Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  “That’ll be all.”

  She left with a pout.

  Once Boyce had taken a gulp from his cup, Tom pressed the point. “Where upriver?”

  Boyce shrugged. “How’d I know?”

  “You’ve been on it, haven’t you?”

  Boyce’s gaze darted toward the door and then around the room. DeMornay wasn’t here, naturally, but that glance coupled with the perspiration on Boyce’s brow meant he feared someone. The captain or a crew member, no doubt. DeMornay was no sailor, not from what Pa had told him. The man needed the expertise of a skilled navigator and crew.

  Tom leaned close and whispered, “No one will hear you.”

  Boyce wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can’t say.”

  “Can’t say?” Agitated, Tom spat out the words in a harsh whisper. “It’s my father’s ship. DeMornay stole it, and I aim to get it back.”

  Boyce jerked backward and nearly fell off the tavern bench. “Run. Get away while ye can.”

  The startling resemblance to the Negro woman’s plea caught Tom’s attention. “Why?”

  “The devil be in that man.” Boyce crossed himself, though Tom suspected the man hadn’t seen the inside of a church in decades.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Boyce leaned close, his fetid breath assaulting Tom’s nostrils and leaving no question as to why the man had lost at least one tooth. “That ship hauls bad cargo. Don’t look fer it. No, sir. Take my advice and get yourself outta here while ye can.”

  “Bad cargo?”

  Boyce would say no more.

  Tom prodded, “It’s my father’s ship.”

  “Ain’t no more.”

  “It will be. The law will uphold a man’s ownership. I have the bill of sale and enrollment certificate.”

  Boyce scoffed, “You think papers mean anything to a man like that?”

  “They’ll mean something to a judge.”

  Boyce shook his head slowly. “Why d’ya think that man gets away wid what he’s doing?”

  Tom didn’t know exactly what DeMornay was doing, except that apparently it was illegal.

  Boyce leaned close again. “Ain’t no lawman or judge gonna take the word o’ an outsider over one o’ their own.”

  Fear skittered down his spine as he thought of Catherine. He should never have left her.

  “Would he harm an innocent woman?”

  “Woman? Thought ye wanted a ship.”

  “There’s a woman involved.”

  Boyce shook his head again. “That’s a bad business, there. Ye love her?”

  The bold question gave Tom a start. Did he love her? The thought had never quite crossed his mind. “I’m very fond of her.”

  “Ye love her.” Boyce whistled again. “Poor lad. All the worse for you.”

  “And her?” He couldn’t shake the feeling that Catherine was in harm’s way.

  “She met ’im?”

  “Yes.”

  Boyce grunted. “Too late, then. They always believe. Ain’t never met one that didn’t. He done swoop in, and afore ye know it they’re his.”

  “Not Catherine. She’s independent minded.”

  “Don’t matter. They always fall.”

  Tom couldn’t match Boyce’s assertions with fact. DeMornay had no wife or even a mistress that Tom could detect. “There weren’t any women with him.”

  “Oh, he don’t keep ’em. He don’t keep any of ’em long. One day they appear. Another day they disappear.”

  “Where do they go?”

  Boyce again glanced toward the door. “Only one man knows, an’ only a fool would ask ’im.”

  “DeMornay.”

  Boyce flinched. “All I’m sayin’ is ye best steer clear, or you’ll disappear like the rest of ’em.”

  “You’re saying men vanish too?”

  “Haven’t ye listened to a thing I told ye?”

  Tom’s skin crawled. “You’re saying men and women vanish from Black Oak?”

  Boyce cringed. “Don’t say that name.”

  “Why?”

  “Ye don’t understand, but ye will.” Boyce scooped up the half-empty bottle. “Don’t come asking anything more from me. I won’t answer.” He stood on somewhat wobbly legs.

  Tom couldn’t let Boyce go. This was the closest he’d come to finding his pa’s ship. It could not slip from his fingers now.

  He rose. “The ship is at Black Oak, isn’t it?”

  Boyce glared at him. “Dint I tell ye not ta say the name o’ that place?”

