When Falconer heard that part of their tale, he ordered the cooking fires relit and the rations store opened. The cooks remained at their oven for hours, doling out flapjacks and smoked bacon and sweet molasses until every man groaned his satisfaction. Falconer let them linger there beneath the stars, savoring the signs of change. He did not ask them to return to work. Instead, he and Joseph and Theo started prying up the floorboards themselves. One by one the miners came over and joined in. Though their faces were wearied by the full day behind them and the next sunrise only hours away, none complained. From time to time they would glance Falconer’s way, as though making certain this man was truly different from the one he had just had carted off. Falconer did not speak because there was nothing to be said. Only time would tell.
The cellar was full of more stores, but no gold. Even so, the men watched hungrily as Falconer drew out sacks of fine white flour and salt beef and jars of sweet pears and syrupy plums and all the things they had dreamed of yet not seen in months. Falconer ordered the goods taken to the rations store for the miners. Even with all the miners helping, it took over an hour to clear out the cellar. By that point, the men were smiling. But the grim weariness turned even their good humor into a dark tragedy.
It was Joseph who discovered the false wall. What they all thought had been the cellar’s outer rim proved to have a loose brick. Joseph pried it out and another gave way, revealing an opening through which an arm could reach. Torches were brought as Joseph reached through and brought out leather sacks the size of a bread loaf. Another and another and more still. Falconer hefted several and concluded they had all been measured out at about fifteen pounds each. He opened the neck of one, turned to the closest miner, and said, “Cup your hands, please.”
The miner’s right hand was scratched and bloody from tearing down the cabin. Falconer poured out a stream of dust and pellets, some as large as musket balls. In the firelight their color was so ruddy as to appear almost red.
The miners crowded in on all sides. The only sound was that of Joseph scrabbling deeper into the secret hold, passing sack after sack into Theo’s hands, and the crackling hiss from their torches.
Falconer asked the miner holding the gold, “I don’t believe I’ve caught your name, sir.”
The miner stared dumbly at Falconer.
The miner to his left nudged him. “Go on, Evault. The man done asked how you’re called.”
“E-Evault, sir.”
“Is that your first or last name, sir?”
“Evault G-Graves, sir.”
“Well, Evault Graves,” Falconer said. “What you hold is yours to keep.”
The man looked from Falconer to the double fist of gold. He dropped to his knees, gripped his hands to his chest, and began sobbing.
The closest miner patted Evault on the shoulder. “His wife ain’t well, sir,” he said to Falconer. “This gold, it means a lot.”
Falconer glanced over to where Joseph was leaning against the wall, staring at the pile of sacks. “How many are there?”
“Thirty-nine have come out,” Theo replied. “I can see more but not reach them.”
“All right.” Falconer lifted his voice so the others could hear him. “Four sacks are Joyner’s. Keep four more here for the miners. Come first light, dole them out evenly among the men.”
When Falconer clambered up from the cellar, Theo scrambled to his feet. “What are you planning?”
Falconer rubbed his shoulder where Joyner had caught him. A massive bruise was forming. Bone weary and filthy from the work, he said, “Bring up the packhorses. I’m leaving now.”
Joseph rose wearily to his feet. “Not alone, you ain’t.”
“Joseph, Theo can’t manage this mine alone.”
“Now, don’t you even start with your arguing, ’cause it won’t do you a bit of good.” Joseph’s chin lifted in determination. “Theo’s got himself a dozen and more good men.”
“I need to get the rest of this gold back and under lock and key before Joyner has a chance to make mischief.”
Joseph crossed his arms and took station over the gold. “All I’m saying is, you just pack up your notion of ridin’ alone and stow it back in your saddlebag, ’cause you’re just wasting time.”
