“Yeah, finally.” No need to elaborate further. “He sold Mike back to Dad, who freed him immediately.”
“And your father acknowledges him as his son now?”
“Now you’d think he’d never wanted anything more than a colored family. I think he spends more time in Boston than he does at home. Well, Mike and Rachel’s kids are his only grandchildren. And he always hoped to see his son follow in his footsteps,” David added, after a pause.
“Your inclinations didn’t lie that way, I take it?”
“I’m afraid not. Fact is, just the sight of a cut finger leaves me queasy.”
Walker laughed. “If I’d followed my father’s wishes, I’d have spent my days hunched in the back of a tailor’s shop. I daresay you’re like me in finding a correspondent’s life more to your liking.”
David smiled. “I’m not a newsman either. I was reporting on the trial as a favor to the Gazette’s publisher, since I chanced to be on the scene. I’m just an artist, actually.” He flushed, embarrassed to have made the claim.
“And a good one, it would seem. May I?” Walker reached for the portfolio before David could respond, nodded appreciatively as he thumbed through it. “You’re fortunate if you’ve found work as an illustrator. There’s not much demand for artists, more’s the pity.”
David flushed again. “I work as a freelancer. I’m hoping the editor of the National Era will print these.”
“I know how that goes.” Walker gave another laugh. “I freelanced for two years before I landed a job on the Tribune. Not much of a way to keep body and soul together, is it?”
“I’m afraid you’re right. I’ve had only a handful of sketches printed, to be honest.”
“How do you make your living then, if I might ask?”
“I have a small law practice. And I live simply. I’m a bachelor, so I share expenses with my father. It works out well for both of us.”
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a solicitor,” Walker said thoughtfully.
David shifted uncomfortably, his legs cramped by the seat ahead. “I’m not much of one,” he admitted. “I took up law to please my father. I’m afraid I’m ill-suited to it.” He stopped, astonished to find himself blurting out still more of his private affairs to a stranger. Glancing at the other man, he noted his expression of sympathetic interest. He hesitated, then continued.
“I’ve always had the urge to capture what I saw on paper. When I was a boy, I dreamed of becoming an artist. Then as I grew older, I listened to reason and gave up the notion.”
“And now?”
“Now, if it’s not too late, I’d like to pursue it again.” David searched for words. “I told you I’d been injured a few years ago. I came within a hairsbreadth of dying. It made me realize how little I had to show for my life. I don’t want to live out my remaining years as nothing but a failed solicitor.
“I don’t know if I’ve any real talent as an artist, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about.” He smiled ruefully. “Determining to pursue it hasn’t done me much good though. As you said, sir, there’s little demand for artists.”
“We come to a parting of the ways, Mr. Carter. I’ve enjoyed our conversation.”
David nodded, acutely aware of how much he’d revealed to Walker over the past hours, relieved they’d be parting once the cars pulled into New York. He checked his belongings at the conductor’s call, eager to catch the ferry to the Washington-bound train.
“I wish you luck in placing those. They should be seen.” Walker nodded toward David’s portfolio. A thought struck him. “Matter of fact, I may be able to assist you. Greeley’s run an occasional woodcut if it can make a point plainer than words. If you’ll entrust me with a sketch or two, it’s not unlikely he’d reproduce them in the Tribune while the case is fresh in the public mind.”
The thought of further contact filled David with renewed embarrassment. He shoved it aside. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Walker.”
The newsman beamed. “Not at all. Greeley’s staunchly opposed to planting slavery on free soil. If I know the man, he’ll be delighted to best our competition with an eyewitness depiction of the cruelty of this damned Fugitive law.”
“I’m still much obliged to you, sir,” David said, leafing through the portfolio for his most telling sketches.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
David set his coffee cup in its saucer with a muted porcelain click and looked up from his plate of eggs and grits. His father sat in his accustomed place across the dining room table, as they’d sat together since David’s boyhood, with the exception only of the four years he’d spent attending university in Charlottesville. Displaying little weariness from his two day journey home, Dr. George Carter sat erect, with a vigor that belied his nearly seventy years, his back barely resting against his chair, his iron gray hair and firm features lit by morning sun that streamed through the archway from the parlor windows.
