Part 9 (1/2)

Nicole downed the s.h.i.+mmering oyster. ”Delicious,” she agreed. ”I love oysters. Maman did not approve. Not fit food for a lady, she said. Only for common folk.”

”What would your maman say if she saw you now?” Quent asked, slurping down two oysters and opening two more for her.

”She would wag her finger,” Nicole admitted. ”But she would understand after I explained that it was oysters or nothing, and that I am very hungry. Where did you get that?” She nodded toward the willow-reed basket, grayed with age and long soaking.

”There's a cave beneath those rocks. The entrance is underwater and it's hard to find unless you know where to look. The basket was in there.”

”You knew where to look.”

”Yes. We're on Shadowbrook land now. I've been swimming here since I was a boy.”

”You and Monsieur Shea?”

”That's right.” d.a.m.n the woman. Every conversation he had with her ended with Cormac Shea.

In the morning they left the riverbank and cut inland. ”Straight up the bank would get us there faster,” Quent said, ”but there's a stretch of marshland between here and the house where the mosquitoes are the size of your fist. Better if we avoid that.”

Nicole was grateful for the shade of the woodland route, and Monsieur Hale seemed to enjoy pointing out various landmarks and features of the Patent as they came into view. More for himself than her, Nicole thought, as if he needed reminding.

”That road there leads to the sawmill. Used to be only half as wide, but we broadened it some years back. This is the back road to the mill. Round the other side there's what we call the big road, the one my grandfather built when he first got here.” Quent squatted and studied the rutted track. ”Doesn't seem to have been sc.r.a.ped or graded for the last couple of seasons.”

A league or so further on there was another break in the trees, and another path wide enough for a horse and wagon. ”That's the back way to the gristmill and the sugarhouse,” he said. ”But if you're not driving a wagon, quickest way's to take the cutoff by a pair of white pines. Takes you by way of Big Two.”

”What is made at a sugarhouse? And what is Big Two?”

”Sugar's how you make rum.”

”And Big Two?”

”Pair of hills.” He didn't explain that the hills had gotten their name because of their resemblance to a woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

A bit farther on they climbed a rise that gave them a view over what appeared to be an inland sea, or perhaps a lake. Only when she looked more closely did Nicole realize it was a field of wheat, the tall stalks rippling in the early morning breeze.

They stood for a time while Quent shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed at the crop. ”Almost ripe by the smell of it,” he said after a few seconds. ”But there's far too many weeds been allowed to take root. Can't think why-” He broke off.

”Why what?”

”Nothing.” No point in telling her that it was peris.h.i.+ng strange that the sun had been up for nearly four hours and there were no slaves pulling the weeds from the field. He didn't look forward to telling Nicole about Shadowbrook's slaves.

It disturbed him that he'd seen no one on the sawmill road, or heading to or from the sugarhouse or the gristmill. More than fifty people lived in this southern part of the Patent; if you counted the folks up north at Do Good, there were close to three times that many on the place. But they hadn't pa.s.sed another human being since they set foot on Shadowbrook's land. The hairs on the back of his neck were p.r.i.c.kling. Quent took his gun from his shoulder and began pouring powder down the muzzle while they walked.

Nicole watched him, her dark eyes nearly black with concern. Quent said nothing, and for once she didn't ask any questions.

An hour or so later, when the sun was directly overhead, the house appeared. ”That's Shadowbrook,” Quent said softly.

Because of the detour they'd taken to avoid the marsh, they approached the house from the side, but that wasn't much of a disadvantage. Like most houses she'd seen here in the New World, it appeared foursquare, planted solidly atop a rise and fronting on the river. As far as she could see, Shadowbrook was without wings, though it seemed to sprawl out the back for some ways, as if bits had been added on year by year. It was built of wood and gleamed white beneath a slate roof, with shutters the same dusky blue-gray color. She counted four chimneys, though she expected there were more. ”It looks to be a fine house,” she said.

He heard her voice as if it came from a far distance and raised his hand to silence her. Quent listened hard, trying to hear the danger. He knew it was there-the hot July breeze carried the stink of fear along with the smell of the river and of rampant summer growth. He heard nothing but silence at first, then a s.h.i.+ft in the currents of air brought a whisper of something that sounded like moaning.

For a moment he wondered if his father had died, if he was hearing Ephraim Hale's mourning song. No, if it were, everyone would be up by the burying place at Squirrel Oaks. This sound came from the vicinity of the house.

