Passion's Joy (16 page)

Sammy and the Reverend—unbeknownst to Joy at the time—had once got Delilah drunk, and that memorable night Delilah had told her story. This was how they knew that plump ole’ Delilah nursed enough white folk hate to fuel a massacre.

Sammy finally spotted her, watching as she made her way to his side. Looking out over the crowd, she shook her head, clacked her tongue and muttered, "Look at all these snivelin' bootlickin' scum!"

"Amen," Sammy said.

"I got a live one." She got to the point of business, "Name is Jim Boy..."

The Palace Rowe dominated the entire west section of town. Strategically centered on the corner of an intersection that neatly divided the decent houses and businesses from the not so decent houses and businesses, the grand building towered three stories high, built of common brick but, like all fine houses, plastered with white-washed stucco. The windows all had the same shocking, red-velvet drapes, fringed with gold tassels, matched perfectly by the uniformed grooms and doormen who lined the wide veranda. Except for the curtains, it might have been the Palace D'Arms for all the stately and well dressed stream of gentlemen who went through the huge, mahogany doors.

Joy was acutely conscious of the fact that it was not guarded, as she waited and watched, hidden in an alleyway across the street. The Palace catered to Orleans' most prominent citizens, but in reality little more than the wealth of the gentlemen distinguished Orleans' most famous gaming house from the taverns, bawdy houses, gaming halls and wine shops down the street. True, these men contrasted sharply with backwoods men, river boat men or idle sailors with a season's pay or a pocket full of monies to waste, but the contrast was only on the surface.

Shrewd blue eyes watched from under an unkempt wig and old straw hat as Monsieur Baxter and Hughes, decked out in their tailored suits, arrived atop fine mounts. Grooms rushed to take their horses, while the doormen called out familiar greetings. Mr. Beauchamp arrived next. Soon afterward, a buggy arrived and Monsieur Simone alighted. The distinguished planter snapped quick orders to the waiting grooms and ignored the doorman's greeting with the hauteur and arrogant reserve of the very rich.

Joy knew the man and his family well, not just from various social functions, but because she, the Reverend and Sammy had seen seven of his people to freedom. The Reverend and Sammy

were at Garden Court, his plantation, this very moment. Unlike most planters, he treated his six hundred field hands with a particularly harsh hand, working them extra hard. Food was said to be bad there, too, and while that might not seem an overly damning complaint, Joy knew better. If one works at arduous toil twelve hours a day, every day except the Sabbath, living a life stripped of every small comfort and luxury, the only thing left to look forward to was meals. If the food was bad, life was bad and that simply was that. Of course people voiced other complaints as well.

Though Louisiana had laws regulating when and how punishment of slaves was administered, these laws were not enforced. At Garden Court, indolence was punished by beatings, and this was almost unheard of elsewhere.

Obviously, she scowled, Charles Simone had reason to participate in the proceedings of this meeting.

Restless and tired of standing, Joy crouched to bent knees, waiting still. The street vendors, market shoppers and carriages disappeared as darkness settled in the night. Bright lights appeared in the windows, music and laughter, boisterous noise, came from inside. The streets filled with an increasingly rowdy sort. It occurred to her that no lady she knew would venture on these streets after dark, even with an escort, and the thought made her smile.

She had no way to gain entrance into the establishment, but she didn't have to. She did not long contemplate the purpose to which the upper floors were put, and it seemed logical to assume the men would not be holding their meeting amidst scantily clad women. The activities dominating the lower floor were gaming and drinking. The meeting was bound to be held in a smaller room off to the side. It seemed only a matter of circling the building, hoping a window might be left open to clear out the tobacco smoke. Men, she knew, smoked when ladies were absent and business was discussed. With any luck—

Ram Barrington finally appeared, and she might have known, with a flourish. The clamor of horses' hooves first warned her. She pressed herself flat against the closed wine shop wall in the alley where she hid. Ram, Seanessy and two other men raced their horses galloping at a breakneck speed through the city. A race! Followed closely by another two men, Sean and Ram appeared first, Sean's white stallion winning by a hair's breadth. As they reined to a clamorous stop, laughing, she saw why. Ram rode the most magnificent black stallion, and as he pulled the reins, the great beast reared high in the air. No one else she knew could have kept to his seat!

