Speakers of the Dead

by J. Aaron Sanders

  “I need to show you something.” The priest holds out Walt’s pistol. “Here,” he says. “Take it.”

  The gun sits heavy in Whitman’s hand. He strokes the barrel with his index finger, lets his hand grip the gun, slips his finger around the trigger. His mind is a whirl, flashes of Henry Saunders’s face interspersed with Samuel Clement’s. He aims the pistol at the fireplace.

  Father Allen stands behind him, takes his arm, and holds it out straight. “Like this,” he says. “Before you shoot, take a deep breath and let it out halfway to better hold your aim. And shoot for the head. Leave no room for error. You can be sure the other man won’t.”

  “Where did you learn to shoot a gun?”

  “I was not always the man you see before you.”

  Whitman wants to ask more, but he’s silenced by Father Allen’s suddenly stern countenance. Instead, he asks, “Is it a sin to kill a man who has killed someone close to you?”

  Father Allen rubs the back of his neck. “It is not a sin to kill a man before he kills you, no. Not something to take lightly, however. Killing a man crosses a line and you might—well, you might end up like me.”

  “You just told me to shoot for the head.”

  “We all have that power, you know. To take another’s life. God knows sometimes it has to be done, and I’m only telling you to be careful.” Father Allen looks lost in himself.

  “Father?”

  He snaps out of his reverie. “I’ll lead you out.”

  At the back door to the church, Father Allen says, “Allow me to survey the area before you leave.” He opens the door. “I won’t be long.”

  Minutes later, Father Allen returns. “One man stands on the corner closest to the front entrance, and another four or five across the street. I can’t see the others, but they’re probably there. You’ve become a popular man, Mr. Whitman.” Father Allen removes his overcoat, whose sleeves were too short for his long arms. “Give me your coat and hat.”

  Whitman hesitates.

  “They’ll mistake me for you.”

  Walt goes through his pockets and finds the gun, bullets, the note from Abby Runkel, and his green notebook. “They’ll know you’re helping me if you wear my coat.”

  “The Lord will provide.”

  “You believe that?”

  The priest nods. “Of course I do. Now, your coat?”

  They switch coats. Father Allen’s is tight around Walt Whitman’s body, the arms even shorter on him than on the priest.

  “I’ll lead them away,” Father Allen says. “You follow in a few minutes—take the long way, south a block, then east, and you should be clear. Watch for others—I’m not sure how many there are.”

  Father Allen steps through the door and walks in clear view of the man at the front entrance.

  The officer doesn’t move until Father Allen is twenty-five feet past him. Another man emerges out of the shadows, and together, the two men rush the priest and take him by the arms. A black carriage appears from the other direction, stops, and the three men get in.

  Whitman resists the urge to go to the priest’s aid.

  On Barclay Street, the frigid night air stings Walt’s neck. Flakes the size of silver Liberty dollars swirl above him. He looks into the sky and sees nothing but a fluttering whiteness. He pulls up the collar of the priest’s coat and makes his way south, the cobblestones slippery under his feet.

  He won’t stop until he reaches McCleester’s tavern.

  Chapter 26

  Frankie Clement is worse now than she was earlier today. Paler, sweatier, hair matted against her forehead, quilt pulled up to her chin, quivering, and she smells like feces. She doesn’t even bother to pretend she’s okay when McCleester lets Walt Whitman into the room. “I’ve never seen her this bad,” he whispers to Walt before he leaves the room.

  Whitman slides the stool from the corner to the bed. “Are you ready to ask for help now?”

  She tries to speak but gets caught coughing. She finally says, “Not if I have to rat out my brother.”

  “You won’t rat out the man who got you addicted to laudanum, who manipulates you into doing things that only help him—look at yourself. Where is he? Why isn’t he helping you now?

  She drops her head. “You don’t know us.”

  “I know he’s not here, and I am,” Walt says. “I know that we can help each other.”

  She says nothing.

  Whitman shakes his head. What can he say to get her to help him? “You’re right, Miss Clement. My meeting with your brother did not go well, and now I’m afraid he’s going to kill my friend. I don’t want you to rat out your brother, as you say, but I am asking you to tell me where he might be keeping Mr. Saunders.” He pauses. “I can offer medical help in return, if you want it, but to be honest, Miss Blackwell will help you whether you help me or not. So I’ll ask again. Please help me find my friend.”

  “My brother isn’t as bad as you believe him to be.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Miss Clement.”

  “He didn’t give me laudanum,” she says. “He told me I was stupid for doing it, and he wants me to quit. He doesn’t even drink alcohol anymore because of some stupid book he wants me to read.” She stops. “Samuel is a successful businessman with slippery ethics. That’s all. And the only reason he’s not here now is because I don’t want him to see me like this.”

  Whitman knows he has to play this just right, and he knows he has to hurry. “Will you help me find my friend?” And then for good measure: “Please. I’m begging you.”

  Miss Clement starts to cry. This is difficult for her, Walt knows, and so he waits. He holds her hand, tells her everything is going to be okay. She shudders and shakes, her skin is hot, and she mumbles to herself.

