Only when the child choked and breathed again did the small group offer prayers of thanksgiving and think to send word to the child's grieving father.
The older woman, the one who had returned the child's breath, the one whose husband had brought the child out of the sea's cruel hands, looked up at the circle of concerned faces and said, "Go and seek him if thou must, but the Light has spoken. She belongs with us."
And so it would seem. By the time the message reached land and followed the weeping earl and the lifeless body of his wife to the nearest inn, the unsuspecting sea captain had ordered the ship to sail from the harbor with the tide.
The earl's demands that the ship be halted and his daughter returned went ignored by the authorities who hauled him away for questioning. His curses and vows of vengeance fell flat in the ears of officialdom.
* * *
When Alexandra woke, she was surrounded by a sea of quiet, concerned faces. These were strangers like none she had ever seen before. They wore no velvets or lace, gold nor jewels. She was afraid until the first one spoke.
"Thou must rest now, child. All will be well."
The soft singsong voice spoke like the angels of the Bible. She had died and gone to heaven. Not daring to say anything lest they know their mistake, Alexandra closed her eyes, and wrapping her tiny fingers around her doll's hand, she slept.
When next she woke, she was called Dora and given a new gown like that of the angel's. She didn't cry once. God hadn't forgotten her after all.
Chapter 1
It is easy—terribly easy—to shake a man's faith in himself. To take advantage of that, to break a man's spirit is devil's work.
~ George Bernard Shaw, Candida (1903)
Kentucky
July 1852
The spacious rooms resounded with the joyful airs of piano and violin in a rollicking reel. Hooped skirts in gay colors bounced and swung as young couples laughed and glided hand in hand through the formation. The family had pushed back the pocket doors between dining room and parlor to open up the rooms for reels and cotillions. The newly waxed floor gleamed in the light of chandeliers and oil lamps. The servants had carried the ornate mahogany dining table to the wide center hall, filling it with enormous platters of fruits, cold meats, and cheeses to feed the hungry crowd milling and gossiping while the young people danced. The old house rang with happiness and pleasure.
In the shadows, sixteen-year-old Payson Nicholls regarded the pageantry with cynicism. His gaze followed the actions of his older brother and his cronies as they flirted with the girls and slipped into the study for hasty drinks from flasks and decanters. Charlie's twenty-first birthday ball had just about reached its frivolous height. He crossed his arms over his chest and listened as Charlie leaned against a porch post and sweet-talked his latest conquest.
"Sally Ann, you know you're the prettiest girl here tonight. I've been trying to catch up with you all evening, but you have so many beaux around I didn't think you'd have the time to speak with me."
"I swear, Charles Nicholls, you do know how to turn a girl's head. I've waited all evening for you to look at me, and you know it."
Charlie laughed and whispered something in her ear that Payson couldn't hear. Sally hit his brother's arm playfully with her fan, then allowed Charlie to steer her toward the privacy of the dark night.
Sally's father intercepted their path, and Payson smiled to himself at the swiftness and accuracy of the older man's actions. Charlie instantly halted his progress to shake the other man's hand.
"Glad you could come tonight, sir. My father and I have talked about that new strain of tobacco you planted this year. It seems to be taking off well. Joe Mitchell and I are planning on picking up some acreage down the road here to try some experimental strains next year. We need to sit down and talk with you sometime. I was just taking Sally Ann here back to see the puppies that hound of ours whelped. Prettiest batch we ever did see. Maybe you'd like one for yourself, sir. The sire is that prize hound of Howard's. Could smell a rabbit at a hundred yards."
And a fugitive slave at the same distance, but Charlie omitted that fact, Pace noticed cynically. Sally Ann's father didn't approve of the local pastime of helping bounty hunters track runaways. With the Ohio River only a mile or two down the road, bounty hunting had become a lucrative trade. Charlie didn't do it for the money though. He did it for the sport.
Of course, Charlie hadn't planned on taking Sally Ann to see the puppies in the first place. Charlie just wanted the foolish female outside in the dark to see how far he could get with her. He and his cohorts kept score. Last Pace had heard, Charlie was down by one kiss and two feels.
