Randolph shook his head, smiling at the memory. "You're gonna need some help, Hawke," he continued. "While you question the rest of your niggers, I'll go round up some of the men. They'll be glad to help, love a good hunt as much as I do. We'll all ride after your two. With any luck we'll catch 'em before sundown."
"How long will it take you to get back here?"
"No more'n an hour or so. I'll stop by McKay's place, have him send for Johnson and Arnold. Barnett'll come, too, and Roberts. You be saddled up and ready to go in an hour, and we'll start after them coons."
Derek nodded curtly. Randolph beamed, greatly anticipating the sport in store.
"Reckon the first place we're gonna look is Elijah Jones's place. I still figure he had something to do with my niggers gettin' away like they did. We're gonna search that place uv his top to bottom, and if I even so much as smell a nigger I'll personally set a torch to it!"
Randolph hurried back to his wagon and drove away. Derek watched until he was gone, and then he turned to me, his eyes hard and determined.
"You gave Mattie my message?" His voice was like steel.
"They—they'll all be in their cabins waiting for you in just a few minutes. What did Caleb say?"
"He didn't know anything. Adam jumped him from behind. He never even knew what happened."
"Derek—" I hesitated, summoning strength.
"What is it?"
"Do you have to go after them?"
"I have to," he said tersely.
He learned nothing from the slaves. None of them had seen or heard anything. He ordered them back to work, told one of the men to saddle the chestnut stallion, and went inside to change. I waited for him outside, standing under one of the oaks, watching patterns of sunshine and shadow flickering over the ground and feeling absolutely miserable. Derek came back out a few minutes later. He was wearing his black boots and heavy blue cord breeches and jacket, the material worn with age. His face was a granite mask as he strode briskly across the yard toward me.
"I'm leaving you in charge while I'm gone," he said. The words were crisp. "I don't know how long it'll take, perhaps a day, perhaps even two or three. I assume you can manage."
I nodded, and he moved on toward the stables without another word. I could hear horse hooves pounding on the road in front of the house. Derek mounted the chestnut and galloped away to join the planters. I heard boisterous laughter and hearty male voices, and then they all rode away. Mattie moved ponderously across the yard to join me, each step requiring an effort because of her great girth. Her black skin glistened with moisture, and her faded old blue calico dress was damp. As she joined me under the tree, I saw the concern in her velvety brown eyes.
"He's gone," I said. "I don't know when he'll be back."
"You go on in now, chile. Get yoreself some sleep. You's done enough. Ain't nuthin' else you can do."
"I'm just so worried..."
"'Bout dem niggers? Don't you worry none. Dat 'Lijah Jones done took 'em off an' got 'em safely tucked away. Dem men gonna hoot an' holler an' have theirselves a good time, but dey ain't gonna find no niggers. Cassie an' Adam is safe."
"I hope so, Mattie."
"Ain't no use you frettin', chile."
Mattie was right, of course, but I continued to fret all that day, all the next. I prayed that Elijah Jones had done his part properly, prayed that Cassie and Adam were indeed safe. When Derek still hadn't returned by morning of the third day, I began to feel relief. Surely if they were going to find the runaways, they would have found them by this time, I told myself. Feeling that Derek was bound to return that afternoon, I went down to the river and took a long, luxurious bath, washing my hair as well, and when he did indeed return around two o'clock I was wearing the red dress printed with tiny black flowers, the dress I had worn to the fair.
His clothes were dusty and rumpled. He looked incredibly weary, and his expression was grim. I knew immediately that the hunt had been a failure, and it took considerable effort to conceal my relief. Derek didn't say a word to me. He went straight upstairs to wash and change clothes, and later on I heard him come down to the study and close the door behind him. I knew what he must be feeling. I felt very bad about that, but I was proud of what I had done. When he still hadn't come out of the study by four o'clock, I couldn't contain myself any longer. I had to see him, had to find out what had happened. Stepping to the study door, I knocked lightly, and he called out sharply, bidding me enter.