  “I must know. Lives depend on it.”

  Boyce hesitated and glanced again at the door. No one was there, and no one in the tavern gave them more than a cursory glance. Boyce stepped close enough to whisper and poked a finger into Tom’s chest.

  “If ye’re fool enough ta risk yer head . . . heard say it’s due back within the week.”

  “And then?”

  “Gots ta pick up fresh cargo.”

  “Sugar?”

  Boyce snorted. “Sugar.” He cackled and moved away, waving a hand at him.

  Tom desperately followed. “They do haul from the plantation, don’t they?”

  Boyce ignored him and plunged into a group of compatriots who clapped him on the back and promised to relieve him of the bottle he was carrying.

  Tom stood rooted to the spot. Boyce had intended to frighten him, but no rumor or superstition could scare Tom Worthington. The sailor’s fears were doubtless enhanced by the rum. Though questions remained, Tom had learned enough. The Rachael Deare still sailed. Though Boyce had refused to divulge the exact location that Pa’s ship would be moored, he’d revealed enough to determine Tom’s next steps.

  A week. The black ship, as Boyce referred to it, was due to return within the week. By then Tom would be in place, ready to greet it. Between now and then, he would meet with Catherine’s cousin and do all in his power to extract Catherine from DeMornay’s grip so he could bring her back to Key West with him.

  He clenched his fists as Boyce and his sailor friends roared with laughter, possibly at Tom’s expense. One thing was left to settle, and it could prove most difficult of all. As skilled as Tom was, he couldn’t sail a schooner by himself. He needed a crew. Given the undercurrent of fear that ran through Boyce, hiring a crew would be no easy or inexpensive task. He fingered the few coins in his pocket.

  “Worthington!”

  The familiar voice snapped Tom out of his thoughts. He turned to the doorway, filled with the imposing figure of the man he’d let down back in Key West.

  “Captain.” He swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

  15

  I be here ta dress you, miss.”

  Catherine blinked as Aurelia pulled back the curtains to allow the bright sunlight to stream into the room. Considering the heat and angle of the sun, it must be quite late.

  “I’ve overslept again.”

  “Dat’s what happens when ya creep around half de night day after day.”

  “You saw me?”

  Instead of answering, the housekeeper hummed softly as she tugged open the doors of the large armoire. She selected a white muslin gown dotted with green and gold flowers and laid it on the bed. “This be better in de heat. A lady like you ain’t used to it.”

  “Like me? An Englishwoman, do you mean?” Catherine wondered what sort of ideas about England filtered down to a slave on a Louisiana plantation. “What do you know about England?”

  “I heard Massa Henry’s papa—God rest his soul—talk ’bout it bein’ colder ’n ice. Didn’t never understand why yo’ mama din’t come back.”

  “I heard they had a funeral for Maman and declared her dead.”

  Aurelia continued humming.

  Catherine couldn’t let this go. “She’s not buried in the tomb here. Now you’re saying Uncle Henri knew it too. Then who pretended to bury her, and why?”

  “Wouldn’t know. Come before my time.”

  “Then you didn’t know Maman?�
�

  Aurelia shook her head slowly. “She gone long ’fore I come here.”

  Of course. Aurelia had said she’d been here only a decade or so. But perhaps she knew some of Maman’s beloved servants. Rufus, Winnie, and one she’d simply called Nurse still hung in the recesses of Catherine’s memory. They were likely all gone, but she had to ask.

  Aurelia selected a pair of slippers and shook her head when Catherine finished listing the names Maman had mentioned. “None of dem here now.”

  Catherine breathed out in disappointment. Perhaps she shouldn’t have hoped so much for a link to the past. According to DeMornay, servants moved around more than she’d imagined. Maman had made it sound like the servants were so intertwined with the plantation and the family that they would always be there, like the sugarhouse and the pigeonniers.

  “Where were you before you came here?”

  The housekeeper clucked her tongue. “One plantation pretty much like ’nother, ’cepting de massa and de missus.”

