yamsham
2006-10-01 04:50:35 UTC
"Angel" was created by Whedon and Greenwalt.
Used without permission.
Note: This fic takes place in the 1830's in the southern United
States. It contains racial slurs and racist attitudes that some
readers might find offensive. If you think you might be offended by
these things...well, actually, who wouldn't? But if you think you
might be offended enough to flame me, do us both a favor and don't
read this story.
Dark Fruit Of Dixie ~ An AtS fanfic
"A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree
bring forth good fruit. Ye shall know them by their fruits."
(Matthew 7:15-18)
"William, be a good boy and tell us a bedtime story," said Drusilla
airily, floating into the parlor of the London flat, the hem of her
nightgown brushing lightly over the Turkish carpet.
Angelus, Darla, and William all looked up. They had been talking about
their next move. The city was getting a bit too agitated for their
liking. Little wonder since they had slaughtered and dined upon so
many of its finer citizens. Even a chicken coop will turn on a fox
eventually.
William put down his wine glass of blood and walked over. "What's the
matter, my pet? Can't sleep?"
Drusilla pursed her lips petulantly and pressed her fingers to her
forehead. "There's too much noise coming from the upstairs neighbors."
Darla rolled her eyes. "Dru, dear heart, we ate them weeks ago,
remember? Why don't you try counting sheep? The three of us still have
many important things to discuss."
"She tried that once," William said with a shrug. "Just made it
worse."
"They jump the fence, all pretty as you please," Dru explained, hand
snatching at the air, "but then they don't go away. They pile up in
the field on the other side, and their cotton mumbles in my ears like
whish-whish, whish-whish."
"It'll just take a moment," William said, turning Dru back to the
bedroom. "I'll tell her a story to get her to sleep."
Angelus had watched quietly, draped lazily on the divan, swirling the
thick liquid in his glass. But now he snorted derisively. "Drusilla
wants to sleep, William, not be bored to dust. If it be a story she
wants, mayhap I can think of one she might like."
"Oh yes, perhaps you should have a contest," Darla offered
sarcastically.
Drusilla clapped her hands excitedly. "Ooh, I so like contests!" she
chirruped happily, and then her eyes went sad and weepy. "But where
are the presents on Christmas Eve? Someone forgot to wake up old Saint
Nick. All the good children will be so heartbroken to find lumps of
coal in their stockings in the morn."
"Don't go worryin' your pretty head there, Dru luv," said Angelus. "We
don't be needin' prizes. 'Tis but a gentleman's wager. What say you,
eh, William?"
The blonde-haired vampire glowered at him. "Fine," he said grudgingly.
They got up and went into the bedroom. When Drusilla was tucked under
the covers, he turned and said, "Who goes first then?"
Angelus sat on the end of the canopied bed. "If it's all right with
you, I think I will." He grinned at Darla, who was leaning against the
dresser. "You remember Savannah?"
Darla had looked bored, but now she perked up. "1831," she replied
instantly.
"That be it."
"How could I forget," she said, and then leaned back to listen to the
tale she knew so well.
***
Darla licked her ruby-stained lips and let the dead woman fall to the
cobblestoned alley with a soft thump of petticoats and puffed sleeves.
Further down the alley where the shadows huddled close as if drawn by
the scent of death, Angelus was draining his own victim. The
mutton-chopped man stared over his killer's shoulder with a glazed
expression of fatal surprise.
When Angelus finished, he dropped his lifeless prey like a rag doll
and wiped a splash of blood from his chin.
"Very rich diets these Americans have," he said, sucking his fingers.
"They'll p'rbly be a nation of slovenly cows in a century or so, but
for now they're like ripe berries waitin' to be picked off the vine."
The dead woman's frilly parasol lay on the ground. After the two
vampires had revealed their demonic visage, the woman tried to ward
them off with it, as her stupified suitor cowered against a steaming
pile of trash. But it was only a slight delay; brave she may have been
in the face of death, but she was no slayer. Just a Dixie doxy who'd
entertained her last beau. Now, her face still vamped, framed by
sausage-link curls of blonde hair, Darla picked up the parasol and
twirled it coquettishly like a Southern Belle.
"This one must have drank a lot of mint julips," she said, stepping
over the body. "She had a rather interesting flavor."
"Aye? Is that so?" Angelus grinned wolfishly. "Might I have a wee
taste then?"
Darla hid shyly behind the parasol. "Why, what evah are you
suggesting, sirrah?" she said, affecting a passable Southern accent.
"Would you seek to tarnish my virtue with your manly improprieties?
I'll have you know I was raised to be a proper lady."
Angelus grunted, seizing her by the waist, and pulled her roughly
close to him. "A lot of things you are, Darla, but a 'proper lady' be
about as far from them as you can get."
She put her arms around his neck and smiled slyly. "Would you have it
any other way?"
"Nay, never," he chuckled. "I had me fill of propriety long before you
sired me."
They kissed passionately and then departed the alleyway, leaving the
silent leftovers of their first victims in the States to the rats. In
the bright glare of gaslight street lamps, they strolled along the
narrow wooden buildings of the riverside, home to loud pubs and
drunken fishermen. A paddlewheel steamship chugged up the river, a
column of black billowing from its smokestack.
As they were passing by a tavern, the door burst open. Two men
staggered out into the night, reeking so profoundly of alcohol that
the two vampires crinkled their noses in distaste. Arm in arm, the two
drunkards starting shambling down the street. At the light post on the
corner, they stopped to catch their breath. One of them noticed a
poster that had been stuck there and started reading with bleary eyes.
It read:
~~~
The Savannah Ladies' Cultural Sodality Presents:
A DEBATE ON THE SANCTITY OF SOUTHERN RIGHTS.
Featuring, the Rt. Hon. Senator Thomas Reynolds,
and Professor David Earnest Graceson, formerly of
Oxford University.
To be held this day, September 20th, in the year
of our Lord, 1831, at the First Baptist Church of
Savannah.
Come one, come all! Free and open to the public.
Donantions welcome.
~~~
"Goddamned Abolitionists," the first drunk slurred. "Comin' in here,
stickin' their noses where they don't belong. Ain't no northerner
gonna tell me what's what."
"Ain't no yankee," said the second man. "He's a foreigner. English, if
I heared right."
"That's even worse!" spat the first. "Somethin' ain't right with the
world if some Royal arse-kisser can come here and tell me my business.
What the hell we fight for independence for?"
"Yup," said the second man. "And guess what? I dun heared he's brought
some nigger with 'em. A freed nigger, all dressed up fancy with a top
hat, silk scarf, and dangling a watch like he's some kind of
gentlemen. They say he done graduated from Oxford or some other uppity
university over there. Say he can talk four languages."
"Don't matter none how many languages a nigger can speak," the first
man said. "My dear Mum, may God bless her heart, always said you can't
make no silk purse from a sow's ear." He hockered a gobbet of phlegm
and spat on the poster. "A nigger's a nigger from the day he born 'til
the day he die, that's all there is to it." A long wet fart punctuated
the thought.
The two drunks staggered around the corner and on down to the river.
Angelus and Darla paused at the lamp post and watched as they careened
against the side of a cotton warehouse and disappeared.
"Disgusting swine," said Darla distastefully. "They should be killed
out of principle alone. What do you say?"
But Angelus wasn't listening. He was looking at the poster with keen
interest.
"Let 'em go," he said dismissively. "Little better than wharf rats, if
ya ask me." He pointed at the poster. "But this...this could be
amusin'. What say you then? Feelin' up to a little high culture?"
Darla shrugged. "I suppose. I am a woman of breeding, sirrah. At the
very least the food won't stink of sailor's rum and day-old farts."
Linking arms, they ascended a flight of steps from the riverside to
the city. The langorous humidity of late summer had passed and, though
still warm, there was a certain crispness to the air as autumn
tightened its embrace on September. The dirt streets were wide and
lined with oak trees. Curtains of Spanish moss drooped limply from the
boughs like drowsy house cats. Gentlemen in stove-pipe hats and silken
cravats walked with genteel ladies in ribboned bonnets and shawls
covering the bare shoulders of their brocade satin evening dresses.
They stopped a milita patrol to ask for directions to the church where
the debate was being held and were sent down a street lined with
expensive porticoed mansions and immaculately-kept grounds. A few
minutes later, they stood in the shadow of a large oak tree across the
street from the First Baptist Church, its two tapering gothic spires
rising high above the surrounding trees. Horse-driven buggies and
carriages pulled to the side of the road to let off passengers. A long
line of chatty Savannahan socialites led up to the front doors.
They crossed over and got at the end of the line filing inside. At the
top of the steps was an older man with a fringe of gray hair and
mutton-chops and the collar of clergy. He greeted everyone with a
broad smile, nodding politely to the ladies and shaking the hands of
the men. Standing near his side was a young man holding open a box for
donations.
While they waited, an out-of-breath young man suddenly ran up to a
group of men further ahead in the line.
"Any news?" said an older man. "Have they caught the vermin?"
The younger man shook his head.
Behind them a third man cursed. "Do you believe this? It's been damn
near four weeks and that Turner is still on the loose. What do we pay
taxes for?"
"One of my aunts lives in Virginia," chimed in a fourth man. "She says
folk are afraid to even leave their houses."
"Can you blame them?" said the third. "People won't feel safe until
that Turner is swinging from the gallows..."
As the four men entered the church, their voices dropped to whispers.
Angelus tapped the shoulder of a man standing in front of them.
"Pardon my askin'", he said, "but what were those men talkin' about?"
"You're not from around here, are you?"
Angelus shook his head. "We just got off the boat from Europe."
The man sighed. "Well, it's a sad state of affairs. A few weeks ago in
Virginia, a slave by the name of Nat Turner incited a rebellion. Fifty
whites were massacred before the milita put it down. Turner escaped
capture however and is still on the loose."
"That's just terrible. We're not in any danger, are we?"
The man shook his head. "It's doubtful he'll get this far south,
although to be on the safe side the mayor has temporarily deputized
more militia and increased patrols."
"Ah, I see," Angelus said.
The man glanced around cautiously and then leaned in close to whisper.
"Still, this might not be the best time for a debate on abolition. It
hasn't been the most popular position to have these past few weeks.
Just a friendly word of caution, friend. Mind what you say and to whom
you say it."
"Thankee for that, sir." Angelus turned to Darla. "What do you think
of that bit o' news, eh?"
She shrugged. "Humans killing humans. What a surprise. Here I thought
they would be more enlightened in the New World. How terribly
disappointing." She rolled her eyes. "Like I haven't heard that story
a million times before?"
"Pieces of a puzzle, Darla," he replied. "Pieces of a puzzle."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"We'll see," he said, stepping up to the threshold of the church. He
doffed his hat politely. "And a very good evenin' to you, Pastor," he
said.
"Good evening to you, too, sirrah," said the older man. "Oh...I...do
apologize. I don't believe I've had the pleasure?"
"No, I should expect not. The wife and I aren't from around here. We
sailed into town this afternoon on a honeymoon tour. Saw the poster on
our evening constitutional. Thought it sounded interestin' so we come
down to listen."
The contents of the donations box was mostly coins, small change. As
Angelus was speaking, he pulled out a gold billfold, stripped a few
notes from it, and indifferently tossed them in. The boy holding the
box gasped at the largesse.
Angelus smiled his warmest smile. "Hope that's not a problem, Pastor?
Us two strangers sittin' in on your debate?"
"Oh no, sir, that's not a problem at all," the Pastor said effusively,
his eyes almost glowing. "You and your, if I may be so bold, your very
lovely bride are more than welcome to enter. Please. Please step
inside and have a seat in one of the pews. The debate will began
shortly."
Darla folded the parasol and tucked it under her arm as they entered
the church. As they slid into a well-worn wooden pew toward the back,
she chuckled softly. "Isn't southern hospitality wonderful?"
Angelus shrugged. ""Tis the same with every man of the cloth. He'll
sell his soul for a large enough donation."
"And is that what he did?" Darla asked. "Seems like a steep price
considering we usually take it for free."
"Not really interested in 'im, but p'rhaps if the mood takes me."
Darla glanced at him curiously. "This isn't like you, Angelus," she
said. "What are you planning?"
"Not exactly sure meself yet," he replied. "But don't worryin' your
pretty head. When I do figure it out, I'll strive to make the
festivities to your liking."
"Mmm, anticipation." She grinned lecherously. "I can hardly wait."
The debate began a few minutes later when the Pastor approached two
lecturns set before the alter at the front of the church. He cleared
his throat loudly and the quiet murmuring of the congregation in the
pews dissipated at once.
"Thank you all for attending tonight's debate," he began. "As all here
are no doubt aware, the issue of a State's Rights versus those of the
Federal government is a rather contentious one. Since before the
Revolution even, it has confounded the brightest minds of our fair
Union. Now, we do not propose to resolve the issue in a single night
in some small church in Savannah. Believing we could might be
perilously close to some kind of blasphemy..."
A titter of quiet laughter rippled across the room.
"However," the Pastor continued, "an honest and open dialogue on the
issue can still serve many good purposes. And so without further ado,
I would now like to introduce you to our esteemed speakers for
tonight's discussion."
The Pastor waved his hand and, as the crowd clapped politely, two men
sitting in the front pew stood up and took their places behind the
lecturns. As the applause continued, the two men organized their notes
and reached across the gap to shake the other's hand.
"To my left," the Pastor said, "is the Right Honorable Senator Thomas
Reynolds of Atlanta, a staunch advocate of State's Right, and
nationally-renowned lecturer on the subject."
