Speakers of the Dead

by J. Aaron Sanders

  The freight wagon turns right, rolling the corpse into him. He pushes her away, then peels back the corner of the tarp to see outside.

  The tall man sits in the driver’s seat, James “Snuffy” Warren next to him. They’re arguing, but Walt can’t make out the words for the wind.

  Warren glances over his shoulder. “He’s awake!”

  The tall man turns. “Get under there, you, and stay quiet.”

  Whitman folds down the tarp and looks at the body again. He imagines the girl before her death: She looks through the front window, her mouth open, her eyes lost, her brown hair hanging in her eyes, her hands pressed up against the glass. The shadows from inside the building reflect off her palms and turn them black. The sun shines down over her shoulder, and on her right is a building that might be the Old Brewery. From where she stands, she can hear the noises of Five Points, the noises that never stop: the fighting, the playing, the poor taking from the poor.

  He feels compassion not only for the young girl but also for the family. They will be devastated to learn that their daughter’s body has been taken. Perhaps he can buy the body himself and return it to them. Stop, he tells himself. You’ve been taken too. You’ve got to get away, and fast. He wonders where Henry Saunders is, if he’s followed behind or gone for help.

  The wagon slows to a stop. Sounds of water lapping up against the piers, voices dancing on what has to be the East River, laughter, yelling, the smell of salt water—Walt guesses they are near the Fulton Ferry.

  Without warning, the tarp lifts to reveal the tall man hovering over him. His black hair stands on end, his green eyes blaze, and his nose is sharp. He wears dungarees and a wool sweater under his unbuttoned Albert overcoat. “Watch yourself. Business first, then you and I will talk.”

  From across the way, another wagon rolls into view, the driver visible only from the orange burn of his cigar. He calls the tall man by name, Clement, and questions his lateness.

  Clement insists that he’s delivered the body per their agreement.

  Clement looks at Warren. “Do I have to tell you how to do your work?”

  Warren jumps into the back of the wagon, signals to Walt for help.

  “Who is that?” the driver says, shrugging at Whitman.

  “New guy,” Clement says. “With business the way it is, I need the help.”

  Clement wants to keep him alive, Walt thinks. He shudders at the vision of his own body splayed open and eviscerated on the dissection table.

  Whitman and Warren carry the girl’s body from one wagon to the other. They swing it twice before tossing it in back.

  “Careful,” the man says. “Jesus.”

  Warren slows down, pretends to handle the body with care as he shoves her in far enough so the door will close.

  “Cover her up with straw, goddammit.”

  Warren does, but he’s obviously irritated.

  “You sure can pick ’em, Clement,” the man says. “A whole city of people out of work, and you find the idiots.”

  “Are we finished?” Clement says.

  “I suppose,” the man says. “I’ll send word about the next drop through the usual means.” He flips the reins, and his horses stomp the ground. “Next time, don’t be late.” The wagon picks up speed, turns the corner, and is gone.

  “Next time?” Sheriff Harris steps out of the shadows.

  Walt Whitman’s first instinct is to call to the sheriff for help—but he decides to wait and see why Harris is here.

  “And what is the sheriff doing out so late?” Clement says. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  “I certainly prefer sleep to chasing down shitheads like you.”

  “My, my,” Clement says. “Such language.”

  Harris says, “I came to arrest you.”

  “Arrest me, Sheriff? Whatever for?”

  “Mary Rogers’s murder.”

  Clement steps down from the wagon. He ambles toward the sheriff, a grin on his face. His right hand rests on the handle of his pistol. “I know we’ve had our differences, Sheriff, but this, where is this coming from?”

  The sheriff flips back his overcoat to display his own gun. “Our differences, as you put it, come from the fact that you’re a criminal.”

  “A criminal? Really? Can we not come up with a better word than that?”

  “How about an opportunist without a clear sense of right and wrong?”

  “Opportunist.” Clement says the word as if he’s trying it on. “I like that a whole lot better.”

