Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive Read Online Free PDF Page A

contacts are ten years old. Who knows whether they have been turned. We hear rumors of such and see the same happening here. You must take great care and move only when you are certain.”
    “Certain of what? And of whom?”
    “The only name I am sure of is William Wilberforce. This man can be trusted. But take care not to bring danger onto Wilberforce’s head! He is old and very ill, so I’m told. And many have abandoned him. Take great care in how you approach him. In the meantime, do nothing, say nothing, until you make this contact. Only him can you trust, and those to whom he points you.”
    Slowly Falconer shook his head. “I am the man of action. I follow your lead. We have succeeded thus far because of your wise head.”
    “And I tell you again. You are too hard on yourself. You refuse to accept what all others see. You must—”
    The rear doors boomed open. The noise was all the warning Falconer required. He slipped from his seat and crouched upon the floor.
    The curate rose to his feet and stepped into the central aisle. Falconer lowered himself to his belly and slipped under the next pew. Hopefully the newcomers’ sudden dash from sunlight to the church’s gloom would grant Falconer precious seconds to disappear.
    As Felix stepped toward the wide open doors, one of the intruders called, “Who’s that there?”
    “A simple curate, good sir. Coming to offer you God’s greeting in His holy place.”
    “A curate, eh. Never did understand the term. Meant to be only half a priest, are you?”
    “I entered the service late in life, sir. And school was never a place where I felt welcome.”
    “Then you and I share that, at least.” Boot steps scraped forward. “Wait, I know you. You’re that fellow from the church north of town. My overseer is churched by you.”
    “Robert,” the curate offered, giving the name a French intonation. “A fine man.”
    “He was, until you filled his head with such stuff and nonsense as would choke a horse. Now he won’t carry a whip and he insists upon my slaves resting one day a week. He’s after them being churched as well.”
    Falconer knew the planter’s voice, having heard it any number of times. He had even sat next to him once at the governor’s table, guests at a banquet the governor had given the previous winter. The planter, with a girth as large as his voice, was known as a hard man, the sort who was certain every opinion he held was not only the right way, but the only way. Which was very dangerous, as the planter held the power of life and death over 457 slaves. Falconer knew such numbers because he had made it his business to know.
    Putting together a list of slaves and their owners was not what placed Falconer in danger. Owning slaves was not a crime anywhere in the British empire. But the trade in slaves had been outlawed for a quarter of a century. No person could be captured, traded, or sold into servitude. Or so the law said.
    Falconer knew differently. As did his mates. It was their gathering of evidence to prove trafficking in slaves still existed that made John Falconer a threat. The day Falconer’s enemies identified him as the man who could testify against them would be his last. Just as had happened to Jaime.
    “All God’s children deserve a chance to see the light, sir,” the curate replied. “Even your slaves. Surely you agree—”
    “I agree with nothing you say,” the planter lashed out. “You and the rest of your ilk.”
    Falconer continued his snaking progress across the stone floor. He was three pews from the curtained archway, where the priests entered for the Eucharist, when his danger-honed senses warned him. He rolled forward until his entire body was beneath the next pew, linked his feet and hands around the seat, and hefted himself off the floor.
    He heard Felix say loudly, “Did you lose something, sir?”
    “Aye, that I did” came the grunting reply.
    The curate must have lowered himself so that he was crouched