The clapping increased as Reynolds bowed to the crowd. He was a rotund
man with jowls and the severe expression of almost religious
solemnity.
"To my right is Professor David Earnest Graceson, former chair of the
Oxford history department, and along with William Wilberforce, a
founding member of the British Anti-Slavery Society."
Graceson was tall and thin, sporting a dark beard shot through with
white. The applause as he nodded to the crowd was only slightly
diminished.
"As agreed at the dinner prior to the debate, Professor Graceson will
open with his thoughts."
The Pastor shook Graceson's hand, they exchanged a few words, before
he turned to Reynolds to do the same. While the two Southerners were
talking, Graceson motioned to someone over to the side. A black man,
tall, willowly, and elegant, suddenly stepped out of the shadows with
a thick book and sheaf of papers. He was dressed similar to Graceson,
an expensive suit with a blood-red pool of cravat at his throat.
A rush of whispers rippled through the crowd at the sight of the
finely-attired black man. But if he noticed the attention his presence
drew, he didn't acknowledge it. He handed some papers to Graceson and
then promptly returned to the side, where he resumed his seat without
so much as a single glance at any of the now-animated white people in
the pews.
Speaking in a melifluous baritone, Graceson opened a moment later by
thanking Reynolds and those who invited him to Savannah.
"Before I begin in earnest, though," he said, "I am afraid I must
twist a semantic screw. This issue before us tonight isn't about the
rights of States. It is about the rights of humans. It isn't about the
individual state standing before a central government. It is about a
human being standing before God. It is about the right of a man to
live his life free and unfettered by the chains of slavery."
"Praise be," whispered Angelus to Darla. "A saint it is."
"And you so love the self-proclaimed saints," she replied. "How did
you know?"
He breathed deeply through his nose. "It's p'rbly the aroma of their
sanctity. I can smell it a mile off. Might as well be sweatin' holy
water."
"Really?" she said, sounding impressed.
"Aye. That, and their excrement doesn't stink, don't ya know?"
"Now you're just having me on," she said, giggling. "Seriously, how
did you know?"
"Just had a hunch," he shrugged. "But aren't ya glad I did, now? Or
would ya rather we went back and ate the wharf rats?"
"Oh, no," she replied, taking his arm. "Saints are far more fun. They
always beg the loudest. I love when they start pleading for God to
redeem them. Strange that He never does."
From Graceson's opening words, the debate went back and forth for
nearly an hour, each side politely making their points and
counter-points.
"And yet, your forefathers of this great state outlawed slavery in
1735. Georgia was the only colony in North America to have such laws.
James Oglethorpe and his fellow supporters even said that it was
'shocking that any race of mankind should be sentenced to perpetual
slavery.'"
"But the anti-slavery provision was overturned years later, by the
grace of God and the clear-headed minds of the day. It was the will of
the people, which is the very principle upon which our glorious
country was founded."
Graceson shook his head. "But not all the people. Only some of them.
Those who had the most personal interest in the matter were
conveniently excluded from expressing an opinion. How can that be
called the 'will of the people'?"
"With all due respect, sir, property is not considered people in the
United States."
This comment drew a loud round of applause from the audience; while
off to the side, the tall, quiet black man in the suit clenched his
jaw. His hand curled into fist, but just as quickly relaxed.
"Five years ago, this man here was a slave," Graceson said, pointing
to his black colleague. "He was nothing. Less than nothing, mostly
illiterate, toiling in the fields under the threat of the lash. I
bought his freedom and took him into my house. There, I taught him to
read and write. His ability to learn, his eagerness, was unprecedented
in all my years of teaching. He was starved for food, but it knowledge
that was his sustenance."
Graceson stepped out from behind the lecturn and pointed at the black
man. "Hannibal, please rise if you would be so kind," and he did,
staring evenly at the eyes that stared back at him. "Now, here he
stands before you, an educated gentleman who harbors no ill will
toward his former owners."
Angelus leaned close to Darla and whispered, "There's a wee fib. I
suspect it's takin' the 'educated gentlemen' all he can to keep his
mouth shut whenever that Reynolds says somethin'. Given the proper
provocation, I'd wager he'd hack up every white person in this church
with an axe and laugh about it all the way down to Hell."
"You noticed that, too?" she replied. "I can smell his blood from
here. It's boiling hot. Oh, what I would give for a taste right now. I
bet it's spicy."
"Aye, I smell it," Angelus said, "and everyone else in this room, fer
that matter. I think maybe the wharf rats from before were the most
honest people we've yet seen here."
Darla looked at him curiously. "How do you figure?"
"When Graceson makes a good point, no one says boo to a ghost. But
they clap and smile when Reynolds so much as clears his throat. They
all feel the same as those drunken louts, they're just too proper to
admit it in mixed company. Hypocritical bastards. The whole city
should burn if ya ask me..."
Angelus paused then and a slow smile creased the edge of his thin
lips.
"Samuel Johnson once noted about a waltzing bear, it's not how well
the bear dances, but that it can do it at all," Reynolds declaimed.
"Regardless of your 'educated' negro's outward appearance, it has been
proven by scientific consensus that the negro race is biologically
inferior to the white man."
"Pray tell, good sir, what science is this?" countered Graceman. "The
science of the prejudiced? The science of the bigot?"
"Sir, that was uncalled for and ungracious of a gentleman of your
stature. Science isn't predjudiced because its findings are not to
your liking. The simple truth is that the negro does not possess the
moral or intellectual fiber for self-government. To thrust upon them
so complex a burden when they'd have no chance of success would be as
cruel as throwing a child into a den of wolves."
Graceman shook his head. "Such a honeyed-voice is ill suited for such
calumny, sir."
As the debate continued back and forth, Darla leaned in to Angelus,
and she whispered, "It's strange that I never noticed negros were the
inferior race before. Perhaps my palate is not as sophisticated as I
thought."
Angelus grunted. "Never noticed much difference meself, either. Black
or white, it's all the same to me. Red's the only color that matters
in the end, isn't it?"
"Food is food," Darla said, hungrily licking her lips. "The rest of
it...color and culture, language and race...is irrelevant. It's just
the gift-wrap for the blood."
"Aye." Angelus grinned. "P'rhaps we should conduct our own scientific
experiment. Gut the two of 'em and see if there's any diff'rence the
way they beg for mercy when they're scoopin' their vitals back
inside."
"And desecrate a house of God?" Darla fanned herself. "Sirrah, are you
trying to get me aroused?"
"Might make this night interestin' if we did." He squeezed her hand as
she tittered. "Still, if this Reynolds twaddle is a typical southern
gentleman, I'd rather be a vampire than a black. Least I 'ave a
fightin' chance. If any man dared call me 'property', I'd rip out the
tongue what said it."
"If *you* don't watch your tongue, sirrah, I'll rip off your clothes
and have you right now. They're won't be enough holy water in Georgia
to cleanse the alter of that sin..."
The debate went on for another hour. When it was over, although it was
clear from the expressions on their face that neither liked the other,
they shook hands. The audience filed out of the church into the warm
night. Reynolds and Graceman, followed closely by the tall, dapper
black man, were the last to emerge. They were immediately flocked by
well-wishers and detractors.
Angelus and Darla watched the gathering from the shadow of an oak tree
across the street.
"So what is the night's entertainment to be, my darling?" Darla asked.
"Do we kill both of them? But no, that would be too pedestrian,
wouldn't it? Wait, I know. Why don't we turn one of them and watch as
the other debates the ethics of eating his face?"
She walked around the oak tree, a white-gloved hand trailing across
the rough bark.
"Oh...even better," she said with a grin, coming around to him again,
"we'll turn that black man and savor the delicious irony as he kills
the both of them. Do you suppose that would count as a draw in a
debate?"
But Angelus seemed not to hear. His gaze had fallen hard on Graceson's
colleague, the tall and quiet black who was trying to be as
unobtrusive as possible, hanging back from the crowd of Savannahans, a
shadow in the shadows.
"I think I 'ave a better idea," he said. "It'll require a wee bit of
actin' on your part, though. Do ya think yer up to it?"
Darla looked at him, curiously, and then she smiled. "Tell me."
"In a moment, luv," Angelus replied. "Graceson and his friend are
leavin'. Let's follow them back to wherever they're stayin'."
The Englishman and his dark-skinned colleague started away from the
church. The two vampires crossed back over the street, trailing them
at a discreet distance. With their enhanced hearing, they didn't need
to be too close to overhear what they were saying.
"You've been very quiet, Hannibal," Graceson said after a time.
"What's the matter?"
The black man was silent for a few more steps, and then he said:
"Reynolds."
"Ah, yes. Bit of a narrow-minded prat, wasn't he?"
"'Narrow-minded' wasn't the term I had in mind," Hannibal replied.
"Nor 'prat', for that matter."
"What would you call him, then?"
The black man muttered a word in another language.
"I'm afraid my Yoruban isn't as advanced as your English, my friend,"
the professor said.
"In the politest sense of the word, my Mother said it meant 'cow
leavings'."
Graceson chuckled. "Yes, he was a bit of that, wasn't he? A regular
cow-prat." But the humorous play on words was lost on his silent
companion. The Englishman patted his arm sympathetically. "I am very
sorry to have to put you through that, Hannibal. I know how painful it
must be for you."
"No," the black man said, "you don't know. When Reynolds said my
people were property, little better than cows or sheep, as the Lord is
my witness I could barely restrain myself."
"But you did, my friend, and that's good. You mustn't lower yourself
to their level."
They stopped for a moment at the gate of a picket fence leading to the
large wood-slat house. A sign on the fence read "Room for Board."
Angelus and Darla slid into the shadows of the neighboring yard.
"I am trying, but sometimes it is very difficult," said the black man.
"My grandfather was a warrior in his tribe. He said he carried a
shield of tanned antelope skin to deflect his enemy's spears. But here
in the White Man's world, he said the spears and shields were made of
words. Yet even after all the books I've read, I still feel helpless
to defend myself. Even you with all your command of their language
changed nothing tonight."
"In truth, I didn't expect to," Graceson said. "We are making steady
strides seeing the Emancipation Act through Parliament. It could pass
in a year or two. But these are a small-minded people. They're
frightened of the unknown. Deep down, though, I suspect they must know
they are wrong. They are like Sisyphus and the rock they push is
history. Inevitably, it will fall and those who do not get out of the
way will be crushed."
"Maybe," Hannibal said, "maybe it will be as you say. But on this
night, I am the one who feels like Sisyphus." He sighed then, as
deeply as someone for whom the weight of the world rests uneasily upon
his broad shoulders. "If you don't mind, sir, I don't feel much like
going inside the carriage house right now."
Graceson looked contrite. "I must apologize once again. I'm deeply
sorry that they wouldn't give you a room in the main house. With you
being a free man and a British citizen, it never occured to me it
would be an issue."
The black man shrugged. "It was hardly a surprise, but you did your
best," he replied. "I think I'll take a walk to try to clear my head
of these unsettling thoughts."
Graceson nodded. "That should be fine, but don't be long. Our ship
leaves tomorrow morning. We're to meet Mister Garrison in Boston.
Also, be careful. Remember where you are. The people here don't view
you as a free man."
"They don't view me as a man at all," Hannibal snorted derisively.
"But, yes, I will." He started on his way, but turned back after only
a few steps. "I find it ironic that I was raised to be a Baptist and
yet, if you hadn't insisted, I would never have dared step into that
church tonight. I wonder if God feels the same? Is there a lesser
Heaven for black Baptists? Is there a greater Hell?"
With a nod good night, Graceson entered the yard and walked up the
steps to the house. Straightening his coat, Hannibal started down the
side of the dirt avenue and turned the corner out of view. Darla and
Angelus materialized out of the gloom.
"Now what?" she asked.
Angelus grinned. "Now," he said, "we can have some fun."
***
An hour later, someone started shouting outside the office of the
local militia. Two of the deputies quickly ran out to see what was
going on. They skidded to a halt at the tableau that greeted them. A
man and woman lay crumpled on the stairs near exhaustion, their
clothes ripped and mud-splashed. The man looked up through long locks
of disheveled brown hair, but his eyes seemed not to see. A scarlet
streak of blood ran down the side of his face, staining the tall
collar of his shirt.
"Help us...please..." he gasped before collapsing.
The deputies gawked, frozen in dread, and then called for help. Men
poured outside, some brandishing their weapons, and gathered around
the two strangers. Someone bent to check on them, and then told a
young boy to fetch the doctor. Several men helped lift the man and
woman and took them into the main office. The blonde-haired woman,
comely despite her distress, stirred awake as they brought her. She
looked about with wild eyes and started struggling weakly against the
two men trying to help her.
Hearing her cries roused the man; and despite his injury, he suddenly
broke free of those supporting him and lunged to her side.
"Darla!" he whispered. "Are you all right?"
"A..Angelus?" the woman answered, tears filling her eyes. "Oh,
Angelus! I thought you were dead!"
"Nay, nay," he shushed her, holding her as she began to weep into his
chest, "I'm here, darlin'. I'm right here by yer side."
As the men stood and watched, one of them, a fat, older man with a
badge on his vest, came up behind and gently touched Angelus on the
shoulder.
"We sent a boy to fetch the doctor," he said. "There's a cot in the
next room. She can rest in there until he arrives."
Angelus nodded and whispered something in her ear. Then he picked her
up and took her into the other room, where he laid her down on the
cot. After a moment, he walked out and closed the door.