  And then, finally, she’s ready. “I can’t help you if it means hurting my brother. Now please leave so I can rest.”

  Walt feels numb. There’s nothing left for him to do. He can’t go door to door searching every corner of every building in New York, and he can’t call the sheriff again.

  Whitman doesn’t say anything to Frankie as he exits the room, and when the barkeep asks him how it went, he only looks at the man, then drifts out the front door.

  The night is chaotic in this neighborhood. Hordes of drunk men scamp about in packs, growling and cursing. They bump into Walt as he passes, and they shout at him to watch where he’s going. He stumbles into a saloon he’s never visited before, the Rusty Nail. He collapses in the chair and buries his face in his hands.

  He bangs his boot on the floor.

  “Mister?”

  He looks up, expecting one of the drunks reclaiming his chair, but it is John McCleester.

  “I spoke with Frankie after you left,” he says, “and I want her to get the help she needs even if she doesn’t. You told her that woman doctor can help her if she tells you where her brother might be keeping your friend?”

  Walt nods. “But she refused.”

  McCleester holds out a piece of paper. “I don’t know where he’s keeping your friend, but I know he has worked out of these three addresses in the past.”

  Whitman reaches for it, but McCleester pulls it away.

  “I want to make sure Frankie gets help. Where do I bring her?”

  “Here,” Walt says, “I’ll write it down for you.” He pulls his green notebook out of his borrowed coat pocket and scribbles down the college’s address. “Tell them Walt Whitman sent you.”

  McCleester nods, and they trade pieces of paper. “Much obliged.”

  Whitman knows the addresses—they aren’t far from here—but he can cover ground more quickly if he can find Broadway Ike.

  The streets and sidewalks are treacherous, and Ike has no choice but to drive much slower than either man would prefer. Each turn requires such a slow speed that they might as well stop.
Whitman is frustrated by their lack of progress, but he appreciates what Ike is doing for him and so he holds his tongue.

  He sees the marker for Chatham just down the way. Address number one. Finally. Ike takes the turn slow and then brings the omnibus to a stop. “It’s faster for you to run the rest of the way,” he calls out. “I’ll wait here.”

  Walt jumps out of the omnibus and heads toward the first address, a butcher shop called Anderson’s. He checks his pocket for the pistol. Aim for the head, the priest said.

  The single-story building’s front windows are dark. He knocks on the door. Nothing. He slinks around to the back, where he finds another entrance. He tries to open the door, but it is locked. So he bangs his large frame against the wood until it opens.

  The inside smells like wet wood and oil and meat. The back room is an office—it contains nothing more than a desk, a filing drawer, a woodstove, and a coatrack. On the coatrack hang three bloody aprons. He finds a candle on the desk and a match in the top drawer. In his right hand, he holds the pistol and in the other, the candle. Through the hallway, he tiptoes into the next room.

  The candle highlights three hanging corpses. Walt jumps, takes a deep breath. But a closer look reveals exactly what one should expect to find in a butcher’s shop: three dead cows ready for butchering.

  Whitman takes a quick look around the lobby of the shop but finds nothing there either. Not only is Henry not here, but there is no trace at all of Samuel Clement’s ever having been here. A sick feeling spreads over him. What if the barkeep gave him a list of bogus addresses to give Clement more time to get away?

  The journey to the next address is not long, two blocks east and one block south. The omnibus comes to a stop in front of the building, a newer, two-story building constructed sometime after the Great Fire of 1835. A light is on in the front window, visible through the curtains. Whitman knocks, and a woman dressed in a housecoat answers.

  She twists her face at Walt. “You’re not my Robby.”

  “No, ma’am,” he says. “I’m here looking for Samuel Clement.”

  “My husband kicked him out weeks ago,” she says. “If you find him, let me know. He still owes us fifty dollars.”

  “Any idea where he’s gone?”

  She shakes her head. “That man is trouble.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I don’t,” she says. “My husband does and I don’t ask about his business. What I do know is that when Samuel Clement is around, my husband turns into someone I don’t like.”

  “Would your husband know where Mr. Clement is?”

  She shrugs. “You’re welcome to ask him when he returns.”

  “Do you expect him any time soon?”

  “I thought you was him, didn’t I?”

  Walt nods.

  “Truth is, mister, I don’t know when he’ll be back. Do what you want. Wait or don’t wait. I wish I could be more help.”

  Mud and water soak Henry Saunders’s boots and socks, and his body is one giant shiver. It is only a matter of time now, he knows. His one hope is that Walt miraculously finds him.

  He smiles at the thought of Walt Whitman. His fit body and thick forearms. His sarcastic smile. The way his eyes dance back and forth at the men, women, and children he passes. He wears that grin, the one that says he knows a little bit more than everyone else around him, the grin that drives Henry mad. That is the thing about Walt. He is unflappable. So confident that it doesn’t matter to him if you think he is a genius or not, and that is what Henry loves about him.

  Henry focuses on happier times—hunting rabbits in the woods with his father behind their home or fishing for trout, the smell of fish cooking in butter. The way the flesh peeled off the stringy fish bones when his father cooked it just right, the way the meat dissolved on his tongue. He concentrates on his parents, but the reality of their lives without him is too much, so he returns to the rabbits and trout and butter crackling in the frying pan over the stove.

