“Don’t get too far ahead,” her mother scolded, but Eliza could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Ma liked Sundays too.
They turned onto Clark Street and saw the plain one-story building. The church wasn’t majestic like the Cathedral, but Eliza wouldn’t change it for anything fancier. It was a church for her people with a colored minister, and it felt like home.
Reverend Meachum was greeting his flock at the door. He was a large man with enormous callused hands. His face was broad, making his smiles extra welcoming and his scowls terrifying. He always wore the same simple black suit with a white collar so he wouldn’t overawe his flock. The reverend had been a slave before he became a preacher. He’d built barrels and done carpentry so well, that even as a slave he’d earned enough to buy his freedom. Then Reverend Meachum turned around and earned his family’s freedom too. Ma often held up his hard work as an example to Eliza.
The First African Baptist Church welcomed every colored person in St. Louis, freedmen and slaves alike, and Reverend Meachum made sure to shake everyone’s hand.
“Good morning, Eliza,” Reverend Meachum said in his booming voice. “I’m looking forward to your singing today.”
“I’ll do my best,” she promised.
Inside the church was a large room with a door in the back that led to an office and a kitchen. Ma headed purposefully toward the food tables, while Pa took Lizzie with him to talk with some friends. Eliza’s destination was the choir. A group of girls ranging from her own age to sixteen was clustered there, chattering away like the blue jays that nested in the trees along the river. She bounded into the circle. But instead of the usual friendly greeting, the girls fell silent. One of the younger girls even took a step back, putting distance between herself and Eliza.
Eliza narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
Kiki, the unofficial leader of the group and Eliza’s chief competition for solos, spoke first. “Is it true?” Kiki’s father had been a white slave owner. When he died, he had freed her and her ma. She had light skin and green eyes that Eliza, with her dark complexion and eyes, envied.
“Is what true?” Eliza asked.
Kiki folded her arms and lifted her chin, trying to shame Eliza. “I heard you got the cholera at your place.”
Eliza felt as though she’d been slapped. Bad news spread faster than a bloodstain on a white dress. Cholera. And somehow the girls already knew that the Scotts were right in the middle of it.
“My mother told me your ma can’t do the potluck table,” Kiki said. “And I think maybe you shouldn’t sing with us.”
“It’s Lucy Jones who’s sick, not us,” Eliza protested. She twisted her neck to see what was happening at the potluck table. Usually Ma was in charge of serving all the food. But today the other women, led by Kiki’s mother, were lined up in front of the table, preventing Ma from coming near. Eliza could tell from Ma’s hand movements and the set of her chin that she was giving the ladies a piece of her mind.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about from me or my ma.” Eliza snapped her fingers to make sure she had Kiki’s attention. “And I’ll be singing the solo like I always do.”
“I remember Lucy,” Kiki whispered, her bluster gone. “Is she going to die?”
“She might,” Eliza replied. Now that Kiki had backed down, the other girls were looking to Eliza to be the leader again. “Cholera might kill her. Or she might die from the beating she got from the slave catcher Reuben Bartlett.” There was a scared murmur from the girls listening. They knew his name. “He thrashed her in front of everybody. She was already caught and ailing, but he did it anyway.”
Kiki clapped her hands to her face. “He’s here!”
“I just told you that,” Eliza said. “If the warden hadn’t stopped him, he would have kicked me too.”
“No, he’s here!” Kiki pointed. Eliza whirled around to see Bartlett standing in the doorway. As the people inside the church saw him, the conversations stopped—the silence spreading like a plague. A dozen or so men stepped forward, putting themselves between Bartlett and the women and children. A baby’s cry cracked the silence, only to be hushed by his mother.
Eliza felt her heart beat faster, and she found it hard to catch her breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man she didn’t know edging along the wall and out the back door. If he was Bartlett’s target today, Eliza hoped he would get away.
Reverend Meachum strode down the aisle toward Bartlett. The men parted to let him pass. Reverend Meachum had at least half a foot on Bartlett, and the dark cloth of his suit was strained by his muscles, formed by years of physical labor. He was more than a match for the slave catcher.