The sound grew louder. It was a keening, a collective misery. Now Nicole heard it, too. ”Mon Dieu, what is that?” She made a hurried sign of the cross.

”I'm not sure. Could be-” He stopped because there was another sound, a whoos.h.i.+ng and cracking, and a second immediately after. ”Sweet Jesus Christ! Sweet Jesus! Stay here. Don't move.” He took off, his long strides burning the distance between himself and the house.

Nicole watched him for a moment, felt the loneliness of the woods at her back; then, ignoring his words, she went after him.

The gra.s.s around the house was usually close cut and bright green. Now it was browned and britde and long enough to flatten as Quent ran across it. The moaning had stopped; and he heard only the whoosh and crack.

There was a flat piece of earth on the far side of the house; they called it the Frolic Ground. It got its name after Quentin Hale survived to see his first birthday. His father gave a great dinner, a frotic, to celebrate.

The Frolic Ground was a hundred fathoms long-it would take a tall man two hundred strides to cover its length-and nearly as wide. It was surrounded by ornamental posts from which lanterns could be strung to light the darkness. There was an enormous fire pit to one side, big enough to roast a couple of oxen and many, many fowl, as Ephraim had done on Quent's first birthday. Over a hundred local Indians were there that day, along with every single soul who lived and worked on the Patent, whatever their color or religious persuasion. Even the Quakers of Do Good came, standing primly to one side and not joining in the dancing or whooping and hollering that marked the occasion.

A seventh whoosh and cracking cut through the midday summer silence. Quent winced. In a moment he had covered the last twenty strides.

Fifty men and women huddled together in the Frolic Ground, black slaves and the white tenant farmers who worked on the Patent. They stood in a semicircle around one of the big wagons used to haul felled trees to the sawmill. The wagon's traces were empty and staked to the ground, and guylines had been fixed either side to keep the whole thing steady. The wagon wheels were nearly as tall as Quent himself, st.u.r.dy enough to carry the weight of four or five ma.s.sive tree trunks. Plenty strong enough to support even the huge man who was tied to one of them.

The man was spread-eagled and roped in place, belly to the hub, arms and legs splayed against the spokes, and naked from the waist up. His broad ebony back was welted with the stripes he'd received since Quent had heard the first crack of the whip moments before. His huge bald head was turned away from the Ground's entrance, but Quent knew the man tied to the wagon wheel was Solomon the Barrel Maker.

The crowd was silent, their attention riveted on the man with the whip.

Quent raised the long gun to his shoulder, his finger tightening on the trigger. ”Use that thing again and I'll blow your head off.”

The crowd swiveled toward him as if it were a single creature. ”Master Quent,” someone muttered. ”Master Quent be home.”

”How in b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l did you get here?” John Hale stepped from the far side of the wagon to the empty s.p.a.ce between it and the onlookers. The hand hanging at his side held a pistol. ”Whipper, pay him no mind. Do your duty.”

The whipper looked first at the tall redhead wearing buckskins and pointing a deadly long gun directly at him, then at the much shorter dark man dressed in black breeches and a white linen s.h.i.+rt, coatless in deference to the hot sun.

”If he wants to stay alive, he'd better not,” Quent called out. ”And whatever you call this business, it's got nothing to do with duty. There's not been a public whipping on Shadowbrook since Grandfather's day. Father forbade it.”

”Father is ill. I'm running things now. The Barrel Maker told me an untruth.” John raised the hand holding the pistol and c.o.c.ked it. He aimed it straight at his brother. ”Put down the long gun or I'll shoot.”

”Don't be a jacka.s.s,” Quent said. ”You can't shoot faster than I can and you know it. You there, whipper, I said put it down. This is the last time I'm telling you. Next time I'll shoot your hand off.”

”Don't-” John began, but the man had already dropped the whip.

”Good,” Quent said. ”Now, kick it over toward me. Good.” Quent addressed the crowd without taking his eyes off his brother. ”Big Jacob, you there?” He'd seen the old man in the crowd as soon as he approached the Frolic Ground. Big Jacob lived at the sugarhouse and looked after the young horses kept in a paddock on that part of the Patent.

”I be here, Master Quent. And mighty glad to be seeing you.”

”Glad to be here, Jacob. Now, kindly come forward and untie Solomon.”

John whirled around and pointed the pistol in the direction of the slave. ”Stay where you are.”

”John, if you discharge that pistol in any direction, I will blow you to kingdom come. You have my word on it. Do as I say, Jacob.”