  Catherine supposed that was true, though she’d hoped for the impossible, that this woman might be Elizabeth’s nurse. “Then you’ve never been to Key West.”

  “How’d I git way off dere?” Aurelia snorted. “I cain’t jess up and leave.”

  The reality of Aurelia’s situation sank in. She’d come to Black Oak because she’d been bought. If she left, it would be because she’d been sold.

  Aurelia hefted the petticoats onto the bed. “Let me git ya dressed.”

  Silence ensued while Aurelia performed her duties and Catherine stood where she was directed. The servant had deft fingers, and soon the underpinnings were complete.

  “Did anyone from Key West ever come here?” Catherine prodded. “Or have you ever met another . . . servant . . . who came from there?”

  Another pause. “Why’d ya think dat?”

  “A friend, Elizabeth, misses her nurse, who was sold to a planter here.”

  “Wouldn’t know ’bout dat.”

  The housekeeper’s answer came too quickly. Catherine glanced at the woman, whose expression had gone blank. She would learn nothing more from her this morning.

  Aurelia lifted the gown over Catherine’s head and tugged it into place. Then her fingers hastened from button to button, securing the bodice. “Dere. Dat’s de last of ’em. Sit now and I’ll brush out yo’ hair.”

  Catherine glanced at herself in the mirror before taking a seat. She looked fresh, though she felt anything but.

  Aurelia deftly undid the plait that held Catherine’s hair in place when she slept and began to brush. Knots came undone in her skilled hands without a single pinch.

  “You’ve been a lady’s maid,” Catherine remarked.

  “No, miss. I’m de housekeeper. Ain’t been a missus here fo’ years.”

  In the mirror’s reflection, Catherine saw Aurelia’s gaze dart to the door and back. Fear hung in the air, thick as the mosquitoes at dusk. Had the housekeeper heard DeMornay outside the room?

  With a few quick twists, Aurelia worked Catherine’s hair into a pretty knot, which she secured with pins. A few graceful tendrils framed her face.

  “Would you be wantin’ a cap?” Aurelia asked.

  “No.” Catherine despised them as a relic of a bygone age, best worn by elderly matrons. In this heat they would be intolerable. “This will do. Thank you.”

  “Very well, miss.” Aurelia began to move away.

  Catherine caught her arm. “One moment.”

  The whites of the housekeeper’s eyes shone from her dark face as her every muscle tensed. “What you be needin’?”

  Catherine loosened her grip and lowered her voice. “It’s not what I need. I just want you to know that if you ever need to talk . . .” She let the rest go unsaid. Given Aurelia’s warning upon their arrival, she would know what Catherine meant.

  The woman’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I best be gettin’ back ta de cookhouse.”

  Aurelia slipped from the room, her steps hastened by fear. Catherine wondered what horrors had driven fear deep into the woman’s soul. If only she could find a way to help.

  Tom couldn’t find any words as Captain Rourke O’Malley steered him out of the tavern.

  “Well?” Rourke demanded. “The last place I expected to find one of my crew is in a New Orleans drinking house.”

  “What are you doing here?” Tom asked again. “I thought you were wrecking the Allerton.”

  “John has charge of the Redemption, and Rander is running the crew on the Windsprite.” Rourke glared at him and didn’t release his grip on Tom’s upper arm. “But that’s not the point. You left my employment without notice.”

  “I asked—”

  “And I denied.”

  “I left a letter with your wife.”

  “Letters are for cowards. A man gives notice face-to-face.”

  Tom felt awful. He hadn’t done this the right way. Moreover, he’d just contributed to another man’s sins by providing the temptation. Rourke must think the worst of him. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not proud of the way I handled it, but I had to go. I couldn’t let Catherine—uh, Miss Haynes—travel unprotected.”

  “Are you saying she is in that grogshop?”

  “No! Never! She’s at the plantation.”

  “Good. Then you did your part.” Rourke’s expression softened slightly, revealing he wasn’t as angry as he’d first appeared. “But it doesn’t explain why I found you frequenting a black hole of iniquity. You know where that path leads.”

