Now Face to Face (25 page)

After a while, she became aware of the sound of another set of hooves. She looked behind her: Captain Randolph was on horseback, riding full gallop to catch her. She pulled on the horse’s reins, slowing him to a canter, but not stopping.

“The river!” he shouted as his horse pulled alongside hers. “It will be faster than this road. Follow me.”

He turned his horse in a wide circle, and she urged hers back to a gallop to match his. She had no idea exactly where she was in relation to First Curle; she knew only that if she followed the road she would eventually get there, and that Will Randolph had a faster way. After a while, they left the road to turn down a smaller one, passing fields and pastures bound by fences, passing tobacco barns with leaves curing, passing finally a stable and huge dovecot. It was Perry’s Grove; she knew it by the dovecot. They trotted past the outbuildings, beyond the house, over the lawn, and to the river’s landing pier, where a small sailboat lay.

Colonel Perry had come out of the house with his daughter. Barbara patted the horse’s neck, and he shook his mane and blew through his nose in weariness. Randolph helped her dismount.

“You ride like the devil,” he said, “and I mean that as a compliment.”

“Do you want to come inside a moment, Lady Devane?” asked Beth.

“Thérèse?” said Barbara.

“She is in the house now, resting. She became ill in the carriage.”

“Do you want to wait here?” asked Colonel Perry.

“No, I want to go to First Curle.”

He took her elbow, walking her to the river, explaining that the sailboat was his best, his fastest, that he and Captain Randolph would take her to First Curle. He spoke very simply, very kindly. Bowler Cox was in the boat, holding out his hand to help her board, his young face anxious and concerned. She made her way to the bow, past a slave, and her face turned toward First Curle; she stayed huddled in the bow, away from the others, who let her be. The sail seemed terribly long.

Perry’s slave maneuvered the sailboat skillfully into the first creek, and Barbara lifted her skirts and stepped up and out before anyone could help her. She ran up the bank, down the path to the house, but her stays were too tight, and she finally had to walk, holding her side, past the fields to the picketed yard of the house. The pug Harry came running out.

Barbara knelt. “Harry, where is Hyacinthe?”

Margaret Cox emerged, a grandson behind her, her face swollen with crying. At the sight of Barbara, she began to cry yet again, holding a handkerchief to her face.

“Come upstairs with me, if you would be so kind,” said Barbara to her, “and help me to change.”

In the attic bedroom, Barbara knelt at a trunk, tossing aside delicate laces and stockings and gloves as she looked for a gown in which she could search for Hyacinthe.

“He just never came back,” said Mrs. Cox. “I missed him four afternoons ago.”

Barbara stood. “
Four days?
He’s been gone
four days
?”

She felt as if someone had slapped her a hundred times across the face, so that her head was fuzzy and ringing.

“That first afternoon, I didn’t worry so much. I knew he was tired of being in the house; I thought it all right that he’d left. But when dusk came, he didn’t come back. I called for him, and when there was no answer, I sent over for my grandsons and they hunted for me. I told Odell Smith. The next day, my grandsons looked for him, and Mr. Smith heard the dogs barking, and there was some food stolen from the kitchen. We all thought he was on the plantation, thought that he—” She stopped.

“Unlace me, please. Go on. You thought he was somewhere around and wouldn’t come in to you.”

“Yes. On the third day, I was beside myself. I went to Mr. Smith and said we must tell Lady Devane. We must bring her back from Williamsburg. But Mr. Smith said to wait one more day. He said he would take all of the afternoon and search with the slaves, and so we did. And then, this morning, we sent word out to neighbors to come over to help, and Bowler set out to find you. Hyacinthe didn’t like me being with him, Lady Devane. I tried not to mind it, but he wasn’t happy.”

“He didn’t like being left behind. It wouldn’t have mattered who was with him. Where is Charlotte?”

“No sign of her, Lady Devane. Only this dog appeared, on the third day. Covered in mud. Briars and twigs in his fur.”

Downstairs, Colonel Perry and Captain Randolph and Bowler were in her parlor. Perry looked at her hard. “You are not going out yourself?”

“There is no need, Lady Devane,” Captain Randolph put in. “Others are looking—your neighbors, your overseer, some of the slaves. They will find him if he is to be found.”

“And he is,” Perry said. “I’ve spoken with Bowler here. They are searching everywhere, along the road, on other plantations; they even sent word to your other quarters. You must not trouble yourself. You must sit here and wait. Come, sit down. Play a hand of cards with me. Mann Page said you won seventeen shillings from his nephew in Williamsburg.”

She sat down, accepted the cards he dealt, played card after card; then, somewhere in the game she stopped, stood up abruptly.

“If you become lost, searching,” said Perry, “it will only complicate matters.” He gathered up the cards and began to shuffle them again.

She did not look at him, or at the others. She went outside to the yard and stood there.

“She must have something to do,” Perry said to Randolph. “Let her be.”

Food and drink. The searchers would come in tired and hungry. Here was something she could do. Barbara walked out of the yard to the kitchen, thinking of all that must be done, but there on the table were huge hams and loaves of bread, dishes of pie and beans, wooden bowls of figs and nuts. They had been brought from nearby plantations, from wives and mothers and daughters, who could not come to search, but sent their men and their plenty. It was kind, more than kind, but at this moment, it reminded her too strongly of a funeral feast.

“What do you know, Mama Zou?” asked Barbara, but the old slave shook her head.

She went back to the house and made Bowler help her bring up from the cellar brown bottles of rum, a cone of sugar, jugs of cider for a punch.

