by Ann Moore
“It’s what you deserve, too,” he said quietly. “I know you were thinking of your father and your son. I could see it all over your face.”
“Then truly I’m ashamed, thinking of myself and my own wants when God was in the midst of granting such a blessing. Is it any wonder He no longer hears me, I’m so selfish?” She forced herself to smile.
“He hears you.”
“Ah, now, Captain, you don’t believe that,” she chided. “Don’t I know more than most where you stand on the subject of God?”
“Yes! And thank you so much for exposing me to religious fanatics at dinner tonight.”
She laughed a little and wiped her eyes.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret if you promise not to hold it over my head.” He waited until she nodded. “Well. After all that’s happened to me these past two years, I’m willing to consider—to consider, mind you—that there just might be … might be … a higher power at work somewhere in the world. Perhaps. Maybe.”
Grace stared. “Why, Captain, that’s two miracles I’ve witnessed here tonight! But your secret’s safe with me and don’t worry—I see little chance of your conversion in the near future, even at the hands of the very persuasive Osgoodes.”
He laughed and she laughed, too, and in the next moment, he took another step and put his arms around her, holding her to his chest, her cheek pressed against the rough cloth of his shirt. She didn’t move and he didn’t either, afraid to break whatever spell this was, hardly daring to take a breath, though the scent of her filled his head. And then—quite suddenly—he was aware of his own scent, of the sour sweat and sticky salt that clung to his clothing, made stiff his tangled hair and unkempt beard. Oh, Lord, he must be rank with oil and grime and dirt, and he’d sat at her table like this! He was rubbing her nose in this! Step back, he told himself, but then he felt her arms go gently around his waist, and his heart began to pound so loudly he was sure she could hear it. Let go, he ordered himself now, but instead pressed his mouth against the top of her head. Clearly his body no longer obeyed his mind. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Oh, Lord, he thought, I’d give anything for a bath.
She looked up at him. “Now?” she asked, confused. “Tonight?”
“What?”
She stepped back, breaking their embrace. “A bath?”
“A what?”
“Oh.” She was flustered now. “I … I misunderstood. I thought you said … did you say? You wanted a bath?”
He felt his face grow hot. “Did I say that out loud?”
She bit her lip.
“I mean, my head’s in a cloud,” he improvised, raising a hand to his forehead. “It’s been a long day, and I guess it’s just all catching up to me. I’m more tired than I thought, and it’s been a long day …” Stop babbling, he ordered himself. “Are you offering me a bath?” he finished weakly, now completely undone.
“Well, no.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “But I could boil up some water and you could have a wash in the kitchen, if you like.”
“No. No, that’s fine. I’ll just, um …” He motioned to the bench by the hearth. “We should go to bed now. I should go to bed … now.”
“You must be exhausted.” She touched his arm.
“Yes. Exhausted. I am.”
“Good night then, Captain.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, then moved away. “See you in the morning.”
“Morning,” he repeated, watching her go, already missing the warmth of her in his arms.
He thumped himself on the forehead. This woman, he agonized, this woman turned him into a blithering idiot in mere seconds. He was a logical man, by God—a man with superior reason, able to stay calm even in the midst of life-threatening crisis, but she reduced him to a mass of quivering emotions every time they were together! He snapped back the blankets in frustration and crawled into bed, lying back and examining the corners of his logical mind for the answer, instead of listening to his quiet heart. For of course, his heart knew the truth, had known from the first moment it had glimpsed eyes the color of the sea and a heart as noble as itself; and now it simply waited patiently for sleep to blur the hard lines of reason so that it might enlighten the man who housed it, the man who now stretched his tired bones out on the hard bench and pulled the rough blanket up to his chin, closed his eyes and dreamed of those final moments the way they should have gone had he listened to his quiet heart. Finally, in a sleep as deep as the sea, he relaxed, her name on his lips. And his heart was glad.
“Get up!” a voice hissed and Reinders awoke to a cold blade held against his throat. “On your feet. Where are they?”
