The Night Angel

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Yeah, well you just tell that so-called friend over yonder to keep his pigsticker in his belt and his hands where I can see ’em.”

  “Naw, naw, you got them wrong. The feller’s just after picking his teeth. Ain’t that right, mister?”

  Joyner glanced down the table and said, “Ease up there.” When the guard subsided, Joyner turned back to Jeb. “Saunders, sure, I hearda you. Y’all handle slaves. What you want with this feller?”

  “First let’s find out if we’re talking about the same man.”

  “Dressed like a gent,” Joyner said. “Scar running down one side of his face.”

  “I don’t know about his clothes,” Jeb said, “but the scar sure sounds right. Say, where’d you get that welt on your forehead?”

  Joyner just glowered.

  “Yeah, I reckon it must be the same feller,” Jeb said smoothly. “He give you his name?”

  “No name. What you want ’im for?”

  “He owes me money.”

  “Yeah, well, get in line,” one of the other men muttered.

  “How many were there?” Jeb asked.

  “Him, the lawyer feller, and two others.”

  Jeb and Cody exchanged glances. Joyner and his six men all looked like they could handle themselves in a scrap. “Which lawyer might that be?”

  “You been asking all sorts of questions here. I got one of my own now. What’s in it for me?”

  “I got two hundred fifty dollars in gold coming my way,” Jeb replied smoothly. “Fifty of it’s yours.”

  “Fifty for me. Ten for each of my men.”

  “Fifty in gold, mister. How you spread it out is your business.” Joyner reluctantly allowed, “We had gold stored down in the cellar.”

  “Fixin’ to make a run with your takings, were you?”

  Joyner ignored the thrust. “Word is, the feller showed up day before yesterday at the Charlotte Mint. Took some in coin, the rest in paper.”

  Which meant the man was traveling heavy. Jeb and Cody exchanged a glance. They’d do their best to lighten the man’s load. Jeb asked, “Any idea where he might be headed?”

  “Far away, if he knows what’s good for him.”

  Jeb motioned his brother up with his chin. “Thank you, Mr. Joyner. You been real helpful.”

  “What about my money?”

  “First we gotta go find this man.”

  Joyner was already up and moving. “Not so fast. Long as my gold’s in your pocket, you got yourself some riding partners.”

  Jeb Saunders unleashed his easy smile. “I wouldn’t have it no other way.”

  The healer’s name was Hattie, and she praised God until her voice turned ragged though no less fervent. By the time they stopped to blow the horses and drink from a stream, she knew every one of them by name. She looked Falconer in the eye whenever they spoke—the only one besides Joseph and Emmett Reeves to do so. They ate a cold meal of beef jerky and beans scooped by hand from the kettle. The day was hot on the way to unmerciful heat. The sky was pale blue, misted by dust rising off the trail. Falconer knew they needed rest. But something gnawed at him, more a hunger than a worry, but in truth a good deal of both. Before the group could give in to drowsiness, he had them up and moving again. They responded slowly, yet no one complained.

  When they were heading north, he walked up alongside Hattie. “How many are without their families?”

  “Don’t rightly know, suh. Half, maybe. Could be more.” She huffed a hoarse chuckle. “ ’Course, being slaves, lots don’t have what you might call proper families at all.”

  “I’m not worried about the law here. I’m worried about their real bonds.” He heard her hum a note, which might have meant anything. It sent a faint sensation of pleasure up his spine. “Why do you trust me?”

  “Because God’s hand is on you.” Her voice rose, then broke.

  “How can you be certain of that?”

  “Don’t know, suh. But it’s the truth. Ain’t I right?”

  “I hope so, Hattie. I feel like I’m doing as He has called me.”

  “Lord, Lord. We praise your holy name.” She clapped her hands and hummed again. Her hands were almost as large as Falconer’s, with splayed fingers and flat yellow nails. When she clapped them together it sounded like a cracking whip. “Our prayers done been answered.”