The man with the badge identified himself as the captain of the
Savannah militia. "You've got a very bad cut there, sir," he said,
pointing to Angelus's forehead. "Sit down, I'll take a look at it, and
you can tell me what happened. Were you thrown from your coach?"
"What are ya, daft, ya fool!" Angelus snarled. "We were attacked!
Robbed!"
"What?"
"Aye! Some brazen highwayman attacked while we were walking through
Lafayette Park!"
"Did you get a look at him?" the captain asked, handing him a
handkerchief.
Angelus pressed the cloth to the cut and shook his head. "Nay, the
cowardly villain came up unawares from behind, struck a blow that
knocked me senseless. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the bushes
off the path. Darla...my precious Darla was nowhere to be found. I
called out her name and heard her groaning incoherently about ten feet
away. So I crawled to her on hands and knees, and there I found her,
sprawled face down over a boulder. I thought the worst, thought she
was dying. But as soon as I touched her, she sprang to life, started
beating on me chest, shouting the most terrible things."
A sudden pall had fallen over the captain's face. He glanced at the
other men. "If you don't mind me asking, sir, can you recall exactly
what she said?"
Angelus winced. "It's hard to remember. My head hurts me so."
"Try, please," the captain urged.
"It, it made no sense. She said something about...a black devil.
Telling it to leave her alone, that it had already taken everything
she held precious. Said she wanted to die."
One of the deputies gasped. The captain silenced him with a stern
look. Then he said to Angelus in a calm voice, "Sir, are you missing
anything?"
"What? What does..."
The captain smiled. "Could you check?"
"Aye, but I don't..." He shook his head and patted his coat. "No, me
billfold's still there, me gold pocketwatch, me wedding ring,
cufflinks." He looked up confusedly. "I don't understand...the villain
didn't rob me of anything. But why did he attack us if he wasn't going
to..."
The men exchanged uncomfortable looks. The captain didn't say
anything.
A terrible comprehension suddenly dawned on Angelus's face. "Oh good
God!"
He tried to stand but the captain grabbed his shoulders to restrain
him. "Sir, stay seated! We don't know for sure..."
"Get your bloody hands off me!" Angelus shouted, throwing off the
other's hands. He ran for the room where Darla was resting and sank
down by her side. "Darla...Darla, luv. The man who attacked us, did
he...he didn't..."
As the captain and the other men watched from the door, she turned to
look at him, her eyes brimming with tears.
"Did he...touch you?"
She started sobbing uncontrollably. "Angelus...I'm sorry. I tried...I
tried to fight him off, but he was...he was too strong for me. Oh
God...oh God...have mercy on me...I'm so sorry. I tried...I truly
tried. Do you...forgive me, Angelus?"
He cradled her head. "It's not for you to ask for forgiveness," he
said. "I should be the one to ask forgiveness of you. I should have
done more...I should have...I don't know. I shouldn't have brought us
to this godforsaken country in the first place. It's my fault."
"Sir," said the Captain. "We need to know who did this terrible thing
to your wife. We need to bring the scoundrel to justice. If she...got
a look at him..."
Angelus nodded. He kissed her gently on the forehead and whispered,
"Darla, did you see who did this to you? Did you see his face?"
She glanced at the other men, then at him. She nodded silently.
"I saw him," she said. "I'll see him to my dying day. It was that man
from the abolition debate."
"From the church tonight? Who was it?"
But she wouldn't say. A new wave of sobbing wracked her body.
"Darla, Darla-luv, it wasn't your fault. You did nothing to deserve
this. Just tell us."
Her face twisted by pain and grief, she looked at him and said, "It
was that...b-black man...I don't remember his name...the one who was
with that Graceson. He's the one who attacked us, I swear by all
that's holy. I saw him, I looked right at him. Oh God, he looked like
a monster...like demon. I have never seen such...evil...in the face of
a man..."
"It's all right," Angelus consoled her. "You did good, luv. Now lay
back and rest. The doctor should be here soon to examine you."
He helped her down on the cot, gently stroked her hair and kissed her
again on the forehead. Then he rose and stood facing the captain and
the other men.
"Hannibal," he said. "That's was the man's name." He was visibly
seething. His hands suddenly curled into fists so tight the knuckles
popped from the pressure. "Where would he be stayin'?"
"Most likely Marlene's boarding house," one of the men said.
"Then if you'll excuse me, gentlemen."
He tried to sidle past, but the captain blocked his way. "I can't let
you go."
Angelus looked shocked. "What?"
"Not with what you got on your mind right now."
"That...that bastard took somethin' from me. He took somethin' I can
never get back."
Angelus towered over the shorter man, but the shorter, older man stood
ground.
"I know," the captain said, "and that's precisely why I can't let you
go. You'll do something you'll live to regret. If this Hannibal did do
it..."
"If? Are ya doubtin' the word of my wife, now? Ya want to rape her of
her honor twice in one night?"
Several of the deputies winced at the word.
"I don't doubt she believes that it was this person," the captain
replied. "But that's not proof. At this point it only makes him a
suspect. If he did do it though, you may rest assured justice will be
served."
"Justice?" Angelus laughed bitterly. "Ya mean like with that Nat
Turner up in Virginia? That kind of justice? Where a black man can
slaughter sixty innocent whites and get away with it? Is that what ya
call justice here in America?"
"That has nothing to do with this," the captain said. "Like it or not,
the law is the law."
Angelus laughed in disbelief. "The law? Where was the law when that
black bastard had my wife over a rock? What would you do, pray tell?"
He looked around at the others. "For that matter what would any of you
do if some...black devil...dared lay hands on your wife? Would you
stand here prattlin' about the law and justice then?"
An uncomfortable silence fell among the men. Unable to meet his
furious gaze, they glanced around at each other shamefully.
"Well? What would you do?" Angelus challenged. "Are you not men, then?
Are there not any men in this city?"
"Yes, there are," one of them said finally, making a fist. "And I know
what I'd do, stranger."
The others shot him looks, but he straightened defiantly.
"Samuel!" an older man said.
"He's right, John," said another. "What if it was your Ruth that
nigger accosted? Or Christine, your daughter? Unless I've severely
underestimated you all these years, I know exactly what you'd do. And
as God is my witness, I'd do the same."
The captain stepped forward. In an stern, authoritative voice, he
said, "I want everyone out of this room now. The doctor'll be here any
moment. We'll just leave the man to be alone with his woman."
Outside, he closed the door and then peered at the dark, angry faces
of his deputies.
"Now all you better listen close," he said. "I don't want anyone going
off half-cocked. I don't want no lynch mobs running through my city."
"Captain! That nigger raped a white woman!"
"Believe me, I appreciate the severity of the accusation," the captain
nodded. "But we were sworn to uphold the law and by God we'll abide by
the law. If anyone of you decides to take the law into your own hands,
I swear I'll lock you up myself. Is there any confusion? Is my
position sufficently clear on this?"
There were some low grumbles of discontent, but eventually all the men
nodded.
"All right, then." He pointed at one of the deputies against the back
wall. "Go wake up Judge Parker and get him down here." He singled out
another, a man of stocky build and short firey-red hair under a brown
derby. "Jenkins, take some men over to Marlene's boarding house and
bring the...uh...suspect here for questioning. He'll be in the
carriage house with the other servants."
Jenkins tipped his hat, his small, cruel eyes gleaming beneath the
brim, and quickly picked out four other men. "Saddle up, yer ridin'
with me."
"And Jenkins?" the captain said, catching the man before he could walk
out the door. "Just you fetch him, y'understand? Bring him back and
that's all. None of your screwing around."
"Thought never crossed my mind, captain," the man replied and tipped
his hat again.
A few minutes later, the shadowy riders charged through the quiet city
streets at full gallop, their horses chuffing and spitting foam. When
they reigned up out front of the boarding house, they didn't even
bother waking Marlene. They cantered up to the carriage house out back
and dismounted there. At the side door, one of the men went to knock.
Jenkins grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.
"What the hell ya think yer doin'?" he said angrily. "We got us a
wanted criminal in there. You want to give him a headstart out the
back or somethin'?"
"But the captain said he's just wanted for questioning..."
"Look round, ya idiot," Jenkins said. "Ya see the captain here? He
ain't the one that nigger's gonna shoot if he gets wind we're comin'
for him." He swiped the leather long-coat past his hip, revealing
criss-crossed holsters belts, and drew forth an old North&Cheney
flintlock. "We go in hard, we go in fast."
The four other men exchanged worried looks and then withdrew their
saddle-holstered Springfields and Kentucky rifles.
Jenkins braced by the door. "Y'all ready, boys?"
At their nod, he lifted a boot and kicked the lock. The door gave way
with a splintering of wood and they charged inside. Horses whinnied
and bucked in the stables, startled by the sudden sound, as the men
flew past for the steps and clamored up to the second floor. A black
female servant dressed in a white nightgown and cap appeared at the
upper landing carrying a lamp. She threw a hand to her mouth and
gasped as the clenched faces and steely, merciless eyes raced toward
her.
"Where's the foreigner?" Jenkins cried, jamming the barrel of the gun
under her chin as he threw her roughly against the wall.
Her dark eyes wide with fright, she managed to spit out, "B-back room,
sir. D-down ta very end."
One of the men ripped the lamp from her nerveless grasp as they
hustled past, her eyes glistening in the receding light. She sank
slowly to the floor and started to weep. All down the hall, doors
began to open with the concerned faces of other servants alerted by
the commotion outside. At the sight of the white men and their drawn
guns, however, they were closed again, and dark eyes watched fearfully
through the cracks as they ran by. A baby started wailing and was
quickly muffled.
Jenkins didn't stop as they reached the last room at the end of the
hallway. He went through at full speed, tearing the rotted door off
its hinges. Hannibal leapt awake from the plain bed upon which he
slept, wearing only longjohns, and found himself staring down the dark
abyss of the North&Cheney.
"Move and I'll spray yer brains all over the wall, nigger," Jenkins
barked. "Sam, find some rope and tie up his hands."
"What is the meaning of this?" Hannibal said calmly. "I am a free
man...I have done nothing..."
Jenkins pistol-whipped him across the face. "Say another word, free
man. I dare ya. Go ahead and say somethin'."
Hannibal said nothing. He lay face down on the bed, breathing hard,
blood slowly staining the sheets from a gash on his forehead, until
the man Jenkins had sent to find rope returned and tied his hands
behind his back.
"On yer knees, nigger," Jenkins ordered, and Hannibal complied,
sliding awkwardly off the bed to the hardwood floor.
Jenkins smiled and sat down on the edge of a steamer trunk. From an
inner coat pocket, he pulled out a cigar and bit off the end. "Got a
match, Sam?"
The man holding the rope dug in his pockets and tossed a box, which
Jenkins caught with one hand.
"Thanks," he said, and then glanced at Hannibal and smiled. "Well,
don't know about you boys, but he don't look so special to me. What do
you think, Sam? Does he look special to you?"
Sam chuckled. "Nope. Looks like just another nigger ta me."
"Oh, but Sam, ain't ya heard? What we got here's a special nigger.
He's a smart nigger. He done read lots of books. Isn't that right,
smart nigger? You read lots of books?"
Hannibal's brown eyes flicked nervously from man to man before finally
settling again on Jenkins. He swallowed, though dry-mouthed, and
nodded.
"Only ever read one myself, the Bible. But I just figured once you
read the Word of God, there ain't no need to read nothin' else. In a
way it almost seemed like some kind of blasphemy. Like sayin' the
Bible warn't good enough. You think that's true, smart nigger?"
Hannibal said nothing. There was no right answer. There wasn't meant
to be.
"Well, if you got all sorts a book-learnin', maybe you can answer a
question," Jenkins said. "What's two plus two, smart nigger?"
The white men were peering closely at Hannibal, and he knew the look.
He'd seen it before. There was an awakening violence in their hearts,
if not yet the nature of the deed in their thoughts. But like some
animal stirred by the fresh scent of blood on the wind, it was coming.
There was no getting out of this.
"I...I don't understand," Hannibal said.
The man behind him jerked the rope tight; and Hannibal ground his
teeth at the fresh wave of pain.
"You don't understand?" Jenkins grinned. "What, you don't speak
English, smart nigger? It's a simple question. What's two plus two?"
Through gritted teeth, he stammered, "F-four..."
Jenkins nodded to one of the other men, who then stepped close and
drove the butt of his Springfield into the black man's gut.
Hannibal grunted and doubled over. He would have fallen, but the man
holding the rope jerked back at the same time, almost dislocating his
arms.
"'Fraid not, smart nigger," Jenkins said. "The correct answer is
'whatever you say it is, massah.' I thought that was clear, but let's
try it one more time. What's two plus two?"
Through the haze of pain, Hannibal looked about desperately. But then
a tired resignation crept into his brown eyes. His head bowed.
"Whatever you say it is," he said in a husky voice. "Massah-sir."
The men around him chuckled, and Jenkins thumbed back the brim of his
derby.
"Well, I guess he is a smart nigger after all," he said, and then he
knelt down to speak directly to Hannibal. "See, boy, that there's the
problem with readin' too many books. You gets in yer head that yer
learnin' somethin' when really yer just unlearnin' somethin' more
important."
Tears started in Hannibal's eyes. "Yessir, massah-sir. Whatever you
say, massah-sir."
"Massah-sir," Jenkins grinned, pulling out a safety match. "I likes
the sound of that!" He bent down and put the match under the black
man's chin, who winced when it was struck alight.
He lit his cigar with a couple strong puffs, blowing the acrid smoke
in Hannibal's face, and flicked the match at him, causing him to jerk
his head away.
