Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive

by T. Davis Bunn

  Falconer wondered if he had made a mistake in trusting this man’s demeanor. “You know a very great deal for a man who wears the cloth.”

  “I ask questions, I listen well, and I speak of nothing that might bring harm to another. So what brought you north?”

  “To speak of this might, as you say, bring harm.”

  The pastor smiled, as though he expected nothing else, and changed the subject. “Your ship was caught in the tempest?”

  “The tail end, nothing more. Even so, we rocked like a bell ringing out a midnight fire.”

  “Why Georgetown?”

  “I heard of the merchant ship yonder.” Falconer pointed out the window to where two of the ship’s three masts protruded above the rooftops. Resting at anchor was as fine a ship as any he had seen, a clipper sheathed below the waterline in copper. Falconer was stubbornly set against such new ideas, as were most seamen. Their lives rested upon staying with the tried and true. But a bosun’s mate who sailed with her claimed they had made the crossing from England in twenty-one days, slipping under the beam of the approaching storm. “I gather she is aimed for England,” Falconer went on. “But none can tell me when they will be off.”

  “Indeed.” The pastor laced his fingers across his vest. “Might I ask what mission takes you across the waters, and in this most perilous of seasons?”

  “The season is not of my choosing. As for the purpose . . .” He shook his head. “I cannot speak of it.”

  “You do not trust me.”

  “Forgive me for saying it, sir. But I have no reason to do so.”

  “What if I were to give you my word as a fellow believer that I shall hold your plight in confidence?”

  Falconer longed to speak with someone. The burden felt so much greater because he was forced to carry it alone. And concern for his friend the curate added mightily to the weight.

  For over thirty years, a determined band of British Christians had fought the might of the slavers and their allies in both Parliament and the royal court. Their aim was the total eradication of slavery throughout the British empire. The planters had successfully resisted them with two essential claims. First, that without the slaves they currently owned, the entire British supply of sugar and coffee and cocoa would fail. Second, the planters did not add to the existing slaves. They simply used those they had. In time, or so their claim went, slavery would cease to be an issue.

  Falconer knew this to be a vast and despicable lie.

  He himself had piloted a slaver long after the trade had supposedly been outlawed. Slave vessels continued to ply their tragic trade under a variety of flags. Throughout the Caribbean, the illicit commerce flourished. Planters bought the slaves they needed at clandestine auctions in out-of-the-way villages. They forged documents claiming that the slave had been owned since birth. Falconer knew this because he was carrying the proof.

  What was more, the British governor knew of this. Which suggested the Crown itself profited from the supposedly illegal trade. And if not the Crown, someone within the royal court. This was the conspiracy their friend Jaime had sought to confirm when he was caught and killed. All Falconer could say for certain was that the secret connection between the island slave trade and London was at such a high level that the Crown’s representative would do anything to suppress it.

  Even chase a suspect over a thousand miles north.

  “I have met men who would falsely give their word and swear any oath, so long as it brought them their desired end,” Falconer finally replied. He hesitated, then added, “Some even wore the cloth.”

  “Then let me confide this.” The pastor checked about him. The mission hall was emptied now of other boarders. Two ladies used a stave to lift the smoldering porridge pot off the fire. Otherwise they were alone. The pastor leaned forward and said quietly, “Word is being passed around the riverfront. A reward is offered for news of a man tall in stature and stern in demeanor. Handsome in a rakish manner, one going by the name of Falconer. A man wanted throughout the Caribbean.”

  “Wanted?” Falconer studied the face before him and realized he had underestimated the soft-looking pastor. “Wanted for what?”

  “For murder.”

  “That is a lie.”

  “You do not deny being this man?”

  “I admit to nothing save my utter innocence.” The pastor studied him with an intensity to match his own. “A man was slain the day I departed from Trinidad. A friend and a brother. But I had no hand in his killing, save that we shared the same cause.”

