The Third Mrs. Galway

by Deirdre Sinnott

  She felt the baby shift. He or she would not rest. God, she prayed, I have nothing left. Let me have this one. No husband. No friends. Not even the strength to get onto my legs. Where is Joe? He might be in the hands a the demon Hickox.

  She pictured the boy in chains, his thin limbs dragged down by their weight. Or worse, they might be whipping him into betraying her.

  Joe had been a miracle. There had been two others who never even had a chance at life. And her firstborn, poor Jimmy. Sold off for looking too much like a yellow Master James for his wife to live with. Imari tapped on her heart as she always did when Jimmy came to mind. It crippled her to even think where her poor light-skinned boy might be. The child was only four when Master James sold him. The man never said where he sold Jimmy or to whom. It was like he couldn’t get rid of the evidence of his sin quick enough. The world opened its jaws and swallowed Jimmy whole.

  When she was carrying Joe, her fourth, Master James had brought in a doctor, a filthy old man with long white hairs sprouting from his eyebrows, nose, ears, and one small crop coming out of a brown witch’s teat on his cheek. He had laid her out on her mother’s own pallet and put his nasty hands all over her without even saying “Good morning,” like she was a thing.

  Once the exam was over, he and Master James stepped outside. She crept to the entrance. They talked about her “slippery womb.” Slippery? As if Jimmy had just slid out of her.

  The doctor had said, “Sell the wench. She’s no breeder. Ain’t worth the feed.”

  Master James laughed. “She has her uses.”

  Despite the doctor’s opinion, Joe held on.

  She shifted her back, trying to find a comfortable position. This new baby seemed strong enough. It had survived all these miles.

  They had decided to set out on a moonless Saturday night in late July. She was about six months with child. The sun had been relentless during the day and most of the slaves moved their bedding outside hoping for cool air off the Potomac.

  Imari knew that there was never a time when everyone could be expected to be asleep. She made Elymas leave the cabin first and head to the shack where the slaves did their private business. He was to work his way through the trees over to the shore where he and Joe had constructed a raft. She and Joe joined him about an hour later and hoped that no one would put the two departures together.

  They intended to float across the Potomac to Maryland. She had never been on the water and when Elymas proposed their means of escape, she begged him to find another way. He guessed that they might be carried downriver a mile or two, thereby getting a good head start. She finally conceded.

  When they pushed off from the shore, frigid water came up between the logs. A swift current grabbed the raft. Their roughly made oars would not get them to the other side. It was impossible to see anything ahead as they were buffeted by the moving water. The raft’s wood pieces moved like an accordion. After being bucked an inch or two into the air, Imari and Joe gave up trying to row and hung on to the leather straps that Elymas had added—just in case. Water surged over the wood and soaked them as they rode the swells. The ropes that held the contraption together loosened. Elymas tried to keep the raft in one piece with his whole body. Once the knots gave way, sections tore loose. As it broke apart, Elymas grabbed Joe and hauled him close. Imari clutched a single log that whipped like the tail of a snake as the river rushed her away. In the darkness she lost sight of them. Through the roar of the rapids, she heard Elymas franticly calling for her.

  A rock outcropping as large as a horse suddenly appeared. The log slapped against it. She spun, ending up facing backward. Smaller stones scraped against her, but she could not get a grip on anything solid.

  Suddenly, she was tangled in the limbs of a downed tree. The remains of the raft ripped out of her hands. The force of the water pushed her down. Waves covered her head. She held her breath and grasped large branches, pulling herself to the surface. She coughed and sputtered but, hand over hand, dragged herself toward the thicker arms of the tree. The crush of the water and the weight of her saturated dress sapped her strength, yet she continued, knowing that to weaken meant death. Soon her knees rubbed the riverbed. She crawled to the beach and collapsed. Where were Joe and Elymas?

  She yelled for them. Only the Potomac answered. She cried bitterly. With no strength left, she rested her head on her weary arms and moved no farther.

  It was not until after the sun rose and woke her from exhausted sleep that she saw that she had landed on a sandy finger at the end of a wooded island. She was close enough to the Maryland shore to see people moving about. On that side of the island, the river was calm with no white water to mock her.

