His fortune in finding Galway injured and in need of his type of personal, on the mark, sunup-to-sunup services, put the doctor in an excellent position. Galway’s house featured food (never mind the effrontery of the surly black cook) and that beautiful, too-young wife. All he had to do was sit in Galway’s library and the whole of Utica’s finest might parade by to pay their respects. He pictured the gouty feet of important well-fed gentlemen, the dyspeptic matrons upset by their rich suppers, and the lovely shy daughters overcome with ague, whose passions wanted cooling.
As he ascended the John Street Bridge, he heard his name being called. Hickox and Swift climbed up from the canal’s towpath.
“Doctor, I trust that Mr. Galway fares well?” said Hickox.
“He is suffering,” answered the doctor. “But I’m in almost constant attendance.”
“It’s comforting to have absolute confidence in his care,” said Hickox, studying the doctor. “I wanted to let you know that I saw one of my two fugitives just this morning.”
“You caught one, eh?” asked the doctor, intrigued.
“Caught, then lost.” Hickox scowled. Swift looked to the sky. “It was the boy, but he may have drowned. If you hear of a corpse with his description, I’d be obliged to get a chance to inspect it.”
“Drowned, eh? Terrible way to die.”
“But perhaps the Lord spared him and he might yet be returned to his proper place.”
“I don’t know why I’d be informed, but if I am, I’ll certainly reach you.”
“I have tracked these two across hundreds of miles, Doctor.” Hickox grinned, showing a set of yellow-brown tobacco-stained teeth. “They had many paths open to them and yet they came here. It may be chance, but it may be by design.”
“And my part in this grand design?” asked McCooke. “I should let you know that as a rule, I’ll have nothing to do with those people. No good ever comes of it.”
“How very perceptive of you. But I have lived very close with them. Men in my line of work who underestimate the cunning of the Negro don’t catch the Negro. Any intelligence you gather will be rewarded.”
The doctor smiled, raising his eyebrow and wondering why the slaver believed him to be in a position to be helpful. Hickox nodded, and he and Swift crossed the street and jumped back down to the towpath.
McCooke continued toward Bagg’s Square. He noticed one of Hickox’s advertisements at the corner of a building and reread the description of the two fugitives. Shrugging, he saw that he was in front of Dupré’s House of Sugar Confections. In the window, pastries and cakes and honeyed almonds drew his eye. His mouth dampened, thinking of all the sweets that could be had. Perhaps young Helen Galway might look on him favorably if he presented her a little gift, maybe a maca roon. Being in her good graces and having a little fun could make his stay easier and perhaps indefinite.
The doctor noticed a reflection in the shop window. A sizable man, broad across the shoulders and with an intelligent face, was in a tugging match for a sheaf of papers with a hulking, brutish man.
“You rogue be damned!” shouted the smarter-looking man.
McCooke turned. The big man had on a fine topcoat and tall hat. His menacing attacker and a thin, haggard accomplice appeared to be straight from a grog house, their homespun coats dirty and their pants worn thin at the knees.
“You ain’t getting away with treason, Stewart,” growled the brute. He wrenched the papers out of the well-dressed man’s hands and tossed them in a heap. While the gentleman bent to retrieve them, the lanky man leaped forward and brought up his knee, flattening his opponent’s nose and knocking off his top hat, sending it sailing through the air.
McCooke’s eye followed the hat. He cringed when it hit the pavement, picking up a considerable amount of dirt. Before he had time to restrain himself, he swung his medical case and whacked the lanky man soundly on the back.
“Hey,” he cried, turning toward McCooke, “you a low-dog traitor too?” He advanced a few steps toward the doctor.
McCooke backed away, looking for an escape route. “Touch me and I’ll send for the sheriff.”
“There he comes now,” said the well-dressed man, who had dropped to one knee and was holding a handkerchief against his face. “His deputies too.”