“I’ve missed your company the past few weeks,” David admitted to him.
His father smiled. “It’s too bad you insisted on cutting short your visit. Things settled down after you left.” For an instant his face was shadowed. Burns’ capture had stunned Boston Negroes. Like the rest, Mike, Rachel and their oldest youngsters, Peter and Abigail, had plunged into a frenzy of anguished protest and futile rescue attempts, that had been—David guessed—a bitter reminder to his father of how he’d inadvertently caused his own son’s recapture. The instant passed, the memory was set aside. “Reverend Grimes is heading a drive to buy Burns’ freedom, and he has a good part of the funds in hand already,” the doctor continued.
David nodded, eager to share his own news with his father. His sketch of Burns as he was marched to the wharf under heavy guard, through streets draped in black bunting, had appeared in the Tribune a week earlier—in the weekly digest edition with its nation-wide circulation. Tribune editor Horace Greeley had run the drawing as an editorial cartoon, captioned, “Amid cries of Shame, Slavery chains the Cradle of Liberty in its Shackles.”
“Their engraver didn’t do much of a job of copying it,” David said, frowning at the reproduction. “But at least it’s in the Tribune.” He passed his father the newspaper, its pages creased open in a permanent fold.
George Carter glanced at the illustration. “Yes, I know. I saw a copy while I was with Michael and Rachel. They were all proud of you for getting a picture published in the Tribune,” he said, producing a smile.
“Did I mention that Grimes organized a concert at his church to raise proceeds for Burns? Abigail had a short solo. She has a lovely voice for a youngster. She’s been singing with the Garrison Juvenile Choir, you know. She takes it very seriously; she’s already learned to read music.” He beamed across the table with a grandfather’s pride.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“Dear Mr. Walker-” David paused, dipped his goose quill into the inkwell, then sighed and laid it down. Abruptly, he stood, wincing as his chair thudded into the wall of the cramped cubicle he rented for his law office. He stood a moment at the open window, hoping for a breeze, gazing desultorily down at wagons clattering along the cobblestone alley below him. The warm, humid air was as heavy as the atmosphere indoors, plastering down the locks of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Sighing again, he shoved his hair back and sat down to finish the letter.
Walker’s letter had arrived with disconcerting promptness in response to his own note of thanks for the newsman’s help in publishing his sketch. “I do hope to keep up our correspondence,” he’d written David. “Letter writing is one of my great enthusiasms.
“Have been much occupied since our meeting with reporting the protests of right-thinking men against the extension of slavery into the Kansas-Nebraska territories by that devil, Sen. Douglas. It was a black day for our nation when his bill was passed into law by the traitors of the Senate. Greeley has hauled down the Stars and Stripes from its rooftop staff; the glory has gone out of them.”
Ther
e seemed little to write in reply. Other than agreeing once again to paint the scenery for the fall production of the Alexandria Dramatic Association, there was little of interest in David’s life.
He pushed the letter aside and reached into the desk drawer for the plans he’d drawn to scale of the stage area. Within moments, he was engrossed with sketching in the main elements of the scene design.
The thud of footsteps on the stairs recalled him from his preoccupation. Hurriedly he began to return his sketches to the drawer before the arrival of a possible client, then relaxed as Tom Miller, the proprietor of the downstairs bakeshop, entered.
“Dotty saved you a few of the gingersnaps we baked yesterday.” Tom placed a small sack of cookies on David’s desk. “She remembered they’re your favorites.”
David smiled his thanks. “She never stops trying to fatten me up.”
Tom laughed. “You’re in no danger of growing stout. Dotty has more luck with me; I reckon I’ve put on a few pounds since our wedding.” He looked down at his expanse of stomach, chuckling comfortably. “You doing the scenery for the theatrical again?” he asked, waving at David’s sketch.
