Patricia Rice (34 page)

Chapter 25

I am driven

Into a desperate strait and cannot steer a middle course.

~ Philip Massinger,
The Great Duke of Florence
(1635)

"No matter what happens, don't say a word," Pace warned as they tied their horses in the protection of the trees.

"I'm so scared, I couldn't say shit," Robert muttered. "This just ain't my kind of action."

Pace glared at him but said nothing further as they advanced on the outbuilding that his sources had already scouted. Inside that deteriorating gray-boarded shack lay a dozen slaves of various ages and genders, shackled to the walls. Some wore the welts of whips. All were malnourished and overworked. Homer meant to get all his fields planted even though he only had half the number of slaves he'd owned in previous years.

Robert stayed outside as guard while Pace let himself into the shack. Someone moaned. A scurrying rustle indicated he'd disturbed the rats. Then he felt the tension and knew they'd seen him. Not daring to light even a candle, he felt his way along the wall until he found the first chain bolted to the wall. The slave attached to the chain moved uneasily but didn't say a word as Pace ran his hands down the links to the padlock. Biting his lip as he positioned his awl in the center of the lock, Pace gave a prayer and swung a hammer onto the awl head with his left hand. His aim was anything but precise, and he muffled an oath as he hit his hand more squarely than the awl. The slave said nothing but waited patiently for him to try again.

Pace shattered the lock on the third try. The chains rattled to the ground, and the huge skeleton of a man rose up from the ground, taking the hammer from Pace's hand and moving silently to the next person. The whole room was awake now. A child cried, and someone hushed him. In the darkness, bodies shifted restlessly, eagerly, straining at their bonds to reach those moving freely between them. Impatience made them call out when a lock was overlooked. More hushing noises ensued.

Pace used the butt of his gun to hammer his awl into the next locks. The man he'd already freed systematically smashed locks and jerked them apart with his fingers. Pace didn't want to be on the wrong side of that man's hands when he was angry. But he understood the fury with which the stave destroyed the bonds. Some of these people were little more than skin and bones. At least one was little more than a child.

A woman darted out the door as soon as her chains fell away. Pace frowned and hoped she didn't give them away, but he didn't have time to stop her. Others immediately followed in her path. He couldn't blame them. Escape would be the first thing on his mind too. Kentuckians once spoke proudly of the loyalty of their "people." That day was long since gone. Resentment, fear, and hatred had taken its place.

The child cried out again, and a man cursed as he stumbled in the darkness. Robert whispered a warning for quiet from outside, but by then, it was too late.

Pace heard the shouts and knew the time had come. He'd known it would. He couldn't possibly keep a dozen people quiet until they all safely fled. He'd just hoped he could get them all free before the next part of his plan fell into place. With a solid blow to the lock he worked on, he freed one more. He didn't wait to see if the woman could rise on her own. He needed his good hand and his gun for something else now.

He slipped out of the cabin before he could check on who remained behind. Lantern light cut a swathe across the backyard from the door of the big house ahead. A porch light silhouetted Homer's pudgy physique with a rifle upraised in his hands. Homer couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, Pace knew, but he also recognized the rifle model. Leave it to Homer to have one of the hideously expensive new Winchesters.

Women went screaming into the night as the first shots fired into nothingness. A man dashed from the overseer's house at the first sounds of gunfire, and Pace cursed his luck. He'd counted on Homer running for his horse and help, leaving the house empty. He hadn't counted on anyone getting hurt.

A man screamed as one of the wild shots found a mark. Still cursing, Pace raised his gun and aimed as carefully as he could with his left hand. The shot would have knocked the rifle from Homer's hands if his overseer hadn't taken that moment to enter the line of fire.

The overseer went spinning to the ground, screaming with Pace's first shot. He'd killed before, but not like this. Sickened, Pace looked for Robert but couldn't find him in the chaos erupting through the yard. If the boy had a lick of sense, he was inside the house, rifling the desk. He had to give Robert more time.

Pace's attention had wandered only a second, but Homer left the porch during that brief moment of inattention. He now ran across the yard, jamming more cartridges into his weapon. A woman grabbed a crying child and tried to run after the others, but she could barely stand on her own and the child caused her to stumble. Pace felt the sickness in his stomach as Homer raised his rifle to take aim. He hadn't wanted it to come to this. He lifted his gun again.

He didn't have time to fire. A skeletal shadow stepped out of the shadows, wrapped an arm around Homer's neck from behind, and jerked backward. Pace could hear the snap of his neck breaking all the way across the yard.

The sickness in Pace's stomach burned like fire, but he didn't have time for examining his emotions. This was war, pure and simple. He could only look after himself and his men. Homer was the enemy.

The slaves disappeared into the shrubbery and the wooded copse beyond. Skirting the groaning overseer, Pace dashed for the house and the desk containing the deeds to people's lives.

Robert was there, shoving thick stacks of paper into his coat pockets, filling a gunnysack with the rest. They couldn't sort through them now. Pace helped him empty the desk.

Frightened female voices carried down from the upper story. Homer's mother and a maid, no doubt. Pace grabbed Robert's arm, nodded at the door, took the sack, and ran.

* * *

"Homer's dead and they don't know if his overseer's going to live." The words whispered back to Dora behind the counter although spoken to Josie. She pretended she didn't hear them. She couldn't tell if the speaker had intended for her to hear them or not. Surely everyone in town didn't suspect Pace.

"Where did slaves get guns?" Josie asked with true innocence.

"Someone helped them," the voice answered impatiently. "Someone went in there and got them free, and then they went hog wild. They'll murder us all in our beds now that they have a taste for killing."