  “Come with me.” Falconer steered her over to the wagon being driven by Emmett Reeves. “Mr. Reeves, I’d like you to meet . . . I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know your last name.”

  She chuckled again. “Don’t know it myself. I was called Stone, after the man what owned the place where I was born.”

  “Are you married, ma’am?”

  “I was, suh. To a good and godly man. He’s been gone from me now nigh on twelve years. Yessuh, he’s gone to be with the Lord. I miss him, though. Twelve years and my heart still ain’t healed up yet.”

  “Mrs. Stone, I’d like you to please speak with everyone in this group. Find out who has family missing and where they might be located.”

  She was watching him closely now. As were all those who overheard Falconer’s words. “What you want me to do that for?”

  “Give the names to Mr. Reeves. I’ll authorize him to try and locate these people and buy their—”

  “Oh, Lord! Hallelujah!”

  Falconer never did manage to finish his instructions.

  Chapter 25

  The sight of nine men riding hard under the midday sun was enough to turn the auctioneer’s features into a sheen of terror. Then he spotted a familiar face among the riders and cried with trembling relief, “Why, if it ain’t my old pal Jeb Saunders! I ain’t seen you in too long, friend. How you been?”

  “Boys, this here feller used to be known as Rustlin’ Rob.” Jeb reined his horse in close enough to force the auctioneer back a step. “Then he went and found himself a better paying occupation. One that don’t have him worrying about dangling at the business end of a rope.”

  “Don’t y’all pay Jeb Saunders any mind. He always was a jester.” The auctioneer turned to his overseer. “Don’t just stand there gawping. Go get a jug out of my cabin.”

  “That’s mighty kind, Rob. But we’ll make do with a drink from your well.”

  One of Joyner’s outriders argued, “I’ll have me a pull from that jug of his.”

  “You do and you won’t be riding with me,” Jeb said, never taking his eyes off the auctioneer. “Nobody along with me drinks on the job.”

  “What, you’re laying the rules down on all us now?”

  “That’s right, friend,” Jeb’s brother Cody drawled. “He most certain is.”

  Jeb did not need to turn around to know his brother’s hand rested on the grip of his pistol. He could always count on Cody to back his play. He said to the auctioneer, “Looks like mighty poor pickings today.”

  “The auction was yesterday. But that ain’t why we’re down on stock. And stock ain’t what’s brought you here, is it?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You know our schedule. You should, you come down here enough.” The auctioneer’s eyes glittered. “You’re after that feller, ain’t you?”

  “Which feller might that be?”

  “The one who come prancing in here and bought up all my field hands in one fell swoop.”

  Jeb slid from his saddle. “Describe the man.”

  “That’s it, ain’t it! I knew that man was up to no good first time I laid eyes on him, sure enough!”

  “You just climb on down off your high horse, I’m telling you. I ain’t standing out there in the auction yard, and you don’t need to be shouting. You just say what the man looked like.”

  “Big as a mountain and twice as solid. Got a fighter’s look to him. Hard as a cocked gun.”

  “Scar?”

  “Down the side of his face.”

  “That’s our man,” Joyner cried.

  “How’d you trace him here?” the auctioneer demanded.

&n
bsp; “Found the feller in Charlotte who supplied his wagons.”

  The auctioneer tensed. “He’s one of them anti-slavers. That’s it, ain’t it? You’re after the five hundred in gold reward.”

  “Five hundred!” Joyner cried. “You told me two-fifty!”

  Jeb ignored the bullish man. “What makes you think he’s a meddlin’ do-gooder, Rob?”

  “He come in here with a strongbox full of fresh-minted gold eagles. Bought up every field hand I had to my name. The hands, their families, two nannies, cooks, a healing woman, five household staff.”

  “Must’ve made your day, the man not even bargaining over your asking price.”

  “How’d you know . . .” The auctioneer grinned. “He bought your stock too, didn’t he?”

  “Where was he headed?”