  “I didn’t drink one drop. But a tavern is the best place to get information from sailors and dockworkers.”

  Rourke released him. “What sort of information is so important that you left us shorthanded?”

  “You could have easily replaced me.”

  “I could fill your spot, Tom, but I couldn’t replace you.”

  That only made Tom feel worse. “I shouldn’t have left when you needed me.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have.” Rourke’s expression eased. “Thankfully, they don’t need all three of our vessels on-site anymore.”

  Tom breathed out with relief. He hadn’t cost his captain as much as he’d feared.

  Rourke didn’t relent. “I still expect you to tell me why you really left.”

  Tom rubbed his arm and swallowed. He hadn’t told Rourke about his quest. He’d told no one until revealing it to Catherine. There was no sense keeping it secret now, especially from a man with the integrity of Rourke.

  “I think I’ve found my father’s stolen ship.”

  Rourke digested that a moment. “Explain. You told me your father is dead.”

  “He is, and the man who stole his ship and set him adrift in the ship’s boat is to blame.”

  “Go on.”

  “This man told my father he was a Spanish nobleman. Don Luis Mornez. He’s here.”

  “In New Orleans.” Rourke sounded justifiably skeptical.

  “At Catherine’s family plantation. Except he now goes by the name Louis DeMornay. I’m certain it’s him. He has the exact scar that Pa described, just below his left eye. Moreover, Catherine told me that a man fitting DeMornay’s description arrived at her father’s estate a couple months before this thief approached my father. She said he left in haste, and she later found an entry in the accounts referring to a man by the name DeMornay.”

  Rourke followed the train of thought faster than Tom could get it out. “And this man is at Catherine’s family plantation.”

  “He’s the manager.”

  Rourke looked around. “At the plantation where you left Miss Haynes.”

  Tom squirmed. “Leaving her was a mistake. I’m going back at once.”

  “I trust her family is there to protect her.”

  “That’s another peculiar thing. There’s not one family member on the plantation, just DeMornay and the slaves.”

  “Yet you left her there.”

  “She insisted. I couldn’t convince her to leave. She’s tryin
g to figure out what’s going on there. The place is dilapidated, and there aren’t many slaves, at least not that I could see. DeMornay says they’re harvesting the farthest sugarcane fields. They didn’t show up at the main house the day I was there.”

  Rourke pondered that for a moment. “All very believable, yet you think he’s lying?”

  “I do.”

  “What reason would he have to lie?”

  Tom didn’t mention the uneasy feeling he had about the man, especially after speaking with the seamen ashore. “DeMornay pretended he’d never heard of my father or his ship. Yet that’s not what I learned here on the wharves. DeMornay has a ship, and it could well be Pa’s.”

  “You would recognize it?”

  “I know every plank and seam, every place where she leaked, every gouge and mark. I’d know her in an instant, and the moment she comes back to port, I’ll be able to identify her for the authorities.”

  “You have a bill of sale or enrollment certificate?”

  “I have both, as well as the disposition of the legal proceedings when Pa returned. I have all the proof I need, but there are some who think the judges here have a local bias.”

  Rourke nodded. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. First, we need to find the ship. When is she due in?”

  “Within the week. Time enough for me to check on Catherine.”

  “We can pay a call on Miss Haynes and perhaps search the shore on our way there.”

  “We?” Tom finally caught what Rourke was saying. “Who all is here?”

  “Enough crew to sail the James Patrick. Perhaps my presence will convince this plantation manager to divulge what he knows.”

  Tom doubted any single person could sway DeMornay. The man made deception an art. But Tom did relish his mentor’s strength and integrity. Perhaps Rourke could sort fact from fiction.

  “Who knows what we’ll find,” he murmured.

  “Answers, I hope. We’ll leave at once. The James Patrick is moored nearby.”

  Tom began to follow, but his business wasn’t finished here. “First I need to pay a call on Catherine’s cousin Henry Lafreniere. I promised her I would tell him of her arrival.”

  “Good. We’ll meet later aboard ship, unless you want me to go with you.”