The black swan (35 page)

Mutely, she nodded. "But I had the papers. I thought they'd be enough."

"An act of the legislature is required to free slaves in Georgia."

Dulcie gaped at him, then hid her face.

He kept questioning her, pressing harder and harder. He no longer knew why he put her through this. The slaves were already aboard. He was already incriminated. He'd already promised Fcllie he'd find Ruel and Jothan and bring them to New York. But still he quizzed and tormented this girl, half wondering if his resentment didn't stem from her innocent power to make him feel reckless and wild, capable of performing any feat of heroism. It was the most stupid, irresponsible thing he'd ever thought! she saw on his face. Then she began to realize what he woodenly at his desk, waiting for him to turn her over to the authorities.

"We cast off in fifteen minutes, Miss Moran.'*

She nodded dumbly. What did that mean?

"Your people are secreted aboard." He tossed the statement at her, his blue entrancing eyes studying her for the smallest reaction.

But she was beyond reaction, resigned to Jem's wrath, the penalty of the law.

He gestured, his long tanned fingers spread wide, a scornful smile on his lips. "It is your move. Miss Moran. The fugitives are aboard the Ullah. What will you do now?"

Dulcie stared at him, bewildered at the uncertainty she saw on his face. Then she began to realize what he

was saying. Her golden eyes came alive, sparkling, joyful. She smiled tentatively, then broadly, her hands prayerlike at her lips. "You'll take them? You'll take them!"

It was like seeing the sun come out after the rain, Adam thought, as he watched the transformation in Dulcie. She was radiant. She glowed. Affected, he stood up, smiling now too. He put his hand out, and she grasped it with her tiny warm hand. Both of them started at the touch of the other's flesh. Blushing, she primly retracted her hand.

Adam cleared his throat. "I'll have Mr. LeClerc see you ashore. We, uh, we sail in minutes."

Dulcie could hardly breathe. It was relief and gratitude, she knew, but she was terribly conscious of this formidible, handsome man. She forced herself to meet his eyes without blushing again and suppressed the tremulous, nervous giggle that wanted to force its way through her lips. "Thank you—oh, it's not enough! How can I ever thank you for what you're doin' for Fellie?"

He looked almost embarrassed. "You'll be safe going home? You have an escort?"

"Oh, yes! I got here, didn't I?"

Adam nodded curtly and led her to Beau. "See her ashore, Mr. LeClerc." Quickly he turned, disappearing down a companionway.

Gentle and comforting. Beau talked easily with Dulcie, walking her to her wagon leisurely, as though he had all the time in the world.

The deep-throated bellow of the UUah's whistle sounded. Beau grinned, giving her a quick salute. He ran for the ship. Precariously balanced on the rising gangplank, he waved to her over his shoulder.

As Dulcie climbed lithely onto the wagon beside Claudine, Adam watched from the bridge. The Ullah steamed slowly away from the pier. He squinted, then grabbed his telescope. "Beau!"

Beau walked jauntily to his side. "That's some girl, isn't she!"

"Is that little black boy all the protection she has going back?"

Beau laughed. "Better check your spyglass, captain, sir. That little black boy is the cutest little tiny black girl I ever saw wearing britches."

"Reverse the engines!"

"What? Beg pardon?"

"Reverse the God-damned engines! Now, Mistah Le-Clerc!" Adam bolted down the companionway. The crewmen gaped in alarm as the captain raced down the deck, waiting in wrathful impatience for the Ullah to back into her slip. He jumped to the wharf before the gangplank was half down.

Adam ran along the waterfront, racing up the steep, curving road to Bay Street. Carriages and wagons moved in steady confusion. But Dulcie was gone. God, he hoped she was safe. Dulcie Moran might have reached the Ullah all right, but he doubted her audacity would withstand Moran's fury.

His steps were heavy as he returned to the Ullah. He berated himself for not having realized from the start he should have taken her home himself. Even with a horse, which he didn't have, he*d be hard-pressed to catch her now. Nevertheless, he considered going to the livery stables. But the Ullah stood at anchor. The slaves— Fellie and the others—^waited. Still reluctant, he boarded the ship. "Cast off, Mr. West," he said lifelessly. What would Jem Moran do to her?

