The Night Angel

by T. Davis Bunn

  She wiped her face with both hands, knowing she looked a mess and not really caring. Only wanting to see him clearly, her dear friend. “What did He say?”

  “That you are right in what you have decided about us.”

  “Oh, Falconer.”

  “Shah, now. Is that not grand? How often do you face the darkness of doubt and know that God has blessed you with wisdom?”

  “Please, Falconer, you must return. Please. I shall need your friendship all my days.”

  “There is one thing I have learned in my walk along God’s ways, lass. Those whom the Lord has brought together are bound for all eternity.” He touched her then, a single finger upon her face, capturing one tear, clenching it up tightly. “Stay in peace, little one.”

  She wanted to tell him to go in peace also. But the words would not come.

  Falconer sat at the desk in his bedroom and checked his pocket watch again. His satchel sat ready by the door, his light saber strapped to the top. Alessandro’s four suede sacks of gold were stowed inside, along with the leather oilskin of papers. Gerald Rivens had already slipped away to check on the Langston carriage and make certain all was ready. He had promised to leave Falconer a horse tethered in a nearby alley.

  Across the rain-swept garden, the main house was dark and silent. But Falconer doubted anyone slept easy that night. He spotted one of the two guards leaning against the side wall, using the eaves to protect him from the downpour. The doctor had been good to his word. A yellow placard was nailed to the front doorpost, warning all the city to stay well clear. After the previous summer’s cholera scare, the alert would indeed be heeded.

  The watch’s slow ticks taunted him. It was always thus before launching into a new adventure. Yet he felt oddly at peace.

  The chair creaked dangerously as he leaned back, laced his hands across his belly, and listed his problems upon the ceiling overhead. He carried enough gold to attract every thief and cutthroat east of the Mississippi. He did not know where he was going. He had no idea what he would find when he got there. From the outskirts of Richmond he would travel alone. A foreign assassin had been set upon his trail. He had all but suggested to the woman he loved that she would be better off with another man.

  And it was raining cats and dogs.

  Falconer lowered his head and caught sight of his reflection in the dark windowpane. He had no reason to be smiling. None whatsoever.

  He checked his watch once more and decided it was time. Even if it wasn’t, it was close enough. The night was so miserably cold and wet he would gain nothing by waiting longer.

  The only thing left to do was pray.

  Falconer planted his elbows upon the table and knotted his hands together. He studied the hands as though they belonged to another man. In a sense they did, as the scars had been created by a past he no longer wished to claim. Where his left thumb joined with his wrist, three jagged white lines formed cicatrices, the script of action and foul deeds. When a pirate had whipped a razor-edged chain at his neck, Falconer’s broadsword had been broken in two from the force, and the trailing edge had caught his hand. Farther up that same arm were scars from when his own musket barrel had once erupted. He had been so caught by the heat of battle he had been unaware of the wound. His right hand was laced with a multitude of rope burns that merged into one giant blemish across his palm. He bore sword cuts on his wrist, forearm, shoulder. Another wound beneath his left shoulder blade. His left thigh. And, of course, there was the most visible mark of all there upon his cheek.

  In the candlelit window, Falconer studied the way his scar moved with his facial muscles. To think he dared hope that Serafina’s parents would ever welcome such a one as this.

  Slowly, back and forth, he shook his head. Denying his futile yearning with the finality of a decision he would never revoke. His destiny was the road, the danger, the quest. Alone.

  He bowed his head.

  The thought came to him, not in an exclamation, as he might have expected. Nor in a blast of power. Not even a whisper of sound.

  Falconer lifted his head, his eyes wide open now. He listened to his breathing, for there was no other sound in the room.

  Even so, he was certain he was no longer alone.

  The thought that had come to him was too foreign to be his own. Not for an instant did he doubt he had been visited by a heavenly messenger. In the space of a single solitary heartbeat, an image had been planted. Complete, unquestionable.

  Falconer rose to his feet, his hands still clasped. He brought them forward until they struck his chest. He lifted his face to the ceiling once more and spoke aloud. He spoke not to a distant God. Rather he addressed the God with him in his room.

