At first Nate had no idea what had awakened him.
He lay still, his body tingling with that pleasant lethargy that was often an aftermath of restful slumber, and listened. How long had he been dozing? From the bright sunlight streaming in the window he gathered it hadn’t been very long.
Then it happened. A light tap-tap-tap on the window that was repeated several times, a furtive tapping as if the person responsible was afraid of being detected.
Who could it be? Nate wondered, and sat up. Both flintlocks were still tucked under his belt, and he cautiously wrapped a hand around the smooth butt of the right one as he slid off of the bed and stepped lightly to the window. He saw the hedges, the bushes, the flowers, and the greenest of grass, but not a soul anywhere. Suddenly a hand rose from below the window at the south corner and tapped again.
A slender black hand with long fingernails.
Perplexed, he edged closer and peered down. Lying to one side was a young black woman in clothes that qualified as rags. She was gazing fearfully out over the garden, her top teeth clamped on her lower lip, and as yet had no idea he was standing there.
He checked the grounds, saw no one, and quickly opened the window. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
Instead of replying, she pushed herself off the ground and stepped into the room, brushing past him as she glided to the right, where she pressed her back to the wall. Her breaths issued in fluttering gasps. She was in a state of abject fear, and the gaze she turned on him was like that of a terrified fawn about to be devoured by a ravenous panther. “Please, sir,” she pleaded in English that contained a peculiar clipped accent. “Shut window. They see Tatu, they kill her.”
Nate hesitated, then glimpsed the gardener moving about at the west end of the garden. He complied with her request and drew the curtains as an added safety measure. She seemed to relax a bit and slumped, her legs quivering from nervous agitation. “Your name is Tatu?” he said.
“Yes, sir. I hear you talk to Master Yancy. You sound like good man. Tatu hope so. You her last hope.” Her face became pitiably downcast. “You her only hope.”
“I don’t quite understand. Can you explain?”
“Tatu hear you talk about Sadiki. You sound like you not like.”
Comprehension dawned and Nate nodded. “Oh, yes. The horse thief who was beaten yesterday.”
Hatred replaced the sadness on Tatu’s face. “Sadiki not horse thief! Him not steal ever. The bad men beat him because Sadiki sneak away from cabin. Him not like being slave.”
The very word filled Nate with intense revulsion. Years ago, on his trip west to St. Louis to join his Uncle Zeke, he had encountered several runaway slaves from Mississippi who had been recaptured and were on their way back in shackles. The enlightening experience had embittered him against the institution, and he wasn’t alone in his dislike of designating a certain race of human beings as inferior to all others and thus deserving of involuntary servitude. There was a rising tide of sentiment against slavery sweeping the nation, and a number of states, including New York, Rhode Island, Illinois, and Pennsylvania, had banned the practice. In the Southern states, however, slavery flourished. “There are slaves here?”
“Yes, sir. Many, many men and women brought from Africa on big boat. Sadiki and Tatu come one month ago. We told Master Debussy sell us to good man who take care of us, but we not want to stay in this country.”
So now Nate could account for Jacques Debussy’s fabulous wealth. The slave trade was tremendously lucrative for those daring enough to break the law. Back in 1807 the United States had decreed that further importation of slaves was illegal, but all that had accomplished was to force the slave importers to go underground, to operate a clandestine network all along the Gulf and southern Atlantic coasts. Authorities in the South, most of whom were openly partisan, made no serious effort to stem the trade, nor were they overly helpful to those conscientious Federal officials who were trying to identify and arrest the importers.
“Sadiki very hurt. Sadiki maybe die,” Tatu said. “Need doctor. Tatu sneak from field to find someone and hear you.” She took a tentative step toward him. “You help us, sir?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Nate promised. “How many slaves are there on the estate?”
“Tatu not count. A hundred. More, maybe.”
“And how many came over on the boat with you?”
“About half, sir. Rest come on other boat two weeks before we do.”