Chapter 24
For several nights now, Serafina had been awakened by faint tendrils of a dream. Half-formed images came and went with bitter swiftness, drawing her awake with gasps of fear. Tonight was the first time Falconer had actually spoken. She crept from her bed and entered the kitchen to light a taper from the stove’s dying coals. Her hands shook as she transferred the light to a candle. She poured herself a cup of well water and drank it slowly. She could not remember what Falconer had said in the dream. Nor could she describe the manner of his speech, if he had been calm or worried or afraid. All she knew for certain was that her friend was very far away and very alone.
She knew she would sleep no more that night. She carried the candle into the dining room, where she lit several more. Quietly she took down the painting on which she had been working, the portrait of the smiling infant, and replaced it with fresh paper.
The candlelight would normally have been an irritation when drawing. Tonight, however, she welcomed it. The light was soft and golden, a comforting enclosure to her chamber. She felt isolated from the rest of the world, and closer to God.
She decided she did not merely wish to sketch John Falconer. She wished to see him take shape beneath her hand, and with every stroke of her pencil she would pray for his safety and his success. And for his swift return.
She drew from memory the first sketch she had done of him. Once again he bowed his head over hands which clenched the pew back. Once more his scar was invisible. Several times she had to stop in her work to breathe away her deep concern. Nevertheless, she continued drawing. And she prayed as she drew.
She felt no need to unravel a mystery for this portrait. Falconer was her friend, and a brother in Christ, and the man who had pointed her toward her Savior. Serafina worked for a while, then took two steps back from the portrait and drew a candle in closer. The image was taking strong form. She could see how she would paint it now. A gentle light would shine down from above. She wiped bittersweet tears from her eyes and reached for her brushes.
Falconer was weary in a manner that no single night’s sleep could ease. He had arrived back in Charlotte with the previous day’s final light. Both his horse and Joseph’s had stumbled as they made their way down the residential street to Emmett Reeves’ home. The lawyer arrived soon after. As he helped Falconer and Joseph stow the heavy sacks in his root cellar, he reported that the sheriff had reluctantly agreed to hold Joyner over, but as the circuit court judge would be in town the next morning, Joyner and his men would no doubt be free by midday. They tucked into his wife’s hearty meal, then fell asleep like dead men.
After a night’s sleep, the three men rode to the Charlotte Mint, the first such establishment outside of Washington. The mint accepted Falconer’s deposits and in return issued a document that could be presented to the Washington Mint in exchange for new American eagle gold dollars.
Falconer took his own share in gold coin.
There was no chance for further rest, for the weekly slave auctions began the very next day in both Rock Mound and Hayesfield. The auctions were across the border in South Carolina, since North Carolina showed a largely hostile attitude to the trade. North Carolina permitted slaves, though they were outlawed by some communities such as Salem. Few North Carolina families actually held slaves, and many churches roundly condemned the practice. To spend as much gold as Falconer intended, he would have to travel south.
He settled three heavy sacks of coin into Emmett Reeves’ hands. Five wagons and foodstuff and two additional drivers were hastily procured. They left Charlotte while the city still slumbered, crossed the state line an hour later, and split up soon after. Falconer and Joseph and one of the hired wagoners headed for Rock Mound, while Emmett Reeve
s and the other driver took the road toward Hayesfield.
The sun rose over a dismal scene. The morning was already hot, the field dry enough to generate a cloud of red-clay dust. Bare feet shuffled and chains clanked as more slaves arrived for sale. Those already corralled slumped around a water barrel or nestled whimpering infants or ate from communal pots with their fingers for spoons.
Falconer fought down an urge to take the auctioneer barehanded and asked, “How many have any experience at farming?”
The slave auctioneer must have sensed he was dealing with an experienced buyer. “Why, sir, you have come to the right place! What you see here before you is the finest collection of field hands in all of South Carolina!”
Falconer’s voice sounded strangled to his own ears. “I asked how many you had for sale.”
The auctioneer was too excited over a major buyer to notice. He called to his overseer, “You there! Count off the field hands.”
“And their families,” Falconer ordered. “If I take one, I take them all.”