The two grogshop men looked hastily up the street and then retreated, shouting, “Go on with it, Stewart, and we’ll be there to send you to hell!”
The doctor bent to recover the top hat. He brushed off the dirt and handed it to the man they called Stewart, who was swabbing his face with a handkerchief stained with bright-red blood. He smoothed down his ruffled brown hair and replaced his hat.
McCooke looked around and, seeing no lawman, drew his eyebrows together in confusion.
“Sometimes a clever scheme is as good as a sheriff.”
“You might have a black eye there,” said McCooke.
“I think I should thank you that I don’t have a broken neck to go along with it. The name’s Alvan Stewart, Esq.” The man pulled off his glove and offered McCooke his powerful hand. “I didn’t think they could best me. Going to have to get quicker.”
The doctor noticed that under the expensive clothing, Stewart appeared to be as fit as a draft horse. A breeze caught the dropped papers and shuffled them, sending a few fluttering toward the gutter. McCooke stamped his foot on the stack and retrieved them. He straightened.
“Dr. Corliss McCooke, at your service.” He handed the papers to Stewart, retaining one. It was the notice for the Anti-Slavery Society convention. “Were you taking these down?”
“No. Putting them up.”
“Surely not,” said McCooke. “You want the Negroes to stay?”
“Indeed. I’m the man who invited the Anti-Slavery Society to Utica,” said Stewart, rubbing his nose with the bloody cloth and then stuffing it in his pocket.
The doctor hesitated. He appraised the lawyer’s clothing—finely made suit, perhaps from Albany, or even a New York City tailor. The tall hat was new, with none of the beaver fur ticked or damaged from wear. The topcoat was of the kind of soft warm wool that took extra care to maintain. Stewart’s long Roman nose and vivid gray eyes added to his look of nobility.
“I suppose,” said the doctor thoughtfully, “that those two gentlemen were opposed to your plan?”
“These are grave times indeed. And we all must stand up for what we believe.” Stewart fished in a pocket and produced a crisp white calling card. “I’m in your debt.”
The doctor took the card. “Nonsense, but if you need me, I am currently at Augustin Galway’s house attending to his injury.”
“Galway? Sorry to hear that he’s unwell.”
“You may contact me there if you meet other rogues,” said the doctor with a wink.
Stewart nodded and started up John Street, stopping now and again to pin handbills on buildings and rails.
Indeed, thought the doctor, my fortunes have not only reversed in a mere thirty-six hours, they have positively soared. Even if Stewart was on the wrong side of reality when it came to the blacks, he might be a useful friend. Perhaps there was no desire the doctor could not attain, if he kept his wits and capitalized on the Fates’ gracious gifts.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HELEN STEPPED OUT OF THE SHED and stared at the wide basin of Ballou Creek. A chilly wind shook the branches in a nearby stand of trees. Clumps of brown cattails and reeds lined the bank. She imagined herself sinking quietly to the bottom of the basin, embraced by the cold water. What relief. No more runaways, no more husband, no more pressure to be perfect. And her own lack of sympathy. It embarrassed her. The pain of it was fresh and sharp. But did that justify her volunteering to find Imari’s contact? It seemed like the only way to be rid of them. More than that, imagine being as helpless as those two runaways.
They had been placed in her path—by God or the devil, she did not know. Only one month ago she had promised to obey her husband, and now this woman had somehow drawn her int
o sin. Yet they required food, water, clothing, and help. Her help. The righteous, she remembered from her lessons, had no idea of the day or the hour when God might come. The alternative was to call in the slave catchers, and that she could not do.
She looked again at the trees. Did they not bend in a storm? Once they died and became brittle they broke apart in a strong wind. She decided to bend. Imari had told her all she knew about the man willing to help them. Helen must find that man.
In the empty kitchen, she wrapped up the remains of her breakfast and selected a few more biscuits from the pantry. Maggie’s voice rang out from the front of the house, something about “Horace’s nephew.” Helen ran into the shed to drop off the food.
