Then Birch couldn’t resist opening the door for a late arrival; hell, it was half-past eleven o’clock—two men in top hats and expensive frock coats; that was Mr. Elmer Garrett and his brother—because probably Wally was standing around jawing with the hackney drivers like he allus did instead of payin’ attention to the work.
That was why Birch was there bright and early at six o’clock every morning, even on Sundays—apologies to the Lord—and why he stayed till ten o’clock at night, sometimes as late as eleven or even midnight. That was because there was no one but Birch who opened the door with such grand welcome, who saw everything and noticed when somethin’ was goin’ go wrong even before it did.
Didn’t he catch Mrs. Blair’s valises before they fell off the back of the coach last time she come to town? Or rescue Mr. Peltham’s walking stick before it rolled into the Avenue and got crushed by a carriage wheel? He even snatched up a pretty bonnet just as it blew off the head of Miss Chase and tumbled into the street. Miss Chase—now she was a pretty, fine lady, wasn’t she?
No, there’s no one but Birch who could be the doorkeep at the Willard. Old Ed McManus, he up at the President’s House—well, he might be a doorkeep, but he didn’t have the notice Birch did. No sir. Wasn’t nearly as much comings and goings down there at 1600 as there was here. And Old Ed could stay there, at that end of the Avenue, and Birch here, and that old Bassett—good man, he was but still he wasn’t no Birch—up to the Capitol.
They ought to have a guild for doorkeeps, Birch thought as he finally stepped outside and stood there on the corner of Twelfth and Pennsylvania and drew in a breath of the evening air. Sun was long down and there was only a new moon tonight. He’d be walking in the dark the way home, but there was no one in Washington who’d bother him being out so late even though him being a black man and all.
He was too damned old to be kidnapped and taken down South to work in the fields, and alongside of that, ever’one of the constables knew Birch. None o’ them would bother him if he was out past curfew.
Birch watched a few hacks go by, all the while spying on Wally to see if it was really safe for him to go on now and that his replacement would do right for the rest of the night. Shouldn’t be so busy that even Wally could handle things—though here was Birch, just now leaving and it was going on to midnight, so it was time things quieted down.
But everyone was saying Beauregard was gonna come over that river tonight and take the city. That it was gonna be tonight, before them troops from up north ever got here. Birch didn’t like that thought, but there warn’t nothing a nigger could do about it.
Damned Secessionists.
Reminded him of that night—Thursday night, it was, the night Senator Lane’s frontiersmen was all rallying around out in the street—and all the other comings and goings that happened that night.
That was the night them Secessionists almost blew up his hotel, and well, it was just by chance Birch was there till midnight that night, because it wasn’t till then he noticed them bundles of rags stuck in the corner of the lobby and beneath the curtains. They was gonna set them bundles on fire—they smelt of kerosene, too, some of them—and burn the place down.
Damned Secessionists.
The Good Lord was surely looking out for Birch and the Willard then, keeping His favorite doorman on till far too late in the day.
It was because of all the excitement with the soldiers marching to Mr. Lincoln’s house that he had to stay so late that night. And the fear the Rebels was gonna come across the Long Bridge.
Who was goin’ stop them? It was gonna fall to them rough, scruffy frontiersmen with their rifles and pistols, their worn canvas coats and heavy boots and wide-brimmed hats didn’t belong in the likes of the gold and brass Willard—exceptin’ that rough looking Mr. Lane, who’s still got a room here—though he ain’t been around much, helping the president as he done. And even now, Lane got that flag just now hanging there outside his bedroom window—the one his men jest brought back from beating up some Secessionist devils over acrossed the river coupla hours ago. You could see it from down on the Avenue, that flag, and it had been torn up and shot through by the Loyalist men and brought back like a trophy to show the might of the United States.
Yah, Birch liked that. All the rest of his duty, he kept walking out just far enough away from the door so he could see that flag fluttering in the breeze up there, remindin’ him that there’s men who’s fightin’ for the Negroes and the city and the president and the country.
That Mr. Quinn, he gone with them today and helped bring back that flag. Birch liked that man—he sitting in there now at the drinking counter with the other mens who brought back that trophy, and they having some ale and whiskey to celebrate. And maybe to spread some more rumors to keep General Beauregard from coming acrosst the river tonight. Oh, yes sir, Birch knew how it was, he thought to himself with a grin. How Mr. Lane and Mr. Quinn and some of the others was putting jest the right information into the ears of jest the right peoples. Birch warn’t no fool.
That Mr. Quinn’s momma raised him right, sure did, and he polite and look a man in the eye no matter what the color his skin or the age of his body—old or young—or whether he be whole or partial. Was a shame about his arm, that, and how his wooden one even got broken last month when there was all that about the murder of Custer Billings. But he was wearing it again, and seemed to be all fine.
Well, now, Birch figured it was time to walk on home now. Wally seemed to be doing some of his work at least some of the time, and today—well, it was a day Birch’s knees were a bit on the tryin’ side, and he was really wanting to lay his head on that pillow of his because it was ver’ nearly Wednesday mornin’ already, and he hadda be back at six o’clock.