  “It’s time to set this right,” Harris says.

  “We both know Miss Rogers died during a medical procedure.”

  “We both know an innocent man took the blame, and now he’s dead. His wife too.”

  The piers are silent except for the waves crashing against the stone barricades, and faint piano music from a few streets over.

  “You sure about that, Sheriff?”

  “I have to arrest you.”

  The two men stare each other down. Harris fidgets nervously.

  The gunshot rings out like thunder, and for a moment they all stand there, waiting. Then Sheriff Harris drops. Whitman starts toward him, but Clement waves him off with a pistol.

  Harris writhes.

  Walt hesitates, expecting the sheriff’s men to emerge from the shadows. When no one does, Walt sidesteps toward the sheriff, careful to see that Clement does not become skittish enough to shoot him. At the sight of Whitman, the sheriff tries and fails to speak. Walt unbuttons the sheriff’s coat—the gunshot is just inches above the heart—and he turns to Clement. “We can still save him.” He presses his handkerchief against the wound.

  “Are you sure?” Clement steps toward them.

  Walt can see what is about to happen. “But why kill him?”

  “Why not?” Clement takes another step toward the sheriff.

  Whitman looks at Harris. The sheriff’s eyes are following Clement now. His whole body shakes in terror, and despite what happened with the Stowes, Walt feels for the man. Walt stands to meet Clement, but Clement is quick—

  He shoots Harris in the head, and the sheriff’s body goes limp.

  Clement turns to Whitman now, smoking pistol raised. “Now why don’t you tell me how you knew I would be here tonight.”

  Whitman steps back.

  “And while you’re at it, why did the sheriff recognize you?”

  Clement can see the surprise on his face.

  “You didn’t think I would notice,” Clement says, “did you? Well, I’m not a dumb criminal—I’m an opportunist without morals, remember?”

  Whitman takes another step backward, but Clement takes a step too.

  “Did you kill Mary Rogers?” Walt says.

  Clement smiles. “You believed that?”

  “Why not confess before you kill me?”

  “You do think I’m stupid,” Clement says. “Like everyone else, I was deeply saddened by the tragedy.”

  “That doesn’t mean you didn’t kill her,” Walt says. “You’re going to kill me, and you don’t know me.”

  Clement says, “I didn’t intend to kill you until this little complication arose. That should count for something.”

  “What if I promise not to testify against you?”

  Clement laughs. “I’m sure that will work out well for me.”

  “Will you toss my body in the East River too?”

  “Nah. I’ll sell you off to some doctor. You’re a young, healthy specimen, worth at least twenty-five dollars. Just think: You might be instrumental in finding a cure for cholera.”

  Whitman continues to inch backward. He hopes to keep Clement talking—if he can create only a little more distance between them, then he thinks he can get away.

  “I know you worked with Abraham Stowe,” Walt says.


  “So what if I knew him? He bought bodies from me just like they all do. They think they’re better than we are, but they depend on us to do their work. They’re hypocrites, but we’ll still take their money.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Clement hesitates, and Walt knows this is his best chance, so he turns and runs, the first shot hitting the ground behind him, shooting sparks into the dark. He sprints to the corner and makes the turn before the next shot ricochets off the corner of a brick building.

  “Snuffy!” Clement yells.

  Walt’s long legs stretch into stride, and his body warms up even while James Warren keeps pace behind him. He’ll go to Five Points, not too far from here, where he can disappear into one of the many beer halls or brothels and wait it out until it’s safe to report the sheriff’s murder and try to find Henry Saunders. At the next turn, he casts a glance over his shoulder at the man chasing him: Warren has already slowed to a jog.

  Walt continues onto Orange Street toward an enormous bi-level dance hall called Almack’s, determined to lose himself among the thousand or so patrons who flock here every night and stay until they run out of money, are arrested, or pass out. Five cents buys a mug of beer and a chance to listen to piano music, or play dice, dominoes, and cards. Sometimes patrons will catch a glimpse of Pete Williams, the colored owner, performing his own juba dance on the second floor.