  “Told me he’d come into a plantation up Danville way. Good land but no hands to farm it.”

  “That’s true enough,” Cody said from the saddle.

  Jeb turned around just enough to shoot his brother a warning glance. Then he asked the auctioneer, “How long ago did he leave?”

  “Packed ’em up and headed straight off, couldn’t have been more than an hour after yesterday’s dawn.”

  Jeb turned to grip the reins and fitted his boot into the stirrup.

  The auctioneer added, “You’ll take care of your old buddy Rob, now, won’t you?”

  “You know it.” Jeb eased back into the saddle. “My friends and I are much obliged.”

  When they were back on the road headed north, Joyner showed his ire. “What’re you doing, giving me this tomfoolery about two hundred fifty dollars?”

  Jeb took on the patient air of a man dealing with a fussing child. “It’s two-fifty for the man dead, five hundred alive. Only I don’t imagine this man is the kind who’s gonna come easy.”

  Joyner subsided. “We get him alive, our share’s double.”

  “That’s only fair,” Jeb solemnly agreed.

  Cody waited until they crossed the state border and the men had spread out along the trail before riding up alongside his brother. “What about them slaves he’s carting north? At ten dollars a head for returned slaves, that could double our take.”

  “My guess is the man is hightailing it for Salem town. Once they get inside the Wachau valley, that portion of the game is just plain gone.”

  Cody mulled that over. “What you figure he wants the Moss farm for?”

  “That ain’t our concern. All we need to know is that he’s gotta head back there to pay Moss the rest of his money.”

  Cody’s face creased in a grin. “You aim on taking that gold for yourself, don’t you?”

  “Why, little brother. I have no earthly idea what you’re going on about.”

  “And the money Joyner’s after. You don’t aim on giving him a red cent.”

  “Wipe that grin off your face,” Jeb hissed. “We’re riding north and we’re riding hard. You get to the back of the line and worry Joyner’s men till their horses start dropping. They know Joyner’s not gonna give them more’n he has to. Soon as they start getting saddlesore, we’ll see some of them slipping away. Then we’ll give Joyner exactly what he’s got coming to him.”

  Cody wheeled his horse around. “That’s what I like about you, Jeb. You’re always thinking.”

  Serafina awoke to a dove-gray sky an hour before the sun would appear. The rain had moved south in the night, pushed by a wind strong enough to rattle the panes of her bedroom window. The early dawn was chilly for spring, yet she had no interest in remaining warmly tucked into bed. Her night had been shattered once again. This time, however, her dreams of Falconer had contained vague notions of gunfire and danger. She dressed and went downstairs, chased by fears that made a mockery of the day’s invitation.

  She worked through the morning, pushed forward by a feverish urge to lose herself in her paintings. But not even this creative fire could ease the fear that threatened to crush her heart. There was no reason for her worry. At least, none that she could name. Her parents greeted her with subdued voices, now familiar with the intensity she carried to her work. Mary slipped into the room, took one look at Serafina’s deep concentration, and departed with the morning Scriptures unread.

  Birdsong filled the rear garden, an acclaim to a sunlit day. Serafina heard it but if asked could not have identified the sound. Nor did she acknowledge the doorbell when it rang. All the noises, loud or soft, were mere background clatter. Or they were until her mother knocked upon the dining room door and said, “You have a visitor.”

  “Not now, Mama.”

  “Yes, my dear one. This very instant.” Her mother’s voice held the sort of firmness that brooked no argument. “Stand up and take off your apron. Now let me see you. Wait, you have paint on your forehead.”

  Bettina motioned her daughter forward and dabbed a corner of Serafina’s discarded apron into the pot of clean water and stroked it across her daughter’s face. “All right. Now come along.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Baring.”

  “Oh no, Mama, he’ll want to see the portrait of his mother, and I’m not—”

  “Don’t bother telling me, daughter.”

  “But—” Serafina stopped because her mother had already moved through the doorway leading to the hall, and from there into the front parlor. Serafina patted her hair, which she was sure was all awry, and followed.

