by Dickie Erman
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes sir. I’s heard. I’ll have ‘em here at seven o’clock”. She stood motionless, waiting if there would be further instructions.
“Then go. Go get him started”.
“Yes sir. But I’s just needs a few more minutes to finish up cleanin’ you and the Misses’ bedroom”.
“Sadie!” his voice raised. She knew he meant now. He’d never struck her, and she’d never given him a reason to. But she’d known the Colonel well enough to tell when he expected her to jump to it. Like now.
“Yes sir. I’ll fetch him and his bath rights now” as she hurried out the door, feather duster in hand.
Trent nonchalantly looked around the room, then turned to walk out. Then he stopped. His eyes had caught glimpse of the corner of a white envelope, its edge peeping out from Collette’s nightstand drawer that Sadie had been cleaning.
“Hmm …”
Mail delivery was slow in rural Louisiana. But not so much for the Colonel. He paid the New Orleans postmaster a fine monthly “gift” to have his mail delivered twice a week – or more, depending on the perceived importance of the sender.
Collette rarely got mail, unless it was a birthday or holiday greeting from friends or relatives. But it wasn’t her birthday, and the Fourth of July had passed some time ago.
As husband and provider, he had every right to inspect all deliveries, including mail. No one would dispute that.
But still, Collette should be entitled to her privacy. There was no reason not to honor and respect such a perfectly reasonable expectation. It wasn’t as if she was wanting to open his mail. That would be entirely improper, although, no harm would ever come. He had no secret correspondence with a mistress, no clandestine passing of notes like two childish schoolmates.
No, he had nothing to hide. Therefore, Collette would have nothing to hide.
“Good God, man” he scolded himself. He’d whipped up unfounded scandalous thoughts about his loving and devoted wife. “How dare I?” he reprimanded himself.
Odd. So odd how one can easily project their own infidelities onto another. If he were counselling a friend, he’d have identified the problem clearly and pointed it out matter of factly. But the projection was being made by him, not a friend. And so he couldn’t see it.
He peeked his head out the door and scanned the hallway. No one there. A tinge of paranoia set in.
“What if Collette comes in” his inner thoughts whispered. “What if she catches me?”
His inquisitiveness now became jealous curiosity. He walked to the drawer.
“Hmm … It’s from Caroline” as he read the handwritten print on the outside envelope. He smiled slightly, remembering the affectionate bon voyage he and Collette shared as she left for her trip to Caroline’s.
“Well, there’s certainly nothing nefarious here” he reassured himself, as he started to return the envelope to its drawer.
But he didn’t let go. He slid it back out and gently removed the letter from its envelope.
“My Dearest Collette,
“ … I also find myself unable to forget the closeness we shared. The horseback ride, the evening on the terrace, the intimacy. I will forever cherish these memories, and hope that our friendship continues to blossom with new experiences. I was simply overwhelmed with the unexpected pleasures we shared …”
“Trent? Trent, where are you?”
“Shit” he muttered as he hastily folded and shoved the letter into its envelope, then pushed it back into the drawer. Collette had just stepped to the door as he slid the drawer shut, trying not to make a sound. As he turned to face her, he panicked while wondering if she’d seen him.
“Did he just …?”
He saw her eyes staring at the drawer, but her expression showed confusion, not conclusiveness.
“Walk. Just walk, as if nothing’s going on” he ordered himself, realizing that standing still rendered him more like a sitting duck. “Divert … divert” he convinced himself.
“Did he … or didn’t he?” Collette anguished. If she accused him, he’d obviously deny it. And if he hadn’t done it, then Trent would justly point out that she was acting like a jealous paranoid wife. She looked him in the eyes as he walked toward the door, incredulous that she felt betrayal, guilt and helplessness all at once.
He stopped in front of her and softly asked: “Yes Dear, you’re looking for me?”
Totally confused, she was momentarily speechless. She stared at the floor then uttered: “Yes. Ah … Sadie just asked me if … if … you wanted the little slave boy to be fed before the guests arrive?”
