“We gonna leave at midnight, at least that’s what the white lady say.”
“Pray that God puts some strength into my legs. You go now, like I told you.”
“But—”
“Go on. Keep a watch out.”
Joe crossed his arms and didn’t move. She was always telling him do this, do that, don’t touch, be quiet, stand up, sit down, and don’t ask—like he was a baby. Today was bad enough. Miss Maggie had not given him a moment of rest.
“You still there?” whispered Imari. “I ain’t hear you moving.”
“But I be tired,” he said.
“Don’t pick now to get fresh,” she said, her voice sharp even through the shed’s wall. “You gonna get to sleeping soon. Go on now.”
Joe stamped his foot, but slowly crawled behind a scrubby berry bush by the barn. He plucked off a few of the raspberries that still hung on the canes and ate them while thinking about his sandwich. It looked very fine, thick with ham on two stout pieces of bread that Maggie had lined with butter. His mouth watered just thinking about it. But his daddy had told him that the baby inside his momma needed food too. Getting born, it seemed, was hungry business.
He ran his hand over the scratchy surface of his head, picking at small scabs and rubbing the spots where a few hairs had been missed by the straight razor. His encounter with Hickox had terrified him. It was plain luck that he got away, but somehow keeping it from his mother felt good. She had her secrets and now he had them too. As he went over what happened, he realized it would be important for her to know. Hickox had proof that they were there. But explaining it meant telling the truth about swimming in the Potomac by himself, and that information was his own, too good to share.
Joe watched Maggie reach over her shoulder and pull a burning stick from the cookstove. Her face brightened as she put a pipe between her lips and sucked fire into the bowl. He liked her, despite Imari’s warning. Miss Maggie ran him from one task to another, and seemed to be mad at him when he was confused, but when she shaved his head, she was more tender than anyone had ever been—except his own mother.
All around him the sounds of evening settled on the neighborhood. The Galways’ horse munched the oats and fresh hay that Joe had set out. Off to his right, the hiss and cha-chunga of a steam engine slowed, and after several minutes he heard men come out from a building. They called “Night” to each other before going their separate ways. Animals moved about in the grass. Deer came out of their daytime hiding places in the woods for a drink from the creek. Mrs. Galway and the visitor entered the kitchen and then left. He heard the front door open and close.
Miss Maggie blew a smoke ring, which made Joe smile. He had not seen a woman smoking since he was with his Grandma Abby, the woman who had raised Elymas as her own. A tall, thin woman who could see over the heads of many of the men, Grandma Abby could blow a smoke ring and then quick as that, shoot out a second that passed right through the middle of the first. Because of her height, she became the only woman on the plantation to learn the art of growing and processing tobacco. During the day, she toiled in the blazing-hot fields. She wielded a hoe with precision, chopping up weeds and keeping the rows clear. Her nimble fingers pruned suckers, nipped flower buds, and crushed hungry green worms. At night, she brought out her small pouch of tobacco, loaded a handmade pipe, and smoked as she “let the work outta my bones.” During the harvest season, he watched her set up the drying fires in the tall barn, where the sheaves of leaves hung from every rack and rafter. The fires had to be carefully monitored so as not to burn too hot and ruin the tobacco, turning it black and sour, but not too low as to prolong the drying process. During curing, she hardly slept. But when she did rest, and allowed him to cuddle up in her lap, she smelled of woodsmoke and the rich caramel scent of tobacco. He had come to love the way the blue smoke that rose from the bowl of her pipe tickled his nose. Occasionally, he begged for a few puffs. One day, after watching her blow a series of rings that floated on the air, thinning out and then disappearing in a light breeze coming off the river, he tried to make his lips form the perfect O to shoot out a ring for himself. She laughed and claimed that he looked like “a runt of a god putting on a high and mighty fuss about nothing.”
