. “I’m here to tell you that the time-wasting has come to an end.”

  The lawyer responded without hesitation. “In that case, sir, you are an answer to a prayer.”

  Falconer refused the lawyer’s invitation to begin work over dinner that evening. Falconer wanted a clear head to go through the documents and make his judgment on whether the man was trustworthy. The trail had been too wearying for pages of whereas and wherefores. Tired as he was, Falconer made two further stops. He went by the bank, presented the documents drawn up by the banker Grobbe, and extracted funds. He then took his two men into the dry-goods store. Ignoring the storekeeper’s hostile glances at Joseph, Falconer purchased three sets of clothes—dark suit, waistcoat, white stock shirt. He had the storekeeper wrap them in brown packing paper and paid in gold.

  They slept in the bunkhouse connected to the Moravian church, the only place in town that offered shelter regardless of color. Falconer had no intention of separating himself from Joseph.

  They joined the lawyer for an early breakfast. Wh
en Joseph halted at the doorway, refusing to enter the man’s house, Theo Henning declared he preferred to eat outside in the open air. Falconer said nothing but was pleased to his bones over the sight of these two becoming friends.

  The lawyer’s wife was a soft dumpling of a lady with a warming smile and an excellent hand at the cooking stove. After an enormous breakfast, the attorney covered his dining room table with papers, both Falconer’s documents and his own. Within half an hour Falconer was convinced the man was sincere. Everything he said fit with what Alessandro Gavi had described.

  “What you’re telling me,” Falconer finally said, “is this man Joyner doesn’t want to seal the bargain.”

  Emmett Reeves possessed a voice far too large for his frame. “Prevarication is a word that fits this miner like a well-tailored suit.”

  “Tell me this. Which one is your client—this man Joyner or Gavi?”

  “In strictest terms, it would be neither. I was hired by the New York bankers who owed Gavi a large share of money. They bought a share of Joyner’s land and mine soon after gold was discovered.”

  “I know all that. I’m talking about the here and now.”

  “Well.” The attorney blew out his cheeks. “I suppose you could say I stand on the side of Mr. Gavi, who has been steadfast since the very beginning.”

  “That’s what I hoped to hear.” Falconer rose from the table. “I want you to travel with us, please.”

  “I beg your pardon? Now?”

  “If you don’t have anything pressing.” But Falconer’s intent was clear. He knocked on the window to alert Joseph and Theo Henning, who were lounging on the back stoop. “I’d like to get this settled and be on my way.”

  They left Charlotte by the Cabarrus Trail, each man leading a pair of packhorses. When Emmett Reeves asked the purpose of trailing empty packhorses into the hills, Falconer simply responded, “A hunch.” Falconer was alive this day because he had learned to trust his instincts. And they told him to go prepared for trouble.

  Around midmorning the hills gradually closed in around them, rising and falling in sweeping waves of green. By lunchtime the sun emerged from the clouds. Dogwoods nestled among the lowland pines. The day warmed a full twenty degrees. The river running alongside the road sparkled and glinted. Theo and Joseph lifted their heads and squinted at the sky, as though the sun were a stranger.

  That night they sheltered in an outpost beyond the village of Shelby. The place was not a tavern since no alcohol was served and none permitted. A sign by the owner’s cabin warned visitors they would be ejected “if any likker is found.” The landlord was a taciturn man who made do with a series of grunts and rattling keys. He pointed them to a kettle boiling on an open fire, with a metal sheet of biscuits warming alongside. Nine men were seated on logs around the fire’s edge, spooning up their supper and watching the four men with tight eyes. No one returned Falconer’s greeting. Another thumb jerked them toward the stable; clearly they were expected to care for their own horses.

  Their shelter was a Cherokee-style tent of woven branches and wattle with a dirt floor. They dumped their bedrolls, tended the horses, then returned to the fire. Emmett Reeves sniffed the steaming pot and announced, “Goober soup.”

  Falconer saw Theo and Joseph both grimace. “What’s that?”

  Emmett reached for a tin plate and wiped it with the edge of his shirt. “Best not ask.”

  Theo Henning explained, “Boiled peanuts and collards. Around these parts, it’s called miners’ stew.”

  To Falconer the meal tasted as bad as it sounded. He dined mostly on biscuits. One of the miners pulled out a harmonica and played a few plaintive tunes. Eventually the group around the fire drifted away to sleep. No one said a word to Falconer or his companions.

  When they were headed back to their dwelling, Falconer asked, “Are they always that friendly?”

  “It’s the gold,” Emmett Reeves explained. “Don’t pay them any mind.”

  “They wasn’t bad,” Theo Henning agreed. “Didn’t see no guns nor knives.”

  Joseph stretched his bedroll out on the tent’s far side. “I done heard tales of what the mines do to a body.”

  Theo Henning moved his bedroll to stretch out alongside Joseph. “Them stories are true,” Theo said, settling his slouch hat over his eyes. “You’ll see.”

