Patricia Rice (3 page)

The man in Quaker's homespun linen heard none of them. Beneath the murky waters, he caught a glimpse of the child's blue gown. His fingers caught in the cloth, and he kicked upward, grasping hard and praying.

He broke through the water to the stern of the boat where the current had carried them. Too far from the dock to swim back, he grabbed a rope dangling over the side of the ship, his fragile burden caught firmly beneath his arm.

Another Friend pulled him aboard. Three more Friends spirited them into a cabin where a woman took charge, pumping at tiny lungs and frail ribs, breathing into a rosebud mouth rapidly turning blue. Beside her, the once expensive porcelain doll dripped seaweed from its bedraggled velvet dress.

Holding hands, the group prayed as the woman worked, as the sailors returned to their tasks, as the ship's steam boiler heated and blew. On deck, a great wail went up as the icy sea yielded a woman's body, and the earl hurried along the dock to claim her.

Only when the child choked and breathed again did the small group offer prayers of thanksgiving and think to send word to the child's grieving father.

The older woman, the one who had returned the child's breath, the one whose husband had brought the child out of the sea's cruel hands, looked up at the circle of concerned faces and said, "Go and seek him if thou must, but the Light has spoken. She belongs with us."

And so it would seem. By the time the message reached land and followed the weeping earl and the lifeless body of his wife to the nearest inn, the unsuspecting sea captain had ordered the ship to sail from the harbor with the tide.

The earl's demands that the ship be halted and his daughter returned went ignored by the authorities who hauled him away for questioning. His curses and vows of vengeance fell flat in the ears of officialdom.

* * *

When Alexandra woke, she was surrounded by a sea of quiet, concerned faces. These were strangers like none she had ever seen before. They wore no velvets or lace, gold nor jewels. She was afraid until the first one spoke.

"Thou must rest now, child. All will be well."

The soft singsong voice spoke like the angels of the Bible. She had died and gone to heaven. Not daring to say anything lest they know their mistake, Alexandra closed her eyes, and wrapping her tiny fingers around her doll's hand, she slept.

When next she woke, she was called Dora and given a new gown like that of the angel's. She didn't cry once. God hadn't forgotten her after all.

Chapter 1

It is easy—terribly easy—to shake a man's faith in himself. To take advantage of that, to break a man's spirit is devil's work.

~ George Bernard Shaw,
Candida
(1903)

Kentucky

July 1852

The spacious rooms resounded with the joyful airs of piano and violin in a rollicking reel. Hooped skirts in gay colors bounced and swung as young couples laughed and glided hand in hand through the formation. The family had pushed back the pocket doors between dining room and parlor to open up the rooms for reels and cotillions. The newly waxed floor gleamed in the light of chandeliers and oil lamps. The servants had carried the ornate mahogany dining table to the wide center hall, filling it with enormous platters of fruits, cold meats, and cheeses to feed the hungry crowd milling and gossiping while the young people danced. The old house rang with happiness and pleasure.

In the shadows, sixteen-year-old Payson Nicholls regarded the pageantry with cynicism. His gaze followed the actions of his older brother and his cronies as they flirted with the girls and slipped into the study for hasty drinks from flasks and decanters. Charlie's twenty-first birthday ball had just about reached its frivolous height. He crossed his arms over his chest and listened as Charlie leaned against a porch post and sweet-talked his latest conquest.

"Sally Ann, you know you're the prettiest girl here tonight. I've been trying to catch up with you all evening, but you have so many beaux around I didn't think you'd have the time to speak with me."

"I swear, Charles Nicholls, you do know how to turn a girl's head. I've waited all evening for you to look at me, and you know it."

Charlie laughed and whispered something in her ear that Payson couldn't hear. Sally hit his brother's arm playfully with her fan, then allowed Charlie to steer her toward the privacy of the dark night.

Sally's father intercepted their path, and Payson smiled to himself at the swiftness and accuracy of the older man's actions. Charlie instantly halted his progress to shake the other man's hand.

"Glad you could come tonight, sir. My father and I have talked about that new strain of tobacco you planted this year. It seems to be taking off well. Joe Mitchell and I are planning on picking up some acreage down the road here to try some experimental strains next year. We need to sit down and talk with you sometime. I was just taking Sally Ann here back to see the puppies that hound of ours whelped. Prettiest batch we ever did see. Maybe you'd like one for yourself, sir. The sire is that prize hound of Howard's. Could smell a rabbit at a hundred yards."

And a fugitive slave at the same distance, but Charlie omitted that fact, Pace noticed cynically. Sally Ann's father didn't approve of the local pastime of helping bounty hunters track runaways. With the Ohio River only a mile or two down the road, bounty hunting had become a lucrative trade. Charlie didn't do it for the money though. He did it for the sport.

Of course, Charlie hadn't planned on taking Sally Ann to see the puppies in the first place. Charlie just wanted the foolish female outside in the dark to see how far he could get with her. He and his cohorts kept score. Last Pace had heard, Charlie was down by one kiss and two feels.

The thought made him edgy. Most of the girls here tonight were older than Pace. He'd only bothered rigging himself out in this monkey suit so he could spy on Charlie. But the notion of what the older boys were doing outside in the yard made Pace's unruly dick thicken and stir uncomfortably. He had to remember that Charlie intended celebrating his birthday in less domestic ways than he presently exhibited. A stolen kiss and a few drinks from his father's bourbon wouldn't suffice for Charlie this night.