“A wise investment, sir. Very wise.” The auctioneer mopped his brow where eagerness and rising heat drew a sweat. “A happy slave is a hard-working one.”
His overseer spat a long stream of tobacco and flicked his leather quirt at a fly. Now and then he looked back to where Joseph sat upon the second wagon. A lockbox had been hastily bolted beneath the seat. Joseph nestled a double-barreled shotgun in his lap and propped a second beside him. He gave the dusty field a tightly squinted inspection and paid the overseer no mind.
“I reckon on twenty-one,” the overseer said.
Falconer called over, “And household staff?”
“Eight, mebbe nine.”
“I’ve just bought a derelict plantation up Danville way. Two hundred forty acres. Half tobacco, half corn.”
“You don’t mean to tell me you don’t have a single hand!”
“The place is empty save for a handful of folks too old to sell off.”
The handkerchief tracked another course across the auctioneer’s brow. “Well, sir, as I said, you’ve come to the right place! There’s no finer auction point north of Atlanta!”
“What about special skills? Cooks, nanny, blacksmith, leatherworkers.”
“The likes of them won’t come cheap,” the auctioneer warned. He was a wizened spark of a man, shrunk down to a husk of leathery skin and hollowed features. His black overcoat flapped about his frame like the wings of a crow. But his voice boomed richly, as though all his remaining energy had gone into fueling his cry. “Do you know, I believe I’ve seen on our manifest that we can supply all your needs. Why, we even have a woman trained in healing.”
“Add her to the list.” Falconer turned his back on the human corral. The sight was just too wrenching. “Give me your best price.”
“What, for them all?” The handkerchief dangled limply from the auctioneer’s hand like a wet and dusty flag.
Falconer signaled for Joseph to open the strong box. “I pay in gold.”
They found the clearing just as Emmett Reeves had said they would, three hours north of Charlotte along the Salem Trail. The track leading off the road was easy to miss, covered as it was by chest-high weeds and debris. But the slashed pines marked a line through the trees, there for those who knew what to look for. A ruined farmhouse rose in the midday light. Falconer did not need to tell Joseph what to do. They had come to a point where a gesture was as good as a word, with each man trusting the other implicitly.
The slaves were ordered down from the three wagons. Their chains were slipped off ankles and tossed away. At Emmett Reeves’ insistence, both of the wagon drivers they had hired were slaves belonging to the stable owner. The one with Falconer watched through hooded eyes as the slaves were unchained, saying nothing. A fire was lit and children sent to forage for firewood. The kettles were brought out, and the food. Thankfully the old well still had a bucket, or perhaps some other traveler had thoughtfully left one behind, for it was one thing Falconer had forgotten to bring. Silently he rebuked himself for carrying these charges across the state without a single means of drawing water. He loosened the horses’ restraints and wondered what else he had forgotten or neglected or just plain gotten wrong.
He ate with the others, using his tin mug first for beans and then for water. He could feel nervous eyes upon him. He knew he needed to speak with them, but weariness seeped through him, weighing down his body until he could scarcely drag his frame over to the nearest wagon. He rolled underneath, laid his head on a likely clump of weeds, and was instantly asleep.
He awoke to the sound of Emmett Reeves demanding, “You didn’t bring coffee?”
Falconer slowly emerged from his makeshift shelter. His body had locked up tight as he had slept. He rose to full height in a series of careful jinks and twists.
Emmett Reeves stood before him, his hair wild from the day’s exertions, his eyes red with road dust. His jaunty energy, on the other hand, was unabated. He reminded Falconer of a bantam rooster cloaked in black broadcloth. “You can’t possibly expect me to make it clear across the state without a single cup!”
Falconer scanned the clearing. Their wagons were pulled up to one side, angled so that each pair of horses had its own area to crop. The rest of the clearing was dotted with figures.
“Well, I guess I plain forgot.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Don’t you have a law practice to run?”
“That can wait another few days. I doubt my absence will be noticed.” Emmett Reeves took a pleased look around. “And I don’t mind telling you I’m rather enjoying this.”
