by Paul Boor
Nicolas entered Trudeau’s original, street-level dining hall, precisely as he had when he’d dined with Renée the year before. Faint streaks of shaving cream still clung to Nicolas’s chin. He wore Schuyler’s grey tweed, hardly a suitable fit as it was much too big in the midsection and a tad short in sleeve and pant leg.
Trudeau’s ornate pressed-tin ceiling seemed familiar, as did the dining hall’s tropical-patterned wall coverings. Starched tablecloths glowed warmly in the yellowish gaslight of the chandeliers. With the supper hour barely under way, only a few tables were occupied; there was a quiet undercurrent of conversation, the occasional click of silverware. Nicolas’s heart began to pound as memories of that night with Renée flooded back: the elegant supper they’d shared, the walk on the moonlit beach, the stolen kiss.
Nicolas spied Renée seated at a nearby small table set against the wall. She had pulled her hair back straight and sleek, much simpler than the curls she had worn on that wondrous night. A waiter at her side poured from a silver urn. The aroma of coffee roasted with chicory wafted up. Renée’s dark eyes lit briefly with recognition. She stood and offered a cool, firm handshake, nearly masculine in its strength.
“So glad you’ve arrived safely,” she said with a hint of her tight-lipped smile. “You look well. Quite ruddy. Is it the southern sun?”
“I’ve been at sea.”
There was an awkward scraping of chairs on the floorboards as Nicolas helped her regain her seat. The waiter poured Nicolas’s cup; with a nod from Renée, he vanished.
“I thought it would be best to talk here,” she said.
Renée sat straight as a poker. Nicolas caught her eye for a second but read nothing there. The faint scent of her apple blossom perfume drifted across the small table. Those feelings . . . so far in the past. So much has happened . . . water over the dam, as Prangoulis put it.
“I can’t stay long, Nick. I’m analyzing a new batch of anti-toxoid. They vary so in strength, though we have little idea why,” she said with a bright burst of nervous laughter, followed by a lingering silence. “Uncle Francis told me of Adam’s murder,” she said.
“The bullet was meant for me.”
“Thank God you’re all right.”
“You see, I’ve been quite successful at pursuing these slave traders. Perhaps too successful.”
Renée’s eyes met his. “You found them, then?”
“In Buffalo. Russians, as you guessed, at least their ringleader. I relayed details of his operations and headquarters to the county constable there. I also contacted my old college mates in Boston, as you suggested in your letters . . . before . . . you know . . . my final letter. Anyway, the plan in Boston was to go to the press with details. They managed to make one arrest in a shoe factory in New England, though the Buffalo culprits are still on the loose, as far as I know. I must thank you for all your help, Renée . . . though it’s made me a hunted man.”
“I had no idea, you know . . . being out of touch. Perhaps you should never have taken my advice.”
“No, it was the right thing to do. These men are savages. And their dealings are broader than I imagined. My daughter, Abigail, discovered they’ve established their hideous human trade as far as Chicago. Abby’s in touch with a woman there who’s tracking orphans and runaways. She liberates lost girls from the brothels and provides a safe haven.”
“I’ve heard of this place. It’s called Hull House.”
“Abby also suspects this ghastly slave business may stretch to the South.”
“Have they followed you here, do you think?”
“I’m sure of it. If not Adam’s killer, some other they’ve sent.”
Renée leaned forward, studying the cup in her hands. “I remember Adam quite well. So full of spunk, that man. I met him only the once, but . . . how tragic.”
“Everything goes wrong at once, eh? My wife died—”
“I didn’t know . . .”
“Last fall. Her illness finally . . . and then my associate, the undertaker, was murdered by the slave-trade scoundrels with whom he consorted.”
“How ghastly.”
“Once I’d stirred the Russian’s nest in Buffalo, they took their revenge on Thomas . . . bad luck for him.” Nicolas leaned closer. “It’s been bad times in the past year, but good in other ways.”
“Good?”
“I’ve also known great happiness.”
“You deserve that,” she said with a nod.
“I was thinking of Saratoga, Renée. Before my son arrived on the scene, that is.”