It was the ugliest man the captain had ever seen, but also one of the biggest, and then he knew—slavers.
“Run!” he yelled as loudly as he could before the ugly man’s fist smashed into his face. He dropped to his knees, blood pouring out of his nose; the ugly man’s boot connected with his chin and he was out.
Moments later, he surfaced to the sound of muffled chaos. He groaned and rolled over, saw the ugly man and three others hustling Lily and the children—gagged and bound, knives to the throats of the youngest—down the stairs, Ogue trailing them helplessly. He struggled to his feet and stumbled forward.
“Wait.” Ogue caught him, held him back. “They’ll kill them.”
“Yeah,” Ugly growled, backing up slowly, the knife biting into Samuel’s neck. “We got nothing to lose here.”
“We’ll pay.” Reinders’ voice sounded far away in his ears, and his vision was blurred. “Let them go. We’ll pay what they’re worth.”
The man holding Samuel laughed. “Five strong Blacks fetch us way more in the market than you got.”
Lily’s eyes were wide with terror.
The men dragged their hostages out the back door, which had been taken off its hinges and propped quietly in the alley, next to the waiting wagon. Reinders and Ogue followed them out, but not too closely, Ogue picking up a piece of firewood.
“Put that down, old man,” Ugly menaced. “I swear to God I’ll kill this buck right here. I can afford the loss. The girl’ll more than make up for it.” He licked the side of Mary’s face.
She moaned in fear and Solomon struggled, earning himself a punch in the gut and a bootheel ground into his stub of a foot. He slumped, eyes rolling.
Reinders was afraid now. Once they got everyone into the wagon and covered with a blanket, they’d disappear on any of a hundred back roads leading south; or worse, they’d ride hard to the docks and load them on a ship while the captain looked the other way, his hand held out for the payoff. They had only minutes to figure this out.
“How much?” he offered, his head clearing. “I’ve got money.”
They ignored him, in the alley now. Ruth was tossed roughly into the back of the wagon, then Lily.
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”
That stopped them.
“You ain’t got that kind of money.” The driver spat tobacco juice over his horse into the snow.
“I might,” Reinders hedged. “Is it worth it to you?”
Ugly narrowed his eyes. “We get six hundred for these right here.” He jerked his head at the three still standing.
“Maybe. But it costs you to deliver, doesn’t it?” Keep talking, he told himself. “You got food, drink, bribes all along, fresh horses …”
The slave catchers glanced quickly at one another.
“I’m offering you a thousand dollars. Right now. Tonight.”
Ugly licked his lip, thinking hard.
“You can walk out of here with a thousand dollars in your pocket. Easiest money you ever made.” Reinders paused to let it sink in. “We got a deal?”
“Let’s see it,” the driver challenged.
“It’s in my wallet, in my jacket pocket, on the long table next to the fireplace.”
“I’ll give you till the count of ten,” Ugly granted. “And then we’re gone.”
Reinders turned and ran back into the saloon,
dark now, the fire gone out. He felt his way to the back of the room, then picked up his jacket and retraced his steps. Grace stood in the shadows of the stairwell, the carving knife in her hand.
“Put that down,” he hissed, racing past.
“Ten.” Ugly laughed. “Where’s the money?”
“Right here.” Reinders reached in the pocket and withdrew a leather billfold stuffed with cash. “That’s one thousand dollars.” He showed it to them before putting it back. “Profit from my last venture.”
“Hand it over,” Ugly demanded.
“Not until you untie them.”
“I think we’ll just take it from you then.” He sniggered, the other men joining in. “Christ Almighty, you’re a dumb bastard.”
“But armed.” Reinders pulled his hand out of his pocket and this time he held the pistol. “It’s loaded, gentlemen, and at this point, I’d have no problem pulling the trigger ‘Nothing to lose’—isn’t that right?”