Trent quickly grew confident he’d won this conflict, but suddenly felt overwhelmed with jealousy.
“What was that all about? What did Caroline mean by “overwhelmed … with unexpected pleasure’?” He needed an answer.
But not now. At least not right now. He’d just escaped from being caught in the act of invading Collette’s reasonable expectation of privacy. He vowed to resolve the meaning of this letter. Just not now.
Obviously, the boy needed nourishment to pull that heavy cord for three hours, maybe more. Collette was flustered, and forgot why she’d called for him in the first place.
“Why yes my Dear. That’s certainly a good idea” as he pecked a kiss on her forehead.
“Let Sadie know” as he turned away and walked nonchalantly down the hallway.
Collette slowly moved her eyes to the drawer, the envelope’s white edge no longer peeping out.
45
T OM HAD PLENTY OF TIME to think on his way to Marysville. Freda told him where the Church was. The first order of business was stealth. He had to keep hidden from Harley and his minions. There was nothing they could do to him for just visiting the town, but he couldn’t let them see him near the Church. Where the Church was, Tabari was.
The town was the size of a postage stamp compared to New Orleans. He slow walked his horse past the park, a barber shop, and a school house, always on the lookout for Harley and crew. There, next to an attorney’s office, was a hanging shingle: “Dr. Harold Whittenhouse, M.D.”.
He dismounted and tied his horse to the iron hitching post.
“May I help you” asked a young attractive receptionist named Sarah.
“Why, yes you can. My name’s Wilkins. Tom Wilkens. I guess I’m looking for Dr. Whittenhouse. I’m afraid a friend of mine suffered a heart attack or something, and I need a doctor to ride out to his farm”.
“Oh my. Let me get the doctor”.
A minute later, a middle aged man in a three piece suit came in from the adjacent room.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Whittenhouse” he said, offering his hand.
“Hello Doctor. I’m Tom Wilkins. I believe your nurse told you my dilemma”.
“Receptionist. Sarah is my receptionist” he politely corrected Tom.
“Yes she did tell me. What’s your friend’s name?”
“Jefferson. Frank Jefferson. His farm is just a little under an hour away. He’s really hurting. Like I told your nur’ … ah … receptionist, I think he’s had a heart attack. He’s nearly 80. A good man. A good friend”.
“Well, I think I can help. Let me grab my medical bag and a few other things and we can ride out together. You have a buckboard?”
“Well, no. As a matter of fact, well, this is a little odd. I can’t go with you right now, but I can be there soon. You see, I’ve got to meet someone. It’s an urgent matter. It involves Frank, and I made a solemn promise to his wife that I’d do this one favor.
“I know it’s rude of me, but can you meet me there? I’ll be more than happy to ride back into town with you. My business shouldn’t take me but an hour”.
“Well, I’d certainly prefer not to travel alone, especially since I don’t even know where this Frank lives” he chuckled, smiling at Sarah, who returned the smile, always impressed with the Doctor and those in authority.
“Oh, it’s simple. You just take the main
road out of town, toward “N’awlins. At a walking pace, you’ll ride right by it around one hour. On your right. Two story white farm house. There’s a large grain silo, twice as tall as the house. It’s painted an awful green. You can’t miss it”.
“What do you do for a living?” the Doctor asked, trying to reassure himself that Tom was trustworthy. He didn’t want to make such a trip without knowing it was legit.
Tom hesitated. There were some subscribers to the Herald Beacon in Marysville, but not many. He’d normally be more than happy to promote his newspaper and share his opinions on slavery and abolition. But his current mission was paramount, and he didn’t want to say anything that might jeopardize it.
“I write articles. Newspaper articles. Sort of a freelance writer. Just small papers. Probably none you’ve heard of”.
“Hmm …” the Doctor thought, still feeling suspicious.
“Like, for instance?” he inquired.
“Oh, small papers. Mostly published in N’awlins” he lied. He rambled off the ‘Weekly Tribune’, the ‘Centennial’, the ‘New Orleans’ View’, all of which he knew well.
“Hmm. Tom. Tom?”