"Well, boys," Jenkins said, "guess we should take our prisoner back to
the courthouse."
"Hey, Jenk?" said Sam. "How're we going do this? We only got five
horses. The nigger's going to have to ride with one of us."
"I ain't ridin' with no nigger-rapist at muh back," said another man.
Jenkins smiled. "S'all right, boys. I'm sure we'll figure out
sumthin'."
Back at the courthouse, the boy who'd been sent for the judge returned
with two others in tow.
"Where's Judge Parker?" the captain asked, looking over the other men.
One he knew - the Pastor from the First Baptist Church; his house was
a few doors down from Parker's. The other, an overweight man with
jowls and a rosy-cheeked complexion, he did not.
"Mrs. Parker said the judge had gone to Cockspur Island to do some
fishin'. Wouldn't be back for two more days."
The captain muttered under his breath. "Well, why'd you bring these
two then?"
The fat man extended his hand. "Senator Reynolds, sir, at your
service. The Pastor and I were having a nightcap on his front portico
when we heard your boy ride past. We stopped him on the way back and
learned of the distressing incident this evening. I thought perhaps I
could be of some help."
The captain seemed about to dismiss the offer, but then he nodded.
"Maybe you could at that. My boys are pretty riled. I'm worried this
situation could escalate out of control. It would be nice to have a
senator backing me up to make sure it doesn't."
"May I speak to the man and the woman?" Reynolds asked.
"Certainly," the captain said. "This way, sir."
Fifteen minutes later, two men carried Hannibal through the front
door, his torn and bloody feet and knees leaving a wet smear of
scarlet across the floor.
The captain came out of his office and blanched at the sight. "What
the hell happened to him?"
"Well, sir," Jenkins said, a sly smile playing across his lips, "see,
what with all the commotion we forgot to bring an extra horse for
the...suspect. So we had to tie him up to my pommel and he walked
behind." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Guess he fell a couple times.
Three or four maybe. Five. I don't know. Might be I missed a few. Had
to keep my eyes on the road."
"God almighty, Jenkins," the captain shouted. "You're a deputy of the
militia, not a judge, jury and executioner!"
Jenkins nodded coldly. "Well, I guess I'll just have to keep that in
mind next time a nigger rapes a white woman. Sir." Then, without
permission or a salute, he turned and left.
With an angry grunt of disgust, the captain ordered the others to put
the semi-conscious Hannibal in a jailcell and went to tell Senator
Reynolds.
"Where is he?" Angelus said, rising to his feet. "Where's the bastard
that touched my wife?"
"Calm down, boy," said Reynolds, grabbing hold of him. "I know how
strongly you feel about this, and I don't blame you, but you must calm
down. The negroe's only a suspect."
"Only a suspect?" Angelus countered. "Then let's find out the truth.
Darla saw the man what did this to her. Let her identify him."
Reynolds and the Pastor glanced at each other. "I doubt your wife is
up to that just yet. I wouldn't want to put in under any more stress
than she's already..."
"No."
Darla's voice silenced the debate. Everyone looked at her.
"I want to see his face again."
Reynolds offered a sympathetic smile. "Ma'am, we appreciate your
courage, but I would advise against it until the doctor had arrived.
You've been through a...traumatic experience tonight."
Darla cut him off. "With all due respect, sir, you have no inkling
what I've been through. I want to see the black beast that attacked me
tonight. I want to look in his eyes and I want my husband by my side
when I do."
"Well, ya heard the lady," Angelus said. "Are ya going to deny her a
moment of justice?"
Reynolds looked at Darla, but he couldn't hold her gaze for long. He
turned away from them and had a brief, whispered discussion with the
Pastor and the Captain.
"All right," he said, "but just for a moment."
Angelus helped Darla to get up, and together the five of them walked
from the room and down the hall to the cellblock. A deputy standing
guard unlocked the heavy door to allow them in and then promptly
locked it again.
Angelus held Darla close as they cautiously neared the metal bars of
the cell where Hannibal was. It was empty, save for a wooden bench, a
stool, a bedpan and straw strewn upon the floor. The black man lay
slumped upon the bench, his hands manacled to chains embedded in the
stone wall. His sweaty face was a massive bruise. His left eye was
swollen shut and his nose broken at an awful angle. As he saw them
come into view, he doubled over in a painful coughing jag. Blood
spattered the straw and then a tooth.
Darla buried her face in Angelus's chest and started weeping.
The captain cleared his throat. "Well, is this the man who..."
He was cut off from a loud shouting outside the door. Someone was
demanding to be let in.
The captain stormed to the door. "What the Hell is going on out
there?"
"Sir," the deputy said through the bars, "there's someone out here
says he knows the nig...the...the suspect. Says his name's Graceson."
"Let him in, Captain," Reynolds said. "He deserves to be here for
this."
The door was opened and Graceson charged inside.
"What is the meaning of this outrage?" he demanded. "Woken by my
hostess and informed that my friend was accosted while he slept, and
then taken away at gunpoint on some spurious criminal charge!"
"Your 'friend'," the Captain said, "has been accused of a most henious
crime, sir. The rape of white woman."
"How dare you! Hannibal would never do such a thing! Where is his
accusor?"
"He's right here, you friend of devils!" Angelus shouted.
"What is your name, sir?" spat Graceson angrily. "I want to know the
man who dares slander my friend with such a reprehensible falsehood."
"The name's Angelus, and if I'm lying, may God strike me..."
He got no further. Graceson lunged for the Pastor, tearing the golden
cross from about his neck. The Pastor cried out in alarm and tripped
over his feet. He fell backwards, hitting his head on the bars of the
cell, and then slowly slid down to the floor, unconscious.
Graceson whirled about and shoved the cross into Angelus's face.
Instinctively, he flew back against the brick wall, his face vamping
against his will.
As the Captain bent to see to the Pastor, Senator Reynolds stumbled
backwards against the wall, eyes wide, jowls quivering. "Lord have
mercy!"
Angelus started laughing. "Well, I'm guessin' by that reaction you've
heard of me, then?" he said to Graceson, and then chuckled some more.
Graceson backed away, holding the cross as a ward. "A former student
of mine is a historian with the Watcher's Council. I know all there is
to know about you and your devil's consort." He edged back to the bars
of the cell and hissed over his shoulder, "Hannibal! Break a leg off
that stool and give it to me! Quick, man, quick!"
The black man had watched the entire horrific affair in a stunned and
frightened silence, but he did as he was told, quickly smashing the
stool on the floor and handing Graceson one of the severed legs
through the bars. With a terse oath in his native language, he picked
up a jagged piece of the stool for himself, awkwardly holding it like
a spear.
"What are they, sir?"
"Vampires," Graceson said.
"V-vampires...?" Reynolds stuttered fearfully.
"Aye, and not just any, but two of the foulest hellspawn to ever walk
this earth."
Darla walked over to Angelus and helped him up. "Isn't that sweet,
dear? We're famous."
"Infamous more like," Graceson growled. "Infamous for your evil, whore
of Satan."
Angelus straightened his jacket and dusted himself off. "If the truth
be known, I'd rather it be for that than hypocrisy. There's somethin'
I've been meanin' ta ask ya, Graceson. What's the real reason ya
bought ol' Hannibal there?"
"He wanted to make me free!" the black man shouted through his split
lip.
"Don't talk to them," Graceson barked. "They're just trying to get us
to lower our guard."
Angelus snorted. "Piffle. If I wanted to kill ya, it would take more
than a piece of rotted wood and a wee little cross ta stop me. But ya
dint answer me question. Why did ya buy 'im, Graceson? Why did ya
teach 'im? That lard-ass Reynolds might be a sack of shite..."
At the mention of his name, the Senator dropped to his knees and began
to pray.
"...but somethin' he said tonight at your debate rang the bell
o'truth."
Angelus grinned savagely.
"Hannibal was your waltzing bear, wasn't he?" he continued. "Ya taught
'im to speak the Queen's English all proper, made 'im mannered and
polite, dressed 'im up like a right English gentleman with a top hat
and cravat. And what for? He was your show piece, he was your circus
act to disarm all the scared white folk afraid of abolition. He was
your answer to their fears of what would happen if the savages were
set free."
"Shut up," Graceson muttered. "Shut your mouth or so help me God,
I'll..."
"You'll do nothing, 'cuz ya know it's the truth," Angelus said
triumphantly. "Ya didn't give a shite about Hannibal as a person. In
fact ya pr'bly think less of him than that Reynolds does. At least he
had an excuse, growin' up here bein' told negroes were inferior. What
was yours then? Or did ya just decide the end justified the means?
That's a devil's bargain, that is."
"Don't listen to him, Hannibal," Graceson said. "Don't listen to
anything he says. He's evil through and through. Believe me when I
say..."
"Did...you even ask if I could stay in the main house?" the black man
whispered. His voice was small and betrayed.
Graceson suddenly inhaled but said nothing.
Hannibal sank down to his knees, dropping the stake from his suddenly
limp hand. It clattered loudly as it struck the floor. "I am undone,"
he said to no one. "I am come undone."
"Dammit, man! Pick up that bloody stake!" Graceson cried. "Don't you
see? None of that matters right now! We are in grave danger!"
But Hannibal seemed lost. "All lies," he whimpered, "all were lies."
Outside the door to the cellblock, several of the deputies were
crowding close to see what was going on inside. The Captain jumped to
the barred window and shouted, "Unlock the door! Unlock the door!"
"Well, I suppose that's our cue to be going," Angelus said. "Honestly,
not quite the endin' I had in mind. Was hopin' for a bit more
screamin', but I suspect we've done enough damage for one night." He
turned to go and then stopped. "Oh, by the way, Hannibal...enjoy your
freedom."
As the celldoor was opened and the men began to pour inside, Angelus
and Darla fled down the hallway to a back door, which he splintered
with a kick, and then they disappeared into the night.
***
"So it didn't work out, then?" William said. His lips twitched
slightly. "Well, that's tough. Better luck next time, eh?"
Angelus narrowed his eyes. "Ah, william, William...always so
impatient. I haven't even gotten to the best part yet."
He grinned wolfishly over at Darla, who put a kerchief daintily to her
mouth. Her eyes sparkled with amusement.
William glanced from one to the other and back, growing visibly
annoyed at their secret jest. "Go on then. Let's have it."
Angelus chuckled.
"The whites killed Hannibal anyway."
"What!" William burst out; and Darla could no longer contain herself.
She collapsed on the divan and howled with laughter.
"It's true! It's all true!" she said, dabbing at the tears streaming
down her cheeks. "After we were found out, we elected to stay. Angelus
wanted to hang the black from a tree with his intestines. But the
whites beat us to it."
"But they knew!" William protested. "They knew it was all a lie!
Right?"
"Aye, they did," said Angelus, flopping down next to Darla. "Ah, you
should have been there. 'Twas a grand sight to behold. Not ten minutes
after we left, a mob of white men stormed the courthouse, led by that
deputy Jenkins. Hootin' and hollerin', they dragged Hannibal from the
jailcell. Graceson was pleading for mercy and justice. Monsters, he
called us, liars and deceivers and worse. But they were done listenin'
to him."
"What about that Reynolds? And the Captain? They saw your face
transform."
Angelus nodded. "Aye, that they did, plain as day. They knew Hannibal
was innocent of the crime. But neither one spoke up. They stood on the
stairs of the courthouse and did nothin' to stop it. Pro'bly they knew
better than Graceson not to get in the way of a mob once it's got the
thirst for blood. It can't be stopped even with the truth. So they
watched as the mob took Hannibal across the street and looped a rope
over the limb of an oak. They cinched the noose tight around his neck
and hoisted away with a great whoop and cheer. Graceson dropped to his
knees, wailin' and cryin' as he saw his friend jitter and spasm...ah,
sweet music. They just left him dangling in the wind like some piece
of black fruit."
"We went back the next night before our ship set sail," Darla said.
"He was still hanging. The crows had pecked out his eyes."
"Do you know what happened to Graceson?" William asked.
"Of course!" Angelus exclaimed. "That's the best part of torture,
seein' the pain that lives on long after you stopped turnin' the
screws. Graceson returned to England, broken in spirit. He shunned his
former colleagues at the British Anti-Slavery Society. In time he
became a crazed recluse, livin' in a crumblin' mansion like somethin'
out of Dickens. I even sired a black vampire to torment him every year
on the anniversary of the lynchin'. He thought it was Hannibal, come
back from beyond the grave for revenge."
"How long did that go on?"
Angelus shrugged. "Oh, about four years before it finally ate him one
night. 'Twas a shame. Graceson could have suffered for another decade
or two. 'Twas my fault, really, for siring such a dullard. He never
appreciated the notion that pain is always more amusin' than death.
Had to dust 'im for it."
"So, all told," William said, "you framed an innocent black man,
incited a racist mob of southerners to lynch him, and drove a good man
insane." He glanced at Angelus with grudging respect. "Well, that is
some story. I have to admit you beat me fair and square. I don't have
any tale to top that."
"William, William," said Angelus. "Don't be taking it so bad." He
stood up from the divan and placed a hand on the other's shoulder. "I
had more practise than you do. Art like that you don't learn in a
fortnight. It takes time and an understanding of the frailties of
human nature."
He looked at him sourly. "But you damned an entire city to Hell."
"Well, in truth they were already well on their way," Angelus allowed.
"All I did was give 'em a wee push in the right direction."
In the bed, wrapped warm and tight in layers of sheets and quilts,
Drusilla mumbled something in her sleep.
"Baa baa," she said dreamily, "my pretty little black sheep..."
