Maggie’s mother was crying. Maggie was too, and they held tight.
“You know, my daughter,” said Maggie’s mother. “One time I heard from the oldest of my aunties that it was a terrible scene the day they brought me back to the shacks. Oh, a terrible scene, with my mama wailin’ and all the aunties wailin’. I was only just been borned, wrapped in swaddlin’ clothes. My mama did not want to give me up, not at all. ‘Fit to break the heart of a stone,’ said that oldest auntie to me. ‘But only that the buckra man, he like to had no heart at all.’ So, I believe my mama loved me, and maybe she loved my daddy too, and I am sure she loves you, Maggie, wherever she is.”
Neither Maggie nor her mother could speak again for a long time. Finally, Maggie’s mother said, “Anyway, I am going to meet her real soon now, my mama. I hear the drum-spirit and all the ndichie telling me that, and the good Lord and all His other angels too. Soon I will meet my mama and know her again.”
Maggie’s mother died two days later, at the end of June in 1814. No one paid any attention. The grand review in Hyde Park took place that week, celebrating the springtime abdication of Napoleon and his exile to Elba. The Union Jack and the Cross of St. George and all sorts of patriotic caricatures festooned lampposts across London. The quiet manner of her death further reinforced the anonymity of Maggie’s mother’s departure. How could she compete with the more extravagant forms of death meted out that week to the poor? Folks talked about the brewery in Soho that blew up, drowning three in a flood of porter, and of the two women in Shepherd’s Ludlow who burned to death when a vat of turpentine caught on fire in a soap works. Of course, people speculated as to the culprit when a woman, who “rented out her forecourt” (as the saying had it), was found strangled in Shoreditch. But no one wondered about the passing of Maggie’s mother, no more than they had wondered about her while she was alive.
“Oh Mama,” cried Maggie when she found her mother that evening. “Women are as strong as elephants. . . .”
In the morning Maggie asked help from the Irish woman next door: she needed to have her mother’s corpse guarded against thieves and, worse, body-snatchers, but she had to go to work. The Irish woman had to work herself, but posted her two nine-year-old sons, who did odd jobs already on the docks and were veterans of a hundred street battles. Maggie asked the head-maid for two days off, which scandalized the maid but, under the circumstances and remembering sermons from her minister, the maid asked permission from Mrs. Sedgewick, who granted the leave. The head-maid was scandalized even more when Mrs. Sedgewick appeared in the kitchen with a letter for Maggie.
“I am sorry for your loss,” said Mrs. Sedgewick. “Take this as a token of my condolences.”
The head-maid, the kitchen-maid, and the cook all looked hungrily at the letter, which bulged at one corner, suggesting a weight of coin inside. Maggie thanked Mrs. Sedgewick with an accent that hovered between upstairs and downstairs. She curtsied but not so low or so long as protocol required, then rushed from the kitchen to be with her mother in the cellar.
Dear Maggie,
Please take these coins as a small measure of help to ease you in your time of trouble. May the Lord take your mother to sit by His side forever. As the poet writes:
Ah! sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done.
With condolences,
Mrs. Sedgewick
What does she know of my mother? thought Maggie, pushing the coins around the table. Or me? I am just a curiosity to her, the girl who does the calculus while cleaning out her chamber pots.
“Who will clean out the chamber pots, or sift the ashes from the cinders?” said the head-maid. The kitchen-maid grumbled most of all, her Shropshire accent heavy, because she would have to do Maggie’s work. “And for no extra pay neither,” said the kitchen-maid. “I wish the mistress might give me sixpence in snacks but, I guess as I don’t do ’rithmetic instead of my chores, she won’t do that.”
Mr. Sedgewick chuckled when he heard this news from the footman. “Did she say that now? Not at all untypical! I only hope the staff is not too put out to muster a good supper for us,” he said. He added privately, “What nonsense, my hudibrastic dove! I cannot see where your folly with this coromantee girl will ultimately debouche but, for now, since it seems harmless enough, I suppose I must permit it.”
He gave the matter no further thought that day because two unusual visitors arrived shortly after Maggie left the house. The first came at noon, a young man in severe black dress, carrying a leather portfolio.
“From the Admiralty, you say?” asked Mr. Sedgewick.