Eliza’s hands clenched into fists. She wanted to stand up to Bartlett with the reverend. She began to move closer, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her. It was Ma.
“Don’t you dare, Eliza!” Ma hissed.
“Mr. Bartlett,” Reverend Meachum said, standing toe to toe with the slave hunter.
“Reverend,” Bartlett answered. His broad pale face was like a blank book—his expression gave nothing away.
“What are you doing in my church?” Reverend Meachum asked, stepping forward so that Bartlett was forced to move back. “There aren’t any fugitives here.”
Bartlett’s eyes surveyed the crowd. “Maybe, maybe not. There’s no harm in looking, is there?”
“You’re not welcome.” Reverend Meachum moved forward again, and this time half a dozen of his parishioners joined him. They forced Bartlett to retreat, his back pressed against the door. “The wicked have no place in my church, Mr. Bartlett,” Reverend Meachum said. His shoulders were squared; Bartlett wasn’t the only one prepared for battle. “‘For among my people are found wicked men: they lay wait, as he that setteth snares; they set a trap, they catch men.’”
Ma’s voice breathed in Eliza’s ear. “Jeremiah 5:26.”
“I’ll be going now,” Bartlett said, as if Reverend Meachum hadn’t just called him a wicked man. “But I’ll be back whenever I want.” He abruptly turned and left.
The door closed behind him, and everyone began talking nervously with bursts of forced laughter. Reverend Meachum’s eyes scanned the room until he found Eliza’s pa. He beckoned him over. “Dred, get everyone in their seats. The quickest way to wash away the memory of that man is to bathe in God’s light.”
Pa nodded and began shepherding everyone to a seat. He spoke softly to some of the angrier men and convinced them to sit down. To the elderly, he was soothing and reassuring. Eliza didn’t understand how he managed to be so likable and yet still manage to have everyone do what he wanted. Within a few minutes, the congregation was mostly seated.
“Eliza, the reverend will need the choir,” Ma said.
“I’m too mad to sing,” Eliza said, her voice shaking and her hands still clenched.
Ma gathered Eliza’s fists between her hands. “Violence has no place in the Lord’s house.”
“This is our place, Ma. Bartlett had no right to come here!”
“But he did come here. The sooner you sing, the sooner you’ll feel better. And more importantly, you’ll help everyone forget him.”
Eliza took a deep breath and ordered the girls to their places.
Reverend Meachum moved to the front of the room and greeted the congregation as though Bartlett had never polluted their church. After his opening words, he nodded to the choir to begin their opening hymn: “What Wondrous Love Is This.”
As Eliza opened her mouth to sing, she sought out her father in the crowd. Instead of beaming like he usually did, his face was troubled. And Ma was distracted too. By the time they sang the chorus, Eliza found herself calmer—singing always had that power over her. As Eliza sang, the main door in the back of the room opened. Fearing Bartlett had returned, Eliza’s voice faltered for a moment. Then she recognized Wilson, the boy from the Edward Bates. He saw her looking at him and waved. His bright smile put all the bad th
ings that had happened in the shade. Eliza smiled back.
CHAPTER Twelve
AFTER THE SERVICE, ELIZA MADE HER WAY TOWARD WILSON. AS they drew nearer to each other, her tongue tied up in knots. What was she going to say to him? He waited for her to speak, but his smile gave her courage.
“You’re here,” she managed to say.
He glanced around the church, then gave her a cheeky grin. “I guess I am.”
Eliza told herself to stop acting like an idiot. “I mean, why aren’t you on the Edward Bates? I thought for sure you would have sailed by now.”
“The hull needs repairs. So I’m on liberty for a couple of weeks. I remembered you said you liked this church.” He moved in close and lowered his voice. “And I hear folks like us can get schooling here.”
Eliza opened her mouth to tell him about the school, then she snapped it shut. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
Wilson looked pleased. “So there is a school.”
Eliza grimaced. “It’s illegal to educate blacks in Missouri.”
“I’m a free man,” Wilson protested.