The thought made him edgy. Most of the girls here tonight were older than Pace. He'd only bothered rigging himself out in this monkey suit so he could spy on Charlie. But the notion of what the older boys were doing outside in the yard made Pace's unruly dick thicken and stir uncomfortably. He had to remember that Charlie intended celebrating his birthday in less domestic ways than he presently exhibited. A stolen kiss and a few drinks from his father's bourbon wouldn't suffice for Charlie this night.
* * *
Payson leaned against the back of the tobacco barn and drew deeply of his hand-rolled cigarette. He'd shed his fancy frock coat and tie and waited in shirt sleeves. The musicians and guests had departed but a katydid hummed a loud chorus in the old catalpa tree behind the paddock, and an owl hooted from the barn loft. The night sounded normal, but Pace kept his ears attuned for changes. His father would no doubt beat him to a pulp if he found him out here, but it wouldn't be the first time and it wouldn't be the last. He was quite fatalistic when it came to the differences between his father and himself.
He wasn't quite so casual about his father's attitudes toward others. His shoulders stiffened as the night breeze caught the sound of a woman's muffled sob in the distance. He'd known his brother and his friends were up to some devilment. He'd expected them to ride out tonight. He had his horse saddled and waiting. But it seemed they struck a little closer to home this time. An awful gaping hole opened in his midsection at the realization of what that meant, and for a brief moment, Pace wished he'd brought his gun.
But he hadn't brought it for a reason: he'd known he would kill someone if he had it in his hands.
Chances were good that he was the one who would get killed, but that had never stopped him before. Everyone had to die sometime, and he pretty well figured he would die sooner than most. He might as well go out protecting those who couldn't protect themselves. It was a singularly stupid thing to do, but it sure enough riled his father and brother when he did it.
With resignation, Pace threw down the cigarette and squashed it out with the heel of his boot. He hadn't yet reached a man's breadth. Maybe he never would. He knew the size of his enemy. It wouldn't hurt to take along a little self-protection. He grabbed the pitchfork in the stack of hay as he started at a run down the dirt path to the slave quarters.
He knew from the sickness in his stomach that he was really a coward, that he didn't want to do this at all. It would be a lot easier if he just walked down to the river and turned his back on what happened here in this straggly line of mud chink and timber cabins. But the tough filament of orneriness that his father had tried beating out of him more than once just wouldn't let go. The only friends he had in this world lived back here. The world might consider them animals, but animals could be kinder than humans.
By the time he made his way into the center of the slave quarters, he didn't hear sobs but heartbreaking wails of pain. Pace clenched his jaw. He was already too late. Damn, but he should have known. He'd failed again. He deserved the beating he would get this time.
He slammed open the plank door of Tessie's cabin, avoiding looking too closely at the cornhusk bed in the corner. He concentrated all his savage attention on the heaving buttocks between himself and the young girl on the bed. A pitchfork might not be his chosen weapon, but it would suffice.
He l
unged before the others in the room even knew he'd entered.
The man covering the young girl screamed as the tines pierced tender flesh. He rolled off, howling, still holding his wounds even as the others in the room grabbed Pace and slammed him backward against the wall. The girl in the bed scuttled into a corner, pulling a worn blanket over her nakedness as the room erupted in flying fists, kicking boots, and curses.
Pace wielded his weapon well for as long as he could hold it, but four men against one boy didn't make for fair odds. The pitchfork was heaved into the night, and he had only his hard-toed boots to maim and mangle soft parts until meaty hands hauled him from the wall and held him still while others aimed powerful blows at his face and belly.
The girl's screams pierced the air even more frantically than before. Pace slammed his elbows backward, hitting Homer in his soft storekeeper's belly. He writhed sideways, allowing his brother's blows to strike Homer more than himself, and in that instant, he brought his boot up again in a kick he had almost perfected. Charlie screamed in agony and bent double.