  “And what cause was that?”

  “Again, sir. It is a secret that is not mine to share.”

  “If you refuse to trust, you shall never know the comfort of sharing your burdens.”

  “There was a third within our band.” Falconer paused to wipe the sudden sweat from his brow. “Our curate and the man who led me to salvation. His last words to me were to take great care in whom I entrusted myself. There are turncoats and spies everywhere. Again, sir, those were the words of a believer, a friend, and my leader.”

  The pastor regarded him in silence for a long moment. Falconer felt a juncture had been reached, one where he could not see a way forward.

  Finally, the pastor sighed. “I confess this is beyond me. I feel God’s hand upon our meeting. Despite my natural reluctance, I find myself wishing to believe you.”

  “I can only repeat what I have said before, sir. I mean no one harm. And I had nothing to do with my friend’s death, save a sharing of a cause and a passion for our Lord.”

  “Enough.” The pastor thumped his fists upon the table and rose to his feet. “That must be enough for me and for anyone. It is no longer safe for you here. Bounty hunters are offering silver for word of a tall man bearing a scar on his face. Among our guests are those who would sell whatever information they can.”

  Falconer touched the disfigurement, the scar that ran from his jaw to his cheekbone’s peak, where a pike had sought to take out his eye. When Falconer smiled, the scar contorted his mouth. He was not smiling now. “Where can I go?”

  “I must call upon a friend. I ask that you accompany me.”

  “Might I ask who this friend is?”

  The pastor walked to the front door and opened it, then waved Falconer forward. “A man who has learned to be as close with his secrets as you.”

  Chapter 6

  To Falconer’s surprise, the carriage halted at a bustling Georgetown crossroads. The air was filled with the clattering racket of a city in full cry. Hawkers called their hoarse boasts. Produce wagons trundled past, the drivers shouting for the horses to make greater speed. The raised sidewalks were packed, and the thoroughfares were a solid line of traffic. “What manner of place is this?”

  “An emporium.” The pastor opened the carriage door. “Come.”

  “You mean a trading establishment?”

  “Just so.” The pastor looked carefully about. “We must hurry.”

  But Falconer remained where he was. “I thought we would be visiting a cloister, someplace where I might be hidden away until—”

  “This man we are to see is as trustworthy as any on earth.”

  “But—”

  “The longer we remain here, the greater the risk of someone identifying you. Come!”

  Reluctantly Falconer followed him out of the carriage, tipping his hat low over his face. The vast emporium was as large a structure as Falconer had seen. They entered by way of a coffee shop. The smell of roasting beans and brewing chocolate took him back to Grenada. But the pastor did not linger. Instead, he walked to the rear and spoke softly to an older woman by the register. She nodded and pointed at a door shielded by embroidered leather curtains. The pastor motioned Falconer to follow him.

  They mounted two flights of stairs, pushed through another door, and navigated a hall filled with clerks and bustling office personnel. The pastor was obviously well known, for he was greeted by many and challenged by none. The succeeding offices grew finer an
d quieter. Falconer slowed to examine oil paintings adorning walls of the next long room. The most recent resembled the ship at anchor in the Georgetown harbor.

  “This way!” the pastor called.

  Beyond the offices lay a very fine apartment that smelled of linseed oil and age. “These are the owner’s quarters?” Falconer inquired.

  “They served as such a long time ago. Nowadays the Langstons reside in a house by the river. These chambers are used by visiting family and friends.” The pastor knocked on a walnut door. When a maid opened it, he said, “Good day to you, miss. Mr. Powers is expecting me.”

  “The doctor is with him.”

  “I hope he has not taken ill again.”

  “Only with impatience.” The maid held the door open. “Perhaps you can convince him to rest as the doctor wants.”