  “Thank you, Father. I am ready.”

  He dropped his hands and his head. He blew out the candle, reached for his cloak, buttoned it into place about his shoulders, and planted the slouch hat upon his head. He reached for the satchel and opened the door to his room, took a last look at a darkened window in the main house, and then turned away.

  The quest was on.

  Chapter 9

  The carriage jounced and rattled as it crossed the final bridge before Burroughs Crossing. The Chickahominy River flowed quickly in the high spring tide. The entire bridge shivered with the waters pushing hard against the timber supports. John Falconer heard the horses whinny in fear. The carriage driver called sharply in response and cracked his whip. Then they were across, and the sleeping city of Richmond lay ahead. Dawn was scarcely a glimmer upon the eastern hills, but Falconer had been awake for hours. Awake and awaiting this moment.

  The carriage slowed, the high polished wheels caught in the riverbank’s viscous mud. Falconer remained as he had throughout the night’s final hours, slumped in the corner of the carriage with his cloak wrapped about him, feigning sleep. The carriage’s only other passenger, an attorney’s aide ordered to Richmond to disguise Falconer’s journey, was sprawled across the opposite seat, snoring gently. The aide assumed Falconer was a house servant and had not spoken a word to him since setting off. Falconer, who had spent a lifetime more comfortable with blade and pike than words, welcomed the silence.

  Gerald Rivens, the carriage driver, lightly thumped his fist against the carriage roof. Falconer reached for his satchel stowed beneath his seat. His sword’s scabbard clanked softly against the satchel’s latch. Falconer checked the aide’s face, but the young man continued snoring. Falconer opened the carriage door, tossed his belongings to the driver, and clambered quietly up beside him.

  “Burroughs Crossing is half a mile ahead,” Rivens said in greeting. He pointed at the musket propped against the seat beside him. “I want you to take that.”

  The Whitney musket was worth a year’s salary. “The sword and pistols are protection enough.”

  “If not for protection, then take it for food.” Rivens was small and hard and tempered by a past not far from Falconer’s own. “I’d rest easier knowing you traveled with it by your side.”

  The Whitney was one of the new versions, fitted for percussion caps, which did away with the need to prime the trigger. Falconer hefted the musket. “Thank you, Gerald. You are a friend.”

  “Your turning’s just ahead.” Gerald tugged on the reins. “We’ll be praying for you.”

  Falconer patted his friend’s shoulder, slipped the musket on top of his satchel, and used his free hand to climb over the carriage side. As Falconer slipped downward, Gerald waved a silent farewell. It was enough. All the words had already been spoken.

  As the carriage slowed even further for the bend, Falconer dropped to the road. He took two running strides and was swallowed by the forest. He stood and listened to the carriage disappear into the distance. Falconer unstrapped his sword belt, fitted it about his waist, jammed in the pistols, hefted his satchel, and started back toward the road.

  Falconer looked carefully around, then turned toward Richmond. Away from the dawn and into danger.

  The city of Richmond had begun
paving its main streets in oyster shell and fire-hardened brick. Or so Falconer had heard, for he had never been this way before. Though he was much traveled, it had always been by sea. He was now the farthest inland he had ever been in his adult life. He longed for a horizon of white-capped waves, one rimmed by gulls and salt-laced wind. But Falconer held to his present course.

  Richmond’s sophistication did not reach this far out. The Washington Turnpike was graded gravel and crushed rock, but recent rains had coated everything with a sheen of sticky mud. The road broadened where villagers had cut away the underbrush, opening the space so temporary pens could be erected. A pair of goats bleated nervously as Falconer approached. He slipped into the trees beyond the corrals and settled upon a log. He opened his satchel and took out a bundle wrapped in white linen. He lifted the linen to his face and breathed deeply. There beneath the smell of fresh bread and damp cheese he caught a faint hint of Serafina’s perfume.

