A hotel groom approached the slave catchers. Before handing the reins of their horses to him, Swift and Hickox gathered their weapons.
“Leave them saddled,” Hickox instructed. “Fodder and water only. We’ve more calls to make.”
The groom started away. Hickox called him back and whispered something in his ear. The groom nodded in Stewart’s direction.
“My little handbill war has just escalated,” said Stewart, standing. “It’s best I leave.”
Pryce stood also. “Is it safe for you?” He looked at the two slave catchers. Now that they were approaching the porch, the younger one looked grossly strong and the older dangerously stony. “I think I shall go for a walk as well.”
“Come along then,” said Stewart as he stepped to the street. Pryce turned rigidly and followed. Stewart headed up Genesee, but when he came to the canal bridge, he hopped over the railing and down to the dark towpath. Pryce followed and as soon as he hit the gravel, he was pulled under the bridge.
“Quiet,” whispered Stewart. “They may not have noticed.” He pushed Pryce under the center of the bridge. Above them footsteps echoed on the paving stones.
“This is the way he went, ain’t it?” said one voice, as its owner stepped onto the bridge’s timbers.
“Shut up and listen,” said the other.
Pryce heard the wood of the bridge creak. A sprinkle of dirt fell on his shoulder. Afraid to move, he let it lie.
“Look under the bridge,” said the second man.
Pryce held his breath as Stewart pressed them back against the musty wall.
Above them, Swift went to the east side of the bridge, kneeled, and bent his thick torso. Pryce saw his head silhouetted in the approaching light of a canal boy’s lantern.
“See anybody?” asked Hickox from above.
“Maybe,” said Swift. The light crept toward Stewart and Pryce’s position. But without warning, one of the tow mules neighed and reared up, spooked by Swift’s head. The boy struck Swift with his staff.
“Hey!” shouted the slaver, holding his ear.
“You want your head ripped off?” yelled the boy. “Keep it right there, brother.”
“Ya think you can just whip me?” roared Swift.
Stewart pulled Pryce away from the argument. They trotted quickly along the towpath until they came to the next bridge and climbed back to the street. The abolitionist cast his eye about.
“I thought I was watching those two,” he whispered. “Now they’re watching me.”
“What will they do if they catch you?” asked Pryce, looking over his shoulder.
“Plenty of men in this city would rejoice if I became incapacitated by some accident and unable to carry on with the convention.”
Pryce started to laugh and then clapped his hand over his mouth.
Stewart raised his eyebrow. “Levity at my demise? You are a callow youth.”
“You must admit—that was rather thrilling.”
“Since I announced the convention, every day has brought new thrills, as you call them,” said Stewart. “When do you leave for Little Falls?”
“My situation is complicated. I lost all my money and have a debt to pay.”
“And I’ve dragged you into my business as the most hated man in Utica. My apologies.”
Pryce laughed again. “At least yours is a noble reason to be hated.” His hand twitched as he remembered its trip around Helen’s fingers.
Stewart stood squarely before Pryce, his face serious. “Now, have you the stomach to follow our slave catchers and see where they’re sniffing?”
“You mean there’s more that might happen?”
“Those two are in Utica for some reason. I need to know if it has anything to do with my convention.”
“More thrills?” asked Pryce.
“It may be foolhardy. Are you feeling bold or cautious?”
“I feel like I want to be bold,” said Pryce, “Sir, you have me for the next few hours—before I leave for home.”
“Good lad,” said the abolitionist. “Let’s hope we don’t regret this.”
Horace considered his profitable day. After the slave catchers had left him with the two Spanish doubloons, he’d sold off most of his stock. As the dark of night came upon the city, he found himself trying to decide what to do with the gold pieces. His shack held all his possessions: fishing equipment and clothing, some dishes and fry pans, cooking utensils, a few pieces of furniture rescued from the oblivion of the streets and lovingly oiled clean, bedding with a mattress stuffed each summer with new hay, a stack of recent newspapers collected from the refuse piles of the steam-powered printshops, a potbellied stove that had been in his daddy’s shack, his supply of salted fish put by for winter, and a box that held his papers proving that he had been born a free man of free parents.
Before today, he never worried about the security of his belongings. Thieves knew that breaking into the cabin of a black man—a fishmonger’s at that—would net them very little. But now the two doubloons weighed on his mind. They jangled differently than the other coins, their tone a constant reminder of their evil source. He should never have accepted them and he felt certain that the slave catchers would not let him give them back. They were his responsibility.
