William Henry is a Fine Name

by Cathy Gohlke

  “I couldn’t say, ma’am. It’s one my father gave her before he died.”

  “Oh, how sweet. It looks for all the world like a pattern my mother brought from Ireland! But you don’t sound Irish!”

  “No, ma’am. But my father was Irish.”

  “Really! My mother was a Dunnagan, from County Clare. Of course, she married a Snow when she settled in America. What was your father’s name, my dear?”

  A name! What name? My eyes fell on a newspaper held by the man across the aisle. The back page advertised DuBock’s boot blacking. “DuBock. Henry DuBock. I don’t remember what county he came from.”

  “Henry DuBock? But that doesn’t sound Irish!” The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  My throat went dry, and I felt my face flame. “Yes, ma’am, that’s true. My father’s father wasn’t Irish but my grandmother was Irish and that’s where my father grew up—in Ireland.”

  “How very odd.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How ever did your mother and father meet?”

  This was getting too complicated and I wished with all my heart that I was the one with the apoplexy. “I don’t know. My father never told me and now my mother can’t talk.” I swallowed hard. “It’s a mystery.”

  “How very odd,” the woman mused again, still squinting at me. “Your mother certainly sleeps a great deal. How anyone can sleep like the dead on a train is beyond me. You should remove her veil so she can breathe better. It’s getting quite warm in here.”

  “I don’t think she’d like that. She’s fine.”

  “Oh, fiddle-faddle! What do boys know about the needs of women! The poor dear can hardly breathe in such trappings!” She reached across the aisle and took hold of Jeremiah’s veil.

  I lunged for her hand, but was too late. The veil was nearly to his chin.

  “Arrrrgghhh!” Jeremiah poured out a high-pitched scream that would wake the dead and reminded me of Aunt Sassy’s keening when William Henry died. Startled, I fell back in my seat. The plump little woman jumped straight up, matching Jeremiah squeal for squeal. She fell, missing her seat and upsetting her skirts so that half the train took in a full view of her plump, black-stockinged legs. Jeremiah scratched at the air like a weak cat. I held my breath to keep from laughing. The man across the aisle reached for the old lady, pulling her to her feet. The conductor came running down the aisle.

  “What’s this? What’s this? Madam! Are you hurt?”

  The old lady couldn’t catch her breath.

  “Mother! Mother! It’s all right! She didn’t mean any harm! Nobody will bother your veil, I promise!” The story missed my brain and poured from my mouth. “My mother didn’t mean to frighten you, ma’am, but you can’t touch her veil.”

  “I only wanted to help her breathe! It’s stifling in here!” The old lady gasped. She grasped for her seat, red-faced and flustered, trying hard to divert attention from her legs.

  “One side of her face is drawn up bad from the apoplexy. She doesn’t want anybody touching her veil.” That made everybody stare first at Jeremiah, then at her. I think we deserved a medal for not laughing. I felt as sharp as William Henry.

  “Well—she shouldn’t frighten a body to death like that!”

  “Madam, perhaps you would prefer another seat?” the conductor pleaded. “Yes! Yes, I think that would be best.” The old lady stood, gathered her skirts, and led the conductor away.

  The man across the aisle heaved a sigh. “I thought that woman would never stop talking!” He leaned forward, concerned. “Son? Is your mother all right? Is there anything I can do for either of you?”

  Jeremiah held out his gloved hand. The man leaned over it, and smiled up into Jeremiah’s veil. If it wasn’t so risky I might have burst inside. Instead I coughed. “We’ll be fine, sir. Thank you.” I pulled Jeremiah’s hand away. “It’s just too much excitement for my mother.” But the man across the aisle couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Jeremiah.

  A dozen or so passengers left the train on the stop before ours, including the white-haired lady. She passed us on her way out of the car, stopping to pick up her hatbox. I tipped my cap, but she ignored me and squinted accusingly at Jeremiah. Once off the train I saw her clustered by a group of greeters. From her wagging finger and puffed face I knew she was carrying on over the scene aboard the train. I turned away, praying the train would roll on quickly, praying we could make it to Washington and lose ourselves in the crowds.