By the time Carlson Nicholls arrived, Pace was little more than a bruised and mangled mannequin in Homer's powerful arms. The older man roared for a halt, but the fight had nearly reached its natural end. Carlson gave his eldest son a look of disgust, then turned his scorn to the boy slumped on the floor, barely breathing.
"By hell and damnation, boy, when you goin' to learn? If that don't beat all, a boy of mine defendin' the virtue of a nigger 'stead of stickin' it in where it belongs. You ain't never had a gallup of sense and you never will. Mama's boy, that's what you are. Ain't never goin' to 'mount to nothin' a'tall. Get your be-hind outa here and back to your mammy's skirts where you belong. Lord a'mighty, I don't know where you came from, but you ain't none of mine. Get your ass outa here, y'hear?"
Cursing and kicking, he forced Pace to crawl out of the cabin, out of the way of his elders and betters. Then Carlson turned and gave one last warning over his shoulder to the hulking young men panting and rubbing bruised fists, "Y'all keep it down out here, y'hear? You don't want your mamas hearing what you been up to."
He walked out, leaving the young black girl to the tender mercies of four furious young men.
Pace caught a rickety porch post and hauled himself upright. Glaring at the big-bellied man who didn't claim to be his father, he spat out, "You better run them out of there before I come back with a gun."
"You ain't goin' nowhere, you stupid young pup, or I'll make you stand in line and put it to her just like the rest of 'em. It's time that girl's been of some use around here. A little white blood will improve the breedin' stock. It's about time you got your dick off and learned what's it like to be a real man. Now get the hell out of my sight before I take it into my head to whup the tar out of you."
Since he was about to disgrace himself by emptying the contents of his stomach, Pace hauled himself off the porch and out of sight. Shame crawled under his skin, shame and disgust and a festering hatred that he couldn't control. He wouldn't ever amount to anything. He couldn't even help those who counted on him for his help. He could never look Tessie in the eyes again. Damn, but she was only thirteen years old. She wasn't even a woman yet. She was just a little bitty girl. Bile roiled in his stomach and he spilled his guts into the potato patch out behind the kitchen garden.
He'd learned not to cry many long years ago, and he didn't cry now. He just let the hate build up inside him, nourishing his rage, feeding his determination. He would bring them down someday. He already had the basic tools in his hands. He might not be tall and strong like his brother. He might not have riches and power like Homer and his ilk, but he knew how to hurt them where it hurt the most—in their pockets.
By the time Joshua found him and carried him back to his room, Pace's agile brain had already sketched the outline of a plan. When the big black fieldhand laid him down on his bed, Pace whispered, "Tell Tessie to be ready tomorrow night. I'm getting her out of here."
Joshua's battered face screwed up in a frown of worry. "You ain't goin' nowheres for a while, Marster Pace. Them ribs need bindin'. You lucky you ain't coughin' blood."
"Tessie will be worse off than I am, and Charlie won't leave her alone now. You want her to go through that again tomorrow night?"
Joshua looked sick and turned his hulking back away. "She ain't gonna be in fittin' condition to run. She'll need her mammy. We cain't jist take her 'way like that."
Pace leaned wearily against the pillows. "It's your choice, Josh. If you think you and Mammy can slip away too, then I'll take the lot of you, but it won't be easy. My mother expects Mammy there with her all the time. How will you get her out of the house?"
Josh's broad shoulders straightened. "I'll get her out. You get Mammy and my little girl outa here, and I'll stay behind and keep them dogs away. See iffen I don't."
Pace nodded even though Josh couldn't see him. "All right. Tomorrow at midnight, down by the old cotton-wood. If those dogs follow, we're all in big trouble and won't anyone get away for a long spell." When Joshua started for the door, Pace said with a catch in his throat, "I'm sorry. Josh."
The big man didn't turn around but bent his head and answered in a voice raw with unshed tears, "Ain't nothin' you coulda done, boy. Ain't nothin' none of us coulda done."