The End
Written by DW
Used without permission.
Note: This fic takes place in the 1830's in the southern United
States. It contains racial slurs and racist attitudes that some
readers might find offensive. If you think you might be offended by
these things...well, actually, who wouldn't? But if you think you
might be offended enough to flame me, do us both a favor and don't
read this story.
Dark Fruit Of Dixie ~ An AtS fanfic
"A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree
bring forth good fruit. Ye shall know them by their fruits."
(Matthew 7:15-18)
"William, be a good boy and tell us a bedtime story," said Drusilla
airily, floating into the parlor of the London flat, the hem of her
nightgown brushing lightly over the Turkish carpet.
Angelus, Darla, and William all looked up. They had been talking about
their next move. The city was getting a bit too agitated for their
liking. Little wonder since they had slaughtered and dined upon so
many of its finer citizens. Even a chicken coop will turn on a fox
eventually.
William put down his wine glass of blood and walked over. "What's the
matter, my pet? Can't sleep?"
Drusilla pursed her lips petulantly and pressed her fingers to her
forehead. "There's too much noise coming from the upstairs neighbors."
Darla rolled her eyes. "Dru, dear heart, we ate them weeks ago,
remember? Why don't you try counting sheep? The three of us still have
many important things to discuss."
"She tried that once," William said with a shrug. "Just made it
worse."
"They jump the fence, all pretty as you please," Dru explained, hand
snatching at the air, "but then they don't go away. They pile up in
the field on the other side, and their cotton mumbles in my ears like
whish-whish, whish-whish."
"It'll just take a moment," William said, turning Dru back to the
bedroom. "I'll tell her a story to get her to sleep."
Angelus had watched quietly, draped lazily on the divan, swirling the
thick liquid in his glass. But now he snorted derisively. "Drusilla
wants to sleep, William, not be bored to dust. If it be a story she
wants, mayhap I can think of one she might like."
"Oh yes, perhaps you should have a contest," Darla offered
sarcastically.
Drusilla clapped her hands excitedly. "Ooh, I so like contests!" she
chirruped happily, and then her eyes went sad and weepy. "But where
are the presents on Christmas Eve? Someone forgot to wake up old Saint
Nick. All the good children will be so heartbroken to find lumps of
coal in their stockings in the morn."
"Don't go worryin' your pretty head there, Dru luv," said Angelus. "We
don't be needin' prizes. 'Tis but a gentleman's wager. What say you,
eh, William?"
The blonde-haired vampire glowered at him. "Fine," he said grudgingly.
They got up and went into the bedroom. When Drusilla was tucked under
the covers, he turned and said, "Who goes first then?"
Angelus sat on the end of the canopied bed. "If it's all right with
you, I think I will." He grinned at Darla, who was leaning against the
dresser. "You remember Savannah?"
Darla had looked bored, but now she perked up. "1831," she replied
instantly.
"That be it."
"How could I forget," she said, and then leaned back to listen to the
tale she knew so well.
***
Darla licked her ruby-stained lips and let the dead woman fall to the
cobblestoned alley with a soft thump of petticoats and puffed sleeves.
Further down the alley where the shadows huddled close as if drawn by
the scent of death, Angelus was draining his own victim. The
mutton-chopped man stared over his killer's shoulder with a glazed
expression of fatal surprise.
When Angelus finished, he dropped his lifeless prey like a rag doll
and wiped a splash of blood from his chin.
"Very rich diets these Americans have," he said, sucking his fingers.
"They'll p'rbly be a nation of slovenly cows in a century or so, but
for now they're like ripe berries waitin' to be picked off the vine."
The dead woman's frilly parasol lay on the ground. After the two
vampires had revealed their demonic visage, the woman tried to ward
them off with it, as her stupified suitor cowered against a steaming
pile of trash. But it was only a slight delay; brave she may have been
in the face of death, but she was no slayer. Just a Dixie doxy who'd
entertained her last beau. Now, her face still vamped, framed by
sausage-link curls of blonde hair, Darla picked up the parasol and
twirled it coquettishly like a Southern Belle.
"This one must have drank a lot of mint julips," she said, stepping
over the body. "She had a rather interesting flavor."
"Aye? Is that so?" Angelus grinned wolfishly. "Might I have a wee
taste then?"
Darla hid shyly behind the parasol. "Why, what evah are you
suggesting, sirrah?" she said, affecting a passable Southern accent.
"Would you seek to tarnish my virtue with your manly improprieties?
I'll have you know I was raised to be a proper lady."
Angelus grunted, seizing her by the waist, and pulled her roughly
close to him. "A lot of things you are, Darla, but a 'proper lady' be
about as far from them as you can get."
She put her arms around his neck and smiled slyly. "Would you have it
any other way?"
"Nay, never," he chuckled. "I had me fill of propriety long before you
sired me."
They kissed passionately and then departed the alleyway, leaving the
silent leftovers of their first victims in the States to the rats. In
the bright glare of gaslight street lamps, they strolled along the
narrow wooden buildings of the riverside, home to loud pubs and
drunken fishermen. A paddlewheel steamship chugged up the river, a
column of black billowing from its smokestack.
As they were passing by a tavern, the door burst open. Two men
staggered out into the night, reeking so profoundly of alcohol that
the two vampires crinkled their noses in distaste. Arm in arm, the two
drunkards starting shambling down the street. At the light post on the
corner, they stopped to catch their breath. One of them noticed a
poster that had been stuck there and started reading with bleary eyes.
It read:
~~~
The Savannah Ladies' Cultural Sodality Presents:
A DEBATE ON THE SANCTITY OF SOUTHERN RIGHTS.
Featuring, the Rt. Hon. Senator Thomas Reynolds,
and Professor David Earnest Graceson, formerly of
Oxford University.
To be held this day, September 20th, in the year
of our Lord, 1831, at the First Baptist Church of
Savannah.
Come one, come all! Free and open to the public.
Donantions welcome.
~~~
"Goddamned Abolitionists," the first drunk slurred. "Comin' in here,
stickin' their noses where they don't belong. Ain't no northerner
gonna tell me what's what."
"Ain't no yankee," said the second man. "He's a foreigner. English, if
I heared right."
"That's even worse!" spat the first. "Somethin' ain't right with the
world if some Royal arse-kisser can come here and tell me my business.
What the hell we fight for independence for?"
"Yup," said the second man. "And guess what? I dun heared he's brought
some nigger with 'em. A freed nigger, all dressed up fancy with a top
hat, silk scarf, and dangling a watch like he's some kind of
gentlemen. They say he done graduated from Oxford or some other uppity
university over there. Say he can talk four languages."
"Don't matter none how many languages a nigger can speak," the first
man said. "My dear Mum, may God bless her heart, always said you can't
make no silk purse from a sow's ear." He hockered a gobbet of phlegm
and spat on the poster. "A nigger's a nigger from the day he born 'til
the day he die, that's all there is to it." A long wet fart punctuated
the thought.
The two drunks staggered around the corner and on down to the river.
Angelus and Darla paused at the lamp post and watched as they careened
against the side of a cotton warehouse and disappeared.
"Disgusting swine," said Darla distastefully. "They should be killed
out of principle alone. What do you say?"
But Angelus wasn't listening. He was looking at the poster with keen
interest.
"Let 'em go," he said dismissively. "Little better than wharf rats, if
ya ask me." He pointed at the poster. "But this...this could be
amusin'. What say you then? Feelin' up to a little high culture?"
Darla shrugged. "I suppose. I am a woman of breeding, sirrah. At the
very least the food won't stink of sailor's rum and day-old farts."
Linking arms, they ascended a flight of steps from the riverside to
the city. The langorous humidity of late summer had passed and, though
still warm, there was a certain crispness to the air as autumn
tightened its embrace on September. The dirt streets were wide and
lined with oak trees. Curtains of Spanish moss drooped limply from the
boughs like drowsy house cats. Gentlemen in stove-pipe hats and silken
cravats walked with genteel ladies in ribboned bonnets and shawls
covering the bare shoulders of their brocade satin evening dresses.
They stopped a milita patrol to ask for directions to the church where
the debate was being held and were sent down a street lined with
expensive porticoed mansions and immaculately-kept grounds. A few
minutes later, they stood in the shadow of a large oak tree across the
street from the First Baptist Church, its two tapering gothic spires
rising high above the surrounding trees. Horse-driven buggies and
carriages pulled to the side of the road to let off passengers. A long
line of chatty Savannahan socialites led up to the front doors.
They crossed over and got at the end of the line filing inside. At the
top of the steps was an older man with a fringe of gray hair and
mutton-chops and the collar of clergy. He greeted everyone with a
broad smile, nodding politely to the ladies and shaking the hands of
the men. Standing near his side was a young man holding open a box for
donations.
While they waited, an out-of-breath young man suddenly ran up to a
group of men further ahead in the line.
"Any news?" said an older man. "Have they caught the vermin?"
The younger man shook his head.
Behind them a third man cursed. "Do you believe this? It's been damn
near four weeks and that Turner is still on the loose. What do we pay
taxes for?"
"One of my aunts lives in Virginia," chimed in a fourth man. "She says
folk are afraid to even leave their houses."
"Can you blame them?" said the third. "People won't feel safe until
that Turner is swinging from the gallows..."
As the four men entered the church, their voices dropped to whispers.
Angelus tapped the shoulder of a man standing in front of them.
"Pardon my askin'", he said, "but what were those men talkin' about?"
"You're not from around here, are you?"
Angelus shook his head. "We just got off the boat from Europe."
The man sighed. "Well, it's a sad state of affairs. A few weeks ago in
Virginia, a slave by the name of Nat Turner incited a rebellion. Fifty
whites were massacred before the milita put it down. Turner escaped
capture however and is still on the loose."
"That's just terrible. We're not in any danger, are we?"
The man shook his head. "It's doubtful he'll get this far south,
although to be on the safe side the mayor has temporarily deputized
more militia and increased patrols."
"Ah, I see," Angelus said.
The man glanced around cautiously and then leaned in close to whisper.
"Still, this might not be the best time for a debate on abolition. It
hasn't been the most popular position to have these past few weeks.
Just a friendly word of caution, friend. Mind what you say and to whom
you say it."
"Thankee for that, sir." Angelus turned to Darla. "What do you think
of that bit o' news, eh?"
She shrugged. "Humans killing humans. What a surprise. Here I thought
they would be more enlightened in the New World. How terribly
disappointing." She rolled her eyes. "Like I haven't heard that story
a million times before?"
"Pieces of a puzzle, Darla," he replied. "Pieces of a puzzle."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"We'll see," he said, stepping up to the threshold of the church. He
doffed his hat politely. "And a very good evenin' to you, Pastor," he
said.
"Good evening to you, too, sirrah," said the older man. "Oh...I...do
apologize. I don't believe I've had the pleasure?"
"No, I should expect not. The wife and I aren't from around here. We
sailed into town this afternoon on a honeymoon tour. Saw the poster on
our evening constitutional. Thought it sounded interestin' so we come
down to listen."
The contents of the donations box was mostly coins, small change. As
Angelus was speaking, he pulled out a gold billfold, stripped a few
notes from it, and indifferently tossed them in. The boy holding the
box gasped at the largesse.
Angelus smiled his warmest smile. "Hope that's not a problem, Pastor?
Us two strangers sittin' in on your debate?"
"Oh no, sir, that's not a problem at all," the Pastor said effusively,
his eyes almost glowing. "You and your, if I may be so bold, your very
lovely bride are more than welcome to enter. Please. Please step
inside and have a seat in one of the pews. The debate will began
shortly."
Darla folded the parasol and tucked it under her arm as they entered
the church. As they slid into a well-worn wooden pew toward the back,
she chuckled softly. "Isn't southern hospitality wonderful?"
Angelus shrugged. ""Tis the same with every man of the cloth. He'll
sell his soul for a large enough donation."
"And is that what he did?" Darla asked. "Seems like a steep price
considering we usually take it for free."
"Not really interested in 'im, but p'rhaps if the mood takes me."
Darla glanced at him curiously. "This isn't like you, Angelus," she
said. "What are you planning?"
"Not exactly sure meself yet," he replied. "But don't worryin' your
pretty head. When I do figure it out, I'll strive to make the
festivities to your liking."
"Mmm, anticipation." She grinned lecherously. "I can hardly wait."
The debate began a few minutes later when the Pastor approached two
lecturns set before the alter at the front of the church. He cleared
his throat loudly and the quiet murmuring of the congregation in the
pews dissipated at once.
"Thank you all for attending tonight's debate," he began. "As all here
are no doubt aware, the issue of a State's Rights versus those of the
Federal government is a rather contentious one. Since before the
Revolution even, it has confounded the brightest minds of our fair
Union. Now, we do not propose to resolve the issue in a single night
in some small church in Savannah. Believing we could might be
perilously close to some kind of blasphemy..."
A titter of quiet laughter rippled across the room.
"However," the Pastor continued, "an honest and open dialogue on the
issue can still serve many good purposes. And so without further ado,
I would now like to introduce you to our esteemed speakers for
tonight's discussion."
The Pastor waved his hand and, as the crowd clapped politely, two men
sitting in the front pew stood up and took their places behind the
lecturns. As the applause continued, the two men organized their notes
and reached across the gap to shake the other's hand.
"To my left," the Pastor said, "is the Right Honorable Senator Thomas
Reynolds of Atlanta, a staunch advocate of State's Right, and
nationally-renowned lecturer on the subject."
