Alexander C. Irvine

by A Scattering of Jades

  Archie had. He had seen quite a few of them, in fact, haunting the Five Points, which as New York’s poorest neighborhood was also its most racially mixed. Blackbirders purportedly hunted fugitive slaves, but their actual activities consisted mostly of hunting for opportunities to accuse Negroes of being fugitives. Each blackbirder had a group of ready witnesses and a preferred magistrate, and they did a steady business in removing unlucky Negroes from New York to (the clergyman’s words rang in Archie’s head) Baltimore, Savannah, or Charleston.

  “Then you know,” the clergyman said, “the depredations these blots on humanity visit upon the liberty of your black brothers.”

  Archie nodded. An expose on blackbirders, he thought. Bennett might take an interest in that. The publisher didn’t like Negroes, and he hated abolitionists, but he was a very bloodhound after judicial corruption.

  “Did you know that these abominable men even steal children?” the divine went on. “Just this past Sunday—Sunday, sir!—a Negro girl, eleven or twelve years old, skipped down Anthony Street to get water from a pump in the tenement adjacent to hers. Fifteen minutes later her father went to look for her, and found the bucket she’d taken, half-filled next to the pump. In a frenzy of worry he searched for the girl, and at last—O heartbreak!—he discovered her fate. Can you imagine, sir? An eleven-year-old girl whisked away in the foul hands of a trader in human souls? And her father … ?” The clergyman paused, seeing something in Archie’s face. “Now you see,” he said. “You are of an age to have such a daughter, aren’t you? And you possess a sensitive soul. You can see yourself in this poor girl’s father, running through the streets in a futile desire to recapture your child, to see your flesh and blood safe again. With you again.”

  Archie took a step away from the clergyman, bumping into someone behind him. The clergyman closed the distance between them again, and a softer expression banked the zealous fire in his eyes. “If I have caused you pain,” he said, “it is to my regret. But we all must begin to share the pain of the oppressed.”

  He started to go on, but a chorus of vulgar shouts from the other side of the street cut him off. Archie turned in time to see a volley of eggs and rotten vegetables splatter across the cluster of agitators. A window shattered behind him, and as he flinched he caught a glimpse of the plaque next to the building’s doorway: American anti-slavery society. Ah, he thought. William Lloyd Garrison’s band of Baptists. No surprise there. But who’s breaking it up?

  Across Nassau Street, a group of young Irishmen readied another vegetable salvo. That made sense too. Irish and blacks competed for the same housing, the same jobs, so naturally the Irish were violently proslavery. Slaves had no influence on wages; free Negroes did.

  Each of these b’hoys wore red piping on his trousers, though. That was the uniform of the Dead Rabbits, one of New York’s more organized and dangerous gangs. The Rabbits were Tammany muscle, too. This was no random act, then, but what interest did Tammany Hall have in abolitionism?

  The clergyman who had first arrested Archie’s stroll around lower Manhattan now strode across the street, his head thrust forward and right index finger jabbing at the Irish gang. “You!” he shouted, and his voice cracked. The Dead Rabbits laughed and echoed “You!” in sarcastic falsetto.

  “You of all nations,” the clergyman went on, “who have known tenant slavery under the English crown, who are beaten in the streets by nativists, despised and kept from common society just as Negroes are. Of all living souls, you should understand the justice of our cause!”

  One of the Rabbits stepped forward and knocked the clergyman down with a slashing right cross. “Never compare an Irishman to a nigger,” he said, and broke an egg over the clergyman’s head.

  Several women, their black dresses and severe braids speckled with eggshell and tomato seeds, rushed to the clergyman’s aid. “Shame!” one of them cried. “Is this what your pope teaches you?”

  “Enough, Margaret,” the clergyman said. He wiped blood and yolk from his face. “We will not,” he said, standing with a hand on her arm, “answer their vitriol with our own.”