“Most of us aren’t, not officially.” Eliza shrugged. “And Reverend Meachum wouldn’t break the law.”
“God’s law, never!” Reverend Meachum’s booming voice behind them made them jump. “The state of Missouri’s laws? Sometimes those are meant to be bent.”
Eliza grinned. Wilson seemed unsure how to respond, but he took his cue from Eliza and smiled too.
“Who’s your friend, Eliza?” Reverend Meachum’s words were friendly, but his eyes were watchful.
“This is Wilson,” she said. “Wilson, this is Reverend Meachum.”
Wilson stuck out his hand. “Wilson Madison. I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”
Reverend Meachum gazed at Wilson with cautious approval; he was partial to good manners. “Are you thinking about joining the church?” he asked, shaking Wilson’s hand.
“I’d be happy to, but I’ve mostly come looking for an education. Eliza and I were just talking about your school.”
Reverend Meachum lifted his eyebrows. “Is that a fact, Eliza?”
“Wilson, do you mind if I talk to the reverend alone?” she asked hurriedly. After he nodded, Eliza beckoned Reverend Meachum to step away, out of Wilson’s earshot. “Wilson already knew about our school,” Eliza explained quickly. “I didn’t tell him anything.”
“Eventually our enemies will realize our school is hiding in plain sight,” Reverend Meachum said. “But with discretion, we can postpone that day as long as possible. Do you vouch for Mr. Wilson?”
Eliza didn’t need to think about it. “Sir, he helped me when I needed it,” she said.
The corners of Reverend Meachum’s lips lifted. “He seems like a fine young man. He can come to the school.”
“Thank you, sir!” Eliza said. She beckoned for Wilson to join the conversation. “I’m to bring you to class this afternoon.”
Wilson glanced around, his face puzzled. “It’s not here?”
“Not anymore,” Reverend Meachum said. “We used to have it in the basement, but that didn’t sit well with some white folks in town . . .”
“The Committee of One Hundred,” Eliza interjected. “They’re rich and mean.”
“They passed a law to keep slaves from getting an education,” Reverend Meachum went on. “Some people would like to expand that law to apply to any colored person. The courts haven’t decided that yet. But in the meantime, they closed the school down.”
“Then how . . .?” Wilson asked.
“The reverend is smarter than anybody on the Committee,” Eliza bragged. “He figured out a way.”
“I’ll let Eliza show you,” Reverend Meachum said. Lowering his voice, he whispered, “The code word today is ‘muskrat.’”
“Yes, sir!” Eliza committed the word to memory.
Reverend Meachum clapped Wilson on the back with his giant hand. Wilson stumbled but kept his balance. “I look forward to talking to you again.” The minister moved off to meet with another parishioner.
“‘Muskrat’?” Wilson asked.
“You’ll see,” Eliza promised. “School starts an hour after the service finishes.”
Wilson eyes wandered to the potluck table. “I was looking forward to a meal I didn’t have to cook.”
“Hmmm,” Eliza said. “I suppose I could get you some lunch.”
“That’d be grand,” Wilson beamed.
“Not so fast,” Eliza said, holding up a hand. “Did you bring me that cake you promised?”
“I’m afraid not. But I will next time!”
“Wait here.” Eliza hurried over to the food table, where Ma was once again in charge. It would take more than a few scared ladies to keep Ma from doing her duty. “I’m going to school, Ma.”
“Who’s that boy?” Ma asked. Her watchful eyes never missed anything.
“He’s a new student. His name is Wilson.”
“Where does he come from?” Even Reverend Meachum could take some lessons from Ma about being careful with strangers. “Is he a slave or free?”
“Free, Ma. He works on one of the steamboats. He gave me the drippings last week.”
“I want to meet him,” Ma said. “I don’t want you going off with a stranger.”
“There’s no time,” Eliza protested. “Besides, Reverend Meachum approved. He said I should bring Wilson to school.”
The suspicious expression on Ma’s face faded, and she reached under the table for a pail. “That’s all right then. Here’s your lunch. And I put your pencil and notebook in there too.”