As he started up Fourteenth Street, he took one last look over the hackneys waitin’ there outside the Willard, and was put in mind of that old Louis who drove the dark blue landau, God rest his soul. Now who’d wanta hurt a shriveled old man like Louis, anyway? And cut open his throat?
What’d he ever do to no one? Not even a black man hisself—just a short little German man with a soft voice.
Last time Birch saw Louis was that same night Thursday—seemed like everything happened that night, too. He shook his head, unbelieving of it all. Mrs. Lander come out of dinner here at the Willard, half-past eleven it was, and she was bound and determined to go up the Avenue to the President’s House. On a night like that, imagine! When the Confederates was expected to come any time!
But Louis was gonna take her, as he allus did, and Birch himself helped Mrs. Lander get into his carriage and her maid too. And before they started off, he remembered seeing a man climb up to sit next to Louis, and he rode off with him on the carriage on the way to the President’s House.
They rode off and left Birch go on back to the door, opening it for Mr. Seward and Mr. Blair. And that was when he saw them rags piled under the curtains. When he smelt the kerosene, and he saw the long wick leading from it along the wall to a corner there, he knew what it was all about. Right away, Birch knew.
And he knew just when they got put there, and he was sure’n all he knew who put them down there, too, bein’ someone who never forgot a face or a person and who saw everything. Talking about frontiersmen, with their rough coats and dirty boots . . . he’d seen them.
Them damn Secessionists.
They found more than fifteen bundles of rags on that main floor of Willard’s before dawn come—it took all them hours to search the whole place, and they locked the doors so no one could come in and set ’em afire while they was searching.
Birch, he looked in every corner and alcove, under every sofa and chair and the footed spittoons too, and even in the trash bins—where he found another pile of kerosene-soaked rags.
Even now, as he trudged down the dark street up toward the north side of town, he got angry all over again. How dare those white devils try and do this to his hotel! Burn it down! All those peoples inside it too, slee
ping—why that woulda been murder, it was!
Cold murder.
Just as bad as was done to poor Louis.
He heard the scuff of a shoe on the hard-packed dirt walkway. It was behind him, and Birch—well, he warn’t no fool, and something told him to turn and look there in the shadows.
But just as he did, something dark and heavy swung through the air. He cried out just before it crashed into the side of his skull.
Pain exploded in his head and that was the last thing he knew.
* * *
George’s shadow threw long and broad inside the small, decrepit shack. It was lit by one stingy lantern, and the windows were covered with thick blankets to keep the light hidden.
The floor was dirt and the walls were rough planks of wood. A few lumps in the shadows were too small to be people—he hoped—and more likely old furniture. A faint rotting smell indicated some leftover food, or a disintegrating rodent. George wagered on it being the latter.
There was no one in the room but the man who’d opened the door. He was about fifty, of average height with fair, blotchy skin and hair going to gray and white at the mouth of his beard.
“I got cargo for you,” George said, a little wary because the man was white. Not that a black man wouldn’t betray another black man—oh, it happened all the time, especially slaves who betrayed others trying for their freedom—but there was still more likely to be danger with a white man.
Still, Brownie knew him, and George trusted his friend.
“Where is it?” asked the man. They gave no names and both instinctively tried to stay in the shadows. The less either of them knew about the other, or anyone else involved in this secret transportation system—and especially about the cargo being delivered or exchanged—the safer they were. All George knew was the man was a Quaker who lived near the Pennsylvania border.
“Back a piece. Thought it was safer. I’ll bring it along. Do you have anything for me?”
The man grunted and gestured to the darkest corner. George hesitated only a moment before walking over there to look, and the back of his neck prickled with awareness as he turned his back on his contact. Even though he was several inches taller than the other man, broader in shoulder and younger in age, he was still black and the man was still white.
But there in the shadows and beneath a dark canvas, George found ten Enfield rifles and two large boxes of ammunition. He exhaled silently, then turned to face his companion, who was watching him with a calm yet arrested expression. Perhaps he, too, was wary of a large black man he didn’t know who was here to retrieve weapons.
“All right,” said George.
It didn’t take long to make the exchange. George jogged back to get Blaze, then hooked her up to the wagon and drove the mile back to the meeting house.
Admittedly, he felt that prickle of caution as he approached the shack again—it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that his contact had called in some hidden reinforcements who were now waiting to ambush him . . . but all went well.
He pulled his wagon behind the shack. Only then, when they were so close to the house and bathed in shadow, did he remove the false back to the wagon that made a hidden compartment beneath the bench seat for the driver.
His contact whistled softly, but this time it was in admiration. “Never seen anything so clever before.”
George smiled warily and nodded. He’d thought hard to design something that wouldn’t be an obvious false front, and he knew it was one of the best of its kind. He hadn’t intended the other man to see it, for, again, the fewer people who knew his business, the safer he was. But it was too late.