  Together the abolitionists recrossed Nassau Street and went into the headquarters of the American Anti-Slavery Society, followed by jeers from the red-piped b’hoys. The protest had dissipated, and Nassau Street slowly began to refill with traffic that crushed beneath wheels and feet the broken rinds and rotted pulp of the hatred (Archie thought, already composing the article in his head) that the poor reserve for each other.

  Archie was distracted and clumsy at work that afternoon, spilling boxes of type and once dumping a bottle of ink over the imposing table next to the press. Luckily Bennett hadn’t come out of his office all day, and Archie’s misdeeds cost him only a little joking from the other pressmen. Blackbirders, he thought over and over again, trying to focus on the angle for the article he wanted to write. The clergyman’s words to him, though, kept repeating themselves in Archie’s head: You are of an age to have such a daughter, aren’t you? And you possess a sensitive soul. Archie’s hands shook whenever he thought of that poor Negro shouting through the Five Points in futile pursuit of his daughter who was gone to bear chains and cry out at the crack of the overseer’s whip. Better, almost, to know that one’s daughter had died. At least then a man could mourn and go on.

  As you, Archie said sardonically to himself, have done so admirably.

  Udo arrived with fresh paper as Archie was munching his bread around sunset. Looking at his old friend, Archie could not help a spasm of jealousy. Udo had prospered in the years they had known each other. He delivered personally only to Bennett and one or two other important customers; others received their goods from one of Udo’s growing staff of drivers. His success showed around Udo’s waistline, and he had become a sort of avuncular pillar of biergarten society. His wife was fertile as a flowerbed, his children learned French from tutors, his house had stained glass in its parlor windows. And through all of his success, Udo had not forgotten his friendship with Archie. He still took his own stein when he met Archie for beer and conversation.

  “I saw an abolitionist rally today,” Archie said as they rolled paper through the Heralds, loading door. “The Dead Rabbits broke it up.”

  Udo shook his head and paused to mop his scalp with a handkerchief. “Troublemakers, all of them,” he said. “Abolitionists and Rabbits.”

  Archie knew Udo hated to discuss politics with friends, but he couldn’t forget his mental image of the bereft Negro father discovering the bucket of water and knowing. He must have known what had happened. “Blackbirders are stealing children off the streets,” he said. “Children. How must that feel?”

  Udo looked Archie in the eye. “You have sorrow enough, Archie. Don’t go looking for more.”

  That wasn’t good enough. “Children, Udo.”

  “Archie, I hire blacks. I pay them like I pay whites. This is what I can do.” Udo looked as if he might say something more, but instead he pocketed his handkerchief and walked toward the door. “Let’s finish up.”

  Sometime after midnight, Archie rounded the corner onto Orange Street, his fingers sore and purpled with ink that never quite washed away. Music played from a basement grocery somewhere, accompanied by yells in a language Archie didn’t understand. He looked up and down the street. An oyster vendor hitched up his horse and left for more comfortable parts of the city, or maybe just went home. Sailors swaggered, whores beckoned, the destitute watched it all from windows or shadowed corners. Archie was exhausted.

  On the steps of his rooming house sat a child-sized figure wearing a hat and heavy coat. Archie stopped in his tracks.

  No, he thought. I can’t face her tonight. Not with that damned weeping Negro chasing after his daughter in my head. Tonight I need to be able to remember my daughter as she was. That maniacal, horrible shambles of a girl has no right to stalk me the way she does, no right to claim my daughter’s name.

  Better to have lost one’s daughter, Archie thought for
the second time that day. He backtracked around the corner and found his way into a grog shop on Leonard Street. Better to mourn and go on.

  Quechalli, 11-Deer—September 29, 1842

  Stein watched the lithe figure of John Diamond blend quickly into the crowds in front of Independence Hall, then vanish behind a passing cab. Aaron Burr had spent more than a little time conniving in that building; Steen wondered what sort of backstage machinations had been going on during the Constitutional Convention. Because Burr had died disgraced, history had not recorded his true influence. Steen intended to leave a more distinctive mark. He would capture history in his hands and make it speak.