He was sitting at the desk, poring over a stack of papers. I could see that he had been adding up figures, had wadded up several sheets of paper and tossed them to the floor. He turned around in the chair to face me, and I noticed that three of the desk drawers had been pulled open, including the bottom drawer containing the cigar box. My heart jumped when I saw that. Derek scowled angrily, his mood clearly thunderous. I hesitated, wishing now I hadn't interrupted him. "Well?" he snapped.
"I thought you might be hungry. I thought perhaps you might like me to... bring you something."
"How very thoughtful," he said. His voice was sarcastic. "You're lying, Marietta. You came to gloat."
"That isn't true."
"You'll be happy to learn we couldn't find a trace of them. No one had seen hide nor hair of them. I finally realized it was futile, told Randolph and the others we might as well give up. Cassie and Adam are long gone by this time. I'll never get them back."
"I'm sorry, Derek."
"I still can't understand it! How did Cassie break open the door without anyone hearing? How did Adam get free of the shackles? We found them on the side of the road a quarter of a mile from here. They'd been opened, and I had the key in my pocket the whole time. Somehow or other he managed to pick the lock." He shook his head, muttering something under his breath.
"We'll get by, Derek," I said quietly. "You'll find a way to—"
"Don't play the hypocrite!" he interrupted. "You're glad they got away. There's no need pretending you're not!"
"Derek—"
"You won't be so damned glad when we all starve!"
Seeing that it would be useless to try to reason with him in his present frame of mind, I turned and left the room. I refused to let his mood disturb me, and, stubbornly, I refused to feel guilty. I had betrayed his trust, yes, and he was going to have a hard time because of what I had done, but the ultimate good far outweighed the wrong I had committed. Derek would get over his ugly mood, and he would find a way to save Shadow Oaks. In the meantime, two human beings had been released from bondage and were on their way to a free life.
I was at peace with myself as I stepped outside. The day was warm and sultry, the sky a yellow-white without a trace of blue. The oak trees cast deep shadows over the ground as I strolled toward the storehouse. Chickens clucked as they wandered about the yard. Caleb must have left the gate to their pen open again, I mused. Responsible for seeing that they had feed and water, he frequently forgot to close the gate properly. I'd have to scold the boy and have him round the hens up, for in Derek's present state it wouldn't do for him to find the fowls roaming freely. First, though, I would fetch the basket of apricots on the shelf in the storehouse. I would make a cobbler for supper this evening. Apricot cobbler was one of Derek's favorite desserts.
As I neared the storehouse, I heard a peculiar noise in the distance. It sounded like a mule braying. Intent on getting the apricots and planning the rest of the meal, I paid little mind. After he ate, after he got some rest, Derek was bound to feel better. The storehouse was dim, filled with a variety of tangy smells. I moved over to the shelf and took down the basket of apricots. The shelf was dusty. Cobwebs stretched across the corners of the ceiling. The place needed a thorough cleaning. I would have to get around to it one day soon. As I stepped out into the sunlight, I heard the back door slam. Derek came down the steps and walked across the yard toward me, his jaw thrust out, his fists clenched.
I could feel the color draining out of my cheeks. I seemed to go numb, paralyzed in fr
ont of the storehouse, unable to move. He knew. He had counted the money in the cigar box, and he knew I had taken several pounds. He knew why. Chickens clucked noisily and flapped out of his way as he strode toward me. He didn't even notice them. His cheeks were ashen. I could tell that he was possessed with an icy, murderous rage.
"It was you!" he said, stopping in front of me.
"I—I don't know what you're—"
"Don't lie to me, Marietta! You did it! You helped them escape!"
I shook my head, terrified. His dark-gray eyes were blazing. His hands were tight balls, the knuckles white. All the blood seemed to drain out of my body. I felt dizzy and faint, yet still I couldn't move. I was rooted to the spot, clutching the basket of apricots. He took a deep breath, his chest heaving. He was actually trembling with rage, and it was a full minute before he could speak again.
"I opened the cigar box to count the money. Thirty pounds are missing. You're the only one who knew I kept my money there. You're the only one who could have taken it!"
"Derek—" I pleaded. "You—you must—"
"I knew then. I knew immediately! You helped them. You had to, else they couldn't have pulled it off so smoothly. Cassie would never have had the guts to break into that shed!"