  Falconer was drawn from slumber by the sound of wolves. At first he thought it was another nightmare. But waking only sharpened the howls. He sat up to find Emmett Reeves standing in the doorway. Falconer tucked in his shirttail and slipped on his boots. He followed Reeves to where the same kettle boiled next to the same biscuit sheet. Only the kettle now held gruel. They filled mugs with black coffee and walked out to where the compound joined the road. Sullen men and a few women already traveled the road. No one spoke a greeting in the gray-misted dawn. The hills seemed even closer now, hemming them in on all sides. From high overhead came the howl of the hunting wolf pack.

  Falconer watched the silent slit-eyed travelers for a time, then walked back to the tent and fetched his Bible. He knew Emmett Reeves observed him, but the compound’s silence infected him as well. He took a breakfast of gruel and buried himself in the pages of the Book.

  Footsteps came and paused beside him, moved to the fire, and returned. Theo Henning settled to one side and said in greeting, “Joseph told me of your reading.”

  Falconer thumbed his place. “It does my heart good to see you making friends with him.”

  Theo waved for Joseph to join them. “He is a fine man.”

  “Yes,” Falconer agreed. “He is.”

  Theo made room on the log for Joseph. “Read to us, John Falconer. Drive away the wolves.”

  They were an hour into their journey when Emmett Reeves reined his horse in close to Falconer and observed, “Hearing you read from the Good Book was an uncanny sensation, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  The morning mist was gradually burning off. Final tendrils stirred about the ground, making the horses stumble upon a road they could not see. Falconer’s back already ached. These constant days in the saddle were an ordeal for a seagoing man. “The good Lord has room in heaven for us all, sir.”

  “Indeed so,” Reeves agreed. “But you and your men carry a fierce air. To see you gathered together, the Bible open in those battle-scarred hands of yours . . . well, it warmed my heart, I don’t mind telling you.”

  Falconer nodded his thanks, then used one hand to ease a crimp from his neck. “I have the sensation of being surrounded by danger.”

  “As to danger, I can’t say. I can assure you, however, that we are being watched.” Emmett Reeves cut an unlikely figure in the saddle. He wore a string tie and a rumpled suit. Stringy hair peeked from beneath a citified hat of black felt with a satin crown. But he rode well and handled his horse with practiced ease. “We entered gold country not long back.”

  Falconer nodded in comprehension. “Tell me what I’m seeing.”

  “The waters we’re riding along now are the Cabarrus River. It was once known as Bear Creek, though there haven’t been many bear sightings for years now. All the trappers left Carolina for Kentucky long ago.” He pointed down at the swift-running stream. “Up here the miners know it by another name, Tallow Creek, called such after the color of the silt. Look up ahead, you’ll see the reason why.”

  The road jinked back on itself and began a steep climb up the hillside. The original road was blocked by a wall of boulders. Falconer eased his horse over to the road’s edge and looked down. Below him, eight men and three women worked knee-deep in sludge, shoveling river-bottom mud into a long wooden trawl, through which ran the river itself.

  “That device there is called a sluice. It’s used to filter out the gold from auriferous river sand. A few years back, all the miners would be panning. The practice got its name from how the first gold seekers used frying pans for the work. They’d slosh the sand about with a bit of water, letting the water and the lighter sand slip over the
edge. Gold is far heavier and holds to the bottom. With the sluice machine there, a good team can work through a ton of river mud a day.”

  The only way Falconer could tell the men from the women was by their headgear. Every one of them was sodden from head to toe with yellow muck.

  A lone figure stepped from the pines bordering the river and watched them with a stern look and a cocked musket. He said nothing, just stood and noted their passing. Falconer said, “You know a great deal about this work?”

  “I’ve made a study of it since becoming involved in this mine of Mr. Gavi’s. The river folk you see here are a dying breed. They’ve been panning and sluicing for twelve years now, and most of the gold is cropped. Back when they started, they could pick up the gold with their hands. The largest piece is on display at the Charlotte Mint and weighed in at twenty-eight pounds.”

  They passed three more sluices in the space of half a mile. Between each were fences and warning signs. Armed guards stood watch over each group. “They need all those guns?”

  “What you see down there is the only law in gold country. The guards are there as much to keep the workers honest as they are to watch the yield.”

  Theo Henning rode up on Falconer’s other side. “Them guards, they bury the sacks soon as they’re filled. You hear stories down Charlotte way about guards dying or going missing and the sacks they buried never being found.”

  Joseph spoke up for the first time that morning. “Slaves tell stories too. ’Bout how workin’ that gold will break your back. Yessuh. First your back, then your soul.”

  The valley through which they passed opened into a wide pasture. The farmland looked rich enough, yet the farm cabins held an unkempt air. The surrounding fields were all given over to weeds. A few cows, horses, and donkeys grazed in the lush undergrowth, but otherwise there was no sign whatsoever of cultivation. “It looks like a blight has struck here.”