Seven for a Secret

by Lyndsay Faye

  Judge Sivell, I thought, though in truth I knew him only by sight. His reputation is for impatience and querulousness, tempered by an almost secretive streak of good sense. His robes seemed to hail from the eighteenth century, and his powdered wig was squashed and yellow with use. A very prominent hooked nose was just then directing his gaze to me as if he were looking down a rifle sight. Hurrying to the front with George Higgins, I sat down, and then spied Julius in an elevated prisoner’s chair to my far right. A copper star hovered behind him, bored and half asleep.

  God help Seixas Varker if he ever meets me alone in the dark, I thought.

  They’d done a flash job of it. Julius’s togs had been taken, replaced with loose cotton rags that looked exactly like what a New Yorker would costume a runaway slave in if producing a melodrama at Niblo’s Garden. His shoes were likewise missing. I wondered how they’d muscled him into the disguise and then took a deep breath because I didn’t need to wonder for very long. He held himself like a wax statue, as if any movement might set something bleeding. My friend sat straight in the chair, not touching its back, leaning one elbow on the arm with a finger over his lips. Doubtless several things wanted saying that he was busily forcing down.

  “As you were telling us, Mr. Varker,” the judge coughed, having glared at me sufficiently.

  Varker had spied me as well, of course, and his simpering look shifted into an uneasy smile. If he thought I was daydreaming over my fist meeting the pink folds of his neck, he was spot on target. His wrist had been bandaged and splinted from palm nearly to elbow. It was the only cheerful sight in the room. Long Luke Coles lounged on a bench, skinning me with his eyes.

  “Yes, sir,” Varker continued. “So as you’ve seen, this letter from Mr. Calhoun St. Claire commissioning me describes the accused to perfection. And as much as I disrelish discussing it, this is not the only occasion on which Coffee St. Claire, the runaway you see before you, has escaped the St. Claire estate. He began as a house slave, but soon proved to be most intractable, Your Honor. By the age of twelve, he was set to fieldwork. When he behaved well, he would be rewarded with housework for a time, but rebellion and indolence always sent him back to the cotton fields, I’m sorry to say. The St. Claires almost despair of reforming him, but have prevailed on me to return him to his home, to his wife and his three children, and see whether Christian forgiveness and generosity may prevail at last. They think it not impossible, sir, though their fondness may sound foolish to some.”

  Julius had begun to look like a man in a bear trap attempting to ignore the metal sunk in his leg. A thin sheen glazed his temples, an unholy amalgam of pain and disquiet. I felt a palely echoing twist in my own gut.

  How clever they’re being, I thought. How very many questions they’d just forestalled in a single statement.

  How do you know it’s Coffee St. Claire? Oh, he answers this description perfectly. What was he running from? Fieldwork is a hard path for a useless gadabout like him, though the diligent thrive at it. But if he’s a cotton picker, why does he carry himself so proud? Trained to be a house slave. Why does he speak like a New Yorker? Well, I’ve said he’s run away before now, and he lights straight for Manhattan every time. He’s learned to ape high talk. Why should they want him back, then? These folk are Bible-fearing caretakers, and they trust this wretch will do right by them one day, repay them all their kindnesses. Do right by his wife and sons as well.

  I stood.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Honor, but this man’s name has never been Coffee St. Claire. His name is Julius Carpenter and he’s a free citizen of New York.”

  Judge Sivell’s attention returned to me. “And just who—”

  “Timothy Wilde, copper star one-oh-seven, sir. I have his free papers.”

  “That’s preposterous.” Varker’s lips tugged up as if something had curdled at the back of his throat. “I regret to state that Mr. Wilde holds an unfortunate personal grudge against me, sir.” He glanced meaningfully at the splint. “He is a mightily violent and hot-tempered abolitionist, you know.”

  A murmur passed through the crowd. I turned back, curious. The talk proved too low to hear, but a good many lips were visible, and barmen worth their salt don’t need to actually hear a drink order to understand it.

  These dreadful warmongers.

  They’ll not stop before blood courses through our streets.

