Sweet Release (2 page)

Ten minutes later they appeared again, carrying the man stiffly between them. They dropped him facedown next to his coach. “Poor bloke.” Still, he didn’t mind if rich folks got robbed now and then. They had it coming.

As soon as the thieves vanished again into the darkness of the alley, the man stumbled over to the still form. Perhaps there was a bob or two the thieves had missed. A glint of gold on one finger made him gasp with delight, and he reached out to claim his prize. No sooner had he touched the man’s hand than he jerked back.

The hand was as cold as the draft from a tomb.

The old man staggered away, looking anxiously about to make sure no one had seen him. If anyone had, they’d surely blame him for the killing and he’d find himself swinging from the end of a rope. Still, that gold ring would bring him enough ale and bread to fill his belly for many a day. His belly growled, and he inched forward again.

The ring slid off easily. Feeling braver, he tried to search the dead man’s pockets. Thieves who would miss a gold ring could easily have left behind a shilling or two. But no matter how he tried, he could not reach the pockets from behind. Tugging on one of the dead man’s arms, he managed to pull the body over onto its back.

What he saw sent him retching to his knees.

Gasping for breath, the old man tottered to his feet, dropped the ring, and fled, sobbing, down the street.

Chapter One

His Majesty’s Commonwealth of Virginia

Lancaster County, on the Banks of the Rappahannock River

May I8, I730

Cassie Blakewell watched the sluggish craft struggle upriver against the current, her stomach knotted. Of all the things she had to do to keep the plantation running, from caring for the sick to squishing dratted hornworms, dealing with soul drivers was the thing she dreaded most.
Soul driver.
The words alone lent a chill to the otherwise warm spring air.

“Let me do the talking.” She nervously smoothed her skirts and fluffed the muslin ruffles that edged the bodice of her gown. “We don’t want trouble.”

Micah nodded his head and wiped away beads of perspiration that trickled down his wrinkled forehead from the tight salt and pepper curls on his head. The frown on his dark face told her he was far from happy. Small wonder. Until last year he’d been the one to make all decisions regarding the buying and selling of bondsmen and slaves. Last summer her father, who knew how to deal with troublesome strangers and nosy neighbors, had become ill. White folks had been suspicious of free-born Negroes before last year’s slave uprising, but they’d become downright hostile since. Although a free man and the best overseer in the county, Micah was now safer pretending to be a slave when around strangers. It was a lot to swallow for a man who had once owned his own farm.

Somewhere in the distance a wood thrush and its mate exchanged honeyed song. Cassie inhaled the scent of pine and tried to calm the fluttering in her stomach. She loved this river and the land that cradled it. Let everyone else move to the noisy streets of Williamsburg in search of wealth and adventure. She would remain here, surrounded by the only riches that mattered.

She shielded her eyes against the glare of sun and water, watching the small boat creep closer to the pier. The spring freshet had the river running high and fast.

“He’s gonna cheat you blind.”

“I know what I’m doing.” Micah was only goading her, but she felt her temper rise just the same. “Didn’t I get Tom at a good price?”

Tom was the newest bondsman on the plantation, and she had felt quite lucky to get him for only eleven pounds.

“That’s because there ain’t nobody else wants to buy a half-blind blacksmith. You got robbed.”

“He’s very skilled. You said so yourself.”

“Maybe so.” He shrugged and grinned.

“What about Nate and Rebecca? They’ve worked out well.” Just because she was young and female didn’t mean she couldn’t make good business decisions.

“Yes’m, they have. But you’ll be paying to feed another mouth in a few months. Most folks don’t take in redemptioners whose wives are expectin’.”

“Most folks are just plain silly, if you ask me.” She crossed her arms, refusing to be baited further.

“Yes, Miss Cassie, that’s the truth.” Micah chuckled.

The schooner drew alongside the pier. She tucked a wayward curl under the confection of silk roses and taffeta that sat upon her head. Normally she had no use for the handiwork of a milliner, but right now she was pretending to be a proper young lady, and this silly bonnet was a necessary prop.

