The Night Angel

by T. Davis Bunn

  The innkeeper tried for a laugh, but the sound came out a squeak. “You’re too low by half, stranger.”

  “This is a take-it-or-leave-it offer,” Falconer replied.

  “And what if I say no? You think a highwayman on foot is gonna get anywhere down Richmond way? Why, they’ll string you up in a Yankee minute.”

  Falconer held out his hand. “Give me back the gold.”

  The innkeeper realized he was losing out on a deal. “Now, you just hold on, stranger. There ain’t no harm in dickering.”

  “Not if you have time to waste, which I don’t. Here’s the only dickering I’ll offer.” Falconer made his face go stone hard. “Do me wrong by this, and I’ll come back again.”

  The innkeeper backed up as fast as a horse fleeing an open flame. He came up hard against the nail barrel. “There ain’t no reason to talk to me like that.”

  “Either show me the wares or give me back that coin.” Falconer hated the sound of his own voice. “I won’t be asking you again.”

  Falconer started back up the same road that had brought him to Burroughs Crossing. He rode a dappled gray mare with a broad back and a mane one shade off white. The innkeeper’s boy had wept aloud as Falconer had started off, for the mare had been his charge. Falconer had kept his face hard, though the boy’s sorrowful wails had pierced deep.

  Joseph rode one of the mules and held the tether for the other one. He carried all his worldly possessions in a checkered cloth knotted to his saddle horn. His long legs almost scraped the ground as the mule trotted along. He had said nothing over his own sale. Just followed Falconer’s terse orders and kept his face clamped down tight.

  Falconer rode along until there were two long bends between them and the settlement. He slowed and inspected the road in both directions. He could hear cows lowing off to the north, the creak of wheels rumbling across the bridge up ahead. But he saw no one. He turned off the road and took a path headed into the woodlands.

  “Suh, there ain’t but one way ’cross that river,” Joseph called out, “and it’s straight on up ahead.”

  “We’re going this way.”

  Joseph shrugged, clucked, and said, “Come on, mule.”

  The path was little more than a game trail. Branches closed in so tight on both sides Falconer finally dropped from the horse and led by the reins. The mules disliked the confined forest and brayed loudly. Joseph gripped the reins and tugged them along, saying nothing more.

  As Falconer had hoped, the trail led to a meadow bordered on its north side by the swollen river. Others had clearly camped here, for there were several fire rings set with flat river-stones. Falconer tied his horse to a neighboring tree limb and loosened the saddle. He knew Joseph was watching him nervously. Falconer hated the man’s fear but knew there was nothing he could do about it except keep his motions slow and deliberate. “Tie up those mules and come over here, please.”

  Falconer dropped his bedroll and satchel to the ground. He did not look up as Joseph approached cautiously. From his satchel he drew out the black-bound volume and held it out. “Do you know what this is?”

  Joseph’s eyes flickered over, then away. Not once had he actually looked at Falconer’s face. “I ’spect it’s the Good Book, suh.”

  “It is. Can you read?”

  “Not even my name.”

  “Are you a believer?”

  This answer was far slower in coming. “I was, suh. Once.”

  Falconer took hold of the Bible in both hands. “I stand before you at the beginning of a quest. I feel God has put it in my heart to make some small retribution for my sins. Not that I can atone for them. Only the Savior can do that.” Falconer paused long enough that Joseph finally raised his eyes, but he still would not look into Falconer’s face. “I was first mate and then captain of a slave vessel. The one voyage I made on that vessel brought me to the Lord’s saving grace. We carried four hundred and nineteen wretched souls. I do not know their names. I doubt I even saw one of their faces.”

  Falconer knew the man probably did not understand one word in five. And those Joseph understood, he probably did not believe. Falconer went on, “My quest is to free a slave for every one of those I carried into bondage. You are the first.”

  Falconer drew out Joseph’s bill of sale and knelt on the ground. From his satchel he pulled out a quill and a bottle of ink. He unstopped the bottle, dipped the quill, and wrote out the words. He offered Joseph the paper without rising. “This is yours. I offer it with my abject apology. Nothing I can do will ever wash away my sins. That was the gift of Jesus. This I do simply as a symbol of my repentance.”