  Pity they don’t channel their energies into worthy causes, like the Colonization Society. When we’ve sent them all to Liberia, our troubles will be over.

  “This isn’t about abolition,” I announced, admitting to nothing. “It’s about identity.”

  “Well, of course it is, Mr. Wilde,” Judge Sivell sniffed. “It is also about due procedure, which may be superfluous to point out now that you are trampling roughshod over it.”

  “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I’m prepared to swear that’s Julius Carpenter. I worked with him for years in an oyster cellar before the fire. My word against Varker’s ought to be enough.”

  “And what about my word? Ain’t that good for nothing?” Long Luke whined. “I back Mr. Seixas Varker one hundred percent: we’ve caught Coffee St. Claire, and the day he arrived in New York too. Just look at the creature.”

  “You’re his partner, of course you agree with him,” I shot back.

  “All of you keep your peace this instant,” the judge hissed shrilly. Tossing his head, he sent his wig an inch or so askew of true north. “Can any of you provide an unbiased witness as to this man’s identity? Not one who stands to profit, Mr. Coles, nor who wishes to further a deranged cause, Mr. Wilde.”

  “Why, certainly I can.” Varker bowed, exiting the witness box. “Thank you very kindly for coming, Miss Marsh.”

  Pivoting in disbelief, I saw her. I think my brains came unraveled a little. Distantly, I realized I’d an ivory-knuckled grip on the wooden barrier before me.

  Not that, I thought. God in heaven. Anyone but her.

  I’d not seen Silkie Marsh in two months, not since last I’d checked to ensure her brothel met my personal age standards. She looked neither wealthy nor fashionable enough to be a brothel madam that day. Low, cheap-cut shoes revealed themselves as she approached the witness box, and her beige walking costume was quite plain. She passed me by without a glance. That didn’t queer me for an instant though.

  If Silkie Marsh was here, it was about me. The woman wants me dead. And barring dead, eviscerated and longing for the grave. The scent of violets lingered behind her as if it were an artfully crafted curse, conjuring her voice in my head.

  I wonder if you know, Mr. Wilde, just how very far a man can be ruined without being killed. You’ll understand what I mean one day.

  “Has that woman ever testified for Varker before?” I whispered to Higgins.

  “She’s one of his regular performers. What, you know her?”

  Madam Marsh sat down. Her movements were hesitant, as if the courtroom unsettled her. She’d gathered her blonde hair at the nape of her neck beneath a hat with a single feather, her sweet face was free of rouge and kohl, and her lips formed a regretful pink bow. I wondered if Valentine had ever found her thus, unadorned and fresh as May, when she’d been his mistress. It was like watching a viper slither into a lambskin and then gaze prettily at you. She ought to be beautiful, I admit, as milk-skinned and delicate-featured as she is, but all it takes is her looking right at you for the illusion to fracture.

  Silkie Marsh’s eyes, pale hazel with a startling ring of blue at the centers, met mine for a moment. It was like staring into a bottomless pit.

  “Name?” the clerk inquired.

  “Selina Ann Marsh.” Her lashes fell shyly. “Most know me as Silkie.”

  “Residence?”

  “I live on Greene Street.”

  “In just what sort of house?” I demanded.

  “Quiet!” Judge Sivell snapped.

  “He’s right. Mr. Wilde and I are acquainted. I keep a club of sorts there … for
gentlemen.” Her face colored as if she were a girl of seventeen. “I didn’t like to mention that in court, Your Honor, for I’m a lawful woman otherwise, and a great friend of the Democrats. Mr. Wilde’s brand of abolitionism—he is most passionate, sir, regarding vice as well as slavery. I’m sorry for it, but my presence offends him.”

  A skittish hummingbird thrill shot down my spine. Because that was masterful. In seconds, she’d turned me from a disreputable abolitionist into a religious fanatic. Where lies are concerned, Silkie Marsh is twenty-four-karat talent. Uncharitable whispers drifted through the court.

  “And what have you to do with any of this?” Judge Sivell asked Madam Marsh, shuffling papers.

