The black swan (98 page)

Still glorying in her own anger, Angela postured before her mirror, her face haughty and superior. Then the expression crumpled into that of a lonely child. "Nigger. Nigger, nigger, nigger, nigger." She backed from the mirror. She reached for the clay doll. "Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! NIGGER!" She hurled the doll at the mirror. Glass and clay slewed over the floor, tiny shards cutting her feet. Crying, Angela picked up the shells and stones and threw them, the small sharp objects making hard popping noises as they hit the walls.

Still no one came.

Late that afternoon Angela dressed and went out. No one stopped her.

She went to find Tubal Lerner, a man who wanted her, a man who cared enough to be there when Angela needed him. And he was black. She needn't fear discovery with him. If their babies turned out black, no one would care. She needn't fear that either.

When Tom arrived at Zoe's, Angela was gone. "Where in the hell did she get to? I didn't know they walked the streets in the daytime."

"I don't even know how long she's been gone. Oh, Tom, I'm so sorry."

"She can't do nothin' she hasn't done a dozen times before, Zoe. Don't waste yourself on her."

Angela reappeared after supper. Rod answered the door. Calmly he stepped aside for a gaudily dressed Angela in a newly bought gown to enter, followed by her equally gaudy escort. "Tubal, make yourself comfortable. I'll pack what little I've got and be down in a minute."

Tom barged into the parlor, his face a mask of disgust. "Get your black butt offa that sofa. Servants in the back, boy!"

Angela came halfway down the stairs. "Be careful what you say, Mastah Tom. That black boy's gonna be the father of your grandchildren."

Tom started for her. Rod grabbed him, talking in hushed earnest tones. Roughly Tom pulled free. "If she wants him, she's welcome to him. Damn bitch. Let her go!"

Zoe joined them, leaving Tubal dressed to his teeth in a stiff collar, suit jacket, and spats and uncomfortable about being in the parlor alone. "Tom, you don't mean that. You can't let her go. She's throwing her life away. She's too young to know better."

"No whore is born young, Zoe. Sorry to put it that way to you, but there isn't any other word for my—for Angela. Forget her. She's no good."

Angela, with second thoughts, came slowly down the stairs, her air of superiority less certain. "Well, I guess I'm ready now. Haven't you anything to say to me, Daddy? No blessings? No celebration for me like there was for them?" She walked to Tom, standing near, her eyes seeking comfort in his.

"I'm glad she's dead. You dirty little bitch, I'm glad your mother isn't here to see you."

Angela was taken aback. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Go on! Take your nigger buck and get out of here!'*

Angela was too shaken to feel her burning humiliation. That would come later. Now she looked pleadingly at Tom. "I just wanted someone to love me."

"You found him." Tom stalked from the room.

Zoe placed her hand on Angela's arm. "We do love you, Angela. Stay with us, dear. It will be all right."

Angela shook free of Zoe, her eyes blazing now as they hadn't before. "Don't touch me! You—you made fun of me, made me want—oh! I hate you! I hate you! Jubal! I want to leave!"

Zoe followed. "Angela—if you ever want to come home—"

Rod pulled her back and slammed the door. '"No, Zoe, we won't be here for her if she wants to come home.'*

"But Rod, she's a child. She doesn't know—"

"We'll be in New York." He tUted her face up. "There won't be any more little girls to raise, unless they are ours."

The wedding was held on Christmas day. Tom gave the bride away. Adam was best man, handing a plain gold band to his father as Rod married his mother.

Whether the wedding made a sensible impression upon Adam, no one knew or dared question. He seemed happy and joined in the festivities. He embraced Zoe and Rod, expressing happiness for his mother.

Then, tired, still unable to remain on his feet for long, Adam returned to his room. He slid under the quilts, pulling them close against him. Slowly plans began to form again. The charts he had going over played themselves before his eyes like a series of pictures. Quick little visions

of the beach at Andros, the sound of the drums, the forest, flashed and were lost to him. Faces came and went: Ben, Rosebud, Rod, Tom, all the people who had refused to help him renew the search for Dulcie.

At last once face remained. One man, one last hope. Oliver Raymer, an almost forgotten face, now came clear. Oliver had taken Dulcie to Europe. When she was in trouble, Dulcie had run to the Raymers. When she was worried about Jem and Patricia's reception of some bit of news, it was to the Raymers she turned. Oliver loved Dulcie as a daughter. Almost as much as Adam loved her. He would seek "^ Oliver's help.

