The black swan (34 page)

The harmonious blending of the rich voices made a lovely sound on the misty morning air. "Keep them singin', Claudine," she commanded as the approaching rider reined up. He removed his shabby hat and swept a low bow. Dulcie flicked the horses again. The man remained at the side of the road, irresolute.

When Nelly Bly's several verses had been exhausted, Darcy began, "Oh, brothers, you oughta been dere. Yes, my Lawd" and on through other songs comforting and familiar to them from the prayerhouse.

To ease her tension Dulcie said, "Fellie, you and Ester have to pick yourselves a last name. When you're free, you can't be just Fellie."

"I's gwine be Fellie Jordan, 'cause we cross ovah Jordan to make free."

'That sounds fine, Fellie." And Daddy says they are

animals who don't think or feel! "What name will you choose, Darcy?"

"Ah doan know no names, Miss Dulcie. What gwine be mah name?"

"Well, let's think. What do you especially like, Darcy?"

"Cain' say Ah knows. Miss. Ah likes de animals. 'Possums make good eatin', an' dey's nice li'l critters."

"Foxes are pretty smart. How about Darcy Fox?"

Darcy beamed. "Yas'm, Ah likes dat. Ah gwine have me dat name."

"Miss Dulcie, me 'n' Ester thanks you fo' takin' us'uns to S'vannah," Fellie said. "We'n have a mighty po' time figgerin' it out fo' ouahseffs. Ah's worrit 'bout you gettin' back safe. What Mastah Jem gwine do?"

Dulcie gave him a smile. In spite of his pain and soreness from unhealed cuts, he had not once asked for comfort or any sort of ease for himself. "You quit worryin' over me, Fellie, I always get out of my scrapes, don't I? Besides I'll have Claudine with me. Daddy'll be pretty mad, but he'll get over it. He always has."

"Dis de wust thing you evah done, Miss Dulcie."

Dulcie said nothing. She wouldn't speak against her father. Her criticism was patent in her presence here. And thinking of him now only made her nervous and timid at the time she needed to be most bold.

They came to the familiar wide sandy streets of Savannah lined with China trees and suddenly thoughts of Jem vanished as the going became harder. Deep sand in the centers of the streets sucked at the wagon wheels and the horses' hooves and slowed them down.

Anxious, Dulcie urged the horses past Factor's Walk and down the steep, curving roadway toward the pier. She could see the islands in the river, the steamships and sailing ships that lay at anchor. Two steamships were anchored close to one another. The first, Mirabelle, was grim and rusty, her crew lackadaisically coiling ropes or lounging at the rail staring at Dulcie. "The other one looks neater, don't you think, Claudine?"

Dulcie saw a two-hundred-twenty-five-foot sidewheel paddler moving gently at anchor. Two well-polished black stacks stretched skyward. On the wheel housing, in red and gold, was written Ullah. Her upper decks were crisply clean, the gingerbread trim gleaming with fresh white paint.

Dulcie knew little of ships, but she recognized industry and smartness. Several sailors were on their knees holystoning the deck; another polished the brass rail that stood waist-high. Their spirits were good. She could hear them joking with one another. The Ullah looked a likely prospect, if only they'd take Negroes onboard. "Darcy, yell at those sailors and tell them I want to see their captain."

Darcy walked near the ship. "Suh! Please, suh!"

Fellie sat in the wagon, staring at the ship. His face quivered. "Miss Dukie, please. Ah cain't get on dat boat."

"Of course you can, Fellie! There's no reason to be scared. It will only be a short trip, and then you'll be free."

"Yas'm, but Ah cain't go lessen Ah fin's mah boys."

Dulcie stared at him. "What? Fellie! You've come all this way, risked everybody's life—and you won't go North?"

"Ah doan mean Ah ain't gwine Nawth. Ah do dat, yas'm. But fust Ah got to fotch back Jothan an' Ruel."

"Fellie, don't be a fool! They're on their way to New Orleans! You can't find them! Besides, you can't stay in the South! You'd be taken right back to Mossrose. And if Spig Hurd sees you' he'll shoot you!"

"Yas'm, me 'n' Ester knows dat. Ah knows Ah gots to lay low 'til Ah fin's mah boys agin. But Ah gots to fin' 'em. Ah got a whippin' on account Ah wants'mah chil-luns, an' Ah still ain' change mah min'."

Dulcie thought. "Would you go North if I try to get the boys back?"