  “Mr. Varker here sought me out, saying he may need my help to see justice done. I find myself acquainted with many Southerners, you understand. Upstanding citizens to a man, Your Honor, and very dedicated to keeping the peace between our lands. So I came to know these gentlemen, and also … Mr. St. Claire himself is known to me, sir.” She hesitated, wetting her lips. “He once called upon me when in New York for an extended stay—there was no vice in it, I assure you, as I was hosting a small affair for Party contributors and he’d business with some of the gentlemen. That troubled colored boy was with him, to be auctioned on their way back through the Capital. I later heard that Mr. St. Claire had a change of heart when it came to the point of actually selling Coffee, however, the dear old gentleman. I admired him greatly for his temperance and patience.”

  I felt like clapping. Or clapping her in a Tombs lockup. One of the two, at any rate.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said sharply.

  Judge Sivell’s beaky nose swiveled, ready to impale me on its point. “My courtroom is ridiculous, Mr. Wilde?”

  “No, but listening to a parcel of pure flam from a brothel madam—”

  George Higgins, behind me and just to my left, kicked my shin so hard I nearly stumbled.

  “Closing statements,” the judge droned. “I have cases of considerably more import to try today. This ought to have taken five minutes. Miss Marsh, have you anything further to add?”

  Silkie Marsh shook her head, eyes downcast as if in shame at being the center of attention at a public proceeding.

  “Mr. Varker and Mr. Coles?”

  The fixed smile pinned to Varker’s rosy cheeks brightened to actual joy. “I’d never dream of wasting your time further, Your Honor. The facts of the case sure enough speak for themselves.”

  “Thank you for your consideration,” Long Luke added with a revolting flourish of his hat.

  “You, then.” Judge Sivell swung his attention to—of all people—Julius Carpenter. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

  Julius looked at the judge. His eyes were bloodshot, carriage agonized, attire smeared with God knows what and hanging in tatters. But his voice, when he spoke, was the same eloquent instrument I’d been half listening to since I was all of seventeen years old.

  “I was born and bred here. Never seen Florida in my life,” he said. “And I could act like a big man, tell Your Honor that I don’t care about what they’ve promised they’ll do to me if I testify in court that I’m free. But that would be a lie. I could even tell you I don’t care what they’ve done already, when I refused to admit I was Coffee St. Claire. But saying I don’t mind being handled worse than a thieving cur for knowing my own name would be perjury.” He leveled a stare at the two slave catchers. “My name belongs to me, and it’s Julius Carpenter. If what they want is the skin off my back, they can have more of it. But they can’t have my name.”

  The air shifted, a tangible change in mood. Judge Sivell looked almost sympathetic. “I’m sorry for your state, but by the looks of things it can’t be helped. Let this be a lesson for you as an honest Christian. You’ll grow used to plantation life again soon enough, I’d wager.”

  “Do something, you idiot,” Higgins hissed at me in desperation.

  “I have this man’s free papers in my hand,” I insisted, waving them as if they were a battle standard. “All signed and in perfect order. If you would only look at them—”

  “Free papers can be forged, and you have proven yourself to be a biased party, Mr. Wilde,” the judge answered. “I have told you more than once to cease disrupting proceedings.”

  George Higgins jumped forward. “I’ve known Julius Carpenter since we were children at our lessons. He’s my closest friend. We were born on the same street, I’ll swear it on a Bible.”

  “Inadmissible. Come now, whoever you are, you know better than to put your oar in where it isn’t allowed.”

  Julius closed his eyes. Not a flinch or an admission. Just as if he couldn’t be expected to watch any longer while his life was surgically extracted from his person.

  “Thank you for your wisdom in this matter, Your Honor,” Varker called out, gathering his belongings with his uninjured hand. Coles, by his side, grunted hearty agreement.

  Silkie Marsh had disappeared by this time. Silent as the devil and twice as wicked.

  “Pistols on the way to the ship it is, then,” Higgins grated out. He meant it, too.

  Think. I shut my eyes as Julius had, holding the rail before me with both hands as if on a ship’s deck in a tempest.

  Think, you cocky little runt, if you’re so bloody clever. Think.