David nodded. “I got a little ahead on my work, so I thought I’d spend a few minutes looking these over.” It was a pointless pretense. He’d been acquainted with Tom since they’d been boys together. Tom knew as well as David that he’d precious little law work to keep him from the scene designs.
“I always enjoy your scenery. We’ll be looking forward to the show.” Tom stopped, at a loss for further conversation. “Well, Dotty’ll be cross if I let my lunch grow cold.” His footsteps pounded down the stairs.
David pulled the sketches toward him as Tom left, then stopped, wearying of his efforts. Putting the scene designs back in the drawer, he picked up his pen and returned to his letter to Walker.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“We share a common enthusiasm, it would seem,” Walker responded. “Some of my happiest hours have been passed in the theatre. In fact, I’ve trod the boards myself from time to time in amateur theatricals— though I must admit, in most minor roles.”
David smiled and leaned back in the wing chair. The oil lamp cast its circle of light on Walker’s letter, which had been awaiting him on the hall table. The stillness in the room was broken only by the rustling of the paper. His father had retired for the night, probably hours before David had parted company from Doug and Phil, his assistants at scene painting. They’d had an extra glass of ale apiece at Gadsby’s Tavern to celebrate finishing the scenery.
He returned to the letter, turning the page with fingers still showing faint streaks of paint. “Have had little time for such pleasures of late. Our struggle against the extension of slavery into the Northwest Territories continues despite the setback of this wicked law. Greeley is determined to keep up the fight for Free Soil.
“It’s occurred to me that you are bound to have first-hand knowledge of the evils of slavery, situated as you are in a slave-holding state. Any illustrations you can forward to the Tribune will be of immense value in bringing home to our readers the cruelties of human bondage during the coming political struggle.”
David set down the letter, frowning in dismay. Despite the abolitionists’ trumpetings of the horrors of slavery, he’d seen little evidence of such cruelty himself. There were occasional separations of families in the slave trading establishments lining Duke Street, when circumstances made a sale of household servants unavoidable. But for the most part, his neighbors treated their Nigras with consideration.
He leaned back, suddenly tired, rubbing his forehead to forestall the beginnings of a headache. Most of the slaves he saw seemed contented enough to him. And certainly the large numbers of free colored in town bore evidence of the indulgence of their former owners.
Just look at Mike’s old friend, Ned. In the hours his master had allowed him to work on his own behalf, he’d managed to buy his way out of slavery. In the years since, he’d not only succeeded in helping the rest of his family purchase their freedom, but was prospering in the carpentry shop he’d opened on South Royal Street.
David rose, extinguished the lamp, then froze as another memory surfaced. He stood a moment as remembered images filled his mind, alive before him in the darkened room, then hurried up the stairs to his bedchamber.
The blanket chest at the foot of his bed was crammed with sketches he’d saved over the years. It took several minutes to find the one he had in mind. He moved across the room, studying the drawing critically in the light of the lamp on the bureau. He’d been just seventeen when he drew it, but it was better than anything else he’d done as a boy.
He hadn’t signed it when he’d done the drawing. David inscribed his name at the bottom now. He’d write Walker in the morning and enclose the sketch with his letter.
Chapter 2 — 1854
THE THEATER PIT HAD BEEN CONVERTED TO A BALLROOM to celebrate the success of the fall theatrical. Jubilant actors, their faces still greasy with hastily removed makeup, accepted congratulations from the enthusiastic audience. Taffeta gowns rustled as party-goers greeted one another, admiring the production in high-pitched, honeyed tones. “The show never would’ve been such a success without your scenery! We’ve raised a record amount for the poor,” Martha Ann Simpson gushed as David took her arm.
David smiled. “We’d probably never get set to put on a show at all, if you didn’t manage the Dramatic Association so well.”
Martha Ann beamed, her face and neck rosy with pleasure over the low neckline of her blue satin gown.
David was at a loss for further conversation, as he seemed to be whenever he found himself escorting Martha Ann. “Would you like a cup of punch?” he offered at last, making his way gratefully to the refreshment line.