The clapping increased as Reynolds bowed to the crowd. He was a rotund
man with jowls and the severe expression of almost religious
solemnity.
"To my right is Professor David Earnest Graceson, former chair of the
Oxford history department, and along with William Wilberforce, a
founding member of the British Anti-Slavery Society."
Graceson was tall and thin, sporting a dark beard shot through with
white. The applause as he nodded to the crowd was only slightly
diminished.
"As agreed at the dinner prior to the debate, Professor Graceson will
open with his thoughts."
The Pastor shook Graceson's hand, they exchanged a few words, before
he turned to Reynolds to do the same. While the two Southerners were
talking, Graceson motioned to someone over to the side. A black man,
tall, willowly, and elegant, suddenly stepped out of the shadows with
a thick book and sheaf of papers. He was dressed similar to Graceson,
an expensive suit with a blood-red pool of cravat at his throat.
A rush of whispers rippled through the crowd at the sight of the
finely-attired black man. But if he noticed the attention his presence
drew, he didn't acknowledge it. He handed some papers to Graceson and
then promptly returned to the side, where he resumed his seat without
so much as a single glance at any of the now-animated white people in
the pews.
Speaking in a melifluous baritone, Graceson opened a moment later by
thanking Reynolds and those who invited him to Savannah.
"Before I begin in earnest, though," he said, "I am afraid I must
twist a semantic screw. This issue before us tonight isn't about the
rights of States. It is about the rights of humans. It isn't about the
individual state standing before a central government. It is about a
human being standing before God. It is about the right of a man to
live his life free and unfettered by the chains of slavery."
"Praise be," whispered Angelus to Darla. "A saint it is."
"And you so love the self-proclaimed saints," she replied. "How did
you know?"
He breathed deeply through his nose. "It's p'rbly the aroma of their
sanctity. I can smell it a mile off. Might as well be sweatin' holy
water."
"Really?" she said, sounding impressed.
"Aye. That, and their excrement doesn't stink, don't ya know?"
"Now you're just having me on," she said, giggling. "Seriously, how
did you know?"
"Just had a hunch," he shrugged. "But aren't ya glad I did, now? Or
would ya rather we went back and ate the wharf rats?"
"Oh, no," she replied, taking his arm. "Saints are far more fun. They
always beg the loudest. I love when they start pleading for God to
redeem them. Strange that He never does."
From Graceson's opening words, the debate went back and forth for
nearly an hour, each side politely making their points and
counter-points.
"And yet, your forefathers of this great state outlawed slavery in
1735. Georgia was the only colony in North America to have such laws.
James Oglethorpe and his fellow supporters even said that it was
'shocking that any race of mankind should be sentenced to perpetual
slavery.'"
"But the anti-slavery provision was overturned years later, by the
grace of God and the clear-headed minds of the day. It was the will of
the people, which is the very principle upon which our glorious
country was founded."
Graceson shook his head. "But not all the people. Only some of them.
Those who had the most personal interest in the matter were
conveniently excluded from expressing an opinion. How can that be
called the 'will of the people'?"
"With all due respect, sir, property is not considered people in the
United States."
This comment drew a loud round of applause from the audience; while
off to the side, the tall, quiet black man in the suit clenched his
jaw. His hand curled into fist, but just as quickly relaxed.
"Five years ago, this man here was a slave," Graceson said, pointing
to his black colleague. "He was nothing. Less than nothing, mostly
illiterate, toiling in the fields under the threat of the lash. I
bought his freedom and took him into my house. There, I taught him to
read and write. His ability to learn, his eagerness, was unprecedented
in all my years of teaching. He was starved for food, but it knowledge
that was his sustenance."
Graceson stepped out from behind the lecturn and pointed at the black
man. "Hannibal, please rise if you would be so kind," and he did,
staring evenly at the eyes that stared back at him. "Now, here he
stands before you, an educated gentleman who harbors no ill will
toward his former owners."
Angelus leaned close to Darla and whispered, "There's a wee fib. I
suspect it's takin' the 'educated gentlemen' all he can to keep his
mouth shut whenever that Reynolds says somethin'. Given the proper
provocation, I'd wager he'd hack up every white person in this church
with an axe and laugh about it all the way down to Hell."
"You noticed that, too?" she replied. "I can smell his blood from
here. It's boiling hot. Oh, what I would give for a taste right now. I
bet it's spicy."
"Aye, I smell it," Angelus said, "and everyone else in this room, fer
that matter. I think maybe the wharf rats from before were the most
honest people we've yet seen here."
Darla looked at him curiously. "How do you figure?"
"When Graceson makes a good point, no one says boo to a ghost. But
they clap and smile when Reynolds so much as clears his throat. They
all feel the same as those drunken louts, they're just too proper to
admit it in mixed company. Hypocritical bastards. The whole city
should burn if ya ask me..."
Angelus paused then and a slow smile creased the edge of his thin
lips.
"Samuel Johnson once noted about a waltzing bear, it's not how well
the bear dances, but that it can do it at all," Reynolds declaimed.
"Regardless of your 'educated' negro's outward appearance, it has been
proven by scientific consensus that the negro race is biologically
inferior to the white man."
"Pray tell, good sir, what science is this?" countered Graceman. "The
science of the prejudiced? The science of the bigot?"
"Sir, that was uncalled for and ungracious of a gentleman of your
stature. Science isn't predjudiced because its findings are not to
your liking. The simple truth is that the negro does not possess the
moral or intellectual fiber for self-government. To thrust upon them
so complex a burden when they'd have no chance of success would be as
cruel as throwing a child into a den of wolves."
Graceman shook his head. "Such a honeyed-voice is ill suited for such
calumny, sir."
As the debate continued back and forth, Darla leaned in to Angelus,
and she whispered, "It's strange that I never noticed negros were the
inferior race before. Perhaps my palate is not as sophisticated as I
thought."
Angelus grunted. "Never noticed much difference meself, either. Black
or white, it's all the same to me. Red's the only color that matters
in the end, isn't it?"
"Food is food," Darla said, hungrily licking her lips. "The rest of
it...color and culture, language and race...is irrelevant. It's just
the gift-wrap for the blood."
"Aye." Angelus grinned. "P'rhaps we should conduct our own scientific
experiment. Gut the two of 'em and see if there's any diff'rence the
way they beg for mercy when they're scoopin' their vitals back
inside."
"And desecrate a house of God?" Darla fanned herself. "Sirrah, are you
trying to get me aroused?"
"Might make this night interestin' if we did." He squeezed her hand as
she tittered. "Still, if this Reynolds twaddle is a typical southern
gentleman, I'd rather be a vampire than a black. Least I 'ave a
fightin' chance. If any man dared call me 'property', I'd rip out the
tongue what said it."
"If *you* don't watch your tongue, sirrah, I'll rip off your clothes
and have you right now. They're won't be enough holy water in Georgia
to cleanse the alter of that sin..."
The debate went on for another hour. When it was over, although it was
clear from the expressions on their face that neither liked the other,
they shook hands. The audience filed out of the church into the warm
night. Reynolds and Graceman, followed closely by the tall, dapper
black man, were the last to emerge. They were immediately flocked by
well-wishers and detractors.
Angelus and Darla watched the gathering from the shadow of an oak tree
across the street.
"So what is the night's entertainment to be, my darling?" Darla asked.
"Do we kill both of them? But no, that would be too pedestrian,
wouldn't it? Wait, I know. Why don't we turn one of them and watch as
the other debates the ethics of eating his face?"
She walked around the oak tree, a white-gloved hand trailing across
the rough bark.
"Oh...even better," she said with a grin, coming around to him again,
"we'll turn that black man and savor the delicious irony as he kills
the both of them. Do you suppose that would count as a draw in a
debate?"
But Angelus seemed not to hear. His gaze had fallen hard on Graceson's
colleague, the tall and quiet black who was trying to be as
unobtrusive as possible, hanging back from the crowd of Savannahans, a
shadow in the shadows.
"I think I 'ave a better idea," he said. "It'll require a wee bit of
actin' on your part, though. Do ya think yer up to it?"
Darla looked at him, curiously, and then she smiled. "Tell me."
"In a moment, luv," Angelus replied. "Graceson and his friend are
leavin'. Let's follow them back to wherever they're stayin'."
The Englishman and his dark-skinned colleague started away from the
church. The two vampires crossed back over the street, trailing them
at a discreet distance. With their enhanced hearing, they didn't need
to be too close to overhear what they were saying.
"You've been very quiet, Hannibal," Graceson said after a time.
"What's the matter?"
The black man was silent for a few more steps, and then he said:
"Reynolds."
"Ah, yes. Bit of a narrow-minded prat, wasn't he?"
"'Narrow-minded' wasn't the term I had in mind," Hannibal replied.
"Nor 'prat', for that matter."
"What would you call him, then?"
The black man muttered a word in another language.
"I'm afraid my Yoruban isn't as advanced as your English, my friend,"
the professor said.
"In the politest sense of the word, my Mother said it meant 'cow
leavings'."
Graceson chuckled. "Yes, he was a bit of that, wasn't he? A regular
cow-prat." But the humorous play on words was lost on his silent
companion. The Englishman patted his arm sympathetically. "I am very
sorry to have to put you through that, Hannibal. I know how painful it
must be for you."
"No," the black man said, "you don't know. When Reynolds said my
people were property, little better than cows or sheep, as the Lord is
my witness I could barely restrain myself."
"But you did, my friend, and that's good. You mustn't lower yourself
to their level."
They stopped for a moment at the gate of a picket fence leading to the
large wood-slat house. A sign on the fence read "Room for Board."
Angelus and Darla slid into the shadows of the neighboring yard.
"I am trying, but sometimes it is very difficult," said the black man.
"My grandfather was a warrior in his tribe. He said he carried a
shield of tanned antelope skin to deflect his enemy's spears. But here
in the White Man's world, he said the spears and shields were made of
words. Yet even after all the books I've read, I still feel helpless
to defend myself. Even you with all your command of their language
changed nothing tonight."
"In truth, I didn't expect to," Graceson said. "We are making steady
strides seeing the Emancipation Act through Parliament. It could pass
in a year or two. But these are a small-minded people. They're
frightened of the unknown. Deep down, though, I suspect they must know
they are wrong. They are like Sisyphus and the rock they push is
history. Inevitably, it will fall and those who do not get out of the
way will be crushed."
"Maybe," Hannibal said, "maybe it will be as you say. But on this
night, I am the one who feels like Sisyphus." He sighed then, as
deeply as someone for whom the weight of the world rests uneasily upon
his broad shoulders. "If you don't mind, sir, I don't feel much like
going inside the carriage house right now."
Graceson looked contrite. "I must apologize once again. I'm deeply
sorry that they wouldn't give you a room in the main house. With you
being a free man and a British citizen, it never occured to me it
would be an issue."
The black man shrugged. "It was hardly a surprise, but you did your
best," he replied. "I think I'll take a walk to try to clear my head
of these unsettling thoughts."
Graceson nodded. "That should be fine, but don't be long. Our ship
leaves tomorrow morning. We're to meet Mister Garrison in Boston.
Also, be careful. Remember where you are. The people here don't view
you as a free man."
"They don't view me as a man at all," Hannibal snorted derisively.
"But, yes, I will." He started on his way, but turned back after only
a few steps. "I find it ironic that I was raised to be a Baptist and
yet, if you hadn't insisted, I would never have dared step into that
church tonight. I wonder if God feels the same? Is there a lesser
Heaven for black Baptists? Is there a greater Hell?"
With a nod good night, Graceson entered the yard and walked up the
steps to the house. Straightening his coat, Hannibal started down the
side of the dirt avenue and turned the corner out of view. Darla and
Angelus materialized out of the gloom.
"Now what?" she asked.
Angelus grinned. "Now," he said, "we can have some fun."
***
An hour later, someone started shouting outside the office of the
local militia. Two of the deputies quickly ran out to see what was
going on. They skidded to a halt at the tableau that greeted them. A
man and woman lay crumpled on the stairs near exhaustion, their
clothes ripped and mud-splashed. The man looked up through long locks
of disheveled brown hair, but his eyes seemed not to see. A scarlet
streak of blood ran down the side of his face, staining the tall
collar of his shirt.
"Help us...please..." he gasped before collapsing.
The deputies gawked, frozen in dread, and then called for help. Men
poured outside, some brandishing their weapons, and gathered around
the two strangers. Someone bent to check on them, and then told a
young boy to fetch the doctor. Several men helped lift the man and
woman and took them into the main office. The blonde-haired woman,
comely despite her distress, stirred awake as they brought her. She
looked about with wild eyes and started struggling weakly against the
two men trying to help her.
Hearing her cries roused the man; and despite his injury, he suddenly
broke free of those supporting him and lunged to her side.
"Darla!" he whispered. "Are you all right?"
"A..Angelus?" the woman answered, tears filling her eyes. "Oh,
Angelus! I thought you were dead!"
"Nay, nay," he shushed her, holding her as she began to weep into his
chest, "I'm here, darlin'. I'm right here by yer side."
As the men stood and watched, one of them, a fat, older man with a
badge on his vest, came up behind and gently touched Angelus on the
shoulder.
"We sent a boy to fetch the doctor," he said. "There's a cot in the
next room. She can rest in there until he arrives."
Angelus nodded and whispered something in her ear. Then he picked her
up and took her into the other room, where he laid her down on the
cot. After a moment, he walked out and closed the door.
The man with the badge identified himself as the captain of the
Savannah militia. "You've got a very bad cut there, sir," he said,
pointing to Angelus's forehead. "Sit down, I'll take a look at it, and
you can tell me what happened. Were you thrown from your coach?"