Nate pursed his lips. Jacques Debussy would not want to keep such a large number of illegal slaves on the estate longer than necessary, so it was possible Debussy was off somewhere arranging their sale at that very moment. Once he returned the whole lot would be taken away to their new home. Or perhaps they would be divided up and sent to different locations. “How many of you want to escape?” he inquired.
“Sadiki and Tatu, sir.”
“That’s all?”
“Rest very scared. They know we never see Africa again. No way back.”
That was true. But there were a number of antislavery groups who helped runaway slaves build new lives, and most prominent of these were the Quakers. If he could get Tatu and Sadiki to the nearest Quaker congregation they would get all the help they’d need. “How many speak English?”
“Just Tatu, sir. Tatu learn from missionaries in Africa. Learn fine, yes?” she asked, mustering a smile.
“You do right fine,” Nate complimented her, and stared thoughtfully at the floor, in a quandary. He would like to free the entire bunch but it would be impossible. There was nowhere he could lead them where they would be safe. Debussy was bound to have influential friends who would rally to his aid and dispatch a large force to suppress any rebellion, as had been done five years ago in Virginia where a slave named Nat Turner led about forty slaves in revolt and killed some fifty whites. Three thousand armed men hunted the rebel band down, killing almost every last one and hanging Nat Turner.
“You help us, sir?” Tatu anxiously prompted.
“If I do, where would you go? What would you do?” Nate rejoined.
“We go anywhere. We not be slaves.”
Nate rubbed his chin. Slaves ran away all the time. Not in large groups, as in the Turner revolt, but singly or a few here and there. It was nothing to alarm the average citizen or cause the owners of the slaves to become unduly concerned. Most were brought back by professional slave hunters who tracked the runaways down for a hefty fee. Occasionally runaways managed to elude them and begin new lives in states where slavery had been abolished. If he could sneak Sadiki and Tatu off the estate they might be able to find their way north to freedom. “How many guards does Debussy have?”
“Eighteen. And many dogs.”
“Can Sadiki walk?”
“If Sadiki have to.”
“You say he snuck away from your cabin?”
“Yes. Him try to find safe way out. Dogs see him, though.”
“How did you get away?”
“Guards not watch women as close as they do men. When us women sent into field to work I wait until guards are talking and laughing and crawl into weeds.”
“How soon before they notice you’re gone?”
Tatu shrugged. “Maybe not until near dark when they take women back to cabins for the night.”
“That gives us some time to plan,” Nate said. Suddenly shouting broke out in the garden. He stepped to the window and parted the curtain a bit. There were three pairs of guards, each with a dog on a leash, scouring the hedges and flower beds. “They know you’re missing already,” he announced.
Tatu gasped. “What Tatu do?”
As Nate turned he heard more shouting, but inside the mansion. Would they conduct a search of all the rooms? Turning, he hurried to the closet and opened the door. “Hide in here until it’s all clear.” He grabbed his rifle and stood back as she obeyed.
“Please protect me,” she pleaded, clutching his sleeve. “If they find Tatu they whip her like they whipped Sadiki.”
“I won’t let them take you,” Nate pledged, moved by the eloquent appeal in her frightened eyes.
“You good man,” Tatu said.
“It just goes against my grain to see anyone enslaved,” Nate responded, and added meaningfully, “I know the value of freedom.” He motioned for her to stand in a corner, and closed the door. The shouting was much nearer and he estimated the searchers were in the hall beyond his door. Dashing to the bed he sat down and aligned the Hawken in his lap.
Not five seconds later a heavy fist pounded on the door and a gruff voice called out, “Mister King? This is Yancy, the foreman.”
“Come in,” Nate said.
The door opened to admit Yancy, a guard armed with a rifle, and one other man, a man Nate hadn’t seen before, a thin man with exceptionally pale skin who was wearing black clothes and whose hard features hinted at latent menace and blatant arrogance.