And unless one really knew where and how to look, the false front was perfect. He’d fashioned it by laying down three barrels on their sides—barrels that would fit tightly under his bench seat, protruding only three or four inches from there into the back of the wagon, and wedged in tightly so they didn’t roll or move. Then he carefully cut off the round front of each barrel, and then the top third of each of the sides of the containers—right where they bumped against the one next to it.
He pegged the parts together with wooden plugs so that it made one piece that appeared to be the fronts of the three barrel heads lying on their sides, wedged under his seat. The tops of the barrels were intact so if anyone looked closely, they’d see the curves of the barrels extending into the shadows beneath the bench, giving the illusion of three round vessels tucked under the seat. But the sides and bottoms of the horizontal barrels were missing, which left room for one or even two people to secret themselves fairly comfortably beneath the driver’s seat.
He set the false front aside and said, “All right. It’s safe to come out now, Freddy.”
He offered a hand to assist the spindly man of twenty as he rolled out carefully from beneath the seat. Then, with a soft groan of pain from unmoving muscles held in a small area for several hours, he turned back and helped his wife struggle free.
“I’m sorry you had to be in there so long,” George said.
The man nodded, then looked nervously at the white man standing there, waiting. But when the Quaker offered his hand to help the woman—whose name George never learned—down from the wagon, Freddy seemed to relax. “Thank you, sir.”
His wife groaned softly as she maneuvered herself to the ground, then smoothed her skirt and hair as the man poured them some water from a small jug. He also offered the couple a piece of jerky and a heel of bread.
“I’ve got some papers for you.” George went back to the wagon and removed a small piece of wood from the bottom of the hidey-hole. Inside were their false manumission papers. Such documents were ignored as often as not, but having them at least gave Freddy and his wife more of a chance of making it to freedom.
“Thank you, Doc—” Freddy cut himself off, obviously remembering the warning of no names.
His wife’s eyes went wide as they went to the other man, but he’d turned to go into the shack. “Thank you,” she added in a whisper.
When the Quaker came back out from the shack, George said to all three of them, “I’m also looking for any word on one Jeremy Pole. Ran away from Alabama, near Mobile, four years ago. Send any word back for his mother Jelly. She’s waitin’ to hear.”
In the soft spill of lantern light from the shack, the woman’s eyes glistened with emotion. She nodded, then straightened and went about tucking her papers into just about the safest place a woman could have: the hidden pocket underneath her skirt. Freddy did the same, hiding his inside the back of his waistband.
George helped his contact load up the last of the rifles and the ammunition in the hidey-hole. Then he replaced the false front and turned back to them. “Thank you, sir. Take good care of my friends here. She’s got a bun in the oven and an ache in the toe.”
They laughed softly there in the darkness, for an aching middle toe was one of the many varied codes slaves used to ask for help to escape or freedom.
George had done his part; now it was out of his hands, and the compassionate Quaker would take on the task.
“Good luck with your baby,” he said. He tipped his hat to the man, who then turned away to rig up his own horse to a small cart.
Then without another word, having exchanged one form of contraband for another just as dangerous one, George drove off into the night.
* * *
Somehow, the ride back into Washington felt longer to George, and filled with more apprehension and anxiousness.
Maybe it was because now he carried rifles and ammunition, and if that cargo were found it would be the end of him. Guns were illegal and forbidden to blacks whether they be free or slave, and he’d have no excuse for being in possession of them.
Maybe it was also because it was even darker, even quieter, even more threatening as midnight came and went. Beauregard, if he were to bring his troops over tonight, would wait until everything was closed-up and quiet before sneaking into the city.
Any way he looked at it, G
eorge was admittedly a little spooked as he navigated Blaze down the unrelieved darkness of the deserted road. The only sound he heard was the quiet jangle of her harness and the soft clop of her hooves on hard-packed dirt. The closer they came to the city, the more houses they encountered, the fewer empty lots, and the smaller the spaces between them.
The more chance of being seen or heard.
On the one hand, he didn’t see or hear any sign of lurking Confederate troops—and he expected if they were about and saw him, there’d be no reason for them to hold back stopping a black man driving around at midnight. So that eased his mind a bit.
Yet, as he turned Blaze down N Street, which would take him southeast to Ballard’s Alley, George felt that prickle of foreboding climbing up his spine.
He felt as if there were eyes everywhere, watching him. He reached next to him, touching for comfort the rifle he kept there on the bench seat. If he were accosted, he’d probably use it. He’d have to use it.
George didn’t like the thought of that, and even less the idea of war coming to his doorstep, for he was a doctor. He’d taken the Hippocratic Oath and his responsibility was to save lives or at least better them whenever possible.
Not to take them.
As he spotted Great Eternity Church’s cross, mounted on the front of its low roof and only visible when close enough that the other rooftops weren’t in the way, George thought he saw something move in the shadows . . . or something shift ahead.
Some one.
Someone near the church. Going around toward the back, where his place was.
He blinked, and the impression was gone—but the lingering apprehension remained. He realized his mouth had gone dry and he gripped the reins tightly. He had to unload the wagon tonight and put the contraband weaponry in the safe place beneath the church because he didn’t dare wait until daylight.
Murder in the Oval Library Page 23
