Forever Waiting

by DeVa Gantt

  Lily loved Henry and longed to be with him again, but Lily also loved John. She loved him because he treated her with a respect other white men reserved for white society ladies. She loved him because she could tell him anything and he always listened without passing judgment. She could cry about missing Henry, and he understood, because instinctively, she knew he also had been separated from somebody he loved. She loved him because he was kind to her children and he made her laugh. She loved him because he had never forced himself on her, as every one of her other white owners had. Even so, she had shared his bed many times. John had joked if Henry ever found out, he’d overcome his infirmity and escape bondage solely to find and kill him.

  Tonight, she would seek out John. He’d relieve her gnawing need, one that hadn’t been satiated since February. After her children were fed and put down to sleep, she would leave them with Rose and return to John’s house.

  John pulled his collar up high around his neck and his cap down low on his forehead, his back to the hallway as he rapped on the landlady’s door. The building had been sectioned so each floor was a two-room apartment. The ground floor corridor was shrouded in darkness, as evening was falling and rain pounded on the muddy street outside. Most of the longshoremen had already arrived home, the connecting houses resonating the sounds of clattering dishes, muffled voices, and children’s play.

  The landlady opened the door. She was a stout, middle-aged woman, her greasy, gray-streaked hair tied back into a ponytail that reached her hips. She looked up at him, chewing on a mouthful of her dinner.

  “Whaddaya want?” she asked before swallowing, one front tooth missing.

  “I am looking for Dr. Coleburn.”

  “Did ya knock on his door?”

  “There was no answer. When does he usually arrive home?”

  “Who wants tuh know?” she boldly asked, sizing him up. He’d probably knocked up his girlfriend and needed the doctor’s services.

  “A patient.”

  She eyed him skeptically.

  He flashed her a one-dollar note.

  “He gets back late. After nine o’clock, gen’rally. You’d best come back then.” She snatched the bill from his hand.

  “It’s raining. I’ve come a long way, and I’d rather wait for him here, in his apartment.”

  Though suspicious, she didn’t object. “What’s it worth tuh ya?” she asked, fingering the keys that hung on a chain at her waist.

  John extended his hand again; a crisp five-dollar note sat neatly in his palm. Her greedy eyes grew wide. “How’s about two of those?” she replied.

  Frederic pushed through the front door and found Michael in the parlor reading a newspaper next to the burning hearth. Dusk had fallen and all the lamps were lit. It had been a long, yet gratifying day.

  Late last night, the Heir had reached New York. Frederic had spent the hours after dawn closeted in the captain’s cabin while John showed Michael where Blackford lived and worked. In the two hours they were gone, Frederic explained to Will Jones, the Heir’s captain, what had happened and what he planned to do. By the time John and Michael arrived at the wharf, Will knew if, for any reason, Frederic, John, or Michael had not contacted him in three days’ time, he was to sail back to Charmantes without them. There he would tell Paul that Blackford had indeed been found under the assumed name Coleburn, and Frederic and John had attempted to apprehend him on the sixth of December. Frederic was confident nothing would go wrong, but it was best to be prepared for the worst.

  The Heir carried a letter from Charmaine, and Frederic had watched as John eagerly ripped into it, the third he’d received. He’d been happy with all her news, especially pleased to learn the Harringtons had decided to remain on Charmantes until the baby was born. He was befuddled as he read on; Charmaine had not received any of his letters, save the first one. Frederic had assured him that mattered very little now. By tomorrow, everything would be resolved and they’d be on their way home, arriving a month before the birth of his child.

  The remainder of the morning had been grueling. Frederic and John unloaded the ship’s cargo onto a partially laden vessel that had berthed in New York en route to Liverpool. They had hastily commissioned the other carrier while the cargo space was still available, and threw themselves into the laborious task of shifting goods, since hired help was short that morning. In this way, the Heir could return directly to Charmantes, and the sugar and tobacco promised for Europe would arrive on time. Frederic had felt extremely lucky that morning. He’d been certain they’d have to wait at least a fortnight before a Duvoisin vessel reached New York.

  A crew had been hired by lunchtime, and Michael realized he was of little use standing around. He was only getting in their way. So, he left them and spent the afternoon and early evening walking the streets, visiting a myriad of churches and buildings, many of them magnificent. In the weeks they had been there, he’d rarely gone exploring, and by tomorrow, they’d be traveling to Charmantes, so this was his last chance. When it began to rain, he headed home.

  He’d been at the house for nearly two hours and looked up when Frederic entered, pulling off his wet overcoat, shaking it out, and hanging it in the foyer. “Where is John?” he asked when the door did not reopen.

  “What do you mean?” Frederic queried. “I thought he was with you. He said he was going to meet you when he left the merchant’s office a few hours ago.”

  Their eyes locked, and Frederic’s face grew stormy. “What is Blackford’s address, Michael?”

  “13 Stone Street,” he answered, praying John had taken him to the right building and hadn’t purposefully misled him. “It’s just south of Wall Street.”

  “Thank God.”

  “I should go with you.”

  “No. Wait for me here—in case we’re wrong.”

  Michael looked at him skeptically. “I should check the clinic. Something may have happened there. We will meet back here.”