"What are ya, daft, ya fool!" Angelus snarled. "We were attacked!
Robbed!"
"What?"
"Aye! Some brazen highwayman attacked while we were walking through
Lafayette Park!"
"Did you get a look at him?" the captain asked, handing him a
handkerchief.
Angelus pressed the cloth to the cut and shook his head. "Nay, the
cowardly villain came up unawares from behind, struck a blow that
knocked me senseless. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the bushes
off the path. Darla...my precious Darla was nowhere to be found. I
called out her name and heard her groaning incoherently about ten feet
away. So I crawled to her on hands and knees, and there I found her,
sprawled face down over a boulder. I thought the worst, thought she
was dying. But as soon as I touched her, she sprang to life, started
beating on me chest, shouting the most terrible things."
A sudden pall had fallen over the captain's face. He glanced at the
other men. "If you don't mind me asking, sir, can you recall exactly
what she said?"
Angelus winced. "It's hard to remember. My head hurts me so."
"Try, please," the captain urged.
"It, it made no sense. She said something about...a black devil.
Telling it to leave her alone, that it had already taken everything
she held precious. Said she wanted to die."
One of the deputies gasped. The captain silenced him with a stern
look. Then he said to Angelus in a calm voice, "Sir, are you missing
anything?"
"What? What does..."
The captain smiled. "Could you check?"
"Aye, but I don't..." He shook his head and patted his coat. "No, me
billfold's still there, me gold pocketwatch, me wedding ring,
cufflinks." He looked up confusedly. "I don't understand...the villain
didn't rob me of anything. But why did he attack us if he wasn't going
to..."
The men exchanged uncomfortable looks. The captain didn't say
anything.
A terrible comprehension suddenly dawned on Angelus's face. "Oh good
God!"
He tried to stand but the captain grabbed his shoulders to restrain
him. "Sir, stay seated! We don't know for sure..."
"Get your bloody hands off me!" Angelus shouted, throwing off the
other's hands. He ran for the room where Darla was resting and sank
down by her side. "Darla...Darla, luv. The man who attacked us, did
he...he didn't..."
As the captain and the other men watched from the door, she turned to
look at him, her eyes brimming with tears.
"Did he...touch you?"
She started sobbing uncontrollably. "Angelus...I'm sorry. I tried...I
tried to fight him off, but he was...he was too strong for me. Oh
God...oh God...have mercy on me...I'm so sorry. I tried...I truly
tried. Do you...forgive me, Angelus?"
He cradled her head. "It's not for you to ask for forgiveness," he
said. "I should be the one to ask forgiveness of you. I should have
done more...I should have...I don't know. I shouldn't have brought us
to this godforsaken country in the first place. It's my fault."
"Sir," said the Captain. "We need to know who did this terrible thing
to your wife. We need to bring the scoundrel to justice. If she...got
a look at him..."
Angelus nodded. He kissed her gently on the forehead and whispered,
"Darla, did you see who did this to you? Did you see his face?"
She glanced at the other men, then at him. She nodded silently.
"I saw him," she said. "I'll see him to my dying day. It was that man
from the abolition debate."
"From the church tonight? Who was it?"
But she wouldn't say. A new wave of sobbing wracked her body.
"Darla, Darla-luv, it wasn't your fault. You did nothing to deserve
this. Just tell us."
Her face twisted by pain and grief, she looked at him and said, "It
was that...b-black man...I don't remember his name...the one who was
with that Graceson. He's the one who attacked us, I swear by all
that's holy. I saw him, I looked right at him. Oh God, he looked like
a monster...like demon. I have never seen such...evil...in the face of
a man..."
"It's all right," Angelus consoled her. "You did good, luv. Now lay
back and rest. The doctor should be here soon to examine you."
He helped her down on the cot, gently stroked her hair and kissed her
again on the forehead. Then he rose and stood facing the captain and
the other men.
"Hannibal," he said. "That's was the man's name." He was visibly
seething. His hands suddenly curled into fists so tight the knuckles
popped from the pressure. "Where would he be stayin'?"
"Most likely Marlene's boarding house," one of the men said.
"Then if you'll excuse me, gentlemen."
He tried to sidle past, but the captain blocked his way. "I can't let
you go."
Angelus looked shocked. "What?"
"Not with what you got on your mind right now."
"That...that bastard took somethin' from me. He took somethin' I can
never get back."
Angelus towered over the shorter man, but the shorter, older man stood
ground.
"I know," the captain said, "and that's precisely why I can't let you
go. You'll do something you'll live to regret. If this Hannibal did do
it..."
"If? Are ya doubtin' the word of my wife, now? Ya want to rape her of
her honor twice in one night?"
Several of the deputies winced at the word.
"I don't doubt she believes that it was this person," the captain
replied. "But that's not proof. At this point it only makes him a
suspect. If he did do it though, you may rest assured justice will be
served."
"Justice?" Angelus laughed bitterly. "Ya mean like with that Nat
Turner up in Virginia? That kind of justice? Where a black man can
slaughter sixty innocent whites and get away with it? Is that what ya
call justice here in America?"
"That has nothing to do with this," the captain said. "Like it or not,
the law is the law."
Angelus laughed in disbelief. "The law? Where was the law when that
black bastard had my wife over a rock? What would you do, pray tell?"
He looked around at the others. "For that matter what would any of you
do if some...black devil...dared lay hands on your wife? Would you
stand here prattlin' about the law and justice then?"
An uncomfortable silence fell among the men. Unable to meet his
furious gaze, they glanced around at each other shamefully.
"Well? What would you do?" Angelus challenged. "Are you not men, then?
Are there not any men in this city?"
"Yes, there are," one of them said finally, making a fist. "And I know
what I'd do, stranger."
The others shot him looks, but he straightened defiantly.
"Samuel!" an older man said.
"He's right, John," said another. "What if it was your Ruth that
nigger accosted? Or Christine, your daughter? Unless I've severely
underestimated you all these years, I know exactly what you'd do. And
as God is my witness, I'd do the same."
The captain stepped forward. In an stern, authoritative voice, he
said, "I want everyone out of this room now. The doctor'll be here any
moment. We'll just leave the man to be alone with his woman."
Outside, he closed the door and then peered at the dark, angry faces
of his deputies.
"Now all you better listen close," he said. "I don't want anyone going
off half-cocked. I don't want no lynch mobs running through my city."
"Captain! That nigger raped a white woman!"
"Believe me, I appreciate the severity of the accusation," the captain
nodded. "But we were sworn to uphold the law and by God we'll abide by
the law. If anyone of you decides to take the law into your own hands,
I swear I'll lock you up myself. Is there any confusion? Is my
position sufficently clear on this?"
There were some low grumbles of discontent, but eventually all the men
nodded.
"All right, then." He pointed at one of the deputies against the back
wall. "Go wake up Judge Parker and get him down here." He singled out
another, a man of stocky build and short firey-red hair under a brown
derby. "Jenkins, take some men over to Marlene's boarding house and
bring the...uh...suspect here for questioning. He'll be in the
carriage house with the other servants."
Jenkins tipped his hat, his small, cruel eyes gleaming beneath the
brim, and quickly picked out four other men. "Saddle up, yer ridin'
with me."
"And Jenkins?" the captain said, catching the man before he could walk
out the door. "Just you fetch him, y'understand? Bring him back and
that's all. None of your screwing around."
"Thought never crossed my mind, captain," the man replied and tipped
his hat again.
A few minutes later, the shadowy riders charged through the quiet city
streets at full gallop, their horses chuffing and spitting foam. When
they reigned up out front of the boarding house, they didn't even
bother waking Marlene. They cantered up to the carriage house out back
and dismounted there. At the side door, one of the men went to knock.
Jenkins grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.
"What the hell ya think yer doin'?" he said angrily. "We got us a
wanted criminal in there. You want to give him a headstart out the
back or somethin'?"
"But the captain said he's just wanted for questioning..."
"Look round, ya idiot," Jenkins said. "Ya see the captain here? He
ain't the one that nigger's gonna shoot if he gets wind we're comin'
for him." He swiped the leather long-coat past his hip, revealing
criss-crossed holsters belts, and drew forth an old North&Cheney
flintlock. "We go in hard, we go in fast."
The four other men exchanged worried looks and then withdrew their
saddle-holstered Springfields and Kentucky rifles.
Jenkins braced by the door. "Y'all ready, boys?"
At their nod, he lifted a boot and kicked the lock. The door gave way
with a splintering of wood and they charged inside. Horses whinnied
and bucked in the stables, startled by the sudden sound, as the men
flew past for the steps and clamored up to the second floor. A black
female servant dressed in a white nightgown and cap appeared at the
upper landing carrying a lamp. She threw a hand to her mouth and
gasped as the clenched faces and steely, merciless eyes raced toward
her.
"Where's the foreigner?" Jenkins cried, jamming the barrel of the gun
under her chin as he threw her roughly against the wall.
Her dark eyes wide with fright, she managed to spit out, "B-back room,
sir. D-down ta very end."
One of the men ripped the lamp from her nerveless grasp as they
hustled past, her eyes glistening in the receding light. She sank
slowly to the floor and started to weep. All down the hall, doors
began to open with the concerned faces of other servants alerted by
the commotion outside. At the sight of the white men and their drawn
guns, however, they were closed again, and dark eyes watched fearfully
through the cracks as they ran by. A baby started wailing and was
quickly muffled.
Jenkins didn't stop as they reached the last room at the end of the
hallway. He went through at full speed, tearing the rotted door off
its hinges. Hannibal leapt awake from the plain bed upon which he
slept, wearing only longjohns, and found himself staring down the dark
abyss of the North&Cheney.
"Move and I'll spray yer brains all over the wall, nigger," Jenkins
barked. "Sam, find some rope and tie up his hands."
"What is the meaning of this?" Hannibal said calmly. "I am a free
man...I have done nothing..."
Jenkins pistol-whipped him across the face. "Say another word, free
man. I dare ya. Go ahead and say somethin'."
Hannibal said nothing. He lay face down on the bed, breathing hard,
blood slowly staining the sheets from a gash on his forehead, until
the man Jenkins had sent to find rope returned and tied his hands
behind his back.
"On yer knees, nigger," Jenkins ordered, and Hannibal complied,
sliding awkwardly off the bed to the hardwood floor.
Jenkins smiled and sat down on the edge of a steamer trunk. From an
inner coat pocket, he pulled out a cigar and bit off the end. "Got a
match, Sam?"
The man holding the rope dug in his pockets and tossed a box, which
Jenkins caught with one hand.
"Thanks," he said, and then glanced at Hannibal and smiled. "Well,
don't know about you boys, but he don't look so special to me. What do
you think, Sam? Does he look special to you?"
Sam chuckled. "Nope. Looks like just another nigger ta me."
"Oh, but Sam, ain't ya heard? What we got here's a special nigger.
He's a smart nigger. He done read lots of books. Isn't that right,
smart nigger? You read lots of books?"
Hannibal's brown eyes flicked nervously from man to man before finally
settling again on Jenkins. He swallowed, though dry-mouthed, and
nodded.
"Only ever read one myself, the Bible. But I just figured once you
read the Word of God, there ain't no need to read nothin' else. In a
way it almost seemed like some kind of blasphemy. Like sayin' the
Bible warn't good enough. You think that's true, smart nigger?"
Hannibal said nothing. There was no right answer. There wasn't meant
to be.
"Well, if you got all sorts a book-learnin', maybe you can answer a
question," Jenkins said. "What's two plus two, smart nigger?"
The white men were peering closely at Hannibal, and he knew the look.
He'd seen it before. There was an awakening violence in their hearts,
if not yet the nature of the deed in their thoughts. But like some
animal stirred by the fresh scent of blood on the wind, it was coming.
There was no getting out of this.
"I...I don't understand," Hannibal said.
The man behind him jerked the rope tight; and Hannibal ground his
teeth at the fresh wave of pain.
"You don't understand?" Jenkins grinned. "What, you don't speak
English, smart nigger? It's a simple question. What's two plus two?"
Through gritted teeth, he stammered, "F-four..."
Jenkins nodded to one of the other men, who then stepped close and
drove the butt of his Springfield into the black man's gut.
Hannibal grunted and doubled over. He would have fallen, but the man
holding the rope jerked back at the same time, almost dislocating his
arms.
"'Fraid not, smart nigger," Jenkins said. "The correct answer is
'whatever you say it is, massah.' I thought that was clear, but let's
try it one more time. What's two plus two?"
Through the haze of pain, Hannibal looked about desperately. But then
a tired resignation crept into his brown eyes. His head bowed.
"Whatever you say it is," he said in a husky voice. "Massah-sir."
The men around him chuckled, and Jenkins thumbed back the brim of his
derby.
"Well, I guess he is a smart nigger after all," he said, and then he
knelt down to speak directly to Hannibal. "See, boy, that there's the
problem with readin' too many books. You gets in yer head that yer
learnin' somethin' when really yer just unlearnin' somethin' more
important."
Tears started in Hannibal's eyes. "Yessir, massah-sir. Whatever you
say, massah-sir."
"Massah-sir," Jenkins grinned, pulling out a safety match. "I likes
the sound of that!" He bent down and put the match under the black
man's chin, who winced when it was struck alight.
He lit his cigar with a couple strong puffs, blowing the acrid smoke
in Hannibal's face, and flicked the match at him, causing him to jerk
his head away.
"Well, boys," Jenkins said, "guess we should take our prisoner back to
the courthouse."