  IT WAS DUSK WHEN THE TRAIN finally rolled into Washington. Lamplights surrounding the station glowed a yellow welcome to travelers. The man across the aisle offered to help us find a carriage.

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll be fine.”

  “But I insist! Your mother can’t be walking dark streets in her condition. We’ll just get your luggage from the boxcar.”

  “We don’t have any.” I bit my tongue.

  “No luggage?”

  “We sent it on ahead.”

  “Oh. I see.” But he didn’t. “Just let me find mine and I’ll be there to help you.”

  We stepped gingerly off the train. Jeremiah leaned heavily on my arm, keeping up our sham. Two police officers stepped toward us. We turned and walked in the other direction, trying to keep Jeremiah limping, and our steps measured and calm.

  “Just a minute! Just a minute there!” The policeman’s shout sent shivers up my spine. Jeremiah’s grip clawed into my arm. We kept walking, pretending we didn’t hear.

  “That woman must have telegraphed ahead.” Jeremiah whispered my fear.

  “Wait! Stop!” The two policemen were running now, overtaking us. My heart stopped. To come so far and to be caught so near help and freedom! I froze, knowing that to run might get us both killed. From the corner of my eye I saw a man leap across the tracks. The policemen were on us now and I turned, ready to give myself up. But Jeremiah bent over in a fit of coughing, leaning heavily against my arm. “Pardon me, Madam! Out of the way, Boy!” And the policemen charged past, chasing the man across the tracks. My knees quivered. Jeremiah braced me.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered. We turned a corner and quickened our step, trying to weave unnoticed through the groups of passengers. Horse-and-carriage taxis waited just ahead. If we could just get past them, we’d be lost in the crowd of hawkers, passengers, and well-wishers. “There you are! I thought I’d lost you. What a commotion!” It was the man from the train. “Did they catch that pickpocket?”

  “I don’t know.” I was shaking. “I had to get my mother away from all that.”

  “Good judgment. I’ll hire a carriage. Taxi!” he called.

  “Sir! We’re fine on our own.”

  “Nonsense. It is my pleasure. Where are you going?” I couldn’t think. “Yes?” The taxi pulled up beside us and the driver hopped down. “Where shall I order the driver to take you?”

  “We haven’t made our plans, exactly.”

  “You need a hotel?”

  “Well—” I began. Jeremiah nodded weakly, gripping my arm. “Yes,” I stammered. “I guess we do.”

  “I can recommend an excellent hotel. I’ve booked a room there myself. I’m sure they will accommodate your mother with a downstairs room.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, as Jeremiah patted my arm. The man spoke to the driver, who loaded his luggage. “What are you doing?” I whispered to Jeremiah.

  “Just go along. We’ll slip out when he goes to bed.”

  I helped Jeremiah up the carriage step as the man placed his valise in the buggy. Jeremiah’s skirt caught on the carriage handle, lifting the hem of his dress just enough to show a boy’s black shoe, worn and muddy. I covered it, but too late. The man from the train stopped short, staring at us, as though seeing us for the first time. He stared into Jeremiah’s veils, then straightened and stepped forward. His voice turned cold. “Unusual shoes for a lady.”

  I don’t know if I would have done anything on my own. But Jeremiah hurled the man’s valise at him, causing the
stranger to stumble backward and sprawl against the driver. He shoved me back into the seat, jumped to the front of the carriage, and grabbed the reins. Jeremiah whipped the horse into a frenzy, and we charged down the cobblestone street.

  “Stop! Stop that carriage!” the man bellowed behind us. Shrill police whistles blasted the night. Two taxi drivers stepped out and tried to grab our horse. The horse shied, then reared, nearly upsetting the carriage. Jeremiah shouted above it all, cracking the whip a hair above the horse’s back. The horse reared again, pawed the air, then tore away, pounding down the middle of the lane. Jeremiah drove like a crazy person, the very ghost of William Henry in a dress. The carriage clattered and reeled, careening behind.

  “Where are you going?” I yelled, soon as I could catch my voice.

  “How would I know? I never been here before!” We twisted and turned down streets we’d never seen, taking the sharp corners on two wheels.