  “I would have more luck parting the Potomac.” He turned to Falconer. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

  The paneled room was filled with furnishings from an earlier age. The carpet and the oak-planked flooring looked very old indeed. The drapes were shut, the light muted. The room had managed to trap a bit of the previous night’s coolness. Falconer seated himself in a high-backed chair. His neck and shoulders ached from bearing the weight of fatigue and worry and futile travel. Between the nightmares and the necessity of constantly watching the shadows, he was not resting well.

  He was in a half doze when a sound brought him jolting to his feet. It took a moment to realize what he had heard. The mewing was so high-pitched as to resemble the squeak of a stubborn hinge. Falconer searched the dim corners for a kitten.

  To his astonishment, he found not merely a cat. The kitten was held in the arms of a little girl. Falconer was so shocked by his failure to sense yet another person’s presence, he stood speechless in the center of the room.

  “I surprised you,” the child said.

  “Indeed you did.”

  “If you tell my father he will scold me. Papa says people don’t like to be startled.” She coughed slightly. “But I enjoy doing it. I feel almost invisible. Are you here to see my father?”

  “That depends upon who your father is.” Falconer realized the girl sounded far older than she appeared. “What is your name?”

  “Hannah. Hannah Powers.” Her coughs had a dry, brittle quality. They caused her entire form to tremble. “And you?”

  Falconer crossed the room and knelt beside her. Though she watched him with wide-eyed awareness, she gave no sense of fearing his approach. The kitten, however, mewed softly. “If your cat had not cried, I would not have noticed you at all.”

  She lifted the little creature to her cheek. “My uncle found him. We named him Ferdinand.”

  “That’s a very long name for a very little cat.”

  “It is my favorite name in the whole wide world. Ferdinand will grow up big and strong, you wait and see. Not like me at all.”

  “I am certain you will grow with time.”

  “But I won’t, you see. Not like my mother and father. I have heard them worry about me. They say I don’t eat enough. They say I am too quiet.” She coughed again. “And I’ve been sick. Papa too. That’s why we’re still here.”

  “Where is your home?”

  “England. I was born in the house next door to this one. But we have lived in London for almost seven years. I came back with Papa. He and Mama wanted me to see our family here again. But we both caught the croup.”

  Falconer reached over and stroked the kitten. It was a very little thing, trembling in the way of a creature not yet weaned. “That must have been quite awful.”

  “It was. I heard the doctor say he feared he would lose us both.”

  “You hear a very great deal.”

  “People don’t notice me. I suppose it’s because I’m so small and quiet.” She spoke in an adult’s matter-of-fact manner. “But I listen well and I understand better.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.”

  “For instance, I noticed you did not give me your name.” Falconer withdrew his hand from the kitten’s head. “How old are you?”

  “I shall be eleven in October.”

  She looked to be about six, but Falconer had no experience whatever with young girls. “Were I to close my eyes, I would think I was addressing a lady twice your age.”

  “My father says I make up for my smallness with an intelligence that competes with William Wilberforce. But I know that’s nonsense. No one is as wise as Mr. Wilberforce.”

  The name brought Falconer to full alert. It was the one his friend the curate had told him would remain true to their cause. Hopefully. “Your father and Wilberforce are friends?”

  “Oh yes. And Mama too. That’s why she isn’t here with us. One of them had to stay and work on the pamphlets. Mr. Wilberforce claims the pamphlets help ever so much with the cause.” She cocked her head. “Why will you not tell me who you are?”

  He mentally tested several responses. The silence drew out. The child seemed utterly comfortable with the wait. The words that he finally spoke seemed to choose themselves. “Because I’m afraid.”

  Hannah Powers found nothing extraordinary about his answer. “Would you like to hold my kitty? It makes me feel so much better when I’m frightened.”

  “I don’t know why I said that.” Falconer eased down until he was seated on the floor beside the child. “I’ve never spoken such a thing in all my days.”

  “I was very afraid when I was sick. Especially after the doctor said what he did. I’m not looking forward to dying, you see. Not yet.” She handed him the kitten, who mewed once, a piercing note, then licked Falconer’s thumb.