Dora thought that was probably one of the more ridiculous statements she'd heard this morning. If she were an escaping slave, she'd head straight for the river. Hanging around to get revenge on the white man wouldn't enter her mind, particularly since the white men they most hated already lay dead or dying.

Josie's gasp of horror said she believed the woman's hysteria. The gasps and murmurs from the rest of the gossiping crowd gave evidence that she wasn't the only one. They would all go to their beds and shiver in horror tonight. Such a scandal was even juicier than reading a Gothic novel. It wasn't a climate highly conducive to intelligent reactions.

Dora kept her mouth shut. With luck, a few days of quiet would settle the rumors and all would return to normal. Without luck, someone would get their throat cut in the next few nights and the panic would turn into a witch hunt. Silently, she prayed for a thundering downpour to keep the populace behind closed doors these next nights.

She felt achy and wished she hadn't defied Pace and come into town again. The uncomfortable chair made her back cramp, and the child within her felt like a dead weight. She had the urge to get up and roam around the room, but the other women would have heart failure, no doubt. She shouldn't even be out in public like this.

So when the messenger burst through the front door, slamming it against the wall in his excitement, it just seemed like one more harbinger of doom. Dora winced against the pain the noise of his entrance produced, then listened with incredulity to his shouts.

"Lee surrendered! The Confederacy is dead! The war is over!"

The war is over.
It didn't seem possible. David had died for this ignominious ending? Charlie had rotted in prison to prevent this feeble announcement? Men still died here in Kentucky. They still had slaves. What had changed to account for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of young men? Nothing that she could see. She had imagined bells of joy pealing overhead. She wanted fireworks and celebration.

Instead, the pain in her back struck a little stronger. It was too early for the babe. It must be gas. But Dora didn't feel like staying here anymore, listening to the wails of woe filling the room when it should echo with happiness and relief. The store would be a storm of controversy for the next few hours, maybe even days. She just didn't think she could manage it. Quietly, she slipped behind the curtains and into Sally's parlor. She would have someone take her home.

Pace still worked in the fields while Dora made her way up the stairs to her room. Annie had settled Harriet in for a nap and had gone down to the kitchen to supervise the cooking so they would have something besides beans tonight. Delia had taken Amy out for a walk. As she removed her gown to lie down, Dora worried about giving Delia the responsibility for still another child. The woman was good with Amy, but not very attentive. How would she handle both an infant and a toddler?

She drifted off to sleep worrying over the question. By the time she woke, darkness shadowed the room. The pain in her back had shifted until it felt like a giant hand gripping her abdomen and squeezing. Dora gasped at the extent of it. When the pain receded, she carefully climbed from the bed, found a wrapper, and went in search of aid. The child had decided it wanted its freedom early. She should have known any child of Pace's would be rebellious from birth.

Annie wasn't in the invalid's room. Dora spoke a few careful words to Harriet who sat knitting in her rocking chair, then gently let herself out. She had almost made it down the front stairs when the pain struck again. She grasped the banister and held on, trying not to bend with the force of the cramp. She felt the wetness down her leg, and nearly cried. Childbirth shouldn't be like this. She wasn't supposed to be alone and scared. She wasn't supposed to be mortified at her inability to control her body.

Trembling with fear and embarrassment, she almost gave in to the urge to return to her room and change into a dry night shift. But she didn't think she had the strength for traversing the stairs again. She had to find help.

Dora eased her way through the dining hall, wrapping the robe around her and hoping it hid the stains. She could hear the sound of voices arguing in the kitchen, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn't totally alone.

"If Miss Josie sent for Delia, then it's her duty to go. That's no excuse for this slop. I thought Annie told you I didn't want to see these damned beans anymore!"

Pace. In the kitchen. Dora grabbed the wall and tried to keep her fears from flying off with her. She didn't know the man she claimed as husband. She knew the young boy. She knew the hurting young man. She couldn't understand the violent soldier. She didn't want to after what she'd heard today. One man was dead and another lay dying. She hated believing that Pace was responsible.

She couldn't worry about that now. Another pain enfolded her, and she dug her fingers into the wall for support. The pains came too close already. This damned child of Pace's was in a hurry. She should have known. What had she been thinking?

She must have groaned loud enough to override the argument in the kitchen. Before she straightened, Pace flew down the corridor, his tanned face paling at sight of her bent over and clutching her belly.

"Dora, my God! What are you doing down here? I thought you were sleeping."

He caught her when she sagged against him. The relief of having someone strong to cling to was such that Dora couldn't make herself straighten and walk away. She buried her face gratefully in his wide shoulder when he gathered her against him. Just for a minute. Just for this one little minute, she would let him carry some of this burden.

"It's the baby," Solly's mother said from behind them. "That baby's coming now. I'll heat up some water."

Wildly, Pace glanced around at the woman in the doorway, then down to Dora's drawn features. "Where's the midwife? Someone fetch the damned midwife."

No one answered his frantic cry. Only Solly's mother worked in the kitchen, and she had gone to boil water. Pace remembered Delia and Josie had taken Amy over to the Andrewses' for the night. Annie had sashayed off on her own. Word had already reached the farm of Lee's surrender. A slave celebration would be in progress somewhere. There wouldn't be a servant left in the quarters.

Trying to stifle a growing panic. Pace swung Dora into his arms. Despite the size of her belly, she didn't weigh anything. His bad arm scarcely ached as he held her. But he almost dropped her when he felt the moisture seeping through her gown. He wasn't ready for this.