  Joseph made no move to accept the paper. His entire body trembled. “What you want from me?”

  Falconer returned the cork to the inkwell and weighted the paper to the satchel with the bottle. He rose to his feet, keeping his motions slow. Even so, Joseph backed up a good half-dozen paces. His eyes scattered fear and incomprehension all over the sunlit meadow. Falconer showed him open palms, though he knew his actions meant less than nothing.

  “You can leave now. Maryland is a day’s hard push along the turnpike. I will give you money. Or you can stay.”

  Falconer repeated the words a second time. Then a third. Finally the man’s violent trembling began to subside.

  “You jes’ be letting me go?” he asked.

  “If you want.”

  “If I want? Whatever in this whole world is about what I want?”

  Falconer shut his eyes and prayed, not so much a prayer of words as a silent plea for help. He held to this with as strong a grip as he knew how. But all he felt was weary.

  When he opened his eyes once more, Joseph was looking at him for the very first time. “I walk that road north, don’t matter what no paper says ’bout words I can’t read. I’d be picked up and sold ’fore sunset.”

  “Then you can come with me. Only as a free man, though. I have work to the south. When it’s done, I’ll take you north myself.”

  “You’ll take me far as the free states?”

  “And give you money to start you on your way.”

  Joseph kept his head cocked to one side, his neck twisted as unnaturally as his body. He blinked slowly. “I asked you afore. What you want from me?”

  “I need help.” Falconer knew he should be saying it all better. But he had not slept a decent hour for a week now. Fatigue coated his thoughts and his tongue like tar. “You know what they do to people who free slaves?”

  “Every slave knows that,” Joseph replied. “They brand ’em and lash ’em and then they hang ’em. The man who frees ’em and the slaves both. Put a sign ’round the man’s neck saying let this be a warning.” He was watching intently now. “Hang ’em high.”

  “Four hundred and nineteen souls,” Falconer repeated. “I need help finding them, and I need help buying them, and I need a way to get them north. So this is what I want. Give me something I can do to win your trust. You don’t have any reason to believe a word I’m saying. But if you can think of anything that might make you accept what I’m saying as the simple truth, then I’ll do it.”

  Falconer turned and headed for his bedroll. He was so tired he stumbled. His quest was started, and all he could think of was where to lay his head. His last thought was of how he was failing yet again.

  Chapter 10

  Falconer awoke to the comforting smells of campfire, coffee, and hot food. He tossed aside his blanket and rose to his feet, feeling rested after a few hours of sleep. The sun was lowering into its afternoon slant. Midway across the meadow, set where the afternoon light warmed and dried the surrounding earth, Joseph had built a strong fire, then let it burn down to a heap of coals. The fire was banked around a pair of flat river stones. On one sizzled cuts of fatback from Falconer’s recently acquired stores. Nestled in the grease were six lumps of cornmeal frying into crisp griddle cakes. On the other stone simmered a pot that emitted the fragrance of brewing coffee.

  Falconer walked to the st
ream, washed his face, and combed his hair with his fingers before retying his ribbon and returning to the campsite. “I half expected to find you long gone.”

  Joseph’s only response was to use his shirttail to lift the pot and pour Falconer a tin cup full of coffee.

  Falconer walked to where his saddlebags were slung over a tree limb and extracted a cloth sack containing squares of brown sugar. He squatted beside the other man and dropped five cubes into the tin cup. Joseph watched this carefully. Falconer offered him the sack. Joseph hesitated long, then carefully extracted one square. He slipped it into his mouth, sucked, and shut his eyes with pleasure.

  Falconer took his time over the mug. It was a true campfire brew, as strong as tar and cooked long enough for the grounds to settle. Joseph forked the fatback and corn fritters onto two plates. He watched Falconer bow his head over his food, then slowly did the same. The two men ate in silence. Falconer set down his plate and held out his cup for a refill. “I have forgotten just how good food can taste when cooked over an open fire.”