Pace clenched his fists and stared unseeingly at the ceiling long into the night. There had to be something someone could do, and it looked like it fell on him to do it.
He'd much rather cry and pretend it wasn't so.
* * *
Pace slipped out of the house early next morning before his mother could see the blackened circle around his eye and the swollen angry red of his jaw. He didn't have much interest in looking in the mirror himself. He didn't think he should expose his mother to it.
His ribs ached with such pain that he gasped for breath by the time he rode into town, but he'd made a promise, and he meant to keep it. He might not be good for much of anything, but he could at least keep a promise.
He rode the back alleys, avoiding Homer's store on the main street, skirting the mayor's house where another of Charlie's good old boys resided. Joe Mitchell was twenty-four and still lived in his father's house. He didn't have much incentive to do elsewise. The elegant mansion with its fancy ironwork brought all the way from New Orleans was the finest house in town. It came provided with servants to do the housework and cook the meals. Joe's dead mother couldn't complain about the hours her son kept, and his father kept too busy with his own late hours to notice what his boy did. Pace had heard Charlie and his friends snickering over the women they'd sneaked into the mayor's mansion while the mayor was out politicking with the Frankfort bigwigs. Joe had everything a man could want and didn't lift a hand to earn any of it.
Pace didn't hold any bitterness on account of Joe's having everything while he would have nothing. It was a fact of life known since birth that Charlie would inherit the farm and everything on it, and Pace would have to make his own way in this world. He didn't find that thought in the least dismaying. First chance he got, he was going off to college to learn to be a lawyer, and then he would be the one in Frankfort doing the politicking. It was about time someone around here heard a little sense, and it sure enough wouldn't come from their current backwoods mayor.
His reason for coming to town had nothing to do with Joe or Charlie or Homer. Not this time, leastways. Pace led his horse into the livery so no one could see it tied up where it shouldn't be, then slipped off on foot down still another alley.
The old man living in the last cabin at the very edge of town was so old and bent and grizzled that even the slave sellers didn't want him. He'd been given his freedom at his master's death, but that had been too late for Uncle Jas to enjoy it. He scraped a living by bartering with those too poor for the town's main shop and fed his soul with pursuits only a very few knew about.
Pace was one of those few. As he stepped onto the old man's porch, Uncle Jas flung open the door and hurried hi
m in before anyone could see him.
"Young fool," the old man muttered, going back to the crate holding his platter of ham and eggs. "Ain't no call for you to be here when they's all up and about." He gave Pace's battered face a shrewd look from beneath bristly white eyebrows. "Reckon you couldn't make it last night."
Pace ignored his host's mutterings. "I've got two to go tonight. Josh is taking care of our hounds. What about Howard's?"
Jas shook his grizzled head and clucked disapprovingly. "You take too many from 'round here, and they's gonna come lookin' for you. That ain't the whole point at all, boy."
Pace clenched his fists in frustration. "I know it, but I can't let them stay. Charlie and the boys raped Tessie last night. I can't let her stay and take more of that."
Clouded eyes looked sad as they stared out at nothing. "That's the way it is, boy. Tessie would get used to it, just like her mother did."
Pace nearly exploded with rage. "You mean you want her to stay here? Whose side are you on? They'll kill her!"
The old man clucked again while Pace strode furiously up and down the narrow wooden floor. "She won't be the first, and she won't be the last. You learn that with age, boy. You cain't change the system one person at a time. You gets yo'self that fancy college learnin' and go up and meets the president, and you tell him what it's like out here. Make him change the laws. Then you'll be helpin' some. Right now, all we can do is help the little trickle that comes to us for help. And you hurtin' that trickle by bein' selfish and helpin' those you know best first."
Pace understood all that. He knew if slaves kept disappearing from his father's house that all eyes would turn to him and pretty soon they'd suspect anyone he had any dealings with. He'd tried being patient. He'd turned his head from more atrocities than he cared to admit. He couldn't turn away from Tessie.
"If you won't help me, I'll do it myself." He turned around to walk out, but the old man called him back.
Patricia Rice Page 2