I looked up at him, silent. Everything seemed to go slightly out of focus. I seemed to be standing a long way off, watching the scene with a curious detachment. This wasn't real. It was a dream, hazy, blurred, not really happening. My mind registered the sound of a mule braying, much nearer this time, but that seemed unreal, too, part of the dream.
"That night," he began. "I fell asleep right after supper. I was so sleepy I didn't even pull my breeches off. I passed out on the bed. You gave me something, didn't you? You got some kind of powder from Mattie and put it in my food!"
Derek seized my arms and shook me violently. I dropped the basket. Apricots rolled all around us.
"Didn't you? Didn't you!"
"Y-yes," I stammered. "Yes, I did."
"Goddamn, Marietta! Why? Why!"
"Mattie—Mattie had nothing to do with it. I... I told her I was having trouble getting to sleep. She gave me the powder, but... she had no idea I intended to—"
"You wanted to make sure I was asleep so I wouldn't hear!"
I nodded, and he slapped my face, slapped me so forcefully that I reeled backwards, stumbling, almost falling. I hardly noticed the pain. Through my tears I saw the man in buckskins leading his two mules around the side of the house, but I paid no attention. Everything was lost. I knew that. Derek would never forgive me.
"How could you do it to me?" His voice was calmer now, hard, laced with icy rage. "You knew I had to sell him. You knew how important that money was to me. Goddammit, Marietta, you knew."
"I had to," I said quietly.
"You've ruined me. You know that, don't you?"
"Derek—"
"You've ruined me!"
The man moved slowly across the yard, his hair burnished with sunlight, the fringe on his jacket swaying as he tugged the reins, forcing the mules to follow. His dark-brown eyes were amiable. He wore a merry grin. One of the mules balked. He sighed and heaved on the reins, causing the offending mule to bray loudly. Derek turned around, aware of Rawlins for the first time.
"Afternoon, folks," Rawlins called. "Thought I'd stop by and see if I could do a little tradin'."
He let go of the reins and sauntered toward us. His expression altered as he saw my tears, saw the look on Derek's face. He stopped, a tiny frown creasing his brow.
"I say, it... uh... it looks like I came at the wrong time," he apologized. "I reckon I... reckon I'd better came back later."
"You couldn't have come at a better time," Derek said. His voice was steely.
"Derek," I whispered. "Derek, no—no, you can't—"
"You still interested in buying her?" Derek asked.
Rawlins looked dumbfounded. "Hey, you're not serious?"
"Dead serious! I paid twenty-one hundred pounds for her," Derek informed him. "Do you have that much on you?"
"Afraid not, Hawke. Tradin's been a mite slow. Eighteen hundred's all I got to my name. I got it in one of the packs."
"Very well, I'll sell her for eighteen hundred."
Rawlins shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. He looked at Hawke. He looked at me. And then he grinned.
"You got yourself a deal," he said.
PART TWO: The Trace
CHAPTER 16
The trail was rough and rugged with trees pressing close on either side, their trunks gnarled and choked with underbrush, leaves brown and green. The mules plodded along patiently. I rode one, Jeff Rawlins rode another, and he led a third laden with packs behind him. He was fairly casual about the Indians, but I half expected a band of bloodthirsty savages to fall upon us at any moment. I would almost have welcomed it. Almost two weeks had passed, and still I was in a state of shock, trance-like, totally without spirit.
We had been traveling hard every day, all day long, frequently into the night. It had been exhausting, but I never once complained. Nothing mattered any longer. I simply didn't care. I obeyed Rawlins passively, rarely speaking. From the first he had treated me with the utmost respect, handling me as though I were some precious cargo. He made camp at night. He took his rifle and shot game and cooked it over an open fire. He ordered me to eat. He chatted pleasantly, and my lack of response didn't seem to bother him at all.
He had made no attempt to sleep with me. He seemed to respect my grief, and he tolerated my lethargy and lack of spirit with remarkable patience. I wasn't a very pleasant companion, but Rawlins paid no mind. Still good-humored, he kept up his merry chatter, apparently enjoying himself immensely. Under other circumstances I would have found him delightful, for he was undeniably engaging, a hearty rogue with his fringed buckskins, boyish grin, and lively brown eyes.