“Wilkins. Tom Wilkins” he answered. “Idiot” he thought to himself. “That’s real stealthy. When are you going to learn?” chastising himself.
“Alright then, Mr. Wilkens. I’ll ride out to see …”
“Jefferson. Frank Jefferson”.
“Frank Jefferson” the Doctor recited. Two story white farm house. ‘Bout an hour from here. On the right. Big ugly green silo?”
“That’s it. I promise you, it’s easy to find. His wife’s name is Freda”. “Damn, I did it again” he re-chastized himself. “Why don’t I just wear a great big sign that says ‘fugitive slave harborer. Arrest me!?”
“Then I should see you there in about two hours, is that correct?”
Tom snapped out of it. “Yes sir. Two hours”.
“See you then” the Doctor said, as he stepped back into the adjacent room to grab his things.
“Thank you” Tom said to Sarah. “Is it ‘Sarah’?” he asked, trying to nonchalantly end this situation and exit.
“Yes. Sarah”.
He turned one last time before exiting.
“Sarah, can you tell me where I can find the Chapel Cross Church?”
“Easy. There’s only two churches in town. When you step outside, look to your left” she pointed, “and you can see the tall steeple. It’s a small white church, but it’s got a really tall steeple. About four blocks away”.
“Thank you so much”.
“My pleasure. Good luck, Mr. Wilkins” she smiled.
* * *
IT was mid-afternoon, no sign of Harley. Tom left his horse tied at the Doctor’s office. He’d be much less of a target on foot, than perched high on top of a horse.
He walked to within a block of the Church, and waited. He’d never seen the Reverend or Pastor before. Didn’t think to ask Freda.
“What the hell?” he finally thought. “Might as well go on in. Harley doesn’t know about the Church, and I can’t imagine Tabari is just sitting in a pew”.
He entered the front door of the small white structure, eight wooden benches on either side of the room. A large iron cross hung from the wall behind a small alter, covered with a white embroidered cloth. Three elderly folks were kneeling in prayer, oblivious to his entry.
To his left, he could see an open door leading, he guessed, to an office or study. He quietly walked over, and peeked his head inside. A young man, probably in his early thirties, was writing at his desk, completely absorbed in his work.
Tom gently knocked.
The man stopped writing, put down his ink quill, and sat motionless, as if he needed a moment to reengage with the physical world. He slowly turned toward Tom and offered a genuine smile of welcome.
“Hello. I’m Pastor Jessie” he said, as he stood to more formally greet his visitor.
Tom offered his hand. “Pastor Jessie. I’m Tom Wilkins. I think we share something in common” as the two shook hands.
“Well, well. Tom Wilkins. Please, come in” as he offered him a chair. He moved to the door and quietly closed it.
“I should say we do” the Pastor said. “Indeed. My, I don’t know where to start”.
“How is he?” asked Tom, almost whispering.
“Tabari’s fine” he whispered back. We have a small basement. It’s a tad chilly at night, and a little damp. But he has a comfortable bed, and plenty of food and drink. He’s doing quite well. I must say, I didn’t expect to see you” he said, suddenly realizing he may have made Tom feel unwanted.
“No, no. Please” Tom replied, as he closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. “I didn’t expect to see you, either. Or Reverend Baxter. But things have happened. ‘Developments’ you might say”.
“Go on”.
“You’ve got to get Tabari out of here. And I mean quickly”.
“Yes, of course, of course. We’re making arrangements as we speak. But these things take time, I’m sure you understand and appreciate that. Frank and Freda, God bless them, speak very highly of you and, I believe her name is Melba. Is that right?”
“Yes. Melba. That’s right”.
“They’ve told me and Reverend Baxter of all the good work you’ve done. Of your newspaper, spreading the word against the evils of slavery. It’s marvelous. Simply wonderful”.
“Well, thank you” Tom replied, almost blushing.
“Listen!” he ordered, then withdrew the command with a “please” and a smile.