“Not precisely, Mr. Sedgewick, sir, and not at liberty to say precisely,” replied the young man. “I am from a very special branch of His Majesty’s Government, working at present with both the Admiralty and the Office for War and the Colonies. Under-secretary Barrow asked for you himself.”
“Ah, did he now?” said the lawyer.
“Yes, sir, he insisted on having you handle this, um, delicate situation, said you were just the man for speed, thoroughness and, above all, discretion.”
Mr. Sedgewick took the portfolio.
“We have followed your good work for the Admiralty for some time, especially that concerning the Navy’s dealing with the merchant marine and with City interests. Your commercial knowledge is something the Admiralty needs in particular.”
The young man got up to leave, taking his nondescript hat with him. “Should you have questions, enquire after Mr. Tarleton at the Admiralty. He is, I believe, known to you, or at least to your wife. Good day, sir.”
Feeling as if the wainscoting might sprout eyes and ears, Mr. Sedgewick opened the portfolio and read. “‘The Admiralty complains of a miscarriage of justice in Capetown,’” he murmured, his finger coursing over the papers. “‘Seeks injunction . . . ah, seeks release of a prisoner . . . having been transported to Australia, said prisoner to be returned to London immediately . . . the court, upon consideration of new facts brought to light by the Admiralty and by the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies . . .’”
Mr. Sedgewick’s finger paused while he thought, Ah. The more serious he got, the more monosyllabic he became.
“‘. . . hereby overrules and annuls the decision of the court in Capetown . . . prisoner to be released into the custody of the Navy, upon certain conditions enumerated herein . . . prisoner’s debts in London are considerable . . . in return for the prisoner being released, the Admiralty requires prisoner’s debts be conveyed to it, i.e., to have the current debt-holders paid and their claims assigned to the Crown — to be clear, the debts are not to be extinguished . . . conveyance must be done with the utmost of secrecy by a lawyer known and trusted by the Admiralty.’”
Mr. Sedgewick arched an eyebrow when he saw the list of the prisoner’s creditors: some of the names were most unpleasant. Attached to the list were drafts on Praed’s Bank, and a notice that the H.M.S. Telchine had sailed from Melbourne bound for London with the released prisoner onboard. The prisoner was named —
“James Kidlington,” the lawyer read. “Well, Mr. Kidlington, I’ve never heard of you but you obviously know some very . . . odd individuals on the one hand, and have some very powerful friends — if that’s what they are — on the other. I believe I shall enjoy making your acquaintance when your ship arrives this fall.”
The second visitor to the lawyer’s house in Archer Street by Pineapple Court was even stranger. He came in the late afternoon, dusty and dishevelled, and carrying a small trunk.
“Good day, sir,” said the stranger, speaking in a Scottish way. “Pardon my appearance, but I came as instructed straight from the Edinburgh coach. Might I trouble you for something to drink?”
Finishing some punch, the Scotsman said, “Now sir, to come to the point of my visit. First, you are the lawyer George Gervase Sedgewick?”
; “I am.”
“Capital! In that case, this trunk and its belongings are to be entrusted to you, by order of the court in Edinburgh.”
“But what . . . ?” said Mr. Sedgewick.
“An old case, sir, a matter of a bequest long reviewed in probate, a dispute of some sort many years ago delayed it, and then, to speak frankly, it was near-forgotten for many more years, there not being any living descendant left in Scotland so far as the court could tell, and no one to pursue the case in person. Also, no money appears to have been involved, there not being any left in the estate, so that also made its resolution less pressing, in the eyes of the court. I am only a sergeant-at-arms, sir, an employee of the court, not a barrister, don’t know all the facts of the matter, much less the law on it. All I know is that probate is now complete and that the contents of the trunk are for a Mr. Barnabas McDoon, merchant of London, and him having removed his place of business to the Cape of Africa, and you being his attorney, the court as required by law sent the bequest to you for its keeping in trust for the beneficiary.”
Mr. Sedgewick said, “Ah.”
“Took the court some time to track down Mr. McDoon and to locate you,” said the court sergeant. “The court offers its apologies for not communicating earlier, which is to say, being silent all these years, and hopes Mr. McDoon will understand. Sending me direct and personal was their way of making amends. Now, my duty is discharged, here’s the key to the trunk. If you’ll just sign this receipt, please?”