Ogue watched, dumbfounded by the whole thing but still in the game. He stepped closer to Reinders.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the captain announced, trying to buy himself some time. “First, untie the little girl and the woman in the wagon and let them go.”
Ugly crossed his arms defiantly, and Reinders aimed the pistol at his face.
“You can die tonight,” he stated calmly, “or go home a rich man.”
“Do it,” Ugly barked over his shoulder.
The driver climbed down into the wagon, cut the ropes off Lily and Ruth, then booted them out the back, jumping out after.
“Now him.” Reinders tipped his head toward Solomon.
“I think maybe I’ll just kill him.”
“I think maybe I’ll just kill you. Not a fair trade, but I’ll sleep better.”
It was a standoff; Reinders felt sweat trickle down his back. “Ogue,” he ordered without turning his head. “Take one hundred dollars out of that wallet and hand it to the driver.”
Dugan moved quickly.
“That’s good faith money. Now cut him loose.”
The man holding Solomon slipped his knife between the boy’s wrists and sliced off the rope. Solomon hobbled over to where Reinders stood, and pulled down his gag.
“Another hundred,” Reinders ordered, and again Dugan handed it over. “Now the little boy.”
Again they stared at one another until a commotion at the far end of the alley caused both men to glance that way; two big figures were silhouetted against the lamplight, weapons raised.
Dugan took advantage of the momentary distraction to move in and box Sam’s captor one, two, three in the face, snapping the man’s head back with each blow. With surprising dexterity, he swung Sam out of the way, shoved the man over, then started toward the driver.
Ugly backed toward the cart, furious, his knife under Mary’s chin. “Get back,” he snarled. “Back!”
“Behind you!” Reinders yelled, and Ugly actually turned his head. “Dumb bastard,” he muttered as Dugan wrenched the knife out of his hand and Mary out of his grasp.
Grace darted forward and grabbed the girl, pulling her back toward the doorway, cutting off her ropes.
The other two men were running down the alley now—friend or foe, Reinders had no idea, but he braced himself, thankful for the big man at his side. The slavers piled into their cart, whipping their horse until she’d raced to the other end of the alley, sliding around the icy corner and out into the street.
Reinders and Ogue turned to face this new set of attackers, but then Dugan lowered his fists and started laughing.
“By God if it isn’t Karl Eberhardt and Mister Marconi!”
The butcher and the grocer skidded to a stop, Liam right behind.
“I got help!” The boy jumped up and down, tugging on Dugan’s arm. “I went through the tunnel! Grace sent me!”
“Tunnel?” Reinders blinked.
“Runs from my basement to Eberhardt’s,” Ogue told him. “We never use it. Just for storage.” He was breathing hard.
“Well, the boy come yelling up the stairs, screaming about murder, banging on the door.” Eberhardt was breathing hard, too. “I think maybe everybody’s being killed over here.”
“I hear it, too,” Marconi declared. “I’m up at night, by the window, and I see Karl running out the door with that.” He pointed to the meat cleaver. “I think he fall on the ice and kill himself. The boy, too. I gonna help, but all I got is this.” He held up an old hammer. “Is my papa’s from Italy. So what’sa matter?” He looked around at the dazed group. “They robbing you?”
“Slave catchers,” Dugan said disgustedly. “Came in bold as you please, and tried to take them.”
Marconi looked at the children, incensed. “You a poor slave family! That a terrible thing. They terrible men. We call the police!”
No one said anything and Marconi eyed them.
“Maybe we don’t,” he amended. “Maybe we say nothing to nobody.”
“They be back, I think.” Karl wiped the sweat off his forehead, shook the snow from his hair. “Just wait. You have to be careful.”
Reinders looked at Lily and the children. “How’d they know she was here?” He thought for a moment, and then his face grew stony. “We must’ve been followed. They were tipped off.” Boardham.
“That’s what I think,” Grace replied. “She can’t go home, Captain. ’Tisn’t safe. And they can’t stay here, either, now.”