  I pulled myself forward and shouted, “We’ve got to get shed of this buggy. They’ll be all over us for stealing!”

  “You got any ideas?” Jeremiah yelled. “We sure could use some!”

  “Look! Up there!” I pointed far ahead to a well-lit square.

  “Whoa! Whoa, there!” Jeremiah pulled the horse back. He clattered to a trot, then dropped to a walk. We heard the whistle blasts in the distance. “That’s it. That a boy. There, now. You take the reins. Best if you be driving and not some widow woman.”

  We switched places. I pulled the carriage to a stop behind a long line of taxis flanking the square. Drivers ahead of me helped ladies from their carriages, then the couples, decked out in ball gowns and coats with tails, linked arms as they climbed wide stairs to some kind of theater house. Their drivers lazed against lampposts, ready for a long evening. I nodded to the driver ahead of me, then helped Jeremiah down. We took up the sham again, dropping the limp. But instead of climbing the stairs, we crossed the street and stepped into the shadows.

  “First alley on the right,” I whispered. We walked back the way we’d come nearly half a block, praying no one watched. Police whistles and the clatter of horse hooves grew louder. How I wanted to run to that alley! But we steadied our steps, turning in just before the horses rounded the last corner. We tore down the back street, then dived behind a stack of crates. Policemen on horses rushed past.

  “I’m comin’ out of this skirt now!” Jeremiah tugged at the buttons.

  “Don’t tear it! We might need it later!”

  “Then you wearin’ it! A body can’t run in such as this! And run is what we got to do!”

  “Calm down, Jeremiah!”

  “Robert, I know what they do when they catch me!”

  He was right. I helped him pull the dress over his head. “We’ve got to find Booth Street.”

  “Good thing you didn’t give that McPhearson name to that man. They be all over that boardin’ house by now.”

  I nodded, but didn’t know what to do next. I was too tired to breathe, too tired to drag myself from behind those crates.

  “Just a while longer, Robert. We gonna make it.” Jeremiah placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “I know.” I swiped at the sweat trickling into my eyes. “We’ve just got to get to that boardinghouse.” I tried to stand, but sank down again. “We’d best bundle that dress. They’ll be looking for a widow and boy now.” I leaned my head on my knees and asked the Lord to get us out of this mess, to give us the strength to keep on.

  We waited another ten minutes, then crept from the alley and made our way along cobbled side streets, back toward the train station, keeping shy of the gas lamps. We walked and walked, checking signposts, ducking into alleys or behind shadowed stoops at every sound. We passed a church and heard the bells chime ten. We counted ten blocks, then took an alley to the right, guessing that was a little less than we’d driven by horse and carriage. But we came up against a dead end, and had to backtrack. We searched surrounding streets and alleys for what seemed hours—no Booth Street. So, we hiked back to the main street, and turned left. We searched four blocks over and still saw no sign for Booth Street. I worried that the red-haired girl might have been wrong.

  I don’t know when the fog first crept into the streets behind us. But when it swirled its thick cloud around our feet, and over the steps of houses, when it filled the alleys, something inside me began to break. How would we ever find Booth Street in such muck? We’d nearly run out of lampposts, and most of the lights shining from windows had been snuffed. I had no idea where we were, or how far away the train station was, or Booth Street, let alone the boardinghouse.

  “Robert,” Jeremiah whispered.

  “What?”

  “We can’t quit now.”

  “I’m not quitting. But I don’t know where we are. I don’t know which way to go.”

  “We can’t ask nobody now. We just got to keep looking.” I followed Jeremiah, who seemed to grow new strength. We felt our way along, reaching for corner signposts and shingles at the end of each block. Finally we came upon a shingle we could not read.

  “You got any more of them lucifer matches Granny Sara packed?”

  I dug in my pocket for the tin case. I rattled it, and it sounded like there could be two, maybe three left. “It might not strike in this damp. I’ll have to hold it near the shingle.”

  “I lift you up,” Jeremiah said, and hoisted me as high as he could. I don’t know where he found the strength.