His mother didn’t like the old lady sharing the tobacco with him, so he kept his requests to a minimum when she was around. But he looked forward to those stolen moments and the feel of the warm smoke in his mouth and the dizziness and exhilaration he felt after he got his chance. There had been no tobacco since they left the plantation, which had bothered him at first. Miss Maggie might share a plug with him, if he asked her right. In fact, he had not smoked since the day Master Arnold had offered him a fat pouch of tobacco “for nothing.”
Joe broke away from his thoughts about the plantation. Maggie stood, lit a lantern, and came out to the porch; he saw the musket she carried.
A cold sweat sprang from his skin as she came down the stairs and crept toward the shed. She set down the lantern, cocked the gun, brought it into firing position, and looked around as if, in the growing darkness, there were a pack of slavers ready to pounce. With careful, silent steps, she moved to the shed’s door.
“Wait!” Joe called, springing to his feet.
She turned, gun pointed in his direction. “Who’s that?”
“Me—Job,” he said, stepping forward.
“Job?” She lowered the gun. “I just about shot you—like a damn dog. Why you still here, boy?” She picked up the lantern and shone it toward him. “You done scared me half to death. Go home.”
“I ain’t got no home.”
“Go to your Uncle Horace’s then,” she said.
Joe approached. “But, but, he told me to stay here.”
“Oh my blistered backside. Ain’t you got no sense? You shoulda told me. You gonna sleep in that shed? Does Mrs. Galway know that? Is that what you two was fixing up out here?” Maggie grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t you never hide on me. Go to the porch and sit. Go on.”
He backed away, keeping his eye on her. She drew up the musket and went for the door, opening it quickly. He surged forward, arms flailing, scrambling for the gun. A blast of shot and sparks flew into the shed. Flickers of light went everywhere. Thick smoke filled the air. The bang was so loud that it took him a few moments to realize that he could hear a new sound—his mother’s choking wail.
Imari had heard her son shout. The words she understood of the cook’s reply were “shot you.” She tried to leap to her feet, but her legs failed her. He was in danger and she could do nothing. Her hands shook in fear and frustration. She listened. The tone of his voice sounded mature as he tried to get the cook and the gun away from the shed. He was giving her time, perhaps only a moment, to make herself as small as possible. She leaned against the cabinet and pulled her legs as close as they could go to her rounded belly. She hugged the unborn child as if to shield it from harm. The wall of junk would not hide her from someone who knew the correct spot of every item on the property. And then there was the smell. She had been in the shed for more than a day without a way to dispose of waste.
The door thumped open and a gust of cold air rushed in, bringing the hairs on her arms upright. She heard a struggle and then the room was full of light and noise. She felt the stings of a dozen hornets on her left side, down her arms, back, and legs. She cried out, but thick smoke caught in her throat and the smell of bad eggs filled her nose.
Joe shoved the baskets aside and fell to his knees beside her.
“Momma,” he wept. “Sorry, sorry.”
Imari gasped for air. He wrapped his arms around her as she slumped into his body. Just before she blacked out, she heard a woman’s voice shouting, “Get outta my way!”
Maggie and Joe carried Imari into the house and pulled her into the cook’s room off the kitchen, carefully placing her on the bed.
“Oh Lord, oh Lord,” Maggie said as she tried to staunch the blood with her apron. “Job, take that sheet and hold in that b
lood.”
She ran into the kitchen and added some wood to the cookstove’s firebox and moved the kettle onto the plate burner.
Augustin called to her from the library.
“Oh please, not now,” Maggie said.
He called again, panic edging into his voice. She ducked into her room, told Joe to keep pressing off the blood, and ran to the library.
“What was that?” Augustin called from the daybed.
“That’s just me. Shooting one of them old nasty raccoons.”
“I thought I heard a woman scream. Was that you?”
“Me? No,” said Maggie as she fussed with Augustin’s blanket. “That was the raccoon. Terribly peculiar, wasn’t it? Must be some lady didn’t do no good in her human life, so she came back as an animal.”
“What’s all that on your apron?”
Maggie looked down and noticed Imari’s blood. “Oh, that’s nothing. Don’t you worry none. I got water on. I’ll bring you some tea.”
“Where is the doctor? I need my medicine,” Augustin complained, crossing his arms.