  Walt sits at a corner table with a view of the door. As he tries to catch his breath, the thick cloud of tobacco smoke burns his lungs. His jaw throbs. He removes his coat and hat, then takes out his green notebook to record the details of the sheriff’s murder.

  “What’ll it be, mister?” The girl speaks in a fake Southern drawl and wears too much perfume. Though she looks to be twelve, she carries herself like an eighteen-year-old. She wears a short white dress and red-topped boots with bells sewn into the tassels, the tinkling a constant noise among the chatter, yelling, and laughter. The tightness of her dress presses her breasts together in such a way that make them look bigger than they are.

  “Whiskey, please.”

  At the table nearest him, six men play poker. All of them blind drunk.

  The girl returns with the drink, and Walt pays her five cents. He must figure out what happened to Henry after he was knocked out. If the grave robbers had other men staked out around the cemetery, then they might have taken Henry. Or worse.

  His only option is to go to the watch house.

  “You haven’t touched your drink.” The girl is back.

  Whitman picks up the glass and drains it. “There.”

  “You look upset.” She puts her hands on his shoulders.

  He shrugs them off. “Long night.”

  “I specialize in men who have had rough nights.” She rubs his shoulders again, and this time, he lets her for a short moment. “Anything else I can get for you?” The girl leans over to make her breasts visible, and this is when he hears the voice from the front.

  “There you are.” It’s Warren, and he’s got a rifle pointed in Whitman’s direction. He saunters across the wooden floor, his boots dragging and clomping, the noise capturing the attention of the entire first floor, and even the gamblers pause their game to watch. “Gambling debts,” Warren says so everyone can hear.

  One of the men laughs. “Then you’ll need to take Hank here. He owes everyone in this room at least one dollar.”

  Walt stands, moves in front of the barmaid. “You go on back to the bar,” he says.

  She obeys.

  Warren comes close enough for Whitman to see the dirt streaks on his cheek. He’s an odd-looking sort of man—a combination of strength and awkwardness. His protruding stomach and large head belie his agility and experience. He found Walt in no time, after all.

  “Let’s go,” Warren says.

  Walt puts on his coat and hat, and starts toward the exit. He can see the confidence and satisfaction in Warren’s face. He’s rash, less than intelligent, and eager to impress, Whitman intuits, and then in one quick movement, he knocks Warren to the floor—

  But Warren surprises Walt by being stronger and more agile, and the two men wrestle on the floor, bang into a table, and knock off the empty glasses. They shatter, the noise drawing even more attention to the scene. The bar patrons circle the men and cheer them on, and when Warren comes to rest on top of Walt, they rain down applause.

  They both scramble for the rifle a few feet away, but Whitman reaches it first. “Now then, Mr. Warren. Where were we?”

  Walt pulls Warren to his feet and leads him out of the beer hall and into the night amidst the continuing applause of the patrons. They don’t care who won; they just had a hell of a show. He presses the rifle tip into Warren’s back as if to tell himself that he needs to be ready to pull the trigger, that he will in fact pull the trigger if need be. He wonders where he would shoot the man. He would not kill him. The leg, he decides, he will shoot him in the leg.

  “So which is it?” Walt says, “Warren or Snuffy?”

  But the man refuses to answer.

  Walt gives him a moment before he says, “Snuffy it is, Mr. Warren.”

  Still nothing. No matter. Their next stop is the watch house.

  Chapter 9

  By day, Mulberry Street streams with people, wagons, and animals, but this night it is completely dark except for the bright light of the watch house halfway down.

  Snuffy slows down, and Walt Whitman grips the rifle tight. “They’ll blame me for the sheriff’s death, you know.”