  I struck the match but the head flew off. I struck another and the flame sparked, but wouldn’t take. But in that instant, in that tiny spark, I saw the letter “B” on that shingle—plain as could be. I shook as I scratched our last match, cupping my hand round it. The match head glimmered, then sparked, growing brighter. I lifted my makeshift lantern hand to the shingle. “Booth Street,” I read out loud. “Booth Street!” No two words ever looked so good. “Which way now?” My voice broke as Jeremiah set me on my feet.

  “Just try till we find it. Good thing you can read.”

  “Yeah. Good thing.”

  “Maybe William Henry was right, Robert. Maybe you gettin’ around to bein’ a genuine scholar.” I laughed. We both laughed.

  We picked up our pace and made our way along Booth Street, searching for a candle in a window. The fog was thicker now and we had to get pretty close to the houses to see. I began to hope again, to think that maybe we’d make it. I wondered, as we walked, if Jeremiah might want to live at Laurelea. I wondered how Aunt Sassy and Joseph would take to such an idea, or if he could be safe there. Could Mr. Heath do anything about the law that would send him back to North Carolina? No, he couldn’t the first time. It would be no different now.

  And then it was before us. “McPhearson’s Boardinghouse!” I dug my elbow in Jeremiah’s side. A candle burned in the front window, next to a tall tree. We edged into the yard, crept toward the tree, and reached for its leaves. The prickles of the holly felt holy in my fingers, and I breathed, “Thank You, Lord. Thank You.” We crept to the side yard, hugging the shadows. A damp quilt hung on the wash line. We tapped on the back door and waited. A minute later we knocked again. The door opened. “Mrs. McPhearson?” I asked, my voice shaking. Hands reached for ours, pulling us into a dark room. The door latched behind us and a lucifer match struck stone, springing its small flame before our faces, then rested on a candlewick.

  “Packages?” The voice was deep for a woman, and direct.

  “Yes, ma’am, two, for Mrs. McPhearson, from Ida Shirley. Should we fetch them for you?”

  She nodded. “This way.” We followed the flickering candle flame and the squat woman in nightdress and cap to a pantry behind the kitchen. “Sit here a moment and let me bring you a bite. You must be famished.” Her voice took on softer tones.

  “Thank you, ma’am. It’s been a long day.”

  “I should say! You two caused quite a commotion at the train station—policemen tearing hither and yon all night, banging on doors, combing streets and houses from
cellar to attic!” Jeremiah and I stared at each other. She pointed to our bundle. “You’ll not be wanting that dress again. Everyone’s looking for a boy in a black mourning dress and veil. No proper widow will be safe in Washington for weeks!” She toddled away, chuckling, and closed the door behind her. She’d left the candle with us, and it was all we could do to keep our hands off the apples and potatoes. She was back within minutes bearing hefty bowls of chicken soup, steaming and swimming with carrots and turnips.

  “This be the best soup I ever eat!” Jeremiah nearly cried as he tasted it.

  The woman smiled and brushed Jeremiah’s hair back. “I expect it is, young man. I hope it is the beginning of many good things for you.” Jeremiah seemed startled by her kindness, and I wondered at the change it made in him. “I hate to have to say it, but we’ll need to move you quickly. You can’t travel together.”

  “What?” I was not prepared for such an idea.

  “It is far too dangerous. There are posters and newspapers for runaways all over the city. There’s an advertisement from a plantation owner in North Carolina that answers your descriptions in detail. After your show at the train station, it is a good guess that you two are in Washington now and likely to take on disguise. And the two of you evidently stole a horse and taxi. The police have checked boardinghouses, hotels, taverns, alleys—anywhere runners might hide quickly. Bounty hunters are everywhere in Washington.” She shook her head, frowning. “You’ve surely made yourselves noticed.”

  “As long as we stay together. That’s all. I’ve got to get Jeremiah north. Just tell me how far north is safe.”

  The woman shook her head again and sat down on a flour barrel beside us. “North in this country won’t do now. The fugitive slave law saw to that. There is a thousand-dollar reward on this boy’s head, and too many people are searching for two boys traveling together. I don’t know how we could get the two of you out. Nothing short of Canada will be safe for this young man.”