“Who knows where that dirty old doctor keep hisself. I’ll get you what you need, just like always.” She went to the liquor table and lifted the opium bottle. “This the one, right? For pain?”
“Yes, thirty drops,” said Augustin.
Maggie measured out the drops and added a splash of brandy to the glass, looked at him, and added a second splash. As she turned, she dropped the opium bottle into her pocket.
“Now you drink that down. You don’t need that doctor. Don’t I always take care a you?”
“You always do.”
Maggie hurried to the door. “Get some sleep. I’ll check on you in a bit.”
She was almost out the door when Augustin asked, “Did she die?”
“What?” she said, frozen.
“The raccoon, did she die?”
“A course. Her spirit be on to some other critter by now, poor lady.”
In the kitchen, she poured steaming water into a bowl and grabbed clean rags from her supply. She lit an oil lantern and hurried back into her room. Imari blinked rapidly. Joe sat next to her, his hands dark with blood. Maggie gave him a clean rag and took his place.
“She gonna die?” asked Joe.
“Now don’t you worry. That’s just a little bird shot. Ain’t gonna be too deep.” She looked over Imari’s body. “Boy, you clean up and close them curtains. In the kitchen too. Then go get my lantern from the yard and bring that musket back. Don’t wanna leave that around.”
Joe looked at his mother. She focused on him, squinting.
“You heard the lady,” she said weakly. After Joe cleared the room she grabbed Maggie’s arm. “Did the baby get shot?”
“Now you’re in the house and gotta be quiet,” whispered Maggie as she lifted the bloody sheet. “I know you’re hurting, but don’t raise no noise.” Maggie seized a pair of scissors out of her sewing basket. “Gotta cut that blouse and skirt off to see what I done.”
“I don’t care about no clothes,” whispered Imari. “My baby. That’s all that matters. It ain’t moving.”
Maggie swallowed hard and worked the scissors through the waistband of the skirt, pushing back the material. She brought the lamp closer. Imari’s stomach was dark with blood. Maggie wet a rag and began to clean. Imari flinched. Maggie stopped.
“I’m sorry. But …”
“Keep going,” said Imari.
Maggie brought the lamp up close and inspected each wound. Several deep slashes marked her belly.
“What you seeing?” asked Imari, lifting her head.
“It looks like …” Maggie shook her head in relief. “Thank you, Lord,” she cried. “None a the shot went in. Thank you, thank you, Lord.” She looked at Imari. “You got some scratches where the shot cut you as it went on by. But none a them pellets got into your belly. I didn’t hurt the baby.”
Imari squeezed Maggie’s hand. Her head fell back on the pillow, eyelids fluttering.
Joe stood in the doorway. “She gonna live?”
“A course,” said Maggie. “But we gotta dig out every piece a that shot. And she can’t make no noise. You gotta help me, Job. You gotta be a man and help your momma.”
“Joe. My name ain’t Job.”
“And what’s your momma’s name?”
“Imari.”
“Imari. Pretty name for a pretty gal. You two on the run?”
Joe’s eyes flashed to his mother. “Yes,” he said.
Maggie pulled out the vial of opium. “Okay, okay then, this is what I need you to do …”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
PRYCE FELT HELPLESS as he watched Dr. McCooke lead Helen out of the square. His stomach soured. Should he follow them? That might have been the very same impulse that had caused his improper advances. In the parlor, she had begged him to do nothing to harm her reputation and now this had happened. Beastly bodily impulses. He was no better than a rutting cur.
Curse this city. He’d hardly had one good moment in it since he’d crossed its borders. He would call on Mr. Galway in the morning and try for a loan to get himself back home. But it didn’t matter. If necessary, he would walk the thirty miles to Little Falls. Of course, when Father finds out I’ve cut the trip short and wasted his money—and know less than nothing about engineering—he will give me that sad look that says, I still love you. It’s like I’m still a boy. But I’m a man and must face the brutal truth. Miss O’Connell is Mrs. Galway and there isn’t a thing I can or should do about it. Yet, there can’t be affection between those two. And she is so … alive.