People did say Englishmen learned how to ride before they could walk.

How handsome he looked! Her heart thudded wildly as though a meter of his proximity. Without knowing it, her hand reached to her mouth, and she blushed, thinking for the hundredth time of the shocking things that had transpired only hours before. It was not just that she could have been ruined, rescue provided so unexpectedly at the last moment, but it was that the ruin would have been shamefully welcomed. She could not delude herself. She was of a nature she had not known and didn't understand. She welcomed his kisses as the petals of a flower welcomes rain, as green leaves of a plant welcome the sun.

Was she in love? Was she unbelievably and most unwillingly in love? Could she fall in love with a man who frightened her to the very depth of her soul? He was unlike anyone she knew, ever dreamed of or imagined. He had everything, title and fortune, a wit and charm that sprang from a deep intelligence, an ability to move with ease and command in all circles. The lightest touch of his hand could start a tumultuous revolution in her body! She felt certain, too, he courted hundreds of the most beautiful and desirable women in the world. He had not mentioned either love or marriage, and a great part of her fear was a certainty he never would.

What was the mystery of that black patch, the scar?

Ram bantered with Seanessy and the other two men, as he dismounted with agility and grace, handing the reins to the groom. Seanessy and the others rode off. Ram strode up the stairs. He stopped suddenly, frozen. He swung around, his gaze sweeping the intersection as Joy pressed herself hard against the wall. Just in time! He turned back, said something that made the doorman laugh, and the doors were thrown open for him.

The black patch rose in her mind's eye, and she relived that awful moment. "You draw too close girl; you play with fire."

Was it too late?

She did not know what he had to do with this meeting, but with the thought of finding out, she slipped out of the alley and into the darkness of the night.

Music sounded from the distant rooms as Joy stopped beneath each window, waiting and listening for a moment, before moving on. It was dark in the narrow alley. The only light shone directly from the windows above her. Governor Claighborne's recent innovation of street lanterns, in hope of stopping crime, did naught but attract hundreds of fire flies, mosquitoes and moths. No light that she could discern entered the alley from those poles.

The ground floor was used for house servants and the preparation of food; the next level rose about eight feet above. Joy carried two discarded liquor crates she had found in back, one held awkwardly in each hand.

She had almost rounded the house when from the next to the last window came the faint but familiar sound of Mr. Beauchamp's voice. Freezing with the instincts of a wild animal, then taking a deep breath, she silently positioned the -crates and climbed up. The thick, red curtains were drawn. A dim yellowish light emanated from the edges and as she had imagined, the window was open, a stream of billowing smoke pouring forth. One hand braced against the wall, while the other rested lightly on the window.

"My God," Monsieur Simone exclaimed. "We would be supplying the entire South!" "And the Caribbean." Ram pointed out. "The English might have moral objections to

slavery, but their planters have no qualms about indentured servitude. Where," he wondered out loud, "would their plantations go without the renewed ship loads of precious black ivory?” He launched into an engaging story drawn from his considerable experience with his uncle, Admiral Byron.

Joy listened with heightened attention. The crown had placed Admiral Byron in charge of the British ships patrolling the dark continent in an effort to stop slavers. This was popular knowledge, Ram explained. Upon capturing a slaver, the cargo was inevitably dumped on the Caribbean and the poor wretches—naked savages, starved and homeless, with no means to return— had no choice but to sign up for twenty years indentured servitude to some British planter. "Hell," Ram concluded. "The poor bastards are grateful to their captors. And while the Caribbean planters might only pay half as much a head—if we can supply them these numbers here--well gentlemen, as you can see, half as much is still an arresting number. Yes it will cost you each a sizable sum to buy shares in the thirty ships—no doubt, most of you will have to sign your properties over to the banks for a year or more in order to secure the loan—but I can, practically guarantee ten times the return."

"Yes, yes," Mr. Hughes and Mr. Baxter agreed simultaneously, impressed.

A long pause followed of which she could not fathom the meaning, unless they were studying papers.