Chapter Five

As Dulcie made her way toward Savannah with her wagonload of slaves, the first light of dawn crept across the sky over Mossrose. Neither the owner nor the overseer of the plantation was prepared to face the day. Wolf woke with the ringing of the plantation bell. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, unerringly placing his foot on the empty whiskey bottle. The cold contact of the glass against his warm bare foot brought back both the memory of the needed sleep it hadn't given him enough of and the thundering headache it had given him in abundance.

Groggily, his head throbbing and his stomach rebelling, he peered down the narrow alley of the slave quarters. The blacks were already heading for the fields. He didn't see his drivers, but they were nearby. They knew him well enough not to dare anjrthing else. Strict discipline was critical; he'd spent years trying to convince Jem. It

allowed a man freedom to take a day in his bed. With the punishment of Fellie, Wolf was confident that finally his boss realized what came of coddling slaves.

His stomach heaved with the need to relieve itself of its sour burden. Wolf groaned and lay back, waiting for the nausea to pass. He was asleep before the last of the slaves were in the fields.

Jem was in no better shape than his overseer, but in far worse frame of mind. He wasn't pleased with anything. Patricia had been angry with him before but never the way she was this time. Her trip to the Saunderses had been planned in advance of the incident with Fellie, but he also knew that Patricia had wanted to go. She was glad to be away from Mossrose and from him.

While Jem was a strong-minded man, he was not at all strong when it came to the disapproval of his wife or daughter, and at the moment he had the disapproval of both. Often Jem was pleased to note that Dulcie had a great deal of his blood running in her veins, but when he was in the wrong, as he felt he was now, it was like having two consciences. Hadn't he castigated himself enough for what had happened to Fellie? It could not have been helped. Fellie had to be punished, or Spig Hurd would certainly have killed him. Not only was Fellie a valuable slave that he didn't want to see strung from a tree or shot, but, Jem admitted, if only to himself, he had allowed himself to become too fond of Fellie, too lenient— and that small sin had been returned to Jem tenfold

And Fellie had not really been provoked. It was one thing for a white man to mourn the loss of his sons, but Fellie's boys were not exactly his sons, they were his get, bred for purpose. Jem consoled himself with the thought that Fellie, being but half human, would soon forget. It was just Jem's bad luck that these particular boys had to be sired by the humanest slave he happened to own. Why couldn*t Patricia and Dulcie see he'd done only what had to be done? He hadn't wanted to whip his best nigger, and he hadn't liked it

Feeling sorry for himself, Jem rolled over in bed, convinced he'd never felt so poorly in all his life. He envisioned Patricia's return later in the morning. Perhaps if she saw the miseries he'd put himself through, she'd understand.

♦ ♦ ♦

It was nine o'clock when Wolf finally roused. He dressed quickly, his head still hurting, his stomach in too much of a turmoil to consider food. He felt mean. It would pleasure him to lash those black bastards into line. Ten years he'd waited for Moran to give him free use of his whip arm. Now he meant to demonstrate its value.

It was an overcast day, one of those when a man can feel the pressure building up, tightening all around him. No wonder his head throbbed. The stable boy saw Wolf coming and had his horse ready. Wolf smiled. Already the flogging of Fellie was showing results. Never had this particular boy shown such alacrity.

Wolf rode toward the farthest field. He'd work himself back in toward the quarters and catch another nap. All was quiet. The sun peeped through the clouds, wiping away the threat of rain, and yet the feeling of something impending remained. When he reached the last field, he realized what was wrong.

A hush had fallen over Mossrose like a smothering blanket. He scanned the field and saw the slaves, all with bent backs, diligently at work. It should have made his heart glad, but it was as unnatural as anything he'd ever seen. There was no noise, none of the buzzing undercurrent of talk and laughter. All was still, as it was when a storm was brewing.

He rode down the rows, flicking his whip indiscriminately. None of them flinched, begged, or showed the customary fear of him. It was as if he weren't there at all. Uneasy, Wolf went to the end of the field. Neither Barney nor Dick was anywhere to be seen. "Where's your drivah?"

'Simmon, a wizened old black man nearly at the end of his picking days, didn't stop his rhythmic bending motion. "Cain't say Ah knows who you talkin' 'bout."