Fellie shook his head sadly. "Miss Dulcie, you jes' 'bout de bestes' lady in de worl', 'cept you cain' get mah boys fo' me. You take too many chances fo' me an' mine a'ready. Ah gots to fin' mah boys mahseff."

"What are you goin' to do? How will you ever—" Dulcie began, when a cheerful voice, only a few feet away, made her jump.

"Miss, is there somethin' I can help you with?"

She looked up at a well-built man in his twenties, with a pleasant smile and blond hair that fell in a wave over his forehead. She had time to notice the blue work clothes, with his sleeves rolled up to show a tattooed anchor within a heart on his right forearm. She took a breath and rallied her thoughts. "Are you from the ship?" She pointed.

"Yes, ma'am, the Ullah. Your man said you wanted to see the captain."

"Are you the captain? You don't look like one."

The blond man stood with his thumbs tucked into his belt and his fingers pointing downward, his legs a little apart, his tight-fitting dungarees outlining him boldly. He was still smiling. "Yes, ma'am, I'm a captain. We've got three captains onboard the Ullah. We just don't happen to have three ships yet." He seemed to think it a very fine joke.

Dulcie smiled uncertainly. "Then who . . . which?"

"I'm Ben West, Miss, serving temporarily as first mate. Looks as if you've got some trouble.**

"No trouble at all—Captain West." She made an ineffectual gesture to smooth her hair. "I just ... I want passage for these people. They . . . my father freed them, and they're goin' to Philadelphia to ... to my uncle— Oliver Raymer. He . . . he'll help them get work." She scanned the streets for familiar and therefore threatening faces as she talked.

"Do they have papers, Miss?"

"Oh, yes! Ester, show him yours."

Ben West looked at the emancipation paper and knew immediately it was invalid. But that was the least worrisome aspect. Poorly forged, Jem Moran's signature stood out boldly. Ben's eyes narrowed. The Ullah's hold was filled with Mossrose cotton. What game was this girl playing bringing fugitives supposedly freed by Moran to the ship that carried his cotton as cargo? "Who are you?" he asked brusquely.

Dulcie stepped back, her voice all but inaudible. "Who am I? My name? Why . . . why must you know my—?"

"Look, Miss, you'd better see the captain right now!*' He took her arm, pulling her roughly along.

Dulcie staggered, her knees weak with fright. "Oh, please. I'll go somewhere else. Please. Let me go. Don't teU—**

Ben glowered at her, not impressed by the deathly pallor of her face or her wide, frightened eyes. "Who are you, anyway?"

"D-Dulcie Moran. Jem Moran's my daddy. I-I live at Mossrose! Please! I haven't done anythin' wrong!" She choked; frightened, hiccuping tears burst forth.

Ben's jaws dropped. "Oh, God! You're his daughter?" He rapped sharply on the captain's cabin door, then pushed it open, and stepped inside, pulling hard on Dul-cie's arm, jerking her beside him. Nonplussed, he said, "We got a bundle o' trouble, Adam. She . . . she claims to be Jem Moran's daughter. Got a wagon full of fugitives and . . . and damn! emancipation papers with Moran's signature forged on 'em. What do you want me to do with her?"

Adam's eyes never left Dulcie. He listened to Ben with only half an ear.

Dulcie was faint with fright. She stared with hypnotized terror at the man she had met at Mossrose the day of her birthday party—her father's business associate. She was too frightened to move or even cry. The tears wouldn't fall. In her ears pounded an unhealthy roar. She couldn't hear what Ben was saying or what the big dark-visaged man replied as his black eyebrows knit together in a forbidding frown.

The next she knew Ben West was gone. She was alone in the small captain's cabin, the door shut, the smell of resin strong, the walls dark with ancient paneling. The captain, judgmental, scowling was waiting for her to drink from the snifter he pressed to her lips.

"Drink it," he commanded.

Obediently Dulcie sipped it, breathed the brandy down her windpipe, and choked.

He swore under his breath, jerked her hands high over her head, and roughly patted her back. Her eyes were watering, and she couldn't speak. She trembled all over.

"Are you all right now?" he asked, his voice still rough and demanding.

"What are you goin' to do to me?"

He sat down at his desk, evaluating her across its expanse. "Why did you choose this ship to bring your fugitives, Miss Moran?"

"Can't you just let me go?"

His eyes narrowed, the blue growing darker and harder. He watched her for what seemed to Dulcie hours. Then he leaned back, his expression bland. "As you wish. Miss Moran. You are free to go."