  “Comfort me, Father,” he prays. “I am done.”

  Henry Saunders closes his eyes and imagines going home one last time.

  The air is thick and gray, and as he gets closer, the house materializes in front of him. The two-story house and barn are painted red. A long piece of black cloth is draped over the doorframe. Two large pine trees stand on either side of the house, and several maple trees grow between the house and barn.

  His mother opens the door. Her brown hair is pulled up on the back of her head and the wrinkles on her cheeks have grown more prominent. She kisses his cheek. “It’s time.”

  “But I’m not ready.”

  “Ours is not to decide when or how,” she says. “We go when we are called.”

  Then he sees it across the room. The wooden casket is framed on either side by candles, and the emotions hit him all at once—fear, dread, yearning, regret, loss. He looks at his mother. “Are you sure?”

  “Go on,” she says gently. “It’s all right.”

  “What will happen to me?”

  She smiles. “I will watch over you.”

  He steps toward the fireplace and takes it all in—the rocking chair, the bench, the white cat sleeping in the corner. Standing next to the casket now, he lowers his body inside, the planks of wood warm from the fire, the smell of cut wood reminding him of his visits to the lumberyard with his father. He panics, and loneliness settles in. “Mother?” He checks to see if she is still there.

  She sits in the rocking chair with her arms resting on her lap. “I’m not going anywhere,” she says. “Ever.”

  Henry lays his head down and closes his eyes, his mother’s voice floating in the air around him. “I love you,” she says over and over.

  A banging at the door startles him from his trance. It’s Samuel Clement.

  “Don’t go to sleep on me yet, Mr. Saunders. We’ve got an appointment to keep.”

  The adrenaline from acquiring the list of addresses has faded, but Walt pushes himself to visit the last location, the farthest of the three. Perhaps this is the one that will house Henry. His heart races at the thought, and he boards the omnibus yet again.

  The omnibus slides around the turn from Mulberry Street toward Mott, and nearly clips a carriage going the other direction. The force of the turn sends Walt crashing into the sidewall. He rights himself and peers out the window. The driver of the carriage shouts something inaudible in the wind at Broadway Ike, who acts as if nothing has happened.

  The journey slows to a stop as they encounter clusters of New Yorkers in the streets, and what should take a quarter of an hour ends up taking nearly the whole.

  The omnibus finally stops, and Walt steps out into the snow and moves toward the third address. He makes it only a few feet before he notices fresh wagon tracks. He follows them into the alley, noticing that they stop where something large and bulky has been dragged and presumably placed in the wagon.

  His heart beats faster.

  At the door, he reaches for the latch and turns it. The door is locked, but one good kick is all it takes to open it. Walt steps inside, where all he finds is an overturned chair and a wilted boutonniere.

  He is too late.

  Chapter 27

  As Walt is trying to formulate his next move, a thunderous explosion rips through the air. The sky lights up several blocks over in the direction of the Women’s Medical College, and then a chorus of voices shouts its approval. Worried about the students, Walt hastens across Centre Street and up to Delancey, where a crowd has formed. Thousands stand shoulder to shoulder from one end of the street to the other, and when one person moves, they all move. Some hold torches, which illuminate the faces of those around them like demons.

  A young watchman, who looks barely old enough to shave, struggles to keep control of his horse.

  “What’s going on?” Walt calls to the young man.r />
  “It’s that medical college for women. You know, the one where they done all that killin’.”

  “What’s happened?” says Whitman.

  “Don’t know myself,” the man says. “I was at home with my wife when the messenger arrived.”

  “Why aren’t you doing anything?”

  “Orders are to stay here,” he says.

  Whitman starts toward the commotion.

  “Sorry,” the watchman says. “Can’t let anyone through. Gathering can’t grow any bigger than it already is.”

  The man steers his horse to block Whitman from moving. Without hesitating, Walt grabs hold of the reins and directs the horse to the side of the road.

  “You can’t do that,” the man calls after him. “Stop.”

  Walt ignores him, quickly wrapping the reins around the lamppost. He runs toward the mob, an overwhelming sense of dread filling him.

  The clang of fire engines reverberates several blocks out.

  Whitman advances until the crowd is at a standstill. To better see what is going on, he climbs a nearby streetlamp and hangs on to the pole, his feet resting on the metal ledge a few feet off the ground. The mass of people extends all the way up the street to the women’s college, which has gone up in flames. A sick feeling takes hold. Did the students get out?

  The crowd begins to dissipate, allowing him to navigate his way north toward the college. Several hundred feet away from the burning college, he runs into another crowd of people. Firemen are trying to get to the building, but they are blocked by what remains of the mob, which has formed a wall between the college and the firemen. The sheriff and his men scramble to organize a militia. In all the commotion, Whitman sees no sign of Elizabeth Blackwell and the other students. His heart races as he tries to figure out how to reach them.

  Elizabeth Blackwell takes two steps at a time to get to the dormitory, and she bursts inside, yelling for the students, “Get up!”