Promises to the Dead

by Mary Downing Hahn

  I had to pee something awful so I used the little pail Captain Harrison had left for that purpose. Then I eased the tarp back and peered out. In the dim dawn light I saw the captain standing at the wheel, his back to me. A man I knew, Daniel Wrightson, swabbed the deck a few feet away. Two or three other fellows busied themselves with their tasks. None of them looked my way.

  Taking a quick glance at the water and the sky, I saw farmland and trees and one small town with docks poking into the Bay like wooden fingers and boats as small as toys bobbing on the water. I couldn't tell if I was looking at the western shore or the eastern shore. All I knew was we were somewhere on the Chesapeake Bay between Talbot County and Baltimore.

  As I dropped the tarp, I glanced at Perry. He lay on his back, eyes wide open, staring at me.

  "Hey," I whispered. "You feel all right?"

  Perry said nothing, didn't even nod his head. Just looked at me as if he hated me too much to waste his breath talking.

  "You want something to eat?" I showed him the biscuits and cheese Miss Sally had given us.

  He made no response. Feeling irked, I told myself he was missing his mama something terrible. Maybe it had nothing to do with me at all. Maybe he was just too sad to talk.

  "How about a drink of water?" I asked, trying to be patient. "Ain't you thirsty?"

  Still nothing.

  "Maybe you need to pee." I pointed at the bucket, which was already beginning to scent the air under the tarp. "You can use that."

  When he was done with the bucket, I ate my share of the biscuits and cheese. Perry watched like he'd forgotten what eating was and had no interest in remembering.

  "Come on," I begged, waving a biscuit under his nose. "You need to eat. You'll get too weak to walk."

  Perry kept his mouth shut so tight it might have been drawn on his face with a pencil.

  "Listen here," I said, running out of patience with him. "You ain't the first child in this world to lose your mama. My own mama died when I was younger than you, and my daddy died soon after. I still feel mighty bad about it, but I don't go round making everybody else miserable."

  Perry looked at me as if my loss had no bearing on his own misery. "It's not the same," he said. "You have kin to care for you. You're not all alone in the world like me." Tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

  "You got kin, Perry. That's why we're going to Baltimore. Remember? Your mama wants you to be with your aunt Polly, your daddy's very own sister."

  Perry scowled at me through his tears. "What if she gives me back to the Widow?"

  "Why on earth would she do that?"

  He gave me a look that clearly said I was too stupid to put one foot in front of the other. "I'm not white like her, am I?" Then, without saying another word, he turned away and curled up into a little ball.

  I stared at his back. It was true that some white folks scorned their black kin, but others treated them real good. I figured Lydia knew Polly a sight better than Perry did. If she trusted Polly, then I trusted Polly, too.

  Weary of arguing with the child, I set the food down beside him. "There it is," I said. "Your share. Take it or leave it." I lay back and closed my eyes. My stomach rose and fell with the boat, and I wished I hadn't eaten so much. Hoping to feel better, I let the motion rock me back to sleep.

  The next time I woke, I could tell by the noise and commotion we'd docked. The crew was unloading the fish, shouting and calling to each other to mind this and watch that. Perry was awake, too. I noticed he'd eaten his food.

  Captain Harrison had told us not to show ourselves till he said it was safe, so we stayed in the dinghy and waited. It was hot and stuffy and the bucketful of pee stunk like an outhouse in desperate need of lime. Though Perry didn't so much as wrinkle his nose, I was busting my britches to breathe some fresh air.

  At last Captain Harrison poked his face under the tarpaulin. "You can come out now, boys," he said. "And dump that bucket overboard. I swear, it reeks to high heaven."

  After I'd done as he said, I stood on the deck of the Sally H. and stared at the harbor. Never had I seen anything like Baltimore City. Ships of all sizes and kinds rocked on the water—steamboats with tall stacks and paddlewheels, old schooners, sloops, barges, and I don't know what all. Some were from foreign places, China, England, Holland, India. Their names were painted on the prows in strange writing with curlicued letters, and they flew flags I'd never seen before. Others were as American as the Sally H.