  Joseph still said nothing as he poured the coffee. Falconer dropped in another five sugar lumps, offered Joseph the sack, watched the man take a single lump, and put the sack on the ground between them.

  Then he waited.

  Joseph took his time sucking on the brown sugar. Finally he squinted into the waning sun and said, “Seem mighty strange how a man come walkin’ into Burroughs Crossing. Buys himself a fine horse, two mules, a man.”

  “I told you the truth about this quest.”

  “This man don’t have nothin’ to his name ’cept a purse of gold,” Joseph went on, gazing toward the setting sun. “Don’t even have tin plates for his supper. Gotta buy everything, right down to the sugar he’s wasting in his coffee.”

  “It’s a seaman’s weakness, the use of sugar.” Falconer felt his pulse quicken as he sensed the testing in the man’s voice. “I have been given an impossible task. A second quest, besides the freeing of slaves. This other quest is one I do for another man. One that must remain secret until I am certain you’re with me. It has meant I’ve had to depart by stealth. I traveled far as the bridge with others. I slipped away under the cover of night, leaving everything but this gold behind. For now, even my name must remain a secret.”

  Joseph weighed Falconer’s words. In the lowering sunlight the deep seams in his features seemed carved by a wicked blade. “Hour before dawn a carriage come by, heading fast and hard for Richmond. Fancy a rig as ever I seen.”

  Falconer used his own shirt to lift the coffee pot, though he had little desire for more. What he wanted most was to move. He could feel his muscles quiver with the hunger he had not permitted himself to feel before now. How much he needed a new ally, someone he could trust when he needed to shut his eyes and forget the unattainable mission he had set for himself. “You notice a very great deal.”

  “Slave wants to stay alive, he gots to stay awares.”

  “You’re not a slave anymore.”

  Falconer’s words hung in the warm air. Their meadow was ringed by tall pines and birdsong. Joseph remained immobile long enough for sunset’s border to rise up his shoulders and move across his chin. The stream chuckled a soft note to Falconer’s right. He sipped from his cup to give his hands something to do.

  Finally Joseph spoke. “You asked was there something needed doin’. Something to make me believe what you been saying.”

  “Just tell me what it is.”

  Joseph’s entire body clenched with the emotion. “I had me a woman,” he said, his voice raw.

  “Your wife?”

  “We never stood before no preacher. But she was mine just the same.”

  “And children?”

  “Two boys. Nine and thirteen.” Joseph wiped his face with a shaking hand. “We was owned by a gamblin’ man. Bet against Burroughs in a horse race. The man lost the race and turned me over to him as payment. I worked the man’s fields since before he was born. He just signed the papers and walked away.”

  Falconer tossed out the dregs of his cup. “Where is he?”

  Joseph reached over and gripped Falconer’s wrist, his motion lightning swift. He looked at Falconer, his face holding a feverish gleam. “Don’t you be messing with Joseph. I ain’t got nothing. I ain’t never trusted no man. Don’t you be saying this and crushing me just ’cause you can.”

  Falconer held the man’s gaze. “Where is this man’s farm?”

  Joseph waited a long moment, then said, “Moss Plantation, down Petersburg way.”

  “Can you find it in the dark?”

  Joseph released his grip. “ ’Spect so. I done lived there all my life.”

  Falconer rose to his feet. “Then let’s move out.”

  They held to game trails until they had bypassed Burroughs Crossing. The gathering dark slowed them until they emerged from the forest. They faced a city aglow with firelight and lanterns. Richmond was built upon hills ringing the James River. The higher slopes contained the wealthier homes, and the deepening twilight revealed lights glimmering from a host of manors. Brick lanes shone like gold ribbons.

  Falconer and Joseph chose a route that took them through Richmond’s darker south side. They paused only to ask directions from taciturn wagon masters. Toward midnight they joined the well-traveled Fredericksburg Turnpike. As soon as they left Richmond’s city lights behind, Falconer saw the stars were gone, the sky wrapped in yet more clouds. Thankfully there was no rain. They passed teams of oxen lashed eight to a wagon, and the occasional horse-drawn cart. They kept to the middle course and made good time.