She fell silent. When she looked up her eyes were misty.
“You were right,” she said with a tremble in her voice. “You were right to do what you did, Nick. Your last letter—I understand now. The way we are…it’s for the best.”
“I—I’ve heard of your intentions to marry,” Nicolas said, the words catching in his throat. “And I wish you every happiness.”
“Thanks so much,” she said with a hint of her old, sly smile.
Now it was Nicolas’s turn to stare at his cooling coffee and take a moment for thought.
“Another thing, Renée. When I’m alone, especially at the lake, I think often about you in your laboratory, your work, about science, and I’m convinced that someday—someday soon—I shall hear of your fame.”
She laughed, but Nicolas went on. The lump in his throat seemed to vanish. “I mean it. You’ll perfect your cure, you and Uncle Francis. Your medical college will be known over the world for defeating yellow fever.”
“I think not, Nick. This city, this island, they’re forcing us out. It’s difficult to work, to concentrate.”
“My son’s made connections here, you know. If need be, I’ll speak with these cotton traders, the Sealys—whoever needs to be set straight.”
“Oh, come, Nick. You’re in enough danger, and you have your ice to tend to.”
“Ice isn’t everything.”
“It’s lovely ice, Nick. I’ve always thought so. Besides,” she said coolly, “I rather doubt there’s much you can do.”
She pushed her chair from the table and stood. When she did, she accidentally overturned her cup. “Oh, dear. How stupid.” A dark brown stain spread on the tablecloth.
Nicolas rose in his chair. “Renée, couldn’t we—”
“Nick, Nick—” She cut herself short, shook her head, then took a breath and went on. “I want you to know something, Nick. I remember Saratoga, too. I shall always remember Saratoga.” She stepped away from the table and turned her face toward the door. “It’s best, really, that you don’t linger on the island. But it’s been good, very good, to see you.”
She brushed past and was gone.
Nicolas sat back and stared blankly at the overturned cup she’d held in her hands just moments before.
He handed a half-dollar to the waiter on his way out and set off in no particular direction. It surprised him how unchanged Renée seemed. Her eyes, hair, voice—all of her—so familiar. And her scent.
As he walked his heartbeat slowed and he felt that a weight had lifted from his shoulders. Renée spoke of Nicolas’s ice without knowing that now ice and its profits served a higher purpose in his mind. Saving wayward boys, the medical college, the cures of tomorrow—so many noble callings. As if fate had drawn him to this island for a reason, in spite of its dangers.
His mind raced. He wasn’t sure of the first step to be taken, but the way of his future was clear. As clear as Van Horne ice.
78
El Malhado
The crowded streets of Sailortown made it impossible for Nicolas to know if he was being followed. He honed in on El Malhado quickly, drawn by the jaunty piano refrains issuing forth. Looking over the swinging doors, he found a barroom packed with Spaniards, foreign laborers, and generally scruffy types. A swarthy hulk of a waiter launched a good-natured fusillade of Spanish at him as he pushed open the swinging doors and looked about, adjusting to the semidarkness, tobacco smoke, and punge
nt aroma of grilled meats.
Seeing Nicolas’s blank stare, the waiter smiled and grumbled, “In or out, señor.”
Schuyler was at the upright piano at the far corner of the bar, surrounded by a half dozen admiring young compatriots; a few others were seated at the table next to the piano. Sky was banging out a tune one part minstrel show, two parts raggedy improvisation. He glanced up and beamed.
One of Schuyler’s companions called over the din. “Sir!” He motioned to Nicolas. “You must be Sky’s father. Come over.”
Schuyler beat an ending on the ivory keys and lumbered off the piano stool. “So glad you came.” He took his father’s arm and led him to the head of the group’s table. “Believe me, the food here is fantastic.” Lowering his voice, he added, “And we need to talk.”
The men at the table shuffled over to make room. Once Schuyler’s friends were again noisily chatting, Nicolas leaned close and asked, “Did you find out anything from the Voodoo Doctor?”
“I found him in his office, but when I asked what he knew about crews of young Northern boys on his docks, he clammed up. The only thing he’d say was that he was ‘dealing with the scoundrels.’”