Maggie was in the kitchen when she returned.
“You were right about my being hungry,” said Helen. “I ate a few more of your delicious biscuits.” She passed Maggie on her way toward the front of the house.
“Why you out at that dirty shed, missus?” asked Maggie.
“Pardon?” said Helen, her hand frozen in the middle of pushing the door open.
“No other place on this property got so many spiders and creepers and Lord knows what all else.” Maggie removed a leaf attached to a length of insect silk from her shoulder. “That ain’t no place to spend time.”
“I was thinking about a garden,” said Helen. “Maybe in the spring.”
“If you want a garden, we’ll get someone to set it up. Don’t go messing around out there. Now, I almost forgot. Horace sent over his nephew, Job, to help Mr. Augustin. You see him in the library, don’t pay him no attention.”
Helen frowned as she entered the library to ask permission to go to Bagg’s Square. The boy would be yet another person from whom she had to keep secrets. The sooner she could go downtown and find Imari’s contact, the better. In the hallway, she checked herself in the mirror. Hanging off her sleeve was a dust-darkened spiderweb. She brushed it away and noticed several more clinging to her maroon skirt. Once she had righted herself, she put on a smile and opened the library door.
Augustin sat in his chair, skin pale, with two red circles brightening his cheeks. She saw the backside of Horace’s skinny nephew as he bent behind the tea table.
“Helen, my dear,” said Augustin, his voice strained and tired, “you look distressed. Is anything wrong?”
“I’m just worried about you.”
The boy straightened. Helen’s eyes widened.
“What are you doing in here?” she said, shocked. Joe was in the house? With Augustin? Everything that she had planned now stood on its head.
“There is no need for alarm,” said her husband. “Job is here to help me.”
Joe stared at her.
Helen tasted bile in her mouth. Her hands shook. This is where he had gone? How had things gotten so out of hand so quickly? She suddenly remembered that the runaway-slave notice had mentioned Joe’s unmistakable red hair. At any moment the slave catchers could barge in and see him. She must confess it all to Augustin. This was too much. He might not notice the boy’s hair, but Dr. McCooke would connect the description of the boy with Job’s sudden appearance. Anyone might. As she opened her mouth to tell the truth, she noticed Joe’s fear.
“My dear,” said Augustin, “what’s the matter?”
Helen focused herself on the one thing she could change. “That hair,” she cried. “He might be full of lice.” She rushed to the corner and jerked the bell pull to summon Maggie.
“Lice? You’re imagining things,” said Augustin. “Maggie says he’s a good boy.”
Maggie appeared.
Helen turned on her. “Now you look here,” she said, hysteria edging into her voice. “This boy may have brought vermin into this house and I won’t have it. You must shave his head clean.”
“Missus,” said Maggie, “I checked him myself.”
“You shave his head this instant or I shall.” For a moment Helen and Joe made eye contact. He had his hand on his hair and looked startled. She had no choice but to continue.
Maggie stepped forward and put her hand on Joe’s shoulders.
“It must happen instantly,” said Helen.
“Mr. Augustin?” Maggie said.
He shrugged. “Do it.”
Maggie moved Joe to the door. She turned back and peered at Helen through narrowed eyes, a frown dragging down the corners of her mouth. “I never heard a such a fuss about one skinny black boy,” she said as she left.
“And take off those eyebrows too,” Helen added before the door was firmly closed.
“That was in very bad form,” said Augustin in a low firm voice. “You have made your life here more difficult. I don’t have time to intervene between you two. She deserves respect.”
Helen’s arms shot above her head. “You don’t even know what’s happening!”
“What do you mean?” said Augustin.
“I mean that … you …” She scrambled to think of what to say. “I may be with child.”
All the anger melted from Augustin’s face. He opened his arms. “Oh, my dear, my dear. Come here.”