  Frederic agreed, then rushed upstairs, taking the stairs as swiftly as his lame leg would allow. Riffling through his trunk, he found the revolver and bullets he’d purchased their first week in New York. He hastened back down to the foyer, where he pulled on his coat, loaded the firearm, and shoved it deep into a pocket. Grabbing his cane, he threw one last look at Michael, who was also ready to leave. Together, they set off, hailing two cabs.

  Robert Blackford climbed three flights of stairs to his cramped rooms. The cry of a baby and the couple fighting on the floor below echoed upward, the odor of food fried in rancid suet melded with the must of the damp hallway. Although the row house afforded him anonymity, he eschewed such squalor whenever possible. Practically every evening, he visited the affluent neighborhoods north of this hovel, where he could enjoy the finer things in life the city had to offer. Tonight, he was returning from dinner at the Astor House Hotel. Tomorrow, he would go to a playhouse. He liked it here in New York. Indeed, life was better than he imagined it could be, even without his beloved Agatha.

  He walked to his door, put the key in the lock, and turned it. He tried to push the door open and realized he had locked rather than unlocked it. Funny, he always locked up when he left.

  He stepped into the dark flat and groped his way to the lamp on the table. Finding the tinderbox, he struck the flint and lit the wick, the flame flaring up in the lamp and illuminating the cold room. He rubbed his hands briskly together to warm them against the chill and decided to leave his cloak on. After thirty years in the Caribbean, he would never grow accustom to the penetrating cold.

  It wasn’t until he turned to light a fire in the stove that he saw the shadow of a man sitting in the chair next to it. Recognition spurred him into motion, and he swung around swiftly, flying to the door.

  John was out of the chair in an instant, reaching out and clutching his billowing cloak. Robert managed to pull the door open before he was forcefully jerked backward. John immediately threw an arm around his neck and grabbed his wrist, yanking it high behind his b
ack. Robert howled in pain.

  “It’s reckoning time, Blackford,” John growled against his ear, pushing him toward a large wooden dish tub set on the floor next to the stove.

  As they got closer, Robert could see it was still filled with the morning’s dishwater. John wrenched his arm even higher, then violently kicked the back of his legs so they buckled under him, and he fell to his knees before the tub.

  John followed him down. “Tell me why you did it, Blackford.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, John,” he croaked, as he felt his nephew’s hand move to the back of his head. “There must be some kind of mistake. What is this about? Can’t we talk about it?”

  “Tell me why you did it, and I’ll let you live.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Then why are you hiding here under an alias?”

  “Please, John … ”

  John ignored his pitiful appeal and began pushing his head slowly, purposefully down toward the water. “How do you think it felt, Blackford?” John cried. “How can you live with yourself knowing what you did to Pierre?”

  Robert resisted, struggling to turn his head aside as his face met the cold water. Then he was totally submerged, held fast, immobile. He concentrated on mustering all his strength to throw his body backward, but that effort proved futile. John finally released his head, and he came up sputtering and gasping for air.

  John took tighter hold of him, pressing a knee deep into his back. “Are you ready to tell me why you did it now?”

  “It wasn’t my idea—it was my sister’s! Paul is her son, he should have been the heir.”

  “That’s not good enough, Blackford!”

  John propelled his head toward the water again. “Do you think this is how it felt, you evil fiend?” he sobbed. “Did you take great pleasure in drowning an innocent child? I want you to know how it felt, you Satan!”

  He plunged Blackford’s head deep into the tub again, pressing down upon him for endless seconds. Great air bubbles churned violently to the surface, and water sloshed over the sides of the tub. Blackford’s legs thrashed and kicked across the slippery floor, catching the chair and toppling it over. His free arm flailed in every direction, blindly grappling for anything within reach. John released his head, and Robert emerged, heaving and gulping in air.

  “Are you ready to tell me now?” John sneered, his fingers entwined in the man’s hair. “It wasn’t just for the money. So tell me—why did you do it?”

  “I loved my sister. Your father ruined her life,” Robert wheezed, gasping to catch his breath, the water dripping off his face and hair.

  “Not good enough, Blackford!”

  Robert’s head dipped toward the water a third time, the room deathly silent, save his desperate struggle to wrench free of the strong hands guiding him forward. “All right, John, all right!” he begged. Then came the murmured admission. “I was in love with my sister … I would have done anything for her.”

  John felt the blood drain from his limbs and, with a tormented curse, relaxed his grip. Robert instantly threw himself backward, and John staggered, slipping on the wet floor. Robert rolled over to face his attacker. But John was up and on him again, straddling and pinning him down, hands around his neck. Robert’s head was cocked at an awkward angle, shoved against the side of the tub. He sputtered for air, and his fingers furiously clawed at John’s hands. But the vise continued to constrict. John was going to strangle him.

  He had one last hope. Straining to the right, he groped inside his boot for the knife he carried for protection against the street thugs who loitered around his clinic. The tips of his fingers brushed against the smooth handle. Stretching farther, he loosed the dagger from its sheath, pulling it free. He drew it back and plunged it viciously into John’s flank.

  John cried out and, clutching his side, collapsed next to him.