Angry at the insolence. Wolf brought his whip down across the old man's shoulders. A groan was forced from 'Simmon's lips and a line of blood showed through his shirt. As if on cue, one by one every slave in the field stopped work. Backs straightened. Faces turned toward Wolf. An ebony chain stretched out across the seven-acre field, their triumphant faces daring him to use his whip on 'Simmon again.

In spite of the lightning-fast anger that struck him, Wolf shuddered. Visions of the Nat Turner rebellion flashed into

his mind. A kind master, an intelligent slave with dreams of freedom and retribution festering in his animal mind, gone beserk, slaying women and children, men and boys indiscriminately, without cause or mercy. He remembered stories his daddy had told of people, white people begging for their lives.

Wolf backed his horse a step, then two. He yelled at them, brandishing the whip, but far enough away that it touched no black back. It was show, now, a means of saying he wasn't afraid while his insides turned to water.

In front of him a black twig of a woman, a dark stick covered with osnaburg that hung on her like a shroud, began to sing. The old woman, mate of 'Simmon, her voice quavering and tremulous, gazed up at him through old and rheumy eyes, and defied him-to strike her down. One by one the blacks took up her song. The words rolled out across the open fields, filling up the waiting air:

De good time comin' is almost heah. It was long, long, long on de way.

Their voices came at him like a physical presence. The sounds surrounded him as the Negroes in the other fields took up the singing. The plantation reverberated with the rumble of the black voices.

Wolf no longer tried to hide his terror. He rode the perimeter of the field, lashing with the whip, screaming for them to go back to work. Slowly the black human chain began to move, walking with an untouchable courage away from him, away from their work, away from the fields. He couldn't stop them. He couldn't rekindle the fear he'd always been able to light in their eyes.

By ten o'clock Jem couldn't bear remaining in bed any longer. He was unaccustomed to the inactivity and bored with the idea of making Patricia feel sorry for him. He was the master of Mossrose, and there'd be no more sniveling over his decisions by his wife, his daughter, or his darkies.

"LuciusI Lucius!" His voice echoed in the empty house. "Lucius! You black bastard get your hind end up here!"

By the time he'd yelled for Lucius several more times, the unnatural quiet of the house pressed in on him. "What in the devil?" he muttered, and began walking

from one room to another. When he entered the kitchen and found no Violet standing at her cookstove, he knew something was afoot.

He was headed for his study for his rifle and his whip, when Wolf burst in through the front door.

"Since when do you bust into this house when you damn please?"

Wolf's face was a pale, shining globe. He fought for words and breath to tell James Moran that there was an insurrection on Mossrose. "Oh, Gawd, suh. It's the niggers, suh. They's in a takin', and' ain't nothin' I do that can get 'em back to the fiel's."

"What in thunderation are you talkin* about?" Jem had no sooner spoken than the sounds of their singing could be heard through the open door and windows. The sound was loud, jubilant. Jem looked warily from the window back to Wolf. "They in the chapel?"

**Yes, suh. I lef 'em to come an' warn you."

"Nothin's goin' to happen as long as they stay put." Jem leaned far out the window, still not willing to believe his ears or his overseer. "What they worked up for?" He knew the answer before Wolf swallowed hard, taking all his pride into his gullet with the word "Fellie.**

"Sweet Jesus."

"They're headin' for a real bust-out. What're we gonna do 'bout it, suh?"

Jem wiped his forehead nervously. There wasn't a Southerner alive who didn't live in dread of something like this. "No way we can hold back four hundred niggers if they've a mind to come at us. Only thing we can do is fortify the house, protect the women, and warn the other planters. Ride to Saunders, warn him, and tell him to pass the word. Bring Miz Moran back here with you. Hurry, Wolf. Tell Saunders and the others to gather their dogs an' all the men they can. Meet here."

"Yes, suh! You shore you want Miss Patricia back here?'*

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. No tellin' how far this will spread. I want her home where I can look after her. She and Dul-cie can go to the root cellar. Nobody's gonna break in there—got a special door on it. Where the hell is Dulcie? She couldn't have slept through all this racket."

"Can't say as I know, suh. Haven't seen her this

Jem ran to the staircase, returning no more than a minute later.

Wolf reached for him. "You all right, suh?'*

"Ohhh, my God. She's gone," Jem moaned. "Goddamned nigger bastards have got hex. Took her."