* * *

Payson leaned against the back of the tobacco barn and drew deeply of his hand-rolled cigarette. He'd shed his fancy frock coat and tie and waited in shirt sleeves. The musicians and guests had departed but a katydid hummed a loud chorus in the old catalpa tree behind the paddock, and an owl hooted from the barn loft. The night sounded normal, but Pace kept his ears attuned for changes. His father would no doubt beat him to a pulp if he found him out here, but it wouldn't be the first time and it wouldn't be the last. He was quite fatalistic when it came to the differences between his father and himself.

He wasn't quite so casual about his father's attitudes toward others. His shoulders stiffened as the night breeze caught the sound of a woman's muffled sob in the distance. He'd known his brother and his friends were up to some devilment. He'd expected them to ride out tonight. He had his horse saddled and waiting. But it seemed they struck a little closer to home this time. An awful gaping hole opened in his midsection at the realization of what that meant, and for a brief moment, Pace wished he'd brought his gun.

But he hadn't brought it for a reason: he'd known he would kill someone if he had it in his hands.

Chances were good that he was the one who would get killed, but that had never stopped him before. Everyone had to die sometime, and he pretty well figured he would die sooner than most. He might as well go out protecting those who couldn't protect themselves. It was a singularly stupid thing to do, but it sure enough riled his father and brother when he did it.

With resignation, Pace threw down the cigarette and squashed it out with the heel of his boot. He hadn't yet reached a man's breadth. Maybe he never would. He knew the size of his enemy. It wouldn't hurt to take along a little self-protection. He grabbed the pitchfork in the stack of hay as he started at a run down the dirt path to the slave quarters.

He knew from the sickness in his stomach that he was really a coward, that he didn't want to do this at all. It would be a lot easier if he just walked down to the river and turned his back on what happened here in this straggly line of mud chink and timber cabins. But the tough filament of orneriness that his father had tried beating out of him more than once just wouldn't let go. The only friends he had in this world lived back here. The world might consider them animals, but animals could be kinder than humans.

By the time he made his way into the center of the slave quarters, he didn't hear sobs but heartbreaking wails of pain. Pace clenched his jaw. He was already too late. Damn, but he should have known. He'd failed again. He deserved the beating he would get this time.

He slammed open the plank door of Tessie's cabin, avoiding looking too closely at the cornhusk bed in the corner. He concentrated all his savage attention on the heaving buttocks between himself and the young girl on the bed. A pitchfork might not be his chosen weapon, but it would suffice.

He lunged before the others in the room even knew he'd entered.

The man covering the young girl screamed as the tines pierced tender flesh. He rolled off, howling, still holding his wounds even as the others in the room grabbed Pace and slammed him backward against the wall. The girl in the bed scuttled into a corner, pulling a worn blanket over her nakedness as the room erupted in flying fists, kicking boots, and curses.

Pace wielded his weapon well for as long as he could hold it, but four men against one boy didn't make for fair odds. The pitchfork was heaved into the night, and he had only his hard-toed boots to maim and mangle soft parts until meaty hands hauled him from the wall and held him still while others aimed powerful blows at his face and belly.

The girl's screams pierced the air even more frantically than before. Pace slammed his elbows backward, hitting Homer in his soft storekeeper's belly. He writhed sideways, allowing his brother's blows to strike Homer more than himself, and in that instant, he brought his boot up again in a kick he had almost perfected. Charlie screamed in agony and bent double.

By the time Carlson Nicholls arrived, Pace was little more than a bruised and mangled mannequin in Homer's powerful arms. The older man roared for a halt, but the fight had nearly reached its natural end. Carlson gave his eldest son a look of disgust, then turned his scorn to the boy slumped on the floor, barely breathing.

"By hell and damnation, boy, when you goin' to learn? If that don't beat all, a boy of mine defendin' the virtue of a nigger 'stead of stickin' it in where it belongs. You ain't never had a gallup of sense and you never will. Mama's boy, that's what you are. Ain't never goin' to 'mount to nothin' a'tall. Get your be-hind outa here and back to your mammy's skirts where you belong. Lord a'mighty, I don't know where you came from, but you ain't none of mine. Get your ass outa here, y'hear?"

Cursing and kicking, he forced Pace to crawl out of the cabin, out of the way of his elders and betters. Then Carlson turned and gave one last warning over his shoulder to the hulking young men panting and rubbing bruised fists, "Y'all keep it down out here, y'hear? You don't want your mamas hearing what you been up to."

He walked out, leaving the young black girl to the tender mercies of four furious young men.

Pace caught a rickety porch post and hauled himself upright. Glaring at the big-bellied man who didn't claim to be his father, he spat out, "You better run them out of there before I come back with a gun."

"You ain't goin' nowhere, you stupid young pup, or I'll make you stand in line and put it to her just like the rest of 'em. It's time that girl's been of some use around here. A little white blood will improve the breedin' stock. It's about time you got your dick off and learned what's it like to be a real man. Now get the hell out of my sight before I take it into my head to whup the tar out of you."

Since he was about to disgrace himself by emptying the contents of his stomach, Pace hauled himself off the porch and out of sight. Shame crawled under his skin, shame and disgust and a festering hatred that he couldn't control. He wouldn't ever amount to anything. He couldn't even help those who counted on him for his help. He could never look Tessie in the eyes again. Damn, but she was only thirteen years old. She wasn't even a woman yet. She was just a little bitty girl. Bile roiled in his stomach and he spilled his guts into the potato patch out behind the kitchen garden.

He'd learned not to cry many long years ago, and he didn't cry now. He just let the hate build up inside him, nourishing his rage, feeding his determination. He would bring them down someday. He already had the basic tools in his hands. He might not be tall and strong like his brother. He might not have riches and power like Homer and his ilk, but he knew how to hurt them where it hurt the most—in their pockets.