  He felt the little beast tremble in his hand. He lifted the cat up to examine it more closely in the room’s dim light. The kitten had a soft gold fur, with faint tiger stripes a half shade darker. Yet its eyes were an astonishing blue, the color of a perfectly clear dawn sky. “What a beautiful little creature.”

  “Ferdinand is my best friend,” she said simply. “I don’t have many friends, you see.”

  “No,” Falconer said quietly. “Nor I.”

  “Mostly I don’t mind being alone. But I missed people when I was sick. I think that is why Uncle Reginald brought me the kitty.”

  Falconer felt a most remarkable sense of closeness to this young girl. “My name is John,” he finally said. “And I think your cat is hungry.”

  “I think so too. But I can’t go down to the kitchen. Cook will scold me for being out of bed. But I grow ever so tired of lying down. They thought I was asleep, you see. That’s why I can come in here. But only if I’m quiet.”

  “Then I shall go to the kitchen for you.” He handed back the kitten and rose to his feet. “What are you feeding the little beast?”

  “Milk with a bit of sweetie biscuit crumbled inside.” She examined him. “Are you sure you won’t tell me your last name? Papa says I’m only to address an adult by the last name.”

  He crossed the room, deliberating at this sudden urge to trust a stranger, and a child at that. But in spite of all who relied on him, he could not. “Are you good at keeping secrets?”

  “Better than almost anyone.”

  He couldn’t help himself. He believed her. “Then let us make this one exception to your father’s rule.”

  “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Master John.” She smiled, and the entire room seemed to glow. “Ferdinand will be ever so pleased to dine with you.”

  The door opened to a narrow landing and a set of winding stairs. Falconer debated whether to return and ask where the kitchen was located. Then from above came the sound of voices.

  A man protested hoarsely, “I cannot abide this imprisonment!”

  Falconer heard the pastor who had brought him reply, “You must think of your child, Gareth.”

  “I think of little else. Her and her poor mother. Erica must be frantic with worry by now. Our return to England is three months overdue!”

  “You are alive. You have
written. She of all people—”

  “I have no assurance that my letters have arrived. We’ve had no word from her in months.”

  Another said, “You have heard how the storm wreaked havoc with our shipping.” The voice carried the authoritative stamp of a church elder or doctor. “I really must insist upon your remaining where you are until your strength has improved.”

  “And I tell you that nothing would strengthen me better or faster than a few days at sea.”

  Falconer decided he had heard enough and headed away from the argument. The staircase wound down to a rear hallway that ran like a glass-sided porch behind the emporium. Falconer saw a work yard and warehouse to his left, while to his right rose an imposing brick house. He entered the family residence via the connecting door and followed the scent of baking bread into the rear kitchen.

  A sturdy woman wearing an apron and with flour upon her face and arms was pulling loaves from an oven set low upon the flagstone floor. She softly sang a hymn Falconer recognized from his own church.

  The woman gripped the wooden spatula with both hands and hefted the loaf. But as she turned to set her load upon the central table, she spied Falconer poised by the door. She gasped with genuine fear and dropped her ladle with a clatter.

  Falconer remained caught by the echo of her singing. “The Lord’s blessings upon you and your hearth, ma’am.”

  “Land sakes,” she fluttered. “But didn’t you give me half a start.”

  “My abject apologies.”

  She bent over and used the edges of her apron to lift the steaming bread. She continued to shoot him quick little glances as she brushed off the loaf. “Big hulking brute such as yourself, hardly the sort I’d be expecting to offer me proper greetings.”

  He touched the scar on his face. “I came by this in darker days.”

  “Well, you’ve got a fair way of talking, I’ll grant you that.” She eyed him as he crossed the kitchen, lifted the utensil from the floor, and swept the remaining three loaves from the oven. “Some would say that’s not proper work for a man who looks like a bandit.”