“I know where to take them. But we’ll have to leave while it’s still dark.” He looked up at the sky. “Can we take the cart, Ogue?”
“Aye.” The big man nodded. “But I better come along, Captain. In case they’re still out there. Waiting, you know.”
“And I will come.” Karl folded his strong arms across his chest.
The grocer held up his hammer. “Nobody messes with Mister Marconi!”
Grace gathered all the blankets from the house, and covered Lily and the children, who lay down in the back of the cart; Dugan and Captain Reinders up front, Karl and Marconi in the back. The snow was falling heavily now, and bravely they set out.
Thirty-five
ABBAN and Barbara had traveled west with grim determination until they found themselves, at last, in Galway. The schools Count Strzelecki had organized all along the hard-hit western fringe were closing down now, as the British Association’s resources gave out, but there were volunteers attempting to carry on. These schools were primarily feeding stations for destitute children, enabling them to get at least a daily cup of broth and a piece of rye bread, estimated at a cost of one-third of a penny per child per day—at the end of one year, the Association had spent over six hundred thousand pounds with no end in sight. Strzelecki had refused to take any pay himself, living off a modest income from his family’s property on the Polish-Russian border, donating most of this to the cause. The remarkable count was one of Barbara’s heroes; she came to volunteer in whatever way she could, and Abban—seeing no viable way to help in Dublin—had followed, crutches and all.
It was the day after Christmas, and Ireland was entering her fourth year of famine. The previous year’s emigration had taken away thousands of promising farmers, those with larger holdings and small bank accounts, a working class that Ireland could ill afford to lose. And yet they were encouraged to leave; the economic designers of a new Ireland were convinced that consolidation of small farms was the only way to induce landlords to sell off portions of their estates to buyers willing to invest capital, arriving eventually at something resembling a settlement—a new beginning for Ireland.
Tramping west, Abban and Barbara had witnessed the dismal failure of this kind of thinking—land was for sale everywhere, most of it simply abandoned by farmers desperate to cut their losses and get out. No one wanted to invest in a country that was now basically a giant poorhouse, packed to the rafters with the miserable and degraded. Towns had emptied as shops closed their doors; even on the finest streets in Dublin, shutters w
ere up and broken windows stuffed with rags. Trade was at a standstill. There were plenty of goods, but even at cut-rate prices, the paupers could not afford to buy. And it was the paupers who remained, as cheap passage could no longer be had and any benefactors were now leaving the country themselves.
In Dublin, Abban had been astounded at the thousands being transported for criminal activity; so many young people, he bemoaned. Julia had explained that jail was the final refuge for those with nothing, that these people committed crimes purely to be caught and transported—they begged to be transported. Even shackled on a ship headed for Van Diemen’s Land, they could count on shelter and food. Seven years’ sentence was a blessing now, and not a curse. The prison wardens were complaining, however, she told him—more prisoners transported in the past months than in the past three years, and what were they to do with people clearly too decent, too well-behaved and considerate, to be mixed in with the hardened prison population? And what were they to do with the children, some as young as ten, come all that way alone? No one had any answers, and so the steady stream out of the country continued. After yet another crop failure, the people of Ireland were singularly depressed and most believed that the land was cursed. Abban feared they might be right. Cholera had reared its ugly head.
“They burned down Martin Eady’s house today,” he reported to Barbara as she brought his bowl of soup to the bench in the schoolyard.
“Aye.” She sat down beside him. “Third house in the village this week. All dead inside, and why risk going in only to burn them later?” She sighed and looked down into her bowl. “Hard, though, watching them all go up like that.”
He heard the weariness in her voice. “Do you want to go back, Barbara? See Julia and the boy?”
She shook her head quickly. “I’d be afraid of taking the sickness with me. Sure and it’s all over the country, though, and I only hope they stayed in London. Julia would have sense for that. She’d not risk it.”
“No,” he agreed. “She loves that little boy as if he were her own. What if it works, then?” He looked at her. “What if they’re able to cure his blindness?”