Mrs. Taylor, widow of the Association’s founder, presided over the punch bowl, where a colored servant was filling glasses from the commodious, cut glass bowl. “You and Martha Ann make a handsome couple, David,” she said.
David glanced in bewilderment at Martha Ann as he threaded his way across a floor crowded by women’s fashionably full hoop skirts. Martha Ann’s soft curves swelled her lace-trimmed bodice. Her thick brown hair billowed into a loose bun caught up with flowers. Her small, shapely figure was a study in contrast to his own slender frame and height—nearly six feet when he remembered to stand up straight.
He smiled down at her as he handed her the punch, then sat listening to her earnest chatter as they drank, grateful to have little to do but nod. With a corner of his mind, he wondered why Mrs. Taylor thought they made such a well-matched pair.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“You’re off to Nell’s again?” Dr. Carter demanded from his wing chair.
David nodded shortly, flushing. He grasped the doorknob, shifting his weight uneasily as he awaited the rest of his father’s words. Traffic clattered on the cobblestones outside; from the kitchen came the faint notes of a spiritual as their colored housekeeper did the washing up.
George Carter sighed. “David, you’re not a boy. It’s past time you gave up these visits to whorehouses and settled down. Have you given thought to the kind of diseases you’re courting by bedding prostitutes?”
“Nell runs a clean house,” David mumbled.
“That may be.” His father turned to look David in the face. “But you’d be far better off to marry and settle down. You’re not a boy,” he repeated.
“Well, I know that,” David snapped, wishing his father’s scrutiny didn’t leave him feeling self-conscious as a boy. He tried to smile. “I guess I’m just an old bachelor, Dad. I doubt I could find a woman who’d have me, anyway.”
“You’re not that old. You’re still a fine looking man.” George Carter looked at David fondly. “Martha Ann Simpson would marry you in a minute.”
“Martha Ann?” David stared his surprise. “I scarcely know her. I never even know what to say to her.”
“You’ve known her all your life, David.” T
he older man’s voice quickened with exasperation. “You could do a lot worse for yourself too. Martha Ann’s a fine girl. It’s not as if she hasn’t had offers to marry, you know. She’d have been wed long ago if she hadn’t felt it her duty to nurse her mother after she took to her bed.”
David shifted his weight again, hoping his father would return to his reading. George Carter sat up straighter, set down his newspaper as he focused his attention on his son. David sighed. “Dad, you know I don’t earn enough to keep a wife,” he said finally, in a low voice.
“There’s no reason why you still can’t make a success of your profession if you’d just put forth a little effort, son. But in any case, Martha Ann has money of her own, now that her mother’s passed on at last.”
For a moment, David tried and failed to imagine a life with Martha Ann. Why was everyone so set on marrying him off? “Dad, I’m happy as I am.” He shoved open the door, nearly stumbling over the sill as he made his escape.
He frowned in dismay as he entered Nell’s softly lit front parlor and saw two customers waiting their turns. “Evening there, David,” tavern keeper Pete Smith boomed out in greeting. David nodded stiffly and crossed to the far side of the room.
Sinking onto the plush couch, he stared down at his hands, abashed at making such public display of his private needs. The sound of a woman’s high laughter drifted down the stairs. Pete nudged his companion in the ribs; both men guffawed before returning to their talk. David glanced at the other men, wondering how they could banter with such apparent lack of embarrassment.
His own awkwardness had diminished but little since his first visit to a bawdy house, as a university freshman. He’d agreed, shyly but eagerly, to accompany John Eustis, who occupied the room next to his and was as close to a friend as he’d come to making there. He’d stood uncomfortably in the red plush parlor, admiring the ease of John’s manner, the way his thick, chestnut hair brushed his neck as he tossed his head back in laughter, the proud set of his muscular shoulders....
Two of Nell’s boarders sashayed into the parlor, giggling and beckoning, causing David to start from his reverie. Pete grinned as he rose, then halted halfway out of the room, addressing David over his shoulder. “Say, Nat and me are fixin’ to do some business together. How’s about you drawing us up an agreement Monday?”
Different Sin Page 2