At the National Hotel, the sounds of the taproom filtered out through the entranceway to the wide street-level veranda. Light poured through the tall windows and inside many men opted to refresh themselves with food and drink, completely ignoring the comet.
All the seats on the wooden benches that stretched the full width of the hotel porch were filled save one, next to a large gentleman who was reading a copy of the Oneida Whig. Pryce dropped down and stared at the carts passing through the pools of light cast by the streetlamps along Genesee. Galway had paid his way out of jail, paid all his lodging expenses, and even trusted him with his wife, and all the man had received in return was betrayal. A blast of laughter exploded from the bar. Why resist leaving? At this point there was no other honorable choice.
The fellow next to him shook his newspaper. “Damn liars,” he murmured, crumpling up the periodocal and throwing it to the ground.
Pryce flinched.
“Pardon me,” said the big man, noticing him for the first time. “Reading the paper’s an obligation, but I am compelled to spend my precious time fighting the most outrageous falsehoods.”
“You in the newspaper business, sir?” inquired Pryce.
“At this moment, I seem to be engaged in the business of making the news. Alvan Stewart, Esq., at your service.”
Pryce perked up. “Pryce Anwell, lately of Little Falls. Forever of Little Falls, I suppose. How are you making news?”
“Shall I tell you and risk creating another enemy?”
“Me? Don’t have me arrested and we’ll be fine.”
“Though I’m a lawyer, I don’t usually have strangers arrested to build my practice.” Stewart appeared to be measuring Pryce. “Are you a colonizationist or an abolitionist?”
“Excuse me?”
“Slavery, my friend. Should it be ended by colonizing the slaves in Africa, or setting them free now?”
“I haven’t given it any thought,” said the young man. “I feel sorry about what those slaves must endure.”
“What will we become if we don’t think much about our fellow human beings?” mused Stewart.
“I’ve never enslaved anybody,” said Pryce amiably. “And I don’t plan to.”
“True, we seem far from it here,” said Stewart, leaning back casually. “I wonder. That shirt—is it made of cotton?”
Pryce nodded.
; “Of course it is. Ever indulged in tobacco?” The young man began to answer when Stewart held up his finger. “No? I can see you maybe enjoy a good smoke occasionally, not enough to call it an indulgence. Add sugar to your tea? Eat your mother’s plum pudding at holiday time? We all have. We all benefit from slavery, don’t you see?”
“How can I help doing what everyone else does?” asked Pryce.
“That’s an important question.” Stewart dug into his pocket. He handed a folded notice to Pryce. “Perhaps my upcoming abolition convention will help you figure that out.”
“Convention?”
“In just a few weeks hundreds of dedicated men will come to Utica to create the New York Anti-Slavery Society.” Stewart retrieved the newspaper and flattened its pages. “We are coming together to demand immediate emancipation of the slaves. What do you think about that?”
“It sounds rather dangerous. There’s a lot of them, isn’t there?”
“We think about two and a half million.”
“Let loose two and a half million? It sounds crazy. Won’t there be violence?”
“From the slave owners? They will resent it,” said Stewart, studying the young man.
“No, from the slaves.”
“They yearn to be free. Would you fight the man who opened your cage?”
Pryce thought back to what he was doing to Mr. Galway and shivered. “Your convention sounds quite interesting, and I’d like to be there, but I’ll be gone. My father expects me home.”
“Too bad. We need young men like you.” Stewart’s attention shifted to the right, toward the sound of clinking irons. Two men on horseback appeared out of the shadows and approached the hotel. Shackles dangled from their saddles. “Slave catchers. Hickox, and the big one is Swift. They have been ripping down my convention signs and putting up their foul notice about two runaways. I have been returning the favor. We are at silent war for the eyes of Utica.”
“Runaway slaves? Through here?”
“Yes. And their numbers increase each year. Soon the dribble will be an unstoppable flood to rival Noah’s. Those wretched unfortunates will wipe out slavery with their own legs.”
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 16