"We should be reaching Crawley's Inn before night," he informed me. "It's gonna be nice to sleep in a real bed. This roughin' it, sleepin' in blankets on the ground—it ain't been much of a treat to you, I'm sure."
I did not reply. Undaunted, Rawlins continued in the same cheery vein.
"You'll be able to have a bath, too. Reckon you'll welcome that. And a home-cooked meal. That'll be a relief after all this wild game. Crawley's Inn is the last bit of civilization we'll see for a long time. This is Daniel Boone country."
"Daniel Boone?"
"Ol' Dan started explorin' these parts 'bout ten years ago. This land used to belong to the French, but they ceded it to the British back in '63. Reckon the British'll lose it 'fore too long—likely to lose everything the way things are shapin' up back east. Tennessee's a wilderness now, but William Bean built him a cabin on the Watauga River just a year ago. I figure there'll be a regular settlement soon. Them folks up east don't like all them rules and restrictions and taxes the British impose. They keep pushin' on to get away from 'em."
I paid little attention to what he was saying. I kept remembering that terrible day and Derek's anger, a nightmare I lived over and over again in memory. Rawlins had given him the money, and Derek had handed over the Articles of Indenture, and I had been numb with grief and shock ever since. I could barely remember packing my few clothes up.
We were on the Natchez Trace now, and in a few weeks we would be in New Orleans and Rawlins would sell me to one of the brothels for a huge profit, and I simply couldn't care. Life was over. Life without Derek was unthinkable. This deadening numbness had held on for days, and even my grief was something distant and re- moved, an emotion I observed objectively, as though someone else were feeling it. I wondered if I would ever be able to feel again.
"It's sometimes called the Chickasaw Trace," Rawlins was saying. "We pass through Chickasaw country—I told yuh that before—and then as we get furtha south we enter the land of the Choctaws. The Indians mostly leave us alone, but I've had a couple scrapes. Almost lost my scalp one time, year or so ago. Some of the younger braves resent us pas
sin' through their land. They can be pretty vicious when they get riled up."
The mule I was riding stumbled, throwing me forward. I clung to the reins, regaining my balance. A small animal streaked across the road. The birds sang lustily. Leaves rustled. I could hear water in the distance. The sky was a pale blue-gray, the sun a blazing silver ball pouring down heat. I was still wearing the red dress. I hadn't bothered to change. It was deplorably soiled now, the hem ragged, and my hair was a wild auburn tangle. I felt certain my face must be streaked with dirt, but I was beyond caring.
"Not the Indians, but the robbers," Rawlins continued. "The Trace is a solid nest of 'em, cutthroats ready to rob and plunder at the drop of a hat. Soon slit a man's throat as look at him, that lot. Many a man's left Natchez and started for Nashville and was never heard of again. It's a real problem, but don't worry—I'll protect you. They have better sense than to fool with ol' Rawlins, know I'm even more onery than they are. I've been travelin' the Trace for quite a spell, and those boys know me by sight, know they'd better steer clear."
After a while he suggested we stop for a few minutes. Dutifully, I dismounted. Rawlins stretched and rubbed his backside, grinning. The mules stood in the shade of a tree, placid. A squirrel chattered at us from the branch of a tree, and a beautiful red cardinal swept through the air like a crimson arrow. Deep forest surrounded us, the narrow trail hewn out of the wilderness, already beaten flat and rutted with hundreds of hooves and wagon wheels.
"The men who floated their flatboats down the Mississippi, they had to get back upstream by land," Rawlins said. "That's how the Trace got started in the first place. It's become a regular thoroughfare—everyone uses it now. Ordinarily there's lots uv traffic—pioneers, settlers, traders, dandies, ladies of fashion—anyone who needs to get cross country. This time a year there ain't so many people usin' it, but I reckon we'll run into some interestin' types 'fore we get to Natchez."
I brushed a twig from my skirt, paying little attention to his talk.
"I meant what I said back there. You're gonna have to snap out of it. I know you ain't exactly happy 'bout the turn of events, but you can't just shut yourself out forever. I know how you feel, but—"
Wilde, Jennifer Page 21