After the Scotsman had gone, Mr. Sedgewick opened the trunk, which was packed with court documents, letters, and other papers. For the first time in the memory of the house, Mr. Sedgewick had to be called three times to supper and then he ate only a few morsels before returning to his office. He read late into the night and continued the next day.
“By all the quirks and quillets of the law, utterly remarkable,” he murmured. “‘The will and testament of Belladonna McDoon, born Brownlee . . . all letters and personal papers to be bequeathed to my son and daughter . . . including notes relating to certain visions and experiences I, Belladonna McDoon, have had, that some might deem lunatic but which assuredly are not . . . also, of greatest importance, depositions concerning the unfortunate events surrounding my dear sister’s brief sojourn in Maryland in the United States of America, as related to me by my sister herself before her death . . . my sister, Eusebianna McDoon, known to all who loved her as Sibby, married to my husband’s brother . . .’”
Taking up his pen, Mr. Sedgewick wrote to Barnabas. He spent most of the day doing so.
Maggie spent the day burying her mother. With money they had always kept hidden from rent-collectors and every other creditor, Maggie paid the undertaker for the meanest of funerals — but a funeral nonetheless, not the shame of the potter’s field. She chafed at the lack of a white winding-sheet, and the fact that they started for the burial grounds at noon, which was unlucky. She knew her mother would have wanted beads or shells in the coffin, but the coffin was nailed shut before Maggie could place anything with her mother. Maggie walked alone behind the corpse-wagon, which rattled so that the coffin nearly slid off.
Mama, thought Maggie. No more peck o’ corn for you, no more pint o’ salt, and no more mistress’s call.
Pedestrians made way with ill grace. A dog gnawed a bone in the middle of the street and would not go until the undertaker shouted something at it from the head of the wagon.
Mama, no more Bee-luther-hatchee for you. You’re going home to Ginny-gall, where the drum-spirit and Ala the Mother will take you in. I have seen it, Mama, it’s a wonderful place.
As they passed The White Hart, the alehouse maid ran out, crying, “Maggie, I am so sorry for you! Your mother was a good woman, like Ruth in the eyes of the Lord. I cannot get free from work, and I don’t have much to offer but here is a little red ribbon I got at the last fair.”
Maggie, all alone behind the coffin-wagon, stopped and took the ribbon. For the first time that day, she cried. For the first time, the servant girl from The White Hart hugged Maggie.
Mama, Moses had a Cushite wife, so maybe there is hope, I just don’t know. Maybe you’ll find out the answers where you’re going.
They passed butcher shops and fishmongers still decked out to celebrate Napoleon’s defeat. Maggie saw a baked sheep’s head with turnips and onions, a cock turkey wreathed with sausages, turbot baked in cream, scotched pike in jelly. She calculated that Mrs. Sedgewick’s gift would just about cover a wake-meal. She would buy everything she saw and bring it home to share with the Irish family that evening.
Mama, ol’ Heeg, the squinch-owl, he’s come out from under the cottonwood roots. He is lookin’ to catch me, put my soul in a bottle to hang from the tree. Can’t let him do that, Mama.
Maggie walked alone behind the wagon as they passed lime pits, laystalls, and brickworks on the way to the New Burying Ground on the outskirts of the city.
Time to sing for real now, Mama. I have to find the other singers. Choir of us, Mama, and the first songs we’ve already sung.
The wagon entered the burying ground. Maggie followed. The sun shone and Maggie cried.
Goodbye, Mama. I love you.
About the Author
DANIEL A. RABUZZI
Daniel A. Rabuzzi studied folklore and mythology in college and graduate school, and keeps one foot firmly in the Other Realm. His fiction and poetry have appeared in Sybil’s Garage, Shimmer, ChiZine, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Abyss & Apex, Goblin Fruit, Mannequin Envy and Scheherezade’s Bequest. He has also had twenty scholarly and professional articles published on subjects ranging from fairytale to finance. A former banker, Daniel earned his doctorate in 18th-century history, with a focus on issues of family, gender and commerce in northern Europe. He is now an executive at a global non-profit organization that provides educational materials to children from under-resourced and traditionally marginalized communities. Daniel lives in New York City with his wife and soul-mate, the artist Deborah A. Mills, along with the requisite two cats.
Contact Daniel at www.DanielARabuzzi.com.
The Choir Boats Page 40