"Hey, Jenk?" said Sam. "How're we going do this? We only got five
horses. The nigger's going to have to ride with one of us."
"I ain't ridin' with no nigger-rapist at muh back," said another man.
Jenkins smiled. "S'all right, boys. I'm sure we'll figure out
sumthin'."
Back at the courthouse, the boy who'd been sent for the judge returned
with two others in tow.
"Where's Judge Parker?" the captain asked, looking over the other men.
One he knew - the Pastor from the First Baptist Church; his house was
a few doors down from Parker's. The other, an overweight man with
jowls and a rosy-cheeked complexion, he did not.
"Mrs. Parker said the judge had gone to Cockspur Island to do some
fishin'. Wouldn't be back for two more days."
The captain muttered under his breath. "Well, why'd you bring these
two then?"
The fat man extended his hand. "Senator Reynolds, sir, at your
service. The Pastor and I were having a nightcap on his front portico
when we heard your boy ride past. We stopped him on the way back and
learned of the distressing incident this evening. I thought perhaps I
could be of some help."
The captain seemed about to dismiss the offer, but then he nodded.
"Maybe you could at that. My boys are pretty riled. I'm worried this
situation could escalate out of control. It would be nice to have a
senator backing me up to make sure it doesn't."
"May I speak to the man and the woman?" Reynolds asked.
"Certainly," the captain said. "This way, sir."
Fifteen minutes later, two men carried Hannibal through the front
door, his torn and bloody feet and knees leaving a wet smear of
scarlet across the floor.
The captain came out of his office and blanched at the sight. "What
the hell happened to him?"
"Well, sir," Jenkins said, a sly smile playing across his lips, "see,
what with all the commotion we forgot to bring an extra horse for
the...suspect. So we had to tie him up to my pommel and he walked
behind." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Guess he fell a couple times.
Three or four maybe. Five. I don't know. Might be I missed a few. Had
to keep my eyes on the road."
"God almighty, Jenkins," the captain shouted. "You're a deputy of the
militia, not a judge, jury and executioner!"
Jenkins nodded coldly. "Well, I guess I'll just have to keep that in
mind next time a nigger rapes a white woman. Sir." Then, without
permission or a salute, he turned and left.
With an angry grunt of disgust, the captain ordered the others to put
the semi-conscious Hannibal in a jailcell and went to tell Senator
Reynolds.
"Where is he?" Angelus said, rising to his feet. "Where's the bastard
that touched my wife?"
"Calm down, boy," said Reynolds, grabbing hold of him. "I know how
strongly you feel about this, and I don't blame you, but you must calm
down. The negroe's only a suspect."
"Only a suspect?" Angelus countered. "Then let's find out the truth.
Darla saw the man what did this to her. Let her identify him."
Reynolds and the Pastor glanced at each other. "I doubt your wife is
up to that just yet. I wouldn't want to put in under any more stress
than she's already..."
"No."
Darla's voice silenced the debate. Everyone looked at her.
"I want to see his face again."
Reynolds offered a sympathetic smile. "Ma'am, we appreciate your
courage, but I would advise against it until the doctor had arrived.
You've been through a...traumatic experience tonight."
Darla cut him off. "With all due respect, sir, you have no inkling
what I've been through. I want to see the black beast that attacked me
tonight. I want to look in his eyes and I want my husband by my side
when I do."
"Well, ya heard the lady," Angelus said. "Are ya going to deny her a
moment of justice?"
Reynolds looked at Darla, but he couldn't hold her gaze for long. He
turned away from them and had a brief, whispered discussion with the
Pastor and the Captain.
"All right," he said, "but just for a moment."
Angelus helped Darla to get up, and together the five of them walked
from the room and down the hall to the cellblock. A deputy standing
guard unlocked the heavy door to allow them in and then promptly
locked it again.
Angelus held Darla close as they cautiously neared the metal bars of
the cell where Hannibal was. It was empty, save for a wooden bench, a
stool, a bedpan and straw strewn upon the floor. The black man lay
slumped upon the bench, his hands manacled to chains embedded in the
stone wall. His sweaty face was a massive bruise. His left eye was
swollen shut and his nose broken at an awful angle. As he saw them
come into view, he doubled over in a painful coughing jag. Blood
spattered the straw and then a tooth.
Darla buried her face in Angelus's chest and started weeping.
The captain cleared his throat. "Well, is this the man who..."
He was cut off from a loud shouting outside the door. Someone was
demanding to be let in.
The captain stormed to the door. "What the Hell is going on out
there?"
"Sir," the deputy said through the bars, "there's someone out here
says he knows the nig...the...the suspect. Says his name's Graceson."
"Let him in, Captain," Reynolds said. "He deserves to be here for
this."
The door was opened and Graceson charged inside.
"What is the meaning of this outrage?" he demanded. "Woken by my
hostess and informed that my friend was accosted while he slept, and
then taken away at gunpoint on some spurious criminal charge!"
"Your 'friend'," the Captain said, "has been accused of a most henious
crime, sir. The rape of white woman."
"How dare you! Hannibal would never do such a thing! Where is his
accusor?"
"He's right here, you friend of devils!" Angelus shouted.
"What is your name, sir?" spat Graceson angrily. "I want to know the
man who dares slander my friend with such a reprehensible falsehood."
"The name's Angelus, and if I'm lying, may God strike me..."
He got no further. Graceson lunged for the Pastor, tearing the golden
cross from about his neck. The Pastor cried out in alarm and tripped
over his feet. He fell backwards, hitting his head on the bars of the
cell, and then slowly slid down to the floor, unconscious.
Graceson whirled about and shoved the cross into Angelus's face.
Instinctively, he flew back against the brick wall, his face vamping
against his will.
As the Captain bent to see to the Pastor, Senator Reynolds stumbled
backwards against the wall, eyes wide, jowls quivering. "Lord have
mercy!"
Angelus started laughing. "Well, I'm guessin' by that reaction you've
heard of me, then?" he said to Graceson, and then chuckled some more.
Graceson backed away, holding the cross as a ward. "A former student
of mine is a historian with the Watcher's Council. I know all there is
to know about you and your devil's consort." He edged back to the bars
of the cell and hissed over his shoulder, "Hannibal! Break a leg off
that stool and give it to me! Quick, man, quick!"
The black man had watched the entire horrific affair in a stunned and
frightened silence, but he did as he was told, quickly smashing the
stool on the floor and handing Graceson one of the severed legs
through the bars. With a terse oath in his native language, he picked
up a jagged piece of the stool for himself, awkwardly holding it like
a spear.
"What are they, sir?"
"Vampires," Graceson said.
"V-vampires...?" Reynolds stuttered fearfully.
"Aye, and not just any, but two of the foulest hellspawn to ever walk
this earth."
Darla walked over to Angelus and helped him up. "Isn't that sweet,
dear? We're famous."
"Infamous more like," Graceson growled. "Infamous for your evil, whore
of Satan."
Angelus straightened his jacket and dusted himself off. "If the truth
be known, I'd rather it be for that than hypocrisy. There's somethin'
I've been meanin' ta ask ya, Graceson. What's the real reason ya
bought ol' Hannibal there?"
"He wanted to make me free!" the black man shouted through his split
lip.
"Don't talk to them," Graceson barked. "They're just trying to get us
to lower our guard."
Angelus snorted. "Piffle. If I wanted to kill ya, it would take more
than a piece of rotted wood and a wee little cross ta stop me. But ya
dint answer me question. Why did ya buy 'im, Graceson? Why did ya
teach 'im? That lard-ass Reynolds might be a sack of shite..."
At the mention of his name, the Senator dropped to his knees and began
to pray.
"...but somethin' he said tonight at your debate rang the bell
o'truth."
Angelus grinned savagely.
"Hannibal was your waltzing bear, wasn't he?" he continued. "Ya taught
'im to speak the Queen's English all proper, made 'im mannered and
polite, dressed 'im up like a right English gentleman with a top hat
and cravat. And what for? He was your show piece, he was your circus
act to disarm all the scared white folk afraid of abolition. He was
your answer to their fears of what would happen if the savages were
set free."
"Shut up," Graceson muttered. "Shut your mouth or so help me God,
I'll..."
"You'll do nothing, 'cuz ya know it's the truth," Angelus said
triumphantly. "Ya didn't give a shite about Hannibal as a person. In
fact ya pr'bly think less of him than that Reynolds does. At least he
had an excuse, growin' up here bein' told negroes were inferior. What
was yours then? Or did ya just decide the end justified the means?
That's a devil's bargain, that is."
"Don't listen to him, Hannibal," Graceson said. "Don't listen to
anything he says. He's evil through and through. Believe me when I
say..."
"Did...you even ask if I could stay in the main house?" the black man
whispered. His voice was small and betrayed.
Graceson suddenly inhaled but said nothing.
Hannibal sank down to his knees, dropping the stake from his suddenly
limp hand. It clattered loudly as it struck the floor. "I am undone,"
he said to no one. "I am come undone."
"Dammit, man! Pick up that bloody stake!" Graceson cried. "Don't you
see? None of that matters right now! We are in grave danger!"
But Hannibal seemed lost. "All lies," he whimpered, "all were lies."
Outside the door to the cellblock, several of the deputies were
crowding close to see what was going on inside. The Captain jumped to
the barred window and shouted, "Unlock the door! Unlock the door!"
"Well, I suppose that's our cue to be going," Angelus said. "Honestly,
not quite the endin' I had in mind. Was hopin' for a bit more
screamin', but I suspect we've done enough damage for one night." He
turned to go and then stopped. "Oh, by the way, Hannibal...enjoy your
freedom."
As the celldoor was opened and the men began to pour inside, Angelus
and Darla fled down the hallway to a back door, which he splintered
with a kick, and then they disappeared into the night.
***
"So it didn't work out, then?" William said. His lips twitched
slightly. "Well, that's tough. Better luck next time, eh?"
Angelus narrowed his eyes. "Ah, william, William...always so
impatient. I haven't even gotten to the best part yet."
He grinned wolfishly over at Darla, who put a kerchief daintily to her
mouth. Her eyes sparkled with amusement.
William glanced from one to the other and back, growing visibly
annoyed at their secret jest. "Go on then. Let's have it."
Angelus chuckled.
"The whites killed Hannibal anyway."
"What!" William burst out; and Darla could no longer contain herself.
She collapsed on the divan and howled with laughter.
"It's true! It's all true!" she said, dabbing at the tears streaming
down her cheeks. "After we were found out, we elected to stay. Angelus
wanted to hang the black from a tree with his intestines. But the
whites beat us to it."
"But they knew!" William protested. "They knew it was all a lie!
Right?"
"Aye, they did," said Angelus, flopping down next to Darla. "Ah, you
should have been there. 'Twas a grand sight to behold. Not ten minutes
after we left, a mob of white men stormed the courthouse, led by that
deputy Jenkins. Hootin' and hollerin', they dragged Hannibal from the
jailcell. Graceson was pleading for mercy and justice. Monsters, he
called us, liars and deceivers and worse. But they were done listenin'
to him."
"What about that Reynolds? And the Captain? They saw your face
transform."
Angelus nodded. "Aye, that they did, plain as day. They knew Hannibal
was innocent of the crime. But neither one spoke up. They stood on the
stairs of the courthouse and did nothin' to stop it. Pro'bly they knew
better than Graceson not to get in the way of a mob once it's got the
thirst for blood. It can't be stopped even with the truth. So they
watched as the mob took Hannibal across the street and looped a rope
over the limb of an oak. They cinched the noose tight around his neck
and hoisted away with a great whoop and cheer. Graceson dropped to his
knees, wailin' and cryin' as he saw his friend jitter and spasm...ah,
sweet music. They just left him dangling in the wind like some piece
of black fruit."
"We went back the next night before our ship set sail," Darla said.
"He was still hanging. The crows had pecked out his eyes."
"Do you know what happened to Graceson?" William asked.
"Of course!" Angelus exclaimed. "That's the best part of torture,
seein' the pain that lives on long after you stopped turnin' the
screws. Graceson returned to England, broken in spirit. He shunned his
former colleagues at the British Anti-Slavery Society. In time he
became a crazed recluse, livin' in a crumblin' mansion like somethin'
out of Dickens. I even sired a black vampire to torment him every year
on the anniversary of the lynchin'. He thought it was Hannibal, come
back from beyond the grave for revenge."
"How long did that go on?"
Angelus shrugged. "Oh, about four years before it finally ate him one
night. 'Twas a shame. Graceson could have suffered for another decade
or two. 'Twas my fault, really, for siring such a dullard. He never
appreciated the notion that pain is always more amusin' than death.
Had to dust 'im for it."
"So, all told," William said, "you framed an innocent black man,
incited a racist mob of southerners to lynch him, and drove a good man
insane." He glanced at Angelus with grudging respect. "Well, that is
some story. I have to admit you beat me fair and square. I don't have
any tale to top that."
"William, William," said Angelus. "Don't be taking it so bad." He
stood up from the divan and placed a hand on the other's shoulder. "I
had more practise than you do. Art like that you don't learn in a
fortnight. It takes time and an understanding of the frailties of
human nature."
He looked at him sourly. "But you damned an entire city to Hell."
"Well, in truth they were already well on their way," Angelus allowed.
"All I did was give 'em a wee push in the right direction."
In the bed, wrapped warm and tight in layers of sheets and quilts,
Drusilla mumbled something in her sleep.
"Baa baa," she said dreamily, "my pretty little black sheep..."
The End
Written by DW