The Outer Banks House by Diann Ducharme

Author:Diann Ducharme [Ducharme, Diann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-46225-1
Publisher: a cognizant original v5 release october 21 2010
Published: 2010-06-08T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Benjamin Whimble

July 25, 1868

… but it occurred to my thoughts, what call, what occasion, much less what necessity, I was in to go and dip my hands in blood, to attack people who had neither done nor intended me any wrong—who as to me were innocent …

—ROBINSON CRUSOE

SATURDAY MORNING WAS GROWING MERCIFUL HOT WHEN I MET UP WITH Mister Sinclair on the docks. He didn’t even want to fish today, and I had planned a nice outing on the ocean, hoping to catch a breeze, as well as some sea bass.

The change in plans made the hairs stand up on the scruff of my neck. This threatened to become a custom.

He pulled on my elbow. “Come on. Let’s get a drink at the hotel. It’s too damned hot out here.”

I’d never actually set foot inside the hotel. It was a place for rich vacation folks, mostly. Folks exactly like Mister Sinclair. Even me and Pap conducted our fishery trade around back.

“I don’t think I’m dressed proper for that. Don’t I need shoes?” I asked, hoping to waylay the man.

But he just snickered. “Not if you’re with me.”

On the way, he curled his arm around my shoulders, weighing me down even more. He said softly, “Ben, you heard of a man called Elijah Africa?”

I nodded, a lump growing in my gizzard. His red beard looked like red ants feasting in the sunlight. “I heard of him, sure. He’s the preacher of a church on Roanoke Island. Every Sunday the church is packed to overflow, every colored man, woman, and child coming to hear his sermoning. Some say on a good day you can hear his voice clear across the Roanoke Sound.”

With a name like Elijah Africa, I thought even white folks might want to see what he was all about. But I just knew Mister Sinclair wasn’t all perked up about the man’s sermoning.

Mister Sinclair talked real quiet now, as we walked through the hotel, a-bustle with folks getting ready for their outings. “He’s the one we’re looking for. This preacher—Elijah Africa—is not who he says he is. He’s a bad man, Ben. The worst of the worst. We think he’s a runaway slave called Elijah Bondfield. But we’ve got to make sure before we take him.”

“What do you think he did?” I choked out.

“Back in fifty-nine, he killed his master and mistress with a hatchet. He’s been on the run ever since.”

My eyes bulged. “Lord almighty! And you think a killer like that has turned preacher?”

His put his finger to his lips to shush me, even though the hotel tavern was empty so early in the morning. “You can see why folks want him caught. We ’ll take him down, then the rest of the darkies that follow him will go down with him. I’d say Jesus himself handed him to us, it’s so perfect.”

I wasn’t so sure Jesus would involve himself in all that muck, but I kept that to myself. Mister Sinclair walked over to Jeb Mitson, the hotel desk man, and gestured with him for a bit.

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