  She dared not draw attention, but pulled her heavy wet skirts out of the sand and moved to the safety of the trees. She shucked off petticoats and squeezed water out of her dress. Her shoes, shawl, and head rag were gone. She rested against a tree and tried to concentrate on the babe in her stomach. Had it survived?

  As she rubbed her belly, trying to coax the life inside her to stir, she realized how crazy they had been. They had known nothing about nothing. Only now did she see the jeopardy that she had brought upon the unborn child—upon them all. Eyes closed, she prayed to God to let this mistake come out right. Let them all survive. The river had scrubbed her of her pride.

  Splashing sounds reached her ears and she moved through the trees until she saw Elymas and Joe walking in ankle-deep water. Quick as lightning, Elymas plunged his hand into the river and came back out with a floppy black eel. Her stomach rumbled and the baby, as if it too were watching, gave her notice that it was alive and ready to eat.

  “I knew you was strong,” she said, and ran to her family, throwing her arms around them.

  Now, in the quiet of the shed, Imari laughed ruefully to herself. She wondered: if they had turned around at the island, found some way to get back to the plantation before dawn on Monday, might they not still be together?

  “We ain’t crossing that river again,” Elymas had said. “We just gonna get kilt if we try. I don’t wanna die like no drowned dog.” So they did not turn back.

  Other than her first hours on the island, she had rarely been alone. After keeping her boy close for so long, how could she have lost him now? At the plantation, she thought, I didn’t protect him from Master Arnold. But why had Joe suddenly run off? Anger stirred her. Now he gonna get sold down south. He ain’t never gonna get no freedom. If he was in Hickox’s clutches it was his own fault. Thinking he knew better than she. Everything could be lost in a second. She closed her eyes. He deserved better—such a useful boy, so smart. Now it had to all be for the baby.

  She sighed. If only being separated for a few hours by the river had been their biggest trouble on this long journey. Elymas, Elymas, she thought desperately, are you really not coming? Can I give you up and move to the next place? She should have lashed herself to Joe last night. That would have stopped the boy from wandering. Well, there was no changing the past. God seemed to care so little for the present, He could not be expected to go setting right the yesterdays of a slave.

  She caught herself. No. Never again a slave.

  After leaving the doctor in the hallway, Helen went upstairs to her room to prepare to look for the man Imari had said would help. The thought of the smitten Mr. Anwell brought a girlish smile to her lips. Under Miss Manahan’s care she’d seldom encountered handsome, brash young gentlemen. The boys and the dreadful leering men she’d met on her walks to the canal had been horrible, ill-mannered ruffians. But Mr. Anwell was so dashing, and the daring way he had flirted with her from the top of the packet boat—he seemed reckless to woo her. Would she be able to keep him at bay in the dark square, with the night sky above them? Why, he might be so bold as to try to steal a kiss. In the mirror, she noted how happy she looked. It was wrong to even entertain such ideas. But before she was able to push the thought of his kiss out of her head, she imagined him coming to her bed. Once again her face burned.
Augustin seemed blinded by opium, or surely he would have noticed the young man’s attentions. The doctor certainly noticed. She left her room resolved to not think about him or anything else except finding Imari’s contact.

  She opened the hall linen closet and pulled a knitted woolen blanket from the shelf. A chamber pot sat on the floor. How would she get them to Imari? Certainly, she should be able to go wherever she liked, no matter what Maggie thought. She felt a stab of guilt about Maggie. The cook had been very kind to her. If there had been another way to handle the situation with Joe, she didn’t know what it could be. She didn’t want to think that she might have ruined her relationship with … well, the only kind person in the house. Life was capricious. She believed that leaving school and marrying would bring her freedom, but that was the assumption of a girl, not the reality of a wife. Even if this was now her house, she couldn’t just march out to the shed.

  And now there was Joe. She could think of no way to get him out without raising more questions. She had covered it over with Augustin. Now she had to try to mend the breach with Maggie. And Imari must be told that Joe was a part of the household.