  The clock on the Independence Hall tower read eleven twenty-eight as Steen flicked the reins over the horses. They started slowly, tired from the long journey through the Cumberland Gap and north from Baltimore. New horses were definitely in order upon arriving in New York, but Steen’s mind was on other things. He hadn’t much time before his surprise appointment with Phineas.

  How had Diamond found him? Steen had been worried when informed of the dancer’s presence, but not overmuch; if Diamond had intended any sort of revenge, he would hardly have advertised his arrival. And he hadn’t acted at all hostile on the long trip to Philadelphia; rather, he had supplied Steen with an extremely valuable bit of information.

  Why, Steen wasn’t sure. There were many things about Diamond that Steen wasn’t sure of. The dancer might have been walking and talking, but he was obviously far from normal. He smelled of the swamp he’d drowned in, dark rings encircled his bulging eyes, and he muttered to himself—not always in English—at inopportune times. Noon and immediately before sunrise were times of noticeable peculiarity, which was why Steen had let Diamond off before the meeting he had planned for noon. He wanted all of Barnum’s attention focused on the merchandise.

  Steen frowned as he guided the horses through Philadelphia’s crowded streets. If any man had cause to swear vengeance on him, it was Diamond. He had died hard, drowning faceup with the tip of his nose barely three inches deep in the silted water of a Mississippi River inlet.

  A New Orleans native, Diamond had been a dancer in Barnum’s Grand Scientific and Musical Theatre when Steen had been the company’s puppeteer. Jane Prescott had recently escaped from him, and Steen had discreetly let it be known that he was interested in finding a certain Mexican woman named Lupita, whom he thought was in Louisiana. He had been sure that Lupita would be able to locate Jane, and in the spring of 1841 Diamond had led Steen to her in Natchez. The reunion had quickly turned ugly, and Steen had been forced to kill Diamond when the dancer tried to leave.

  Steen had been owing Lupita a debt for nearly six years at the time; after her mocihuaquetzqui had gotten out of control the night they had captured the girl, Maskansisil himself had come to New York on her trail and had instead found his. Steen had barely escaped with his life the night the Pathfinder had caught him, and when Lupita refused to assist him in tracking Jane he had let his self-control lapse.

  Killing Lupita had been sheer pleasure, revenge for Steen’s terror during those weeks when he had been certain that Maskansisil would drop out of every tree, bur Steen had regretted having to kill Diamond; generally he didn’t like blacks, but the dancer had been a valuable asset.

  “Sorry, Johnny,” he’d said after the last bubble had broken on the surface and Diamond’s struggles had stopped. “There are only so many people who can know about this, and I’m afraid you’re not one of them. And there are far worse places than Tlalocan.”

  As the water settled into perfect stillness, the reflection of the moon had resolved into a glossy circle over Diamond’s dead face. The Tochtli had been prominent that night; Steen remembered wondering what portent that held. Perhaps a man drowned under the Rabbit would be drunk when he got to Tlalocan, the afternoon paradise reserved for those who died of water or weather or earth. He had left Diamond’s body where it floated in the thigh-deep water; a dead Negro floating in the Mississippi was hardly a noteworthy occurrence.

  And now, for reasons Steen couldn’t begin to fathom, Diamond had sought him out.

  Steen turned south onto Front Street and moved at a trot past Society Hill, preoccupied with the strange signs the sky had been giving in recent weeks. The Rabbit, for one; it had been everywhere lately. Beyond being a symbol of drunkenness, the Tochtli was also associated with the south and uncertain fortune; it could mean anything, depending on what other signs it was found in conjunction with. The signs that night in Natchez had maintained a stony indifference, even as he went back up the rotting stairs to the hovel to make sure Lupita’s ancient body wouldn’t rise of its own accord and follow him.

  The signs were no clearer today, especially since the sun was obscured by stubborn clouds. It was the last day of Quecholli, when a feast generally took place, and the sign was Deer—sacred to Tlaloc—and the number was eleven, generally unlucky.