  By the time Falconer finished his breakfast and folded away the linen, the light had strengthened to full day. In the distance the small village outside the town began to awaken. Falconer drank his fill from a nearby stream. He washed his face and hands, then swept back his hair so tightly he could feel his eyes pulled into the squint he had worn for years. He tied it with a black silk ribbon. He checked the satchel’s three purses of gold and made sure the waxed coins would not clink. He slipped a fourth purse into his pocket beneath the pistol at his back. He checked the priming on his pistols and settled one on top of the purses. The day was warming, so he tied his black oilskin cloak to the satchel with the Whitney rifle. The knife’s scabbard was by his right hand, his sword worn at his left. It was a pirate’s manner of dress, such that Falconer could cross his arms and draw both weapons to parry and strike all in one lightning motion.

  The clearing was dappled now with sunlight and buttercups. Falconer knelt there by the log he had used as a stool. He prayed long and hard. He prayed for safety. He prayed for success. He prayed for wisdom. He prayed for everything except the one thing his heart wanted most.

  He rose to his feet, hefted his satchel, and headed out. Walking the boggy road toward Richmond’s outlying town, he no longer headed into one quest, but two.

  Richmond lay due west of the drovers’ village known as Burroughs Crossing. To the south rose a pair of hills marking the borderlands of the James River, a twisting and cantankerous body of water that had flooded six times in as many years. The plantations atop those two hills were safe, of course. But here in the lowlands the signs of flooding were everywhere. The village’s outermost cottages had water stains high as Falconer’s waist. Where the villagers had stopped clearing, rubbish was banked up against the far trees, swept there by the latest heavy surges. Although the day was dawning bright, the ground glistened and puddles were everywhere.

  The main buildings of Burroughs Crossing consisted of a tavern connected to a general store. The tavern was bordered on its other side by a large chicken run and a barn. An even larger corral opened into a meadow where ten horses gamboled, clearly enjoying the first warm and dry day in several weeks. Four drovers sat at a table by the tavern’s front stoop, hunched over tin plates and steaming mugs.

  A young boy gathering eggs was the first to notice Falconer’s approach. He raced into the barn where a woman milked a lowing cow. “Mama! Look there!”

  The woman needed only one glance to declare, “Run for your father. Hurry now.”

  “Papa! Papa!” The boy raced for the tavern on muddy bare feet. His cries alerted the drovers. Two of them pushed away from the table. Falconer kept his hands in clear view as he approached.

  A big-boned man filled the tavern doorway. He wiped his hands on a stained leather apron and said to his son, “Go fetch Old Joe.”

  The boy did not need to be told twice.

  The woman had risen from her milking stool and stood watching Falconer with arms crossed at her middle. The forgotten cow lowed mournfully. A pair of jays called their harsh warning. Otherwise the day was silent.

  The innkeeper reached inside the doorway and came up with a long-bore musket. He cocked the piece with the same easy motion that brought it partway to his shoulder. “That’s far enough.”

  “I’m after fresh food and supplies,” Falconer announced.

  “Then you’ll be dropping your hardware in the dust at your feet.”

  Falconer motioned to the drovers. “They’re still armed.”

  “Them I be knowing, stranger. You do what I say or else keep on down that road.”

  The boy came racing back with a narrow-faced black man in tow. The man might have stood taller than Falconer, if only he were to walk upright. But he remained somewhat bent, as though burdened by a massive weight.

  Falconer drew out sword and scabbard, then his knife, then the pistols. The innkeeper said, “Joseph, gather up them pieces and stow them in the pantry. Son, get yourself on back and help your ma.”

  “I want to watch, Pa.”

  “You heard me.” When the stooped man had gathered up Falconer’s weapons and disappeared, the innkeeper warned, “I don’t do nothing on credit ’cept maybe offer you a drink from my well.”

  “I will pay in good coin.”

  The innkeeper studied Falconer a long moment, then allowed, “You’ll be after grub, I suppose.” At a hand signal from the innkeeper, the drovers settled back to their table and fare, though all four men kept a steady eye upon Falconer. The innkeeper uncocked the gun and set it back behind the door. “Joseph will see to you. Come find me when you’re done eating. I got chores that can’t wait.”