She lit the fires in the fireplaces, moved from parlor to parlor lighting candles, had Bowler help her bring the food from the kitchen into the house; finally she went outside to walk the perimeter of the yard restlessly until finally she heard the sound of horses, men, dogs. Running to the barn, she searched for Hyacinthe among the men and horses.

“You did not find him?” she said to no one in particular. “Please,” she told the dismounting men, “please come to the house and have a cup of punch and some supper.”

She went to each man, repeating her invitation and introducing herself if she’d not met him before, thanking him for his time and trouble. She had to walk around the yard again, seeking command of herself, before she could walk into the house.

There, at the door on the other end in the hall, beyond the stair, stood Valentine Bolling and Colonel Perry.

“Your maidservant is here,” said Perry. “She is upstairs.”

“What are you doing here?” Barbara said to Bolling. “Have you come to gloat?”

He glowered at her. “I’ve only just heard the news. I came to help.”

“He isn’t to be found,” said Perry gently.

“I want one more day,” said Barbara. She lifted her chin, ready to argue, plead, or cry, whatever it would take to get her way.

“If you list him as a runaway, the sheriff will post the description at the county courthouse,” said Bolling.

“He is not a runaway.”

“You would need to word the notice carefully,” Perry said. “Sometimes, runaway slaves are killed in capture. There is no punishment of those who do the killing.”

“He isn’t a slave anymore. I’ve given him his freedom. He has been kidnapped. Pirates. Governor Spotswood said there were pirates all along the coast.”

“Pirates seldom sail this far upriver,” Bolling said. “And they are not usually interested in slave boys—excuse me: servant boys who were formerly slaves.”

“A Seneca, a Cherokee, a Tuscarora,” said Perry, slowly, as if Barbara had started him thinking along a new path. “If he got across the river, he might have wandered onto a hunting trail, been taken.”

“I will offer a reward. A diamond necklace.”

“He is not worth a diamond necklace,” said Bolling.

“A diamond necklace and a pair of earrings.”

“List your reward at thirty pounds, and if he is to be found, he will be brought in,” said Bolling.

Merchant, thought Barbara, some things have no price.

“You may have heard that the Privy Council and Parliament in their wisdom dump convicts from Newgate upon us.” Bolling was looking at her as if she were an idiot. “News of a diamond necklace would be up and down the river in days. You might find yourself the hostess of most unwelcome visitors. Even more unwelcome than I.”

“Captain Randolph has a brother who lives above the falls in the river. There are trails there the Indian traders use. We can make sure word of the boy’s disappearance is passed along. The Governor might inform his rangers,” said Perry.

“Rangers?” She pounced upon the word, which had a hopeful sound.

“They scout along the frontiers, past the heads of the rivers—”

“The boy is a sl—a servant,” Bolling said impatiently. “The Governor will hardly call out the rangers for him. She has to understand. Lies will do her no good.”

He will call out the rangers if Robert Walpole so orders, thought Barbara. Or His Majesty. You have no idea of my friends in England, Colonel Bolling. And then she thought, despairing, that it would take months to hear from them.

“It’s settled then: one more day of searching. And we will inform the Governor. If you will excuse me.” She went up the stairs before either of them could answer.

Bolling walked into the parlor, nodded to various men there, saw Margaret Cox sitting off by herself, and went over to her.

“Lost him, did you?” he said.

She didn’t answer. He left her and went across the hall to the other parlor.

U
PSTAIRS,
B
ARBARA
and Thérèse talked.

“What if he is dead?” said Thérèse. “How will we bear it?” Her face was swollen from crying.

“Until we find him, he isn’t, Thérèse. Listen to me. I can’t stay in this house. I’m going to go and hunt for him. Do you want to come with me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You go downstairs first. Just go quietly around the stairs and out the door that is on that end of the hall. Here, take Harry. Wrap this cloak around him so no one sees him. Wait for me.”

Barbara rifled though a trunk, picked out a shirt, pulled a cloak from a peg, and then counted to a hundred. It was all she could do to wait. Stay here, they’d told her. These woods are thick. But she didn’t want to stay here. She was going to do what she was going to do, and not a man was going to stop her. She walked down the stairs, paused a moment on the last step. She could hear voices in both parlors. She turned quickly, walked past the stairs to the door at the end of the hall, and stepped outside. She waited a moment, fastening her cloak at her neck. No one followed. No moon tonight, she thought, looking up. No moon for Hyacinthe. Thérèse stepped from behind a pine tree.

“You have Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Good. There will be a lantern in the kitchen. I’ll fetch it.”

That done, she leaned down and gave the dog Hyacinthe’s shirt to smell. “Good boy. Good dog. Find Hyacinthe. Where’s Hyacinthe, Harry?”

The pug barked and ran into the night, and she and Thérèse followed.

“W
HAT’S THAT
?” said Margaret Cox. “Do you hear it?”

She opened the door, and the sound was clearer, a lilting, mourning wail that grew stronger and stronger. Finally, men came into view, led by a giant, bearded, who marched into the yard of First Curle, some five slaves behind him, and gave a final squeeze to the bagpipes he played.

“It’s John Blackstone,” said Bolling, who had come outside. Indeed, everyone in the house had come outside as the sounds from the bagpipes had grown louder.

“We heard about the boy and came to help find him,” Blackstone said. “They can find anything.” He tilted his large and heavy head backward to indicate the slaves with him.

“You’re across the river on another quarter, aren’t you?” said Perry.

“I owe the ferryman for crossing us, but I figure Lady Devane will pay it if we find the boy,” Blackstone answered.

“Well, come inside, Mr. Blackstone,” said Mrs. Cox, “while I fetch her.”