  The ships' decks swarmed with crews loading and unloading everything from fish to tea and silk. They called out to one another in languages I'd never heard. The whole world seemed to be right here in Baltimore. Why, the very air smelled like spice with a tang of dead fish and salty water mixed in.

  Beyond the harbor, tall, skinny houses crowded together, row after row of them, climbing uphill from the water. Their rooftops and chimneys stretched toward the sky. Here and there church steeples poked up, higher than everything else, pointing the way to heaven. Closer to the ground was a jumble of waterfront taverns. Most likely that was as far as Uncle Philemon got on his visits to Baltimore.

  Somewhere amongst all those buildings was the house where Miss Polly Baxter lived. I hoped with all my heart to get Perry there safely and be back to the Shore before my uncle even noticed I was gone.

  CHAPTER 7

  Captain Harrison tapped my shoulder to get my attention. "Where are you taking the boy?"

  "Number 115 West Monument Street," I told him.

  "That's not too far from here." He thought a second or two and told me the way. "Just be sure and aim for the Washington Monument at the top of the hill on Charles Street," he finished up. "West Monument Street will be to your left."

  It seemed a long way to walk with a runaway slave, but Captain Harrison said nobody would pay Perry any mind. "If they ask," he added, "just say your daddy owns him."

  "Nobody owns me," Perry spoke up for the first time all morning. "If you say anyone does, I'll call you a liar, Jesse Sherman."

  "That's the right spirit," Captain Harrison said, "but sometimes you have to lie to protect yourself, Perry. You can't go around announcing to the world you're a runaway. Got to show some sense."

  Perry frowned and jammed his hands deep in his pockets. The captain turned his head and spat overboard into the thick brown water. The Bay was a sight dirtier here in Baltimore. I saw a rat floating belly up, keeping company with a mess of dead fish, rotten fruit, bottles, broken crates and barrels, all washing against the sides of the Sally H.

  Captain Harrison laid his hand on my shoulder. "Be careful, Jesse. The city's in an ugly mood today. Got something to do with Union troops coming through on their way south. Looks like trouble."

  Perry paid no mind to this, but I remembered what Uncle Philemon had said. "What kind of trouble?" I asked.

  The captain shook his head. "All I can say is keep your wits about you. If anything goes wrong, I can't wait on you. My crew expects to be home tonight."

  Before we left the wharf, I looked back at the Sally H. Captain Harrison was watching us from the deck, his face worried. "Remember what I said," he called. "Get back to the boat before dark."

  With Perry beside me, I led the way up Fell Street. It seemed like everyone was out and about, rushing here and there, pushing and yelling. Women as well as men, blacks as well as white, free men as well as slaves, all going about their business. Some sold wares, shouting out what they had—fish and crabs, mostly. Others shouted what they could do for you—mend your pots, sharpen your knives, pull your teeth, cure your ills.

  Nobody paid Perry and me any notice. To keep from being shoved into the street, we edged along close to the houses, dodging doorsteps and trash. So far I'd seen nothing to make me like Baltimore. I could scarcely wait to get back to the Shore and breathe fresh air again.

  As we passed a tavern, three men barged out the door and nearly knocked us flat. "Those Yankee soldiers ain't coming through Baltimore," one of them yelled.
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  "No, sir, just let 'em try," another hollered and waved a South Carolina flag.

  At the same moment, a gang of rough-looking sailors and roustabouts surged past us. Some were carrying clubs and bottles. One brandished a harpoon. Others had rocks in their hands. They were shouting and swearing about Mr. Lincoln's army, too.

  Another mob poured out of a tavern across the street. "To the train station," a big red-faced man shouted. "That's where the Yankees are. Come on, boys, let's bust some heads!"

  Perry and I pressed ourselves against a building and watched them go by. Though I tried to hide it, I was scared. The men were looking for a fight, any fool could see that. And drunk, too, from the smell of them. Like the captain had said, trouble was brewing for sure.

  On Lancaster Street, the crowd was bigger. The men were all going the same way, and we were carried along with them like bits of wood in a flooded river. Though Perry didn't have nothing to say, he kept close to my side without me telling him to. I reckoned he realized it was a good thing he had company.