Falconer walked to the well and drew a fresh bucket, which he poured over his head. He swiped his face clean, then combed his hair with his fingers and secured it in the leather catch. He drew a second bucket and drank deeply. He sighed away the last vestiges of slumber and turned to address the lawyer, his tone sober. “Everything you’ve done up to now you can excuse away. You were hired to act as my agent. You exercised your duties. But if word ever gets out that you helped me cart slaves to freedom, there could be serious trouble.”
Emmett Reeves was impossibly cheerful for such a weary man. “There comes a day to each and every one of God’s servants,” he declared, “when they are asked to stand up and be counted.”
“I don’t reckon I can argue with that,” Falconer said, almost embarrassed by the little lawyer’s level of commitment. “Your company will be most welcome, sir. And if the mine proves a valid source of gold—”
“I beg you, Falconer,” Reeves interrupted. “Don’t sully this moment with talk of payment. It’s rare enough that a man in my position is given the chance to act selflessly. Let me feel the Savior’s closeness for a while longer yet.”
Falconer hid his emotions by turning to the clearing. He could feel all eyes on him as he asked Joseph, “How many are we?”
“Don’t know, suh. I ain’t learned to count that high.”
“No matter.” Falconer raised his voice and announced, “As of this moment, you are all free. If you care to stay with me, you will be taken to Salem village. There you will—” “Praise be to God above!” a woman’s voice called into the endless blue overhead. “Is it true?”
“I was once a slaver.” Falconer knew he should do a better job with his words. He knew also many would not believe him until they were long gone from his care. “Now I am dedicated to freeing as many of you as I possibly can.”
“Oh, Lord, Lord above!” The woman healer was so thin her dress made from flour sacks fitted her like a rough-weave sail. Her spindly arms ended in large hands as broad as shovel blades. Her wizened face looked timeless as she approached Falconer. “I’m too old to be fooled with. I’m gonna stare into your face, and you gonna say them words again.”
Falconer waited until she was within arm’s reach, then said clearly, “I bought you to set you free.”
“Oh, praise Jesus!” She lifted her hands to heaven. “What be your name, suh?”
&n
bsp; Joseph replied for him. “You can call him the Night Angel. That’s the onliest name you need to know.”
Falconer waited through another shout to the sky overhead, then went on. “I suggest you all stay with me. We will do our best to get you to safety. If any of you care to leave now, however, I will sign over your papers. I’m sorry that I can’t offer you money. I’ve used all I have to buy you.”
The only person who moved was the woman, who continued to shuffle about the clearing, her arms lifted to the sky above.
Falconer raised his voice to be heard over her cries. “Eat and drink your fill. We need as many of you as possible to walk to spare the horses. We leave in one hour, heading north. We travel hard.”
The Saunders brothers found Joyner and his men in the fifth tavern they visited. By then they had heard the story three times, each version richer than the last. How a local miner had been run off by an army of mercenaries put together by a group of New York bankers. Jeb Saunders had listened to each telling in silence, not objecting as the number of attackers had grown to ninety strong.
Joyner and his men were digging in to a late breakfast of eggs and potatoes, each man dining from his own skillet. The men watched in sullen wariness as Jeb pulled over a chair and motioned for Cody to do the same. “Name’s Saunders,” he began.
Joyner ate with one arm curled around his skillet. The other hand spooned up food in a constant steady motion. “Supposed to mean something to me?”
“It appears you and I might have something in common,” Jeb replied, speaking as easily as he would to his best friend. “A man solid as an ox and near ’bout as strong. Got long black hair he keeps tied back with a leather string. Like he was some kind of sailor. Or pirate.”
Jeb heard a soft click. Cody had lifted his pistol free of his belt and pulled the trigger back from its percussion cap. Across the table, one of Joyner’s men was frozen in the act of pulling a knife from his belt. “Easy there, little brother. We’re all friends ’round here.”
The Night Angel Page 23