  The house was called a drovers’ tavern in these parts, or a tippling inn farther north. Such places sprouted by the side of busy turnpikes like mushrooms in boggy soil. They served as gathering spots for the sort of folk not welcome closer into town. Men who bore the stench of animals, or the stain of danger. Wayfarers and wastrels and ne’er-do-wells. No wonder the drovers kept their weapons close at hand.

  Falconer chose the bench that ran down by the horse trough, as far from the four drovers as he could manage. He set his satchel where it rested against one leg, leaned his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. The sun felt good on his bones. After a night without sleep, it would have been far too easy to doze off. But his quest was only beginning. Narrow heart, he reminded himself.

  The black man came back bearing a tin plate and a cup of coffee. Falconer started to thank him as he set the items down on the bench. But he was already turning away. Joseph wore a slave’s cast-offs. The pants could have held two of him. Hemp rope cinched the trousers about his middle, and the ragged hems ended midway up his calves. The shirt was threadbare. Joseph’s face was tainted by a pain so deep it cut cavelike furrows across his forehead and cheeks. Falconer watched him shuffle away and felt himself convicted of all the silent crimes embedded in that man’s face and stooped walk.

  Falconer finished his breakfast of beans and corn bread and fatback, washed down the last of his coffee, then rose from the bench. He carried his utensils in one hand and his satchel in the other as he entered the kitchen. “Thank you, Joseph. That was fine fare.”

  “Suh.” The word was little more than a quiet cough.

  “Could I trouble you for another cup of coffee?”

  Wordlessly Joseph used the broom to indicate the pot settled by the fire.

  Falconer used a singed rag to protect his hand as he filled his tin mug. “Where might I find the innkeeper?”

  “Mas’ Burroughs is over opening the store, I ’spect.” The man did not lift his gaze. He had clearly come to know safety only through seeing nothing, acknowledging no one.

  The dry-goods store was housed in what had once been a barn attached to the inn’s north side. The innkeeper scooped nails into a barrel. He said without looking up, “Breakfast is two bits.”

  Falconer set his satchel and the coffee mug on the counter. He drew a leather pouch from his pocket and unknotted the drawstring. He pulled out
one coin. And waited.

  The innkeeper finally looked over, saw what Falconer was holding, and dropped his ladle with a clatter.

  Falconer turned the coin so that it reflected the sunlight. “I told you I could pay.”

  “Let me see that coin.”

  “It’s real enough.”

  “I said, let me see it.” The innkeeper moved swiftly for such a big man. Falconer let him take the coin. He watched as the innkeeper slipped it between thumb and forefinger, feeling the waxed surface. Falconer knew what the innkeeper was thinking. Highwaymen often used waxed coins, for the wax kept the money from clinking. The innkeeper’s features stretched tight with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You aim on paying for a two-bit meal with a twenty-five dollar gold piece?”

  “I’m after a horse, two donkeys, and supplies for the road.”

  The innkeeper made the coin disappear. “I can do that.”

  Falconer added, “And your man.”

  “Eh, what’s that?”

  “Your man Joseph. I’ve taken a liking to him.”

  The innkeeper was shaking his head before Falconer finished speaking. “Can’t do it. Old Joe’s part of the family.”

  “Sell me a good fast horse, two mules, some grub and gear, and Joseph,” Falconer said. “I’ll give you a hundred fifty dollars in gold coin.”

  Falconer knew such costs well. During his work against the Caribbean slave trade, he had run a chandlery, an emporium for merchant ships and island colonials. His clients liked nothing better than to compare the prices of man and horseflesh from South America to the southern United States. These days, a slave fetched anywhere from two to three hundred dollars, if the buyer paid in bank paper. A good horse started at fifty dollars, again using paper money. Payment in gold dropped the price by more than two-thirds.

  “Show me the coin,” the innkeeper said.

  “When you’ve shown me the horse and mules and we’ve shaken hands on the deal.”