“Do you think they’ll have bondsmen this time?”

Cassie didn’t really expect an answer. How should Micah know?

The flow of bondsmen from England had slowed to a trickle by the time she was a young child. Nowadays there were mostly convicts and slaves, and she hoped to avoid buying either. Oh, it was true her father owned slaves. These days it was impossible to run a large estate without them. But it sat no better with her than it did with her father.

“Ho, there!” A fleshy, red-faced man stood on the deck and waved to her. Two slave boys dropped the gangway onto the pier, came ashore, and secured the craft.

Cassie fought a momentary wave of nausea as the stench hit her. Boats carrying human cargo seemed to have their own particular odor—the smell of sweaty, unwashed bodies combined with excrement, disease, and death. She took a perfumed kerchief from her satchel and held it to her nose, willing the nausea to pass. The rotund man who had hailed them disembarked and walked toward her, wheezing and glancing about as if trying to find someone—a husband or father.

“Good day, miss,” he said, bowing and removing his hat to reveal a dirty wig that barely covered his shaved head. “Is the owner of this estate nearby?”

“I’m afraid my father is away on business. He left me to trade with you in his stead.”

The pudgy man’s eyebrows shot up in momentary surprise, but he quickly recovered. “The name’s Sylas Edwards, Miss…Miss…?"

“Blakewell.”

“Miss Blakewell.” He bowed again, his eyes fixing on the lace fichu she had lucked into her decolletage for modesty’s sake. She felt a shiver of revulsion and involuntarily raised a hand to her bosom.

He smiled, exposing a row of half-rotted teeth.

“I’m sure you’re eager to get on your way, Mr. Edwards, so if we could get down to business, I’ll not keep you from your journey.”

“I’m a dealer in slaves and bondsmen, miss.” He motioned to a member of his crew to bring the human merchandise forward. At the clinking of chains, Cassie’s heart fell. Only convicts and slaves wore fetters. She exchanged a knowing look with Micah and turned to see several miserable creatures, linked by neck and ankle, shuffling down the gangplank and onto the pier. Five were slaves. One appeared to be English. All were filthy. All stank. She covered her nose with the scented cloth, quelling another wave of nausea.

“I’ve got here five prime African bucks, all of them young and strong,” Sylas began, walking toward his chattel, riding crop hand.

Most of the slaves stared at the ground. The tallest one, however boldly returned Cassie’s gaze. His chest bore long, fresh scars, she felt certain he was being sold by a former owner who’d found him difficult.

“I’ve also got a convict straight from Newgate.”

As if on cue the Englishman, who seemed twice as filthy as rest, moaned and swayed. The tall slave, who was chained beside him, reached out, hands in wrist irons, to steady him. The s driver went on as if nothing had happened.

“Considerin’ what he’s guilty of, I doubt if your father would want the convict around, not with a beauty like yourself to protect With a warning like that, she couldn’t resist asking, “What his crimes?”

“He’s a defiler of womenfolk.” Sylas gave a satisfied grin at gasp. “Aye, they’d have hung ‘im, but he ‘ad coin aplenty a bought off the judge, he did.”

She looked closely at the wretched man’s face, or rather what she could see of it. His face and beard were caked with dirt and blood. Dark hair was matted to his head with sweat. His eyes w all but closed, and had it not been for the kindness of the tall slave next to him, she was sure he would have collapsed. He was gravely ill.

“They’d all make good studs, if your father’s looking for breed stock.”

Breeding stock?
Cassie gasped, her gaze fixed on the convict’s face.

But Sylas was talking about the slaves.

“Pardon me for bein’ so blunt about such things, Miss Blakewell but your father did leave you to do a man’s job.”

“Of course.” She felt her cheeks burn.