“Things have changed. There’s a Deputy Sheriff, his name’s Harley. Harley Stafford. And he’s found out all about Tabari. About me, about Melba, and about Frank and Freda. I don’t need to go into all the details about how that happened” he said defensively, his feelings of guilt starting to haunt him again.
“But I do need to tell you that he’s dead set on capturing him. Dead set on it. He’s got two saddle tramps with him, to help in Tabari’s capture. And he’s made it real clear.
“If he does get Tabari, then all of us …” the realization that the Pastor and Reverend were now implicated suddenly hit him.
“Yes all of us, will be arrested and fined for aiding and abetting a runaway fugitive slave!”
“Oh, my. But this Church is a sanctuary. No one can enter here and remove anyone who’s been granted sanctuary”.
“Well, Pastor ... that may be the law, and maybe it isn’t.
“Here’s the problem. Whether the law’s ultimately on your side or not, I’m telling you, if Harley knows that Tabari’s here, he’ll come and get him. He’ll just tie him up and drag him out. Period.
“You, me, Frank, we can all go to court and file suit against the Deputy. But by the time the court finally rules, we’ll most likely all be dead”. He again chastised himself, this time for being so blunt and speaking of being ‘dead’ in this house of worship.
He went on.
“There’s a thousand dollar fine for violating the fugitive slave act. A thousand dollars! And right or wrong, Harley’s going to slap that fine on all of us. He’ll see to it that the law enforces the fine, even though the case might be in litigation. Unresolved, tied up in forever litigation.
“Frank and Freda? They’ll most likely lose their farm. I know Melba and I will lose the paper. You and the Reverend? I don’t know. But you might wind up losing this Church.
“And as for Tabari, well, either way, he’ll be hauled back to his plantation, and either be beaten, whipped, or hung. Maybe all three”.
“Jesus” the Pastor exclaimed, mortified for using the Lord’s name in vain.
He stared intensely at the floor, his head in his hands.
“I need time. To digest all this. I need to speak with Reverend Baxter.
“Jesus!” he did it again.
“I know that’s a lot to digest” Tom said softly, trying to comfort him. “Ah shit” he reminded himself.
�
��Reverend, I’ve got to leave now. Other than this meeting, I came here to get a doctor for Frank. I think he suffered a heart attack over all this. I need to meet him at the Jeffersons”.
“Jesus!”
46
N OTHIN’? HARLEY ASKED RANDY, as they met up.
“Nope. Nothin. Seth’s still workin’ his way on the other side of town, but I ain’t seen nothin’”.
“Alright. Go find Seth, and meet back at the hotel, over there” he pointed.
“I’ll tell you right now. I’m legally obliged to help you catch your runaway, but it ain’t my full-time job. Given’ the letter I found from Wilkins, and the past dealins’ I’ve had with the Jeffersons, it made sense to go this far. But if we ain’t found him by mid-mornin’ tomorrow, I’ve gotta’ head back to N’awlins.
“You understand? You and Seth are then on your own”.
“And what me and him saw. We saw him get into that buckboard with Wilkins” Randy reminded him.
“Like I said, mid-mornin’ tomorrow”.
* * *
HARLEY woke before the others, and went downstairs to grab some coffee and a paper. Finding none, and no hotel clerk, he walked outside and down the street, passing ma’ and pa’ shops along the way, the owners sweeping their walkways, setting up chairs and generally preparing for the day’s business.
“Excuse me Miss” he said to the young attractive woman walking past him. “Do you know where I can get a newspaper and a cup of coffee?” tipping his hat and smiling flirtatiously.
“Why, yes I do Sheriff” she answered, unable to conceal her infatuation for a man with a badge. The Deputy’s ego swelled, and he chose not to correct her.
“We have several newspapers here in town. There’s the ‘New Orleans’ View’, the ‘Centennial’ … let me think.
“And for coffee, why the best coffee in town is right here” she said, pointing to the small café two shops away.
“Well Miss, that’s right friendly of you” not wanting to let her leave too quickly.
“My name’s Harley. I’m from N’awlins. Here on business for a day or two”. He continued to flirt, about to impress her with lawman talk.