“Hmm.”
“And he wanted to talk to you.”
“He knows something, then.”
“I told him we were meeting here for supper.”
Plates of shrimp and whole crabs cooked in savory rice arrived. It was the first good meal Nicolas had had in front of him in weeks, and he ate voraciously, then settled back to enjoy the jovial banter among Schuyler’s young friends.
As coffees and confections arrived, the doors of El Malhado swung open and the Voodoo Doctor stalked in. Nicolas and Schuyler watched the voodoo man’s shock of hair sway to and fro as he sauntered the length of the bar, tight-lipped and stolid.
“Mr. Van Horne, sir,” he said, standing over them. He yanked a chair close, then turned and straddled it, his arms crossed over the chair’s back. His cold stare was within inches of the Van Hornes’ faces. “You must tell me what you Northerners are up to.”
“I presume,” Nicolas said, “you’re speaking of the slave trade.”
“You know what I mean. The young boys on my docks this past year. Crews of them for sale. Sky seems to know. How about you, sir? Are you part of this business?”
“God, no, man! I’ve been trying to stop it.”
“Your business is supposed to be ice, yet you sell dead bodies. What else do you sell?”
“You’ve got me wrong. Last year I delivered the body of a boy—a murdered boy—to your medical school. That’s how I discovered this slave trade.”
“Come now, Van Horne. You’re a man who’s out for profit. You arrive in town broke, looking like a vagabond. Everyone’s seen you. Evidently you’ve fallen on hard times, made bad deals. You have no financial resources and you need more—”
“I was forced to obtain a loan, sir. No fault of my own.”
“You expect me to believe you have no part in this evil scheme? These boys are treated like slaves. It’s only me—and the ISL—that’s kept them off the docks. And Northerners like you try again and again.”
Schuyler, standing it no longer, spoke up. “You’ve misjudged him. He’d never do such a thing. He’s my father, and I know . . .”
The Voodoo Doctor focused his steely glare on Schuyler. “You businessmen are all alike. Whether it’s cotton, ice, or your racehorses—everything’s for your gain and the workingman suffers. Now it’s children your father trades in.”
“Look”—Nicolas’s voice rose—“we could help you. We could, but you’ve got to believe me. I told the truth about the bodies I brought, didn’t I?”
A crease flitted across the Voodoo Doctor’s brow, then he gave a nod. “Yes, you did, and I helped with your ice. But now I’ve heard this about you and these crews. There’s something afoot, some plan to undermine all the ISL has done for the workingman.” The voodoo man’s eyes went cold. “And you, a trader from the North in dire financial straits, you’re not connected to this Northern plot?”
“I give you my word as a gentleman.”
“Well, then . . . we’ll see. I’ll get to the bottom of it, believe me. My men are on it, and I’d better not find you’re lying.”
“But . . . you’ve got to give us something to go on. Who’s involved here?”
The Voodoo Doctor thought for a moment, then shook his head and pushed off from his chair. “Just remember what I said. If I discover that you’re part of this, in any way . . .”
Without a further word he stood and stalked down the bar, jostling rough types out of his way. Once he’d stepped out the door of El Malhado, a buzz rose among Schuyler’s friends, who’d been straining to eavesdrop.
“You’d best not mess with the likes of that fellow,” one of Sky’s comrades offered. “He’s clever, and he can ruffle the feathers of the workin’ stiffs.”
A second friend at their end of the table, one who’d not said much, called out, “Hey, Sky—play us something, will ya? I’ve had enough of this dark palaver.”
Schuyler sat at the piano and ran his fingers down the keys. “I believe I’ll try an original,” he said, then launched into a tune of lost love and heartbreak. His full, bass voice resonated over the raucous tumult in the tavern. The men finished their coffees and egg custards and began to light cigars.
Schuyler played a raggedy finale and came to the table. “Gents,” he said, “we’ll take our leave of your fine company. My pops looks like he needs some sleep.”
Under the light of the gas lamps on the street, Nicolas shook his head in frustration. “We’re getting nowhere, Son,” he said. “This Voodoo Doctor knows plenty, but for God’s sakes . . . he suspects me? I may have a word with the father of that man.”