“What is all the yelling about?” Nate asked with just the right air of casual curiosity.
“An accomplice of that horse thief we captured yesterday is on the property,” Yancy said.
“You certainly have a lot of problems with intruders,” Nate commented. “Don’t you have guards posted around the estate?”
“Naturally,” Yancy said, his tone flat.
The man in black took a stride forward. “We’re going to search your room.”
Nate rose, casually holding the Hawken in his left hand, his right free to draw a pistol if necessary. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
“The name is Rhey Debussy.”
“Are you related to Jacques?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Jacques and I are brothers,” Rhey said. He turned toward the closet and nodded at the guard. “Check in there.”
Exercising deceptive nonchalance, Nate rested his right hand on the flintlock and moved a pace to the left where he could better see the actions of all three men. “I’m afraid I can’t permit my room to be searched,” he said pleasantly.
The trio glanced at him in surprise, the guard freezing in midstride.
“Why the hell not?” Rhey Debussy asked.
“Several reasons,” Nate said. “First of all, I don’t like your attitude.”
Debussy’s pale features flushed crimson. His right hand moved the flap of his jacket aside to reveal a pistol. “You dare insult me, monsieur?”
“You’re the one who has insulted me,” Nate replied sternly, and gestured with the rifle at the foreman and the guard. “All of you. You come in here and flat out tell me you’re going to search my room without bothering to ask my permission. You treat me like a criminal and imply I have some connection to the horse thief and his accomplice.” He straightened, his voice hardening. “And here all this time I thought I was your brother’s guest.”
“But you are, sir,” Yancy said.
“Then why am I not being accorded the respect due a guest?”
Before either of them could answer, into the bedroom bustled Adeline Van Buren. She looked at Debussy, her anger transparent. “What is the meaning of this?”
Yancy bowed. “Your pardon, my lady, but we are hunting for an escaped …” he said, and caught himself. “Horse thief,” he concluded after a pronounced pause.
“In here?” Adeline snapped.
“The gardener thought he saw her come into the house,” Rhey Debussy said.
“So you took it on yourselves to disturb Nate?” Adeline said, her eyes blazing.
The man in black refused to be intimidated. “The gardener thought he saw her come in here,” he elaborated.
Nate deliberately laughed sarcastically. “Your intruder is a woman? Perhaps you should request federal troops to help you track her down!” At the mention of federal troops everyone else visibly tensed. Nate knew he had struck a raw nerve, knew Tatu had told him the truth.
“I find your humor deplorable,” Rhey said.
“I find you deplorable,” Nate countered.
The pale man flushed even redder and, began to advance, his right hand closing on his gun.
“Rhey!” Adeline declared shrilly. “That will be enough! Leave this instant and take these men with you.”
Debussy hesitated, his desire to kill as plain as the hooked nose on his face. His mouth quivered with rage as he abruptly wheeled and stalked into the corridor. The guard followed. Yancy bowed again to Adeline, then exited.
“My apologies,” she said to Nate. “Rhey always has had an uncontrollable temper. Jacques, who is eight years older, is the exact opposite. I’ve never seen him ruffled.” She stepped to the doorway. “I must go talk to Rhey. Please excuse me.”
He simply nodded as she closed the door, then sighed in profound relief. If they had discovered Tatu there would have been hell to pay! He sat down on the bed and tried to sort out the underlying current between the man in black and his former sweetheart. Rhey Debussy had impressed him as the sort of man who would back down for no one, and yet Rhey had backed down to Adeline. Why? And what would account for Rhey’s obvious hatred of him? From the moment Rhey stepped into the room Nate had sensed the man’s dislike, like an invisible wave of unbridled emotion washing over him. There must be an explanation but it baffled him.
He shook his head and headed for the closet. For now he must concentrate on helping Tatu and Sadiki. Once that was done he would get to the bottom of the mystery involving Adeline and the Debussy clan. And deep down he sensed he wouldn’t like what he would find.
Not one damn bit.