Suddenly the convict’s legs gave way entirely, and he slump toward the ground. The entire line of slaves was forced by the chains to squat to avoid choking either him or themselves. Sylas fell upon the prostrate convict, shouting and kicking i man in the ribs with his boot.

“No!” Forgetting the horrible odor emanating from the captivity she rushed forward and forced herself between the soul driver and the fallen man. “There is no need to strike him. This man is ill. He needs a doctor.”

Sylas laughed, his round face spreading into a sneer, and raised the riding crop.

“My job is to sell ‘im, not to coddle ‘im. Stand back.”

“Mr. Edwards, you can’t possibly mean to beat him. He is unconscious.” The poor soul hadn’t collapsed on purpose. “If you want him to fetch a good price, you’d best see he receives care. Surely even you know this.”

“Move out of my way, woman.” The slave peddler’s watery eyes bulged in his angry red face.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to match his menacing glare. The soft crunch of boots on pine needles told her Micah had come forward and stood directly behind her. Reassured by his presence, she spoke in a firm, unwavering voice.

“This is my father’s estate, Mr. Edwards. I speak for him. As long as you stand on our land, you will respect our wishes. No one hits a defenseless man here, even if he is a felon.”

Sylas wavered for a moment, looked over her head at Micah, and slowly lowered the riding crop.

The convict moaned again, then mouthed unintelligible words. She knelt down and touched his forehead. “He’s burning up,” she said over her shoulder to Micah.

“He needs water,” said the tall slave.

“Yes, of course. Micah, bring me some sweet water from the wagon, please.”

“Missy, I know what you’re thinkin’,” Micah whispered as he turned toward the wagon. “Forget it. You don’t know what you’d be gettin’ into.”

She could tell by his voice that Micah was genuinely alarmed.

They’d never had a convict on the plantation before.

“Do you know this man?” she asked the tall slave. It was uncommon to see a slave show concern for a white captive. It was even more uncommon to witness the reverse.

“No.”

“You seem to care what happens to him. Why?”

“No man deserves to die like a dog.”

She stood and faced the soul driver again, her decision made. “How much for these two?” she asked, indicating the prostrate felon and the slave who had shown him compassion.

Both the slave and Sylas looked at her with surprise. Micah erupted into a spasm of coughing and came rushing back, her request for water forgotten.

“Forty pounds. Thirty for the slave and ten for the convict.”

“Miss Cassie,” Micah said in a strained voice. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, the expression on his dear face would have made her laugh. “Your papa won’t be happy if you come home with a trouble slave and a half-dead convict. Don’t—“

“Forty pounds is robbery, Mr. Edwards. This convict will probably die. Ten pounds is far too high a price for one so sick.” She looked at the slave. “This one has lash marks. No doubt his former master found him troublesome.”

She was surprised to hear how calm she sounded. Inside she was quaking like a leaf in a storm. “I offer thirty pounds. Twenty-five for the slave, five for the convict.” What if he refused her offer? She hadn’t much more to bargain with.

Sylas shook his head. “Not a pound less than thirty-eight.” His gaze dropped to her bosom.

“Thirty-five,” she said on impulse. “Plus this bill of lading. I’m afraid if you can’t accept that, then you shall have to take your cargo and continue on your way without a sale.” She took the bill from her purse and held it out for his inspection. “And I shall have to tell my father how rudely you behaved toward me. I’m sure he’ll spread the word to our friends and relations upriver.” Never mind that they had none. The soul driver couldn’t know that. “My offer is more than fair, Mr. Edwards. I suggest you accept.”

The unconscious man moaned again. Trying not to show feminine weakness, she ignored him.

Sylas took the bill and read through it with obvious difficulty. “That bill gives you possession of ten pounds of my father’s best sweet-scented tobacco. You need simply to present this bill to my father’s factor in Williamsburg to collect it.”

Sylas tucked the bill under his belt. “And the thirty-five pounds?” She opened the strings of her purse and placed the precious coins in Sylas’s upturned palm.