  Nathan stood by the unlit fireplace. “Good morning, Miss Gavi. Madam. I do hope you both are well.”

  Her mother replied, “Isn’t it nice to have sunlight for a change, sir?”

  “Indeed, ma’am. I can’t ever recall such a wet spring, nor for that matter a worse winter.” He spoke without taking his eyes off Serafina. “I was wondering, that is . . . Would it be possible for me to see how you are doing, Miss Gavi? On the painting?”

  “It’s not nearly finished.”

  “What a pity,” he sighed.

  Serafina caught something then, an impression so strong it pulled her from the fog that had been draped about her since picking up her brush that morning. “Something is the matter!”

  “No, no.” He made a brave face and gave Serafina’s mother a small smile. “You must excuse me for having disturbed your morning, madam.”

  “No, wait. You must tell me.” Serafina took a step closer, seeing him clearly now. “Is it your mother?”

  Nathan Baring’s ability to mask his inner workings cracked just slightly. “A spell. Nothing more. She has had many of them recently.”

  “You’re very worried about her.”

  He nodded reluctantly. “She says it will pass. But there is something about her this morning, a pall that no one save me seems to be able to see. The doctor says I am worrying over nothing.”

  “You are her son. Of course you see what they cannot.” Serafina turned and motioned toward the dining room. “Come with me, then.”

  “May I also?” her mother asked.

  “Oh, well, if you wish.” Now Serafina felt seized by an urgency that had little or nothing to do with Nathan Baring and everything to do with the sensation of something amiss. But what was she to say? That a nightmare had filled her with foreboding?

  Nathan Baring stood in the doorway and looked about the dining room, seemingly fascinated by the impromptu art studio before him. Serafina found herself examining the room through Nathan’s eyes.

  The dining room table had been pushed to one side and covered with a sheet. Another sheet covered the chairs that were stacked to either side of the table. Only one chair remained by the parlor door, for whichever model might be drawn into use at the moment. More sheets covered the floor about Serafina’s work area at the room’s far end. Two easels formed a dividing wall that effectively split the room in two, with three more easels folded into the corner.

  Serafina observed Nathan’s slow entry into the room. The side wall captured him, which was hardly a surprise, since it was almost completely covered with sketches.
The wall would have to be completely replastered and painted to mask all the tack holes. She apologized to her father almost daily for the damage she was causing. But Alessandro always waved her words aside. Nathan’s face held the same intent surprise as her father when he stepped up to the wall. Wordlessly he studied each of the sketches she had done of his mother.

  Finally he stepped around to the easel. And stopped once more.

  She studied him as well as the painting. She had known it was a good painting for over a week now. She had almost done away with the pencil’s darkly embedded lines, softening and softening until the shadings played out a story upon the paper. No longer was Mrs. Baring old. Nor did the painting tell an untruth of a young woman who existed no longer. Instead, the two were melded together, the young woman and the old. Serafina examined it anew and saw that it was a proper and fitting study. The image contained the timeless beauty of an eternal fire. The aged body, with its illness and pain, was also true. Yet it did not dominate the vision. Both the eternal and the earthly came together in the harmony of a faith-filled life.

  Nathan caught his breath in what might have been a cough. Serafina was watching with this new sense of awareness, and she understood that he was struggling to hold back, to compress, to keep his emotions all locked tightly away.

  She asked, “What is it that causes you this sorrow?”

  His features maintained their handsome calm while his eyes revealed the torment within.

  “It is not just your mother,” she said. “Why are you in such pain?”

  His voice was reduced to a whisper by the force required to keep himself under control. “I fear the burden of false visions, wrong choices, and a wasted life.”

  “You did what your father asked of you,” she comforted, remembering that she also was doing what her father was asking of her.

  “But it is I who will stand before the Master’s throne and answer for a life—”

  “A life filled with faith and good works,” she insisted. “A life filled with devotion to your family and good causes.”