  She came to the first floor and stopped outside the kitchen door. Maggie seemed to be talking to Joe and saying something that sounded like “crazy come from crazy,” which she assumed to be about her own father’s manner of death. She wanted to burst in and stop Maggie’s wagging tongue. Poppa was not crazy. He was heartbroken. The cook lived in the comfort of this house. How could she know what he had felt? How could she know anything?

  Behind the door Maggie grew quiet. Helen backed away. She lit a taper from one of the sconces in the hallway and stepped down into the basement’s dark dampness. After some searching, she found an empty flour sack. She lifted it from a low table. Several potato bugs dropped to the dirt floor and scuttled away. Startled, she dropped the sack and then, mad that she had been scared, flicked the bag a few times to clear it. She put in the blanket and chamber pot and went back upstairs.

  At the kitchen, she paused once again and heard Maggie whisper, “You ain’t gotta do nothing that lady says.” Everything had gotten so complicated so quickly. Perhaps she should stop right where she was, before there was real trouble, and confess to Augustin. Maybe he would forgive her if she explained that there was a man who was supposed to help the runaways. Maybe he would let them proceed on their way. But, she remembered, the slave catchers had come to the house. Did they have that privilege with everyone in town?

  She had already wronged Joe; she would not wrong him again. If only she could find the man who was to help. She would risk it. Confess later, if need be.

  She entered the kitchen. The back of Joe’s newly shaved head greeted her, now dotted with cuts and abrasions. The skin where his hair had been was much lighter than his neck. Africans browned in the sun? There was so much that she didn’t know.

  Both he and Maggie turned and looked at her. Without his eyebrows, Joe looked like a weird elfish spirit with a glowing dome.

  “Maggie,” said Helen, “I must apologize. I treated you badly.”

  “You ain’t gotta say nothing to me, ma’am,” replied Maggie, as she turned away and swept Joe’s hair into a dustpan. “I’m just a cook. Lady of the house don’t gotta say she’s sorry to no cook.”

  “But I should have trusted your judgment,” said Helen. She looked at the boy. “Job, is it? I’m sorry to have scared you.”

  “You ain’t gotta be sorry to no black boy,” Maggie said, emptying the dustpan into a pail of food shavings. “Anyway, we going to town to tell Horace what’s what so Job’s people don’t think we went crazy on the boy.”

  Joe’s eyes pleaded with Helen to save him.

  “Wait,” said Helen. “I need his help in the shed. I mean, Mr. Galway may be waking soon and doesn’t Job need to be here? Besides, I have an errand in Bagg’s Square and I will explain to Horace what happened.”

  Maggie looked at her finally, her face cross. “Yes ma’am. If you say so, ma’am.” She picked up the razor and the slop pan. “We’re here to do what you say, ma’am. No reason you gotta be nice.” She stalked to the porch and threw the dirty water onto the lawn. Puffs of white shaving soap dappled the grass like early snow.

  Helen tasted bitterness on her tongue. She supposed that she deserved the comment. “Come with me, Job,” she said as she passed Maggie on the porch.

  “You just told me he’s gotta be ready for Mr. Augustin.”

  “He will be,” said Helen. Carrying her loaded flour sack, she stepped down the stairs and across the yard.

  “I just dressed him up nice,” called Maggie. “He ain’t gonna be fit for the house after that shed.”

  Helen pressed on.

  Imari gasped when she saw Joe’s shaved head. Helen explained the haircut and how the ruse had to be maintained, at least for the day. The boy gave his mother half a loaf of bread as well as bacon from Maggie’s breakfast. Their reunion was short and tear filled. Joe said nothing about almost being captured.

  “I’m going to find your contact, the Quaker,” said Helen. “Joe, you must leave here now so that Maggie doesn’t come looking.”

  “I ain’t going back,” Joe declared.

  “Get yourself back,” Imari snapped, “and you play at being happy to serve that man. You play like this is the happiest you ever been and raise no fuss. You obey that cook too. She sound like trouble.”

  “She nice,” said Joe.

  “You too young to know,” said Imari with finality.