He fell asleep with the idea planted firmly in his mind, a slight smile on his lips. For the first time since he had lost her, he felt some hope. Oliver would not refuse him. All he had to do was get to New York. Find Oliver.

Chapter Thirteen

As he boarded the Black Swan, Adam's legs trembled, and before his eyes danced little bright spots in the darkness where there was nothing to be seen. Above him a sliver of the quarter moon slipped behind boiling dark clouds. He would have preferred a blacker night. At least a third of his men were not on board. He'd miss R.B., though he knew the smiling black giant would have kept him from sailing.

Adam stalked the deck as usual, his eyes missing nothing, checking every detail as though the first mate were lacking in competence. Occasionally he leaned on the rail more heavily than he wanted to admit, drawing strength from the salt air, his voice repeating with the wash of the water that he'd be all right. He'd be all right. The important thing was to find Oliver.

Oliver would see that the only course left was to go back to Andros and search until they found her. She was there. He should never have believed . . .

The first mate stood in front of him, saluting. "Steam's well up, sir."

"We'll wait 'til midnight, Mr. Compton."

"It's just past, sir."

Surely he hadn't stood in one spot so long. "What does the lookout report?"

"Three Federals out about two miles, sir."

"Very well. We'll hug the shore. Give the orders, Mr. Compton."

They crept in the shallows mile after mile, then just before dawn struck boldly into the shipping lanes.

Luck rode with them through the sleepless days and nights until they reached the Long Island coast. Adam hung well offshore until dark, then steamed into Oyster Bay and up into Courtland's cul-de-sac. Someone now occupied the large house, whose bulk loomed against the night sky, staring and ominous like a night bird watching. Adam stared tiredly at the house for some time, then pushed his imaginings aside. There was no enemy in that house, no one watching, no one wishing him ill. Rod would have warned him. After all, Adam thought, managing a weak smile. Rod Courtland was his father. Fathers were known to protect their sons.

He walked to the foredeck. Rod hadn't known he was leaving Wilmington. . . . Adam shrugged. He had made voyages before without knowing what awaited him. This was no different. He climbed into the jolly boat and kept his eyes fastened on the approaching shore.

Hans was waiting for him. "Well, Cap'n Tremain! Nice seein' you again, sir. I was afraid we were out of the business."

Adam stared at him, stupefied with fatigue.

"With the slaves, sir," Hans explained.

"Oh, I... I don't have any this time, Hans."

"Say, Cap'n, not gettin' the grippe, are you? Been a lot of it about."

"No. Hans, I'll be needing a horse right away. I must ride to the city."

"Can it wait 'til mornin', Cap'n?" He stared hard at Adam. "You ain't never found that Mr. Raymer home yet."

Adam rubbed his face. His head was buzzing, the little lights danced before his eyes like fireflies, his skin prickled with old sweat and the memories of bees—hundreds of them angry stinging—swarming. "I need the horse tonight It's been too long already..! can't wait any longer."

"Then, it'll have to be my carriage, Cap'n. With me in the driver's seat."

Adam swayed. "Hitch up, Hans. I've got to get there as soon as possible. Dulcie—she—she's lost. I've got—"

"I know, Cap'n. I know."

Adam woke up to a gray, rainy dawn. Hans had stopped the buggy, and they were partly sheltered in a grove of bare-branched trees. "What's wrong?" he said, alarmed. "Why did we stop here?"

Hans opened his eyes. "I got sleepy, Cap'n. Well hurry along now." He flapped the reins; the captain looked little better for his six hours' sleep.

"Why keep tryin' to see that man, if you don't mind my askin'?"

"My wife and I were shipwrecked—on Andros. I've got to find her."

"You went down a year and a half ago, Cap'n," Hans said mildly.

"I . . . know what I'm doing."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, I just thought—God almighty, Cap'n Tremain, you ain't acted like yourself since then. You look like you been through a cider press. If there's gonna be trouble, you ain't up to it."

"No ... no trouble. Her uncle'll go with me. Everything will be fine."

Hans grunted. "Git along, boss!"

The winter rain gusted over them as the horses moved along the rutted, muddy roads. "Had a spell o' nasty weather. Reckon it's goin' hard on the boys in the trenches. Heard the lung fever's pretty bad."

"How much longer 'til we get there?" Adam asked irritably.

"I reckon two, three o'clock. You know it's purt near a daylong trip in winter, Cap'n. Don't you want to rest?"