Helen froze, spine stiff. Lord, what have I done? The idea had only been suggested by Maggie, but there was no going back. She moved to Augustin’s side. He grabbed her hand and kissed it. Pulling urgently, he brought her to her knees. He kissed her forehead and drew her into his arms.
“Are you certain?” he whispered.
She nodded, aware of having a new lie to confess.
“You have made me live again,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HORACE RELAXED BEHIND his fish stand as he waited for his regular customers. The Mohawk had been kind to him that morning, providing a variety of perch, trout, catfish, and bass. Perhaps later tonight he could take some of his earnings and see if there were any goings-on around Post Street that suited his fancy. As he fingered the handkerchief in his pocket, checking to make certain no river water had dampened Maggie’s sandwich, he remembered that he still had not found a “nephew” to send to Mr. Galway. It would keep.
He retrieved that week’s copy of the Oneida Whig from under the stand and set himself to reading the news of the nation, when something on page two caught his eye. A blistering waterfall of words condemned the upcoming statewide abolition convention. He could not think of a more unlikely place than Utica for such a thing. Just as he was settling in to read the column in full, he noticed the two slave catchers walking directly toward the stand. The older one’s smile brought a shiver up his back. He stopped reading, shook the paper, and pretended to use it to shoo away flies before laying it, abolition story side down, over the fish.
“Something caught your eye, boy?” said Hickox as he approached.
“No sir. Just swatting them flies.” Horace grabbed the newspaper off the fish. “Seen anything to suit you, sir? They’s fresh. Swimming this morning, on your plate tonight.”
Hickox nodded to Swift, who circled around the cart and grabbed the newspaper out of Horace’s hand.
“Hey now,” said Horace, alarmed. “You want a damp old newspaper, all right. But they got new clean copies right there in the hotel.”
“The paper doesn’t interest me,” Hickox said, taking it from Swift. “I want to know why it interests you.” He scanned the crumpled pages until he found the article on the abolition convention. He directed his chilly blue eyes at Horace. “If I peeled you like an apple, I’d find an abolitionist under that black skin, isn’t that so? It’s true of all your kind.”
“Don’t know nothing about all that big stuff, mister.” Horace glanced around the square hoping for a friendly face. “I only know about fish.”
“I have a little reading material of my own,” said Hickox, producing a copy of his runaway-slave notice.
Horace glanced at it. A gnawing pain developed in his stomach. Someone was being hunted and now here was the wolf pack sniffing at him. A black man might be kidnapped by frustrated slave catchers and sold into a life of bondage without
warning. It was not impossible. As a matter of fact, it had happened in the great city of New York. Such stories appeared in the abolitionist newspapers that were passed hand to hand on Post Street. Whenever a slave catcher arrived in Utica, news traveled rapidly. He himself had discussed the arrival of these two with Schoolmaster Freeman.
“I ain’t seen ’em,” Horace said, trying to hand the notice back.
“Now look, boy,” said Hickox, smiling and pointing at the top of the notice. “You see right there? It says $150 reward. That’s more money than you see all year. Maybe in ten years. Money like that could make you an important man.” Hickox extended himself over the cart and leaned toward Horace. “From this spot you can see the whole city stroll by. Just open your eyes and see what you see. No one has to know where I got my information. You understand?”
“Yes sir. I got it, but I still ain’t seen them two.”
“Good. Good. But you’re going to keep alert,” said Hickox. “You know what happens when someone keeps the whereabouts of stolen property a secret?”
“Stolen?” said Horace.
“They stole themselves. Same as if your fish here got up and swam off. Their rightful and forgiving owner is waiting at home with open arms.” Hickox ran an appraising eye over Horace. “You’re a businessman. Minding your business, I understand. Here is your problem: anybody who obstructs, hinders, harbors, or conceals an escaped slave pays five hundred dollars or goes to jail. That’s the law and it’s a lot of big words, but I’ll gamble you know what they mean.”
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 11