  “But I saw it,” Walt says. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “You don’t understand the people we work for,” Snuffy says. “You don’t know Samuel Clement.” And now he turns around. His face is red and sweaty. “They’ll hang me and be done with it.” The look on Snuffy’s face tells Walt more than his words. He’s terrified.

  “I’ll see to it that you’re not blamed for the murder,” Walt says even though he’s not sure he believes it himself.

  “You could let me go,” Snuffy says. “I’m a grave robber, not a murderer.”

  “You didn’t kill the sheriff, but what about Abraham Stowe? What do you know about his death?”

  Snuffy shakes his head. “You know I hate that fucker Clement, the things he does. And now he will do it to me. You watch.”

  “What happened to Dr. Stowe?”

  Snuffy says nothing. He shuffles to the watch house entrance, opens the door, and goes inside.

  Screams and laughter ring out of every corner, and everybody present needs a shave and a change of clothing. In a row of chairs against the back wall sit men in handcuffs, a few of them passed out, a few more of them the belligerent sort that might spontaneously explode. The guard, a tall, broad man, watches over them with his gun raised. He’s the kind who will not hesitate to beat any one of these men senseless, and they all know it.

  The guard turns to Walt. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to see the deputy.”

  “Back there, then,” the guard says. “But you’ll have to wait your turn.” He looks Snuffy up and down. “Who is the asshole with you?”

  “Now, why would you go and say that?” Snuffy says. “Maybe he’s the asshole.”

  “My money is on you,” the guard says.

  “I’d prefer to discuss Mr. Warren with Deputy Petty now,” Walt says. “It can’t wait.”

  “Go on, then,” the guard says. “You can approach him. If it’s urgent like you say.”

  Walt nudges Snuffy forward, the two of them near the corner desk where Petty is deep in conversation with a man sitting with his back to them. At the sight of Whitman with Snuffy in tow, both men stop talking, and the man turns.

  “Walt?” Henry Saunders says. “I was just reporting you missing.”

  “That saves me some paperwork, then,” Petty says.
r />   “I’m afraid not,” Walt says. “Sheriff Harris has been shot.”

  Petty jumps out of his seat. “Where?”

  “Near the Fulton Ferry,” he says. “Someone called Clement shot Harris, and then he sent this man, James Warren, after me, and well, that didn’t quite work out.”

  The deputy stands still for a moment, contemplating his move, and then maneuvers around the desk. He knocks Snuffy to the ground with his forearm, puts his knee in Snuffy’s back, and cuffs him.

  “They’re too tight,” Snuffy says.

  “Better get used to it.” Petty lifts the man to his feet and pushes him toward the back door leading to the jail. “That noose gets pretty tight when the trapdoor opens.” Petty glances behind him at Walt and Henry. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Whitman lets the deputy past him, and the deputy’s voice can be heard in the next room, first commanding Warren to get into the cell and then calling his men to the ready. The sound of boots scuffling on wood, rifles being removed from the wall racks, and then the pack of them burst through the door, past Whitman and Saunders and into the night.

  Henry turns to Walt. “How did you get away?”

  Walt tells him about the selling of the body, Jack Harris’s surprise appearance, and the shooting. When Walt is finished, Henry embraces him.

  “I’m so relieved.” Henry releases Walt, steps back. “You have no idea how worried I was.”

  “So what now?” Whitman says. “Is the deputy coming back?”

  “I don’t know.” Henry touches Walt’s swollen cheek. “Does it hurt?”

  It does, but Walt doesn’t want him to stop. “It hurts some.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “What do you think of the deputy? Can we trust him?”

  “I don’t have a read on him yet,” Henry says, “but my sources say he’s a good man not yet corrupted.”

  The mustachioed deputy returns, limping as if his left leg is shorter than his right, and sits across the desk from them. “I’ve sent my best men to see if they can find Harris, and they’ll move Warren to the Tombs in the morning. “How about a drink?” Petty stands and retrieves a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard behind his desk and pours three glasses.