"No—^just get there."

It was raining hard when Hans stopped in front of Oliver's house. Adam got down slowly, surprised at his stiffness. He was tired beyond reason. Oliver's house seemed miles away, distorted by distance as he walked the few yards to the front stoop. He clacked the lion's-head knocker.

Fred opened the door. "Yes, sir?"

"Is Mr. Raymer at home?"

"Certainly, sir. Come in and warm yourself while I give him your name."

"I don*t need to be announced. He knows me well." Adam walked unsteadily toward the sound of voices. His eyes fevered, he thrust open the parlor door, looking blindly around the room until he spotted Oliver. "Mr. Raymer—^I must talk to you. You're the only one left I can talk to."

Before him was a tableau with all the performers frozen in place, their eyes fixed in amazement on the tall, gaunt man, dressed in a damp, rumpled captain's uniform. Under-his cap his black curls hung in strings. His piratical black moustache accentuated the pale hollowness of his cheeks and his wild, fevered eyes. His movements were jerky, like a puppet manipulated by an amateur.

Adam's gaze fixed on one of the people. Revanche. Oh, God, he had to get away—run. But his legs . . .

"A-Adam!" came a hushed voice. His frightened eyes met the golden eyes—eyes that haunted him in dreams.

With swift clarity every person in the room came into sharp focus. All the people he had searched for were there. All of them. It was another nightmare, fever-ridden, taunting, wounding, laying new scars across old ones.

His breath came out in a horse whimper of awful fear. This was Death. It stared at him out of Dulcie's dead eyes, smiled at him with Revanche's mouth. Adam grasped the doorframe, his legs trembling and threatening to give way.

"Adam—good God, it is really you!" Oliver smiled, his hand out.

Adam backed away. "Don't come near me." His gaze darted to Patricia, who had fainted, and to Jem, who was patting her hands absently. Mad stared at him, her face alight.

"Edmund, let me go!" Dulcie said angrily.

With liquid grace Edmund rose from his seat beside Dulcie. On his face was a courteous, pleased smile. "Captain Tremain," he drawled. "I must say you are quite a surprise—and not wholly a welcome one." Edmund offered him a small, thin cigar. Adam, his back against the door, shook his head. "Too bad. I thought if anyone would appreciate a good cigar, it would be you. I seem to misjudge you on aU counts."

Dulcie came up to the men. With authority and the easy proprietary air of a man sure of his woman, Edmund took her hand, speaking low and firmly in her ear, telling her to leave him to talk to the captain.

"Adam . . .*' Dulcie hardly heard Edmund, her eyes filled with moisture, her words choked and held back by shock and leaping joy.

Edmund moved uneasily, his laughter harsh. Adam slowly raised his hand, his fingertips barely touching the unruly curl at Dulcie's cheek. The room pulsated with hushed, pent-up emotions that threatened to burst into flame.

Edmund broke the silence. "Captain Tremain should be told our news, Dulcie. Arrangements must be made now that he has made his untimely return from the dead. Shall you tell him, or shall I?"

"Dulcie ... I thought I'd never find you again. I thought—"

"Oh, Adam." She tried to go to him. Edmund's hand clasped her wrist hurtfully, making her wince and draw back.

He said, "I see that I shall have to be the bearer of the glad tidings. Dulcie and I are going to be married. Your resurrection is unfortunate. However, you have abandoned your wife for over a year, so I presume we can take that as a statement of your feelings. I feel certain you wiU give us your cooperation in annulling your marriage.'*

Adam listened to Edmund as though hypnotized. Sweat beaded his face. He mouthed, "Married . . . married . . ." He looked at Dulcie's white, strained face. "Bitch! You God-damned bitch!"

"It's not true! Adam! He's lyin'! Don't listen to him!"

Edmund thrust her left hand toward Adam. The emerald and diamond sparkle pained his eyes. "This is the ring / gave her, Tremain. And she will be my wife. There will be no legal problems. You deserted her. I can arrange—"

"Whore," he whispered. "Whore—"

"Here, now. Captain—" Oliver began.

Dulcie pulled away from Edmund. "Please—^let me explain. Let me—"

Adam paid no attention to Oliver, who was trying to _put his hand on Adam's shoulder, or to Jem, who had sprung to protect his daughter. He did not see Jem's gun or Mad screaming, "Don't! Not Adam!" His eyes were only for Dulcie. And his eyes were hot with hate. "You God-damned whore. You put me through hell."