Dulcie was immobile for a few moments as the import of his words sunk in. Then she stood up shakily, taking an uncertain step toward the door. "I can leave? You won't stop me?"

"Be certain you take your darkies with you."

She felt as if he had hit her. In her own cringing fear, she'd forgotten Fellie and the others. If she ran now to save herself from Jem's anger, Fellie would die as an example to other slaves. "But I ... I have papers. Couldn't you—"

"You might also inform your father I don't like being tested in so callow a fashion."

Dulcie's head swam. Nothing made sense. "Captain .. . ?"

"Tremain," he said curtly.

"Why should my father test you, Captain Tremain?'*

"Why indeed? Suppose you tell me."

Slowly the truth began to form. Dulcie returned to her chair, still frightened, but bolder, determined. "You would have taken Fellie if my name hadn't been Moran, wouldn't you?" she said in amazement. "You do take runaways North! It's my father, his cotton. Captain! I can tell on you!"

"What will you tell, Miss Moran? That I refused to take some fugitives North for you?"

As quickly defeated as she had been hopeful, Dulcie slumped forward, her hands covering her face, bitter sobs tearing from her. "I only wanted to help Fellie. Why did I have to choose this ship?"

Adam watched her, outwardly dispassionate. He knew her only to be an imp and a hellion, quite capable of acting as her father's agent to trap him into an admission of hauling slaves. But he didn't know if she were actress enough to put on the heartbroken display that followed as she bawled out the story of how she came to be at his ship with ten of her father's best Negroes.

To trust her he'd have to risk everything—his career, his ship, his freedom. Yet, if she told the truth, she had also risked everything to bring these slaves to him. According to Dulcie, Fellie would hang for threatening the life of a white man.

Reason told him to get her off his ship as fast as he could, protect his contract with Jem Moran, and thus assure that the planters would never suspect he hauled runaways North. Other men had been tricked into an admission of guilt by ruses such as this.

And yet—he believed her. Instinctively he was drawn to her, trusted her, believed her fantastic, unbelievable story. His eyes moved slowly over her. He saw a grubby-

looking girl with wild roan-red curls and an aristocratic beauty in spite of her unfashionable tan. Her riding jacket had fallen open, and he glimpsed the full breasts under her white shirt, her tiny waist. He looked away, angry that this girl, nowhere near being a woman, could make him consider throwing caution and reason away. And for what? Some mad, naive scheme to free an incorrigible darky who didn't even want to go North. Yet he was! He was considering it. No, more—he wanted to take her Negroes North. "Wait here, Miss Moran."

He locked her in the cabin, then went to the rail. "Mis-tah LeClerc! Bring the man Fellie up here!"

As Fellie approached him, Adam could see the man struggling to walk proud despite his pain. "Yassuh."

"Miss Moran tells me you've made free and now have changed your mind.'*

"Ah ain't changed mah min', but Ah gotta fin' mah boys fust, or Ah gwine die tryin'."

Adam played with the tip of his moustache. In his gut he knew Fellie meant every word he spoke. The man's pain, his love for his children were strong, filling the air around them. "Well, Fellie," he said, considering, "what will happen to the rest of your family if you go hunting for your boys and get killed?"

Fellie lowered his head. "Ah doan know, suh. But Ah gotta do it."

Dulcie sat quietly waiting. She was beyond crying, beyond fear. She knew he'd locked her in. She'd tried the door. She supposed he'd sent for the authorities—or perhaps Jem. She closed her eyes. Did they imprison women for stealing slaves? Hang them? Tar and feather them? She'd heard of such things.

Finally the key turned in the lock. Adam came in looking as forbidding as when he left. His face was stem. How could she have imagined wanting to be kissed by him? He was a terrifying monster of a man. Just being in the same room with him made her shiver, unable to think or breathe.

He paced the narrow cabin, his trouser leg brushing the hem of her riding habit with each passage. She tucked her feet closer to the chair. Her knees trembled as cloth brushed against cloth with his next passage.

Hands clasped behind his back, he spun to face her. "Miss Moran, shall we suppose that I agree to take your people North, what exactly do you intend to tell your father?"

Dulcie looked up hopefully, but the light in her eyes died quickly. She gestured helplessly. "I ... I have the money for passage. I ... I thought all I'd have to do was pay you and—but now I know you won't take them. I didn't know—" She swallowed hard, her throat was dry and hot.

Adam raised an eyebrow, his smile mocking. "You didn't know it is illegal to steal slaves? Come, now, Miss Moran, there isn't a Southerner over the age of five who doesn't know that."