  At the President Street Station, we were stopped by a team of horses trying to pull train cars full of Yankee soldiers along a track running right down the middle of the road. I don't know where the locomotive was. Maybe it was busted.

  But whatever the cause, the soldiers were in a bad situation. All around them, men were tearing up cobblestones and hurling them and whatever else they could grab at the cars. Train windows shattered. The Yankees inside ducked and swore. The horses pulling the cars whinnied and reared up.

  A bunch of roustabouts dragged anchors and timbers from the wharves and shoved them on the tracks. Gunshots rang out here and there. People cursed the Union and Mr. Lincoln both. A skinny man in a shabby frock coat waved the South Carolina flag and cheered for the rebels.

  It was a good thing my uncle wasn't there. Delia was right. He'd have got himself killed in no time.

  "Down with the Yankee hirelings!" a man near me yelled.

  "Give me some gunpowder," another cried. "I'll blow 'em to kingdom come!"

  Yet another ripped open his shirt and bared his chest. "Shoot me," he screamed at the soldiers, "I dare you!"

  I tried to find a way out of the crowd, but everybody was big and mad. They pushed us this way and shoved us that way. I was scared we'd end up trampled underfoot.

  The farther we went, the worse the rioting got. By now the soldiers had abandoned the train cars. They were marching down the middle of the street, pressed tight together, carrying their guns over their shoulders as if they were in a parade. Some looked scared. Others looked angry. Most just stepped along grim-faced, trying hard to ignore the rotten vegetables a crowd of women was hurling at them.

  The man with the South Carolina flag managed to get in front of the soldiers. He strutted along ahead, grinning like it was a good joke to force the Yankees to march behind a rebel flag. Folks in the crowd cheered at the sight.

  Around this time a man someone identified as the mayor of Baltimore thrust himself into the line of soldiers and started marching with them. I reckon he thought the sight of him would have some effect on matters, but things just went from bad to worse.

  Every intersection was blocked with sawhorses, wagons, anchors from the harbor, and anything else handy. On Pratt Street, people were throwing things at the Yankees from windows and rooftops—stones, bricks, bottles, pitchers, chairs. A walnut bureau plummeted down and splintered to bits at my feet. The noise scared Perry and me both. Neither of us had ever been in a crowd like this, nor had we ever seen so many people.

  By now Baltimore's fine citizens had begun shooting at the soldiers from porches and open windows. Every now and then the Yankees fired back but the mob pressed so tight around them they could scarcely raise their guns. Just ahead of me, I saw a soldier go down, his chest spurting blood. I'd seen deer killed, I'd shot a heap of muskrats, rabbits, and squirrels myself, but I'd never seen a man shot. I tried to back up so as not to step on him, but the mob pushed me right over him.

  Suddenly a strong bony hand grasped my shoulder, and I heard a voice I'd hoped never to hear again. "Well, well," Colonel Botfield said. "We meet once more, Jesse Sherman."

  The Colonel's nails bit into my skin as if he had claws on the ends of his fingers. "It appears you've got part of what I'm looking for," he said, grabbing Perry's arm. "But where's his mama?"

  While Perry and I struggled to escape, the crowd roared and surged around us, pushing us out to its edges and finally pressing the three of us up against a wall. No one paid the least notice. Perry and I might as well have been in the middle of a barren desert for all the help we got.

  Colonel Botfield tightened his grip on me till my arm tingled all the way down to my fingertips. The pain was fearsome. "No more fooling," he said. "Where's Lydia?"

  "With the good Lord and all his saints," I gasped, trying to keep a grip on Perry with my free hand. "Safe from you forever."

  "Lydia's dead?" Colonel Botfield stared at me, as if sorely grieved to hear he'd lost the reward money. "How did she die?"

  "Birthing a baby down in the marsh." I glared at the man with all the hatred in my soul. "Where she went to hide from you and the widow."

  For a moment the colonel acted as if he didn't know what to say or do. He just stood there cursing with half of Baltimore surging around us, screaming and hollering. "Where is she?" he demanded. "What did you do with her?"

  I reckoned the old villain was fixing to dig up the body and take it to the Widow Baxter, still hoping to get his hands on that hundred-dollar reward. "She's buried someplace you'll never find her," I yelled.

