Property(33)

“Sarah?” I said softly, turning slowly, cautiously, to the window. She was leaning out, holding the baby close to her chest, looking first one way, then the other. Soundlessly she held the bundle out over the sill and dropped it. I listened for the thump, the cry, but there was nothing.

What did it mean? She turned from the window, her eyes wide, looking past me at the apparition in the doorway. She saw it too. My mind was not made easier by this revelation. I turned back, still clinging to the bedpost, though I felt my strength returning. The face was there, a little more of it now, a bit of the nose and cheek. How long did he intend to spy upon us in this absurd fashion. “What are you doing here?” I asked. How calm my voice was!

For answer he stepped boldly into the doorway. He was a tall man, very black, dressed in a loose cotton shirt and rough breeches, no shoes. In one hand he held a cane cutter, in the other a butchering knife. He stood with his feet turned out, his shoulders slumped, and his eyes strangely unfocused, as if presenting himself for inspection. I didn’t think I had seen him before. He was a field hand, a runaway from somewhere, there would be no reasoning with him. And, indeed, no compelling argument sprang to my mind. Where was my husband with his pistols? His obsession had finally materialized, and he was nowhere to be found. It crossed my mind that he was already dead.

“He not alone,” Sarah said, and I replied, “No, I think not. Come and stand close to me.”

She moved to my side and there we stood, while the air grew thick with the inevitability of murder. We heard the first shot, a shout, then another shot. Our captor appeared unconcerned. Everything was still; only the curtain rustled in the breeze. All at once the scratching in the wall started up, loud and urgent, as if the silence was too much for the rodent to bear. I could hear Sarah’s shallow breathing next to me, and in my ear my own racing pulse. The man leaned back into the hall, looking toward the landing. A voice called up the stairs, “Bring them down.” He stepped back, motioning us into the hall with his cane knife.

My impulse was to run, but where? My husband had taken great care to lock the house, evidently sealing us in with our murderers. Sarah took up the lamp and preceded me out to the landing. Our captor followed closely, his shadow leaping up the wall in front of me so that I felt surrounded by him. At the landing he said, “Wait.” I stopped. Sarah turned back, and we both watched as he examined the spyglass. A cough drew my attention down to where the light from the dining room pooled at the foot of the stairs. Another man was there, smaller, blacker, holding a pistol at his side and smiling up at me. “Come down now, ladies,” he said. “And come slow.”

I rested my hand on the rail and went down, pausing at each step. Sarah came behind me, holding up the lamp so that I was outlined in light. My head was bursting with questions. Where was my husband? What had happened to Sarah’s baby? Was Delphine safe in the kitchen? How many men were there? How did they get in, and, above all, how could I escape? At the end of the hall I saw that the front door was open and a third man stood in the frame. He held a rifle against his shoulder and looked out at the darkness. The one who had spoken, whom I took to be their captain, stepped back to let me pass. “Just go right on in there,” he said, indicating the dining room. I did as he instructed and received a hard shock: there were four more of them. One was sprawled in a side chair, shirtless, while another knelt before him, wrapping a length of cloth around the seated man’s bleeding arm. They had opened all the shutters and casements. Another man, gripping a short knife, leaned in one doorway looking out while the last, armed with a sword, stood just outside the room looking in. Sarah passed me and set the lamp on the sideboard. More lamps were on the table, along with the remains of a ham and half a loaf of bread, thrown there without the bother of plates. They’d cut into the ham with their knives, leaving deep gashes in the wood. They’ve destroyed that table, I thought, which made me angry. My anger made me bold. I addressed their captain, who stood blocking the door. “Where is my husband?”

The captain came into the room, pulled out a chair, and sat down, giving me a rueful smile. “Thas just what I like to know,” he said. “He clipped my bird here”—he lifted his hand to the wounded man—“and run right out the front door.”

So he had escaped. “Then he will alert the patrol,” I said.

The wounded man laughed. “I don’t think so,” the captain said.

“He got a load of shot in his backside,” the wounded man said.