  Once again Helen stood over the canal, this time on the Third Street Bridge. The memory of Mr. Anwell burned her cheeks. Was she really so captivating that he’d become mesmerized by her and fell into the canal? And to have agreed to see the comet with him was a willful folly. But it would be fun to once again have someone with whom to discuss the stars. That couldn’t be bad, could it?

  It was time to find Imari’s contact. She had few clues. He was a Quaker with a shop. What kind of shop, Imari could not say. He could be found by a candle burning in a tiny window at night. According to Imari, the shop was on the south side of the canal, near Ballou Creek.

  The whole area held many of Helen’s most happy memories. Just ahead was the building that had been her father’s blacksmith shop. Now the place was run by Mr. Rees. Her mouth felt dry even seeing it again. That happy past, did it really exist? Every assumption she’d had was false—ripped away by reality. Even yesterday’s assumptions no longer stood. Five years ago this area had been almost empty. Now the intersection of Ballou Creek and the canal was a bustling area of businesses. To add to her frustration, every fourth man looked like he could be a Quaker. Was she to stop strangers and quiz them about whether they helped slaves escape?

  Just east of Third Street the businesses thinned out as the developed part of the city gave way to streams, trees, and ungraded dirt roads. Across the creek was the soap and candle factory; black smoke from rendering animal fat made the air feel greasy. It seemed too big to be harboring runaway slaves. Such illegal business had to be furtive. The more people who knew a secret like that, the less likely it would be kept. No, she was looking for a smaller establishment. One run by a husband and wife, maybe, or a single proprietor. Eliminating Mr. Rees was easy—he was a Welsh Presbyterian. Next to the soap factory was the Crinan Brewery. Did Quakers drink? She thought that they must be temperate, but she didn’t know for sure. And if you were yourself not a drinker, did that prohibit you from brewing beer?

  I’m getting nowhere, she decided. I haven’t even been inside one business or asked one question. Perhaps it would help to begin with a sort of a survey. I’ll walk past each place and see what I can eliminate. When I have a few prospects, I’ll come back and enter them one by one. She started back up Third Street, passing a shoemaker—possible, but it wouldn’t be open late at night. There was the American Hotel, which seemed unlikely, not isolated enough. And one could absolutely rule out Deputy Mitchell’s house. On the corner of the b
lock stood a small two-story building. The sign said, Owen Sylvanus: Baker.

  Nothing looked obvious. This search was ridiculous. And she could feel herself dismissing places like the shoemaker’s simply because they were unknown to her.

  She began to walk toward home, but stopped. How could she tell Imari that she had failed? The woman had escaped from a cruel master and come hundreds of miles. Yet, was Helen herself too cowardly to go into a few shops and look around for a Quaker? She had not been nearly so timid before her wedding. What was it about the state of marriage that had pushed her into this crystalline fragility? It could not be borne. She had to succeed—if not for them, then for her own self-respect. And it was the only way to be rid of them.

  Just then she spied a roundish man carrying a large basket into the bakery. It backed up onto the creek, as Imari had said it would. In his black coat, white shirt, and wide-brimmed black hat, he certainly looked like a Quaker. Didn’t Joe have some bread in his pocket? She glanced around furtively. There was nothing wrong with entering a shop, yet her pulse was up and her face was hot. A bell jingled when she opened the door. Inside, the comforting smell of yeast and freshly baked bread got her mouth watering.

  “A moment, please,” came a voice from the back of the shop.

  Helen noticed that there was a lock on the door leading to the rear of the store. Curious, she thought.

  “How may I help thee?” said the baker, closing the door firmly.

  At least he seemed to be a Quaker, but she had no idea what to say. A direct question would not be trusted. Too much innuendo might also draw suspicion.

  “I had a taste of some delicious bread this morning,” she started, “and I wanted to see if it came from here.”

  “Didst thou come from a packet boat?” he said, grinning.

  “No.”

  He paused. “Bagg’s Hotel, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “Thou must tell me more. Most of my humble products are purchased by the canalboats or the hotels. Few buy from the shop.”