"Mr. Barrington, it does seem too good to be true. I have to wonder why we merit your selection for this venture? It must be more than ... ah, neighborly kindness?"

"There are indeed other reasons besides the fact that I'm moving my ventures into Orleans.

I’ll be frank, gentlemen. My connections are in Boston and England, places known for their abolitionist sentiments, and as you know, being Admiral Byron's nephew, I am naturally associated with the abolitionist cause. I could find no willing investors among my associates and friends, or even their connections. They're hypocrites all," he said with masculine scorn. "What with the northern and English textile mills running full steam on southern cotton--"

Appreciative agreement abounded.

"It is a rather large investment," Ram finally continued. "It will take over half a year to build and buy the ships, another year or so to deliver the black ivory, but eventually," his speech slowed with dramatic effect, "Our fortunes will triple."

Monsieur Simone waited, then seeing Ram was through, he asked, "But you haven't answered: Why us?"

"Simply." Ram smiled unseen. "Because I've learned you have each made the investment before."

"Not in these numbers though!" Mr. Beauchamp exclaimed. "If something went wrong, it would ruin me! It would ruin all of us." There was another long silence before Ram finally said, "Mr. Beauchamp, fortune and risk might be synonyms; a man can't have one without the other."

Another long pause.

Suddenly Mr. Simone laughed. "Well, I'm in," he announced simply. "Mr. Barrington, welcome to Louisiana." One by one, amidst hearty chuckles, the others followed until only Mr. Beauchamp remained.

"Mr. Beauchamp?'

He shifted nervously, turning it over and over in his mind. "I can't turn it down," he finally said in a tone of pained reluctance. "It is too good to be true. Hell, if I got just half the return I could buy out the Taylor's bottom acres sittin' next to mine ..." He paused yet again, then in a lowered voice that only partially revealed his thoughts said, 'Though God knows, my wife—" He looked up. "Can you assure us that you'll run decent ships, Mr. Barrington?"

Ram stared hard at Mr. Beauchamp, seeing the man's concern as the trouble: a man's greed or ambition or plain self-interest watering down the human concern, pushing it a comfortable distance away until the terror of a slave ship was considered in a simple question of decency. Evil made into banality.

"A decent slave ship?" Ram questioned, as his shadow dominated the window. "Is there such a thing? And do you really care, Mr. Beauchamp? Which matters more, the ah, discomfort of a few people of color or the return of your investment?"

"Hell, those stories are exaggerated, Tom. You know that," Mr. Hughes broke the uncomfortable silence of Mr. Beauchamp's contemplation.

Ram would waste no more time, for he had somewhere to go, and leaving Mr. Beauchamp ample time to answer the question, he concluded with: "Gentlemen, I'll give you till Tuesday next to present your bank statements. But with what might be premature anticipation"—his gaze returned to Mr. Beauchamp—"I do believe this calls for a toast."

Joy Claret had not yet moved her head. The world seemed suddenly to recede; her hand trembled slightly and she pressed it harder to the window to halt the slight clatter it caused. She forced herself to wait, to keep listening and waiting for the one word, any word, that would make the discovery go away.

She knew these men, knew their wives and children. The Baxters, Simones and Beauchamps belonged to her congregation. Katie Beauchamp was even her friend. Yet it was not that these five men would invest in slavers, that they would not just condone and passively allow that evil to exist on the earth, or even that they, would actually cause it, make it happen. No, she told herself, she should not really be surprised.

It was Ram Barrington's duplicity. The pain of her disillusionment engulfed her with cold hard shock. She had just overheard words that reduced him to the vilest creature of contempt, someone she could not even pity, but could easily hate. The pain of it overwhelmed her; it felt like a dagger thrust into her heart. Yet, even as she stood there trembling, it took second place in her heart to another.

Ram Barrington was on their side. She tried to tell herself he was but one man, that one man cannot matter. But somehow, by some trick of her mind that constantly weighed, measured and balanced these things, by removing Ram Barrington from her side and placing him on the other, the scales tipped overwhelmingly to the side of evil. The angle seemed so severe it removed the single strength that fueled her struggle: Hope.