  “Very well.” The judge belatedly adjusted his wig. “As to custody, this man is released under supervision of Mr. Varker and Mr. Coles, to be escorted to—”

  “Look at his feet!” I cried.

  All eyes turned to me. Meanwhile, I was past caring about procedure. I thrust the free papers at Higgins’s chest for safekeeping and vaulted over the barrier to stand in the open between Julius and Judge Sivell.

  “This man is meant to have been captured on his first day in the city.” The words came tumbling helter-skelter, even as I thought them. “Look, his togs are falling off. He’s penniless. He made it from Florida all the way to New York, running through fields and swamps and forests. I admit he may have ridden partway, but never the entire distance, and he hasn’t any shoes. Look! Take one single look, I’m begging you. Are these the feet of a shoeless field hand? Are they the feet of a barefoot runaway?”

  Judge Sivell raised himself from his chair to peer over my head. Grasping in a pocket for spectacles, he slid them up the formidable cliff of his nose.

  The feet in question were not merely clean. They were uncallused, neither scraped nor blistered, and owned the narrow appearance of having been thrust into boots for upward of three decades.

  When Julius left off studying his toes, he looked up at me and winked.

  Judge Sivell removed his spectacles and resumed his seat.

  “Mr. Varker,” he said ominously, “are you attempting to make a fool of me?”

  Pandemonium of a chattering, speculating kind erupted in the courtroom. I could hear Varker expostulating, Coles emitting a string of profanity and threats in my direction. George Higgins followed me over the railing and set the papers before the magistrate.

  The chaos settled seconds later, with a rap of the gavel. Judge Sivell studied the paperwork as Higgins, Julius, and I studied him. The silence was thicker than blood.

  “Mr. Varker, doubtless your enthusiasm is commendable,” Judge Sivell announced, passing Higgins back Julius’s certificate. “But if I discover you have made such an egregious mistake again, I will grow very uncivil. This prisoner is free on his own recognizance. I will adjourn for ten minutes, and then hear the next case.”

  “Oh, Christ,” I muttered senselessly, and resumed breathing. The room buzzed around me, a wasps’ nest freshly kicked.

  “We need to get him away from all this,” Higgins said in my ear.

  In truth, Julius looked close to collapse. Higgins took his arm and began walking while I opened the little gate in the railing that neither of us had previously bothered over. The hostile skepticism of the crowd had disintegrated. Spinsters wept, foreigners took notes, gentlemen
glowed with civic pride, poor laborers hooted about freedom and republicanism and booed the slaveholding tyrants of the South. It was all very fine.

  “Are they on our side now?” Higgins marveled.

  “I wouldn’t exactly set my watch by them,” I answered. “Julius, when you were held captive—were you alone?”

  “As alone as is possible.”

  So they aren’t imprisoned in Corlears Hook, I thought. Where can they be? Already aboard ship? In hiding? Dead? The slave catchers were attempting to regain the attention of the judge, and thus didn’t hinder us making for the door. For an instant, I thought to confront them.

  Tell me what you’ve done. Tell me where you’ve taken Delia Wright and Jonas Adams or I will make your life a hell.

  Tempting. Had I not just that morning removed a corpse from Val’s bed. Caution muzzled me. With an uncomfortable churn of the stomach, I realized I couldn’t even tell the Vigilance Committee men what I’d discovered. Not yet. I’d have confided in Julius alone in a heartbeat, but he needed medical attention. I elbowed two weedy British tourists—abolitionists keen after an interview for their circular—to the side, and we hurried toward the exit.

  “Did you have to wait until the very last moment, Timothy?” Julius inquired mildly.

  Higgins laughed at this, a short and dry exclamation. “He took his time all right. But when you’re not being dense, you’re extraordinarily keen, Mr. Wilde.”

  “So my brother tells me. Often.” I couldn’t even object to being ragged, relieved as I was. “How far can you make it sans shoes?” I asked Julius.

  His answer would have been As far as needs going. The man is stubborn as a canker sore. It’s one of the reasons I like him so thoroughly. But Julius Carpenter lost consciousness less than a second later, so he was saved the trouble of replying to my inane queries.