  Choking, Robert’s hands shot to his throat, the knife clattering to the floor. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, inhaling rapidly, his pulse thundering in his ears. When he could breathe again, he fumbled for the knife at his side. He knew he had to finish John off—slit his throat quickly and flee.

  As he opened his eyes, a tall shadow loomed above him, and he found himself looking up the barrel of Frederic Duvoisin’s revolver.

  Frederic looked away and pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a loud report. He glanced down at the grisly sight, threw his cane aside, and dropped to his knees beside John.

  “John! Get up!” he urged, nudging John fiercely. “We have to get out of here—now!”

  “Father … ” John groaned, pushing himself onto his knees.

  Already the room reeked of fresh blood. Frederic hurriedly looped his arm around John’s waist and shouldered a portion of his weight. Then he struggled to his feet, dragging John with him.

  Somebody screamed, and Frederic looked up, the pistol concealed in the folds of his coat. A young woman stood in the doorway, gaping at them. “Murderers!” she shrieked, raising the alarm. “Murderers! Police!”

  He advanced, his arm tight around his son. The girl blocked their path. “Move aside,” he demanded. When she didn’t, he pointed the firearm at her. She stepped back quickly, but screamed again after they passed. More voices sounded from the dark hallway below.

  Frederic forced himself calm. “John, you have to walk down the stairs. You must help me.” Trembling, Frederic released him, his hand covered in thick, syrupy blood.

  John grabbed hold of the railing and started down, enduring the searing pain that radiated into his chest and down his leg.

  Frederic followed, gun drawn.

  John managed the first two flights, fighting to breathe, each aspiration shallow and excruciating. Three steps farther, and his knees buckled beneath him. He tumbled down the last flight, landing in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairwell.

  Frederic raced after him. The landlady’s door cracked open as he reached the bottom, and she peered out. Frederic dropped to one knee, but swiftly straightened as two men confronted him. He flashed the pistol again, and the two backed off. “Get up, John!” he shouted, holding the firearm level against them. “You must get up!”

  His father’s command echoed as if at the end of a tunnel. Though everything was fading, John grabbed the railing and pulled himself to his feet.

  Frederic put an arm around him again, and John leaned heavily into his body, forcing Frederic to carry most of his weight. Staggering across the foyer, they pushed through the doors and out into the rainy night.

  Thankfully, the hired carriage was still there. Frederic had promised the driver a double fare for the return trip if he waited. He shoved John in and climbed onto the seat across from him, directing the cabby to make haste uptown. The old man set the horses into a brisk trot, and at last, they were rolling away. As they turned the corner a few blocks up, they passed two mounted policemen heading toward the row house.

  John moaned and his head fell back against the seat cushions. Frederic crossed to his side and pulled him into his arms. John jerked forward, then slumped across his lap, shivering uncontrollably, his clothing soaked through.

  “Hold on, John,” Frederic pleaded in a whisper, enfolding him in his cloak, his anxiety rising in proportion to his hammering heart.

  “How could he, Papa?” John beseeched, his voice a strained sob, his face contorted in pain. “How could he murder my little boy?”

  “I don’t know, John,” Frederic murmured, pulling John closer, gathering the dry cloak tighter around him. “I don’t know.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, he’s dead.”

  John looked up at his father. He hadn’t heard the answer, for the world was slipping away. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, John, he’s dead.”

  John closed his eyes. “Charmaine … ”

  “Hold on, John. Just hold on. You’re going to be all right. We’ll get you a doctor.” Frederic looke
d at the blood on his hands again, his own coat stained red, and was petrified his son was going to die in his arms.

  The carriage rolled up to John’s row house, the driver glancing furtively back into the enclosure of his cab.

  Michael heard them and ran outside. He’d been back all of ten minutes, having found the clinic closed. Frederic had already alighted, his expression imploring Michael to keep silent.

  Frederic addressed the coachman, pulling the double fare from his wallet. “You’ll get twice this tomorrow night if you keep your mouth shut,” he enjoined, pressing the coins into the man’s hand. The cabman nodded, and waited as Frederic and Michael pulled an unconscious John from the vehicle. They struggled a moment, throwing his arms over their shoulders, then dragged him inside and up the stairs to his bedchamber.

  “What happened?” Michael asked, alarmed by John’s blood-splattered coat, horrified when Frederic removed it to reveal his blood-soaked shirt beneath.

  “They were in a scuffle,” Frederic replied brusquely, ripping open the shirt and pressing a handkerchief to the wound. “Blackford knifed him.”

  “Is he alive?” Michael asked fearfully, placing a hand on John’s chest in search of a heartbeat.

  “Yes, but there is no time to lose. He needs a doctor before he bleeds to death. I’ll find one as fast as I can. Lock the door behind me and douse the lights.”

  “Why?”

  “Blackford’s dead. There were witnesses. The police will be looking for us.”

  Michael regarded Frederic in dismay. “Did John—?”

  “No. I did.”

  A knock on the front door silenced them.

  “Damn!” Frederic cursed, moving to the window. To his relief, a woman was on the stoop. “Probably a meddling neighbor. Can you get rid of her, Michael?”