A small storm of hollers and catcalls passed over the mob, though most of the men remained sullenly silent. “Yellabelly, Jeb?” a caustic voice asked. “Or yella-striped?”
“Ain’t yella,” Jeb answered sourly, and from a sheath at his side he pulled a wicked-looking sword that Matthew thought could pierce three Magnus Muldoons. He held the sword out so the lamplight and torches reflected off its gleaming surface. “Got this to fight with and I damn sure know how to use it, McGraw! But I’m sayin’…swords and muskets might not be enough to fight what’s up that Godforsaken river! Why not just let the skins go? They ain’t gettin’ nowhere, and they’ll likely be dead by first light, up in that devil’s country!”
“I’m for earnin’ me thirty pounds!” shouted another citizen of Jubilee, a broad-shouldered man with a wild brown beard and a sweat-damp red kerchief tied around a bald scalp. He lifted his own weapon, a flintlock pistol with a small bayonet fixed beneath the barrel. “Zachary DeVey ain’t afraid! Put me a ball through any spirit, ha’int or demon up that river, and I’ll laugh when I do it!”
A chorus of assent followed this boast, with more pistols and swords lifted high. Matthew, still feeling a little queasy and blurry-eyed, thought there were enough weapons in this yard to start a small war, and possibly the mob had come here anticipating the possibility of trouble with the slaves…or indeed an uprising of the ‘skins,’ as the locals put it.
“Listen to me!” Royce bellowed. “Those stories some of you are feared of are just that…stories made up by slaves, Indians and damn fools!” He pointed toward the north. “You know why Miss Sarah’s killer and those other two are headin’ upriver instead of down? Because they’re thinkin’ those tales are gonna keep us rooted right here, feared to go up there and bring ’em back! Now…I’ve told you I’m joinin’ the hunt, not because I’m wantin’ the money but because I’m wantin’ to see justice done! I’ve told you what Mr. Kincannon wants…and he wants it quick as possible. So any man who wants to serve Mr. Kincannon and avenge that poor girl’s murder by the hands of a black buck, get your musket or your sword and whatever else you need, get your boat and start movin’. That’s all I have to say. Either help or go home and to bed with you, but I’m expectin’ ten or twenty men of you out there to remember that Mr. Kincannon built Jubilee, and you all owe him more than bein’ afraid of ghost stories and a damn river!” He waited for a reaction to this, but there was none. “You decide!” he told them as a final statement, and then he turned away and went back into the house.
The assembly began to drift apart, breaking up into smaller groups to mutter among themselves. Pipes flared to aid the contemplation. A few of the men were obviously ready to go; without further hesitation they mounted their horses and wagons and rode off toward Jubilee and their fishing boats and canoes.
Magnus’ voice was tight when he said to Matthew, “Come on,” and started toward the house. He walked up the front steps to the porch, with Matthew following right behind, and pounded on the door with a heavy fist.
The door was opened by a young black girl in the dress and mobcap of a house servant. “Tell Mr. Kincannon Magnus Muldoon wants to see him,” was the command, but the black girl shook her head. “Cain’t see nobody,” she answered. “He’s stricken.”
“Stricken? How?”
“He fell down when he seen Miss Sarah dead. Had to be carried up to his bedroom. Mizz Kincannon’s up there with him now, but he can hardly talk.”
“I want to know how this happened,” Magnus insisted, putting a booted foot inside the door. “If I can’t see Kincannon, I’ll see—”
“You don’t give orders around here,” said Griff Royce, abruptly pushing the servant girl aside and staring up with glinting green eyes at the black-bearded mountain. “If you want to join the hunt, go ahead, but you have no business in this house.” The eyes flickered toward Matthew. “You? Corbett? What are you doin’ here?”
“It seems I…had a little too much to drink, and—”
“What’s he babblin’ about?” Royce asked Muldoon. “The both of you, go on!” He closed the door, forcing Magnus to step back, and a bolt was decisively thrown.
“Friendly sort,” said Matthew, who had noted that the compress on Royce’s right forearm had been removed in favor of a wrapping of regular bandages. “Not too good with horses either, I understand.”
“I have to find out more about this,” Magnus replied, his face stern and dark. “Sarah was a fine girl.” He shook his head. “Can’t believe it! Murdered by a slave? Why?” He watched the rest of the men getting astride their horses or climbing up into their wagons and heading out with a clatter of reins, wheels, swords and muskets. “There’ll be a dozen boats on that river in a little while.” He gave a quiet grunt. “Ain’t nobody bringin’ anybody back alive, that’s for sure. Be three sets of black ears swingin’ from somebody’s sword, maybe three scalps too, but no skin’s comin’ back alive this night.”
Matthew thought of Sarah Kincannon sitting on the boulder with her nose in the book of Herrick poetry, and her wave and bright smile and how much she reminded him of Berry. If Berry had been suddenly murdered, what would his first reaction be? Grief, of course. Bitter grief. And then…?
And then, he thought, his nature would take control, and he would wish to see the body and note the cause of death with his own two eyes.
“Where might Sarah’s body be?” he asked.
“Maybe in the house or back in the dairyhouse. There’s a chapel just beyond the house over that way. That’s where the bell’s rung from. Could be there.”
“Let’s find out,” said Matthew, who descended the steps and began striding in the indicated direction, aware that Magnus had followed him and sounded like a horse stomping the grass at his heels.
The chapel was a small building made of red bricks, just as the plantation house. There was a steeple with a belltower, and lantern light showed through the windows. Matthew pulled the door open and entered, finding a half-dozen pews inside and a lectern at the front where perhaps Kincannon himself read the Scripture against the background of a tapestry of Jesus on the Cross. In the lamplight and the flickering of two candles on either side of her head was the body of Sarah Kincannon, lying on a table next to the lectern. Her corpse had been covered by white linens up to her chin, her arms beneath the covering, no inch of flesh showing except the face. She appeared to be peacefully sleeping as Matthew approached, but dark red bloodstains had surfaced on the linens at the hollow of the girl’s throat. Her blond hair had been pinned up and gracefully arranged around her head. Matthew saw how pale she was from loss of blood, and how her eyelids were just barely open, the whites of her eyes showing, to defeat the image of a peaceful sleeper. He removed his half-crushed tricorn, in respect for the departed.
“Sarah,” Magnus whispered.
He rushed past Matthew like a hurricane to stand beside the table and gaze down forlornly at the corpse. He stood motionlessly except for a pulse beating at his temple, his eyes shocked and watery. “Oh my God,” he said, again in barely a whisper. “Why? Why?”
He reached out a hand to place his rough fingers gently against the dead girl’s cheek. “Don’t touch her,” rasped a wizened voice from the furthest corner of the chapel.
Matthew and Magnus turned toward that corner. A small, slender figure was sitting in the pew there.