  Toward dawn they slipped off the road, then moved farther into the woods until they came upon a likely meadow. This one they shared with other travelers, most of whom were asleep. The sort of wayfarers who could not afford an inn were not likely to notice a lone man traveling with a servant, or so Falconer hoped. They shared another campfire meal while the horse and mules chomped oats in their feedbags. Falconer watered them at the neighboring stream and returned to find Joseph packed and ready to move out. A single glance at the man’s fevered expression kept Falconer from asking if he needed rest.

  Morning was a feeble affair. They trekked up and down a series of steep-sided hills, every crest revealing an endless sky of bluish-gray hues, peaks and valleys and whorls that might have been beautiful were Falconer not so weary. The land through which they traveled was sharp in unattractive contrast. The constant rains had delayed the onset of spring. Hardwood trees were still bare. The tilled fields were brown and empty. The only humanity Falconer saw was there upon the turnpike. Now and then he glanced over at Joseph. The man sat well upon the mule, upright and strong, too intent upon what lay ahead to pay his body’s exhaustion any mind.

  Suddenly Joseph raised up and squinted into the gray distance.

  “What is it?”

  In response, Joseph kicked the mule’s sides. The two beasts, roped together as they were, began cantering away. The mules had a curious gait—not a gallop like a horse, yet surprisingly fast. Falconer let Joseph take the lead. The turnpike was forty feet wide as it swooped down the hillside. The bottomland was flanked by a broad stream. Where the road narrowed to cross the plank bridge, two wagons approaching from opposite directions had become tangled. The drovers were shouting and the oxen lowing. Joseph did not even slow as he twisted the mule’s reins and led the beast away from the impassable bridge, down the slope, and into the stream.

  At the stream’s central point, the water rose and wet Falconer’s boots in a chilling rush. The mare was surefooted and rock steady, which was fortunate, since Falconer had little experience at riding. After a night in the saddle, his back ached and his thighs burned. He could not imagine how Joseph felt, nor what drove the man forward with such urgency.

  The mules were lathered and snorting hard by the time they crested the next ridgeline. Joseph pulled up sharp, squinting into the distance. “Oh Lawd, no, no,” he cried, “it’s more than a body can stand.”

/>   Falconer had a seafarer’s eye, trained by studying distant horizons. Yet all he could see was a line of people walking upon the next hill. A dozen of them, silhouetted against the murky sky. A horseman appeared to lead while another followed the group.

  When he realized what he saw, a cold wash of dread swept over him. “You recognize them?”

  “My boys.” Joseph’s words were a groan.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Solomon’s walking third in that devil line. Isaac is fifth. Sure as my heart is breaking.”

  “You hold to a steady pace. We can’t blow the mules.” It was Falconer’s turn to dig in his heels. “Hyah!”

  The mare was bigger and stronger than the mules. Even so, by the time Falconer crested the next ridge, the horse’s chest was heaving and its sides were lathered. The hill’s southern slope was far more gentle, leading not into yet another valley but rather sliding gently through well-tended farms. Smoke rose in steady plumes from beyond the next line of hills, marking the turnpike’s approach to Petersburg. Falconer spotted the human train less than a quarter mile ahead and slowed to a walk.

  The horsemen fore and aft kept their charges tight against the roadside, allowing the swifter wagon traffic to pass unheeded. Falconer knew he should be planning what he was about to say, but his mind was locked down tight by the spectacle.

  The rear horseman rode a speckled gelding and held to a pace that was easy on his horse. His charges were bent with fear and fatigue. Falconer’s hands gripped the reins so tight the horse whinnied and skittered nervously. An approaching drover cracked his whip and cried, “Guard yer course, there!”

  The two horsemen turned at that. The rear guard carried a leather quirt strapped to his right wrist and resting upon his pommel, which would make it difficult for him to pull the pistol from his belt. The lead rider had no such problem. He swiveled his steed about and drew a bead with his musket.

  Falconer forced his hands to unlock, though there was nothing he could do about the rage scalding his face and throat. “Hold hard there.”