“Can Wilson have some too? He’s mighty hungry.” Eliza’s eyes went to Wilson. Her attentions sharpened when she saw that he had been buttonholed by Kiki. Trust Kiki Washington to make a beeline to the new boy!
Ma added more chicken to the pail. “Don’t be distracted by this Wilson boy when you should be learning.”
Eliza grinned. “I won’t!”
“If the reverend likes him, I suppose he could walk you home after school,” Ma called after her.
“Bye, Ma.” Of course, Eliza would rather die than let Wilson know she lived in a jail. But first things first: it was time to get rid of Kiki.
“It must be interesting to work on a steamboat,” Kiki simpered.
“It’s all right,” Wilson answered. “Ah, here’s Eliza.” Was Eliza flattering herself, or did she see relief in his face?
“What do you want, Kiki?” Eliza asked, not trying to sweeten the sour in her voice.
“It’s Wilson’s first day at the school. I’d hate for him not to know anyone,” Kiki said, batting her light green eyes at him.
“He knows me,” Eliza said.
“Besides you,” Kiki went on. “We can go together. What’s the code word today?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza said. Wilson raised his eyebrows. Eliza stared at him, daring Wilson to correct her.
“And you’re supposed to be the best student,” Kiki scoffed. “Never mind, I’ll find out.” She bustled away.
“Time to go,” Eliza said cheerily. Tugging lightly on Wilson’s sleeve, she led him out the main door. She pushed her way through the crowd of parishioners milling about, with Wilson on her heels. On Market Street, she headed toward the water. As the crowd thinned, they were able to walk side by side.
“Isn’t the code word ‘muskrat’?” he said.
Eliza smacked her hand to her forehead. “Oh my, you’re right! Kiki will just have to meet us there.”
“And where would ‘there’ be?” Wilson asked.
“It’s a secret,” Eliza replied.
The good citizens of St. Louis were dressed in their finest for a Sunday-afternoon walk. It was a sunny day, warm for April, and everyone seemed to be in good spirits. Wilson in his neat vest and trousers and Eliza in her new dress didn’t stand out in the crowd at all. As they walked, Wilson peppered her with questions. Eliza just smiled and swung her lunch bucket back and forth.
Her pencil and notebook rattled in the bucket. Her secret would keep awhile longer.
They paused outside a popular hotel with columns and wide shallow steps in front. A piano was being played in the lounge. Eliza sang the words under her breath.
“You sing like an angel,” Wilson said. “You should be in there singing.”
“Girls like me aren’t welcome in places like that,” Eliza said.
“Maybe, or maybe not. I’ve heard colored singers on the Edward Bates.”
Eliza grinned. “Don’t you worry. I have my own plans. The world will hear me sing one day.”
“How?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you,” she promised, “when I know you better.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said.
Eliza smiled shyly. Someday she might trust Wilson enough to tell him her secrets. In the meantime, it looked like he planned to stick around. Her happy mood was like a shimmering soap bubble.
But that bubble soon popped when a pair of young white men stepped out of the hotel. With a start, Eliza recognized Mark Charless. “Let’s go back,” she gasped, grabbing Wilson’s hand. But it was too late. Mark Charless had seen her.
“If it isn’t little Eliza.” Turning to his friend, Mark said, “Frank, this is the girl I told you about.”
“My aunt’s slave?” Frank was taller than Mark and fair instead of dark. His bushy eyebrows hung over pale blue eyes. Where Mark had a weak chin, Frank’s jutted out, sharp enough to cut you.
“Your aunt doesn’t have any rights over me at all,” Eliza insisted.
As if Eliza’s words were never spoken, Frank said to Mark, “You’re right. She’d fetch a lot of money.”
“Enough to stake us for California,” Mark agreed, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.
Eliza’s feet twitched as though they knew the smart thing to do was run. “We’ve got to go,” she mumbled.
Frank gestured to Wilson. “Who’s he? Does he belong to my aunt too?”
Moving in front of Eliza, Wilson said, “I don’t belong to anyone. I’m a free man, and I have the papers to prove it.”
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