  And the month has a bloody R in it, Steen thought. None of it meant anything as far as he could tell.

  At least he wouldn’t have to worry abour Maskansisil any more, not if Diamond kept his word and found Tamanend’s mask. Tlaloc must have gotten to the dancer when he’d drowned; why else would a man do such a tremendous favor for his murderer?

  The late-morning sun was a pale smudge in the lowering sky as Steen brought the wagon to a halt at Penn’s Landing. Gulls dipped and swooped in the chill wind that blew off the Delaware River, their shrill cries gnawing at his already-fatigued nerves. He looked anxiously up and down the docks, trying also to keep an eye on the back of the wagon. Any would-be thief would get the surprise of his life, particularly today, but Steen hoped to avoid any disturbance; he wanted to accomplish his goals in Philadelphia and move on to New York with as little distraction as possible.

  He checked his watch: eight of twelve. Barnum was supposed to be on the twelve-thirty steamer going up the river to Trenton; he should have arrived by now. Cursing the paleness of the sun and the looming proximity of the Gloria Dei church, Steen walked rapidly in a clockwise circle around the wagon. Diamond had said Barnum would be here, and Johnny certainly had sources that were uncommon to say the least, but the showman was nowhere to be seen. Hundreds of people were boarding and disembarking from steamboats all around Steen; it was possible Barnum had simply passed unnoticed.

  Steen caught himself mouthing Nahuatl curses under his breath, and he closed his eyes and leaned against the wagon’s ribbed canvas. He counted slowly backward from twenty, breathing deeply and evenly through his nose, feeling the heavy veil of tension lift from his mind. Nothing would be gained by stamping around in circles and cursing the day for being cloudy.

  When he opened his eyes again, a group of approximately fifteen children had appeared and formed a semicircle around him. “When’s the puppet show?” one of them asked. “Do you do The Battle of New Orleans?”

  The group was ragged and undernourished, varying in age from seven or eight to perhaps fifteen. Probably runaways and orphans who had banded together for protection; if he had encountered them at night and in a secluded area, they would more likely be demanding his purse than asking for a show. Steen had given hundreds of shows for groups of children when he was younger, purely for the joy of it, and these disheveled urchins looked as much in need of a little diversion as any he’d ever seen. He looked from face to face, wondering which of the old Punch and Judy shows he could remember unrehearsed; then he spotted P. T. Barnum over one of their shoulders.

  “No performance today, guppies,” he said regretfully, shaking his head. “If you can get to Shackamaxon tonight, you might see a real show.” Barnum was gesturing expansively as he spoke to a mustachioed and immensely fat man in a red stovepipe hat.

  “Some puppeteer you are,” one of the children said, and the rest began complaining boisterously, cursing to shame a sailor as Steen swung up into the driver’s seat and spurred the horses in Barnum’s direction.

  “Ahoy, Phineas!” he called.
“Half an hour before your ship leaves, isn’t it?”

  A look of surprise crossed Barnum’s jowled face, bur the showman quickly assumed a neutral expression. “I won’t inquire as to where you came by that information, Mr. Steen,” he said coldly. “In any case it is of no consequence; we have nothing to discuss except reparation for your breach of contract.”

  “Bygones, Phineas, water under the bridge,” Steen said, before Barnum could resume his conversation. “I have something in the back of the wagon here that I believe would be quite a sensation at your museum. It’s a good many years older than your Joice Heth, and authentic to boot.” He winked broadly at Barnum’s companion.

  “Perhaps we could resume our discussion on board,” said the red-hatted buffoon. “In this chill, I’d like to ensure I get a seat near the boiler.” He tipped his silly hat and made his way toward the waiting steamer.

  Barnum watched him walk away, then returned his attention to Steen. Steen clicked open his watch and shook his head gravely. “You’ve only got forty-five seconds to catch the show, Phineas. After that, it’s over for the day, you’re gone to New York, and I have to search for a buyer here.”