“Good thought. He certainly knows the cotton business. In the South, cotton is at the bottom of everything.”
“And Hutch Sealy begot the two sons who control cotton.”
79
A Visit to Hutchinson Sealy
Nicolas slipped from bed and dressed quietly. He found another of Schuyler’s oversized jackets, one of Scottish tweed, and departed for the upper floor of the Cotton Exchange, dead set on having a word with the city’s most powerful financier.
Nicolas easily recalled the impressive Cotton Exchange Building. Elaborate stone façades, elegant high-arched entrances, the turrets, the intricate gargoyles overhead . . . Hutch Sealy had succeeded in building, and controlling, the finest architectural achievement of the city. How does a man amass a fortune such as this? Nicolas wondered. With profits . . . profits stained by corruption, perhaps? The forced labor of children? Even murder?
Nicolas climbed the marble stairs to the top floor of the Cotton Exchange and found the offices of Sealy & Son Finance, Trust, and Title Company. He was eager to meet the man, but the man was not eager to meet him. Nicolas was informed by all three of Sealy’s gentlemen secretaries of the financier’s “extremely busy schedule” and kept waiting for the entire morning. He paced in the vestibule. Midday approached. He cursed under his breath. It was past noon when Nicolas recognized Sealy as he slipped out of a side door, and was able to intercept the handsomely dressed financier.
“Mr. Sealy, I believe?” He matched several strides with the portly gent. Sealy ignored him, scurried across the vestibule, and took to the stairs.
“Mr. Sealy!” Nicolas called, pursuing.
Hutch Sealy had changed only slightly since Nicolas last saw the banker abruptly depart Keiller’s Mardi Gras party with his sour-faced beanpole wife. The elder gent was stouter now and wore his beard in an immaculately trimmed French fork style, with sharp, greying tufts sprouting obliquely to either side. At the sight of the renowned financier, the story of Sealy’s two sons—one a successful cotton trader, the other the mulatto leader of the ISL—echoed through Nicolas’s mind.
“Mr. Sealy!”
The points of Sealy’s beard shook with displeasure when he fina
lly turned back to Nicolas, barely slowing his progress down the stairway. “Please, sir,” he said. “I’m on my way to dine for heaven’s sake!”
“I wish only a moment of your time,” Nicolas said in a confidential tone. “It concerns a matter of some importance.”
Sealy paused at the building’s entrance to eye the ill-fitting jacket and the freshly boiled shirt Nicolas had borrowed that morning from Schuyler. “A matter of importance? Men come to me all day long with matters of importance,” Sealy said with a smirk. “I’m sure one of our financial officers could’ve assisted you with whatever you’re in need of.”
Nicolas offered a hand; Sealy made no move to take it.
“I am Nicolas Van Horne of New York,” Nicolas said. “You may remember me from your Mardi Gras celebrations last year . . . with Professor Keiller and the medical people?”
“You’re the ice man. With a new warehouse, correct?”
“Recently constructed, yes.”
“You and your son seem to be doing quite well with your ice, though you hardly look it yourself.” Sealy glanced at Nicolas’s outstretched hand, then pushed open the door, stepped onto the sidewalk, and began to walk away. “Can’t imagine what you want of me. Hope it’s not a loan.”
“It’s not a matter of business,” Nicolas said, following.
“Not business?” Sealy hesitated. “I suppose, then, it’s to do with the damned medical college you’re so enamored of.”
“It began with the medical college.”
“I hardly need concern myself with that, thank you.” Sealy stopped and turned to face Nicolas on the sidewalk. He motioned toward the finely ornamented Cotton Exchange, its magnificent granite façade, the pink, the grey, the gargoyles leering down. “You must understand, Mr. Van Horne,” he said. “You, sir, are in the South. Since the Great War, hereabouts we’ve not taken kindly to Yankee traders. Oh, in the name of business we’ll smile and put on a show, but we all know a Northerner when we see one. And everyone in this town’s heard of your part in that business out at that college, ice man, so I’d tread lightly if I were you.”