  For that I got a crack across the mouth hard enough to draw blood. "Go back home, Jesse," the colonel drawled, "before you get your sorry self killed."

  Shoving me aside, he tightened his grip on Perry, who'd been hollering the whole while, kicking and flailing his fists and matching the colonel's profanity word for word. "Come with me, boy," he snarled. "Your mama might be dead, but you're still alive."

  "I won't let you have him!" I grabbed at Perry, catching hold of his shirt. "You got no claim to him!"

  "Believe me, I got more claim than you do." The colonel jerked at Perry, tearing his shirt out of my hands.

  The boy sunk his teeth in the old devil's arm, but neither he nor I was any match for Colonel Botfield. The next thing I knew, he'd struck me again, knocking me to my knees this time. He took off with Perry, and I ran after him, ducking the rocks and bottles meant for the soldiers. A stone hit my shoulder, a bullet whizzed over my head, but I finally got close enough to catch hold of Colonel Botfield's coattails.

  "Give him back," I cried. "I'll get money, I'll pay you for him, just don't take him!"

  Perry reached for me, but Colonel Botfield eyed me with scorn. "You vex me, boy." With no warning, he pulled out a pistol and struck me hard on the side of the head.

  Stunned, I fell flat in the street. For a second or two, I rolled this way and that, ducking the hobnailed boots pounding the pavement all around me. When I finally scrambled to my feet, dazed and bleeding, Colonel Abednego Botfield had disappeared like the devil he was. Gone straight down to hell, for all I knew, taking Perry with him.

  A hole opened in the crowd and I half staggered, half fell into an alley. Blood streamed down my face, blinding me. My head felt like it was split in half. Sprawled among rotten fish and vegetables, I began to cry. Between sobs, I cursed Colonel Abednego Botfield, I cursed Baltimore City, I cursed myself for being a stupid boy.

  While I lay in the filth bawling, the sounds from the street slowly faded. The hollering stopped. The shooting stopped. The riot had finally burned itself out like a forest fire.

  When I was sure it was safe, I ventured to the end of the alley and peered up and down Pratt Street. I was so dizzy I could hardly stand, but at least my head had stopped bleeding.

  All around me, wounded men groaned in the gutters. Torn knapsacks and bedrolls were strewn everywhere, along with bricks, broken bottles,
and smashed furniture. There was blood, too, whole puddles of it. And, worst of all, just a few feet away, a man lay on the pavement, his arms outflung, his face white and drawn, his eyes wide open. He was the same fellow I'd seen near the station earlier, daring a soldier to shoot him. It seemed someone had done as he asked.

  I'd never seen a battlefield, but I reckoned this was how one looked after the fighting was over. I threw up then and there, emptying my stomach of everything I'd eaten on the Sally H. that morning.

  A couple of men carried another body past on a stretcher. They didn't pay no mind to me. Just trudged along carrying that bloody corpse.

  One said to the other, "I hear ten Yankees got killed today."

  "I heard it was twice that many. Maybe more."

  "How many civilians?"

  "Ten or twelve, somebody said."

  "Damn Federals." The man spit in the gutter. "Firing on unarmed folks. Seems to me they ought to be hanged for that."

  After the men rounded a corner, I sagged against the wall, sunk in misery. I yearned to run back to the ship and tell Captain Harrison I'd done all I could for Perry. He'd take me home, and that would be the end of it.

  But of course it wouldn't be the end of it. Once something like this got started, it didn't quit till it was done. And that wouldn't be till Perry was safe.

  There was nothing for me to do but go to that house on Monument Street and find Miss Polly Baxter. Even though he was a slave, Perry was her nephew and a pretty child at that. Surely she'd help get him back from Colonel Abednego Botfield.

  CHAPTER 8

  I staggered uphill on Charles Street, reeling this way and that like Uncle Philemon coming home from the tavern. Way far ahead I could see a statue of George Washington standing on top of a tall column, gazing out over the city. Trouble was, I was so dizzy I saw two of everything, including the monument itself. My knees felt like they'd melted. And I kept vomiting, though there was nothing in my belly but green stuff that burned my throat when it came up.