If he spoke to a friend about what to do, there would be awkward questions. Some might even suspect that he had turned to crime. No matter what story he gave, he knew that certain people would see the coins in the same light as Judas’s thirty pieces of silver. Normally he could tell his problem to Mr. Galway, who seemed to have everything figured out when it came to money. But after the morning’s discussion, the man’s agenda seemed to include making him cross the wild ocean and die in Africa from either fever or an attack by tribes hostile to the colonizers.
Perhaps Schoolmaster Freeman might have an idea of how to safely store the doubloons. Being an educated man, he generally avoided irrational theories and speculations. Maybe it would be best not to admit to Freeman that it was he who had the coin problem. He headed up to the schoolmaster’s home on Post Street, all the while hearing the unnerving clang of Spanish gold.
With its boardinghouses and taverns, Post Street’s reputation was decidedly bawdy, but most of the people who lived on the single-block street were focused on securing an income and keeping their children’s bellies full. Apart from the friendly, food-providing cooks Horace cultivated, almost all the people of color lived in the two-story, whitewashed, wooden buildings with pitched roofs and small stoops that lined the street. He rounded the corner of Burnet and saw people still out and about, enjoying the autumn night, their lanterns shedding pools of light at their feet as they talked to neighbors. In the shadows, a few young men coaxed kisses from their sweethearts.
For the most part, the white citizens of Utica stayed away from Post Street. A few whites lived there and those who inhabited the adjacent streets had a nodding relationship with their black fellows and kept to their own. The whites who came at night brought with them the behaviors and demands that led to the street’s spicy character. There would always be men ready to profit from unsavory doings.
Horace glanced behind him and was surprised to see Dr. McCooke approaching from Bleecker, making his way into the neighborhood. Horace stepped up onto a narrow porch that was shaded by a second-story balcony, lowered his hat, and leaned one shoulder against the wall, pretending to be drunk. McCooke paid no attention and proceeded down the street toward one of the houses in which favors of an intimate type could be purchased.
Suddenly, couples began to part, boys going one way and girls another. Neighbors tipped their hats and retreated to their homes as if in a hurry. Horace snuck to the edge of the stoop and tried to figure out what was happening. He instantly recognized the outline of the two slave catchers as they slowly rode their horses up the street. Behind him, he heard the sound of people traveling through the backyards of the block. Some of them may have had prices on their heads and would be of interest to Hickox
and Swift.
McCooke headed straight for them. Hickox leaned down to shake the doctor’s hand.
Horace ducked between two houses and, instead of departing as the other men had, sneaked up closer. He got to the back of Schoolmaster Freeman’s house and judged that he must be pretty near the three whites. He slipped up the rear staircase and when he knocked on the Freemans’ door, he was quickly admitted. The schoolmaster’s son put his finger to his lips and led Horace to the front parlor. The entire family, Freeman, his wife, and two girls, were sitting by the open window, listening to the white men’s conversation. Horace kneeled close to the frame, his ear hot with the desire to find out what it was all about.
“Just appeared in the house.”
“Red hair?”
“Bald as a melon. But a very fresh shave. Still a few bloody scrapes from the blade.”
“Is he still there?”
“I have no idea.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“So is that worth anything? I’m happy to cut the house’s Negro population in half.”
“We shall see.”
The sound of the horses moving away broke up the Freeman family.
“Are those the two gentlemen we saw yesterday, Mr. Wilberforce?” asked Freeman.
“They’s the ones,” answered Horace. “Come sniffing around the stand this morning. Tried to get me to help round up them runaways. Even gave me this here paper.” As he slipped the slave notice out of his pocket, he heard the gold coins clap against each other. They sounded as loud as church bells on a Sunday morning. “That doctor was at the Galway place this morning,” he added.
“There any young boys there?” asked Freeman. “They were discussing a boy with a freshly shaved head.” Freeman quickly read the notice.
“Maggie be looking for a boy. Ask me to find her one.”
“It sounds like she found one herself. And the slave catcher made a point to ask about red hair. They might go there looking for this ‘Joey’ mentioned in the notice.”
“I gotta warn Maggie,” said Horace, moving quickly for the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE LIBRARY WAS DARK when Helen returned to the house. There had to be a way to tell Augustin about the doctor’s behavior and at least bring up her doubts about the opium. His snore, the same noise that kept her awake and staring into the darkness whenever he accidentally fell asleep in her bed, could be heard before she even opened the door. She almost stalked up the stairs, disgusted with him, but remembered his injury and went in. Embers still glowed in the large fireplace. She turned up an oil lamp. The light shone on the creamy face of a pendulum clock. It was past eleven, not yet time for the baker, Mr. Sylvanus, to arrive and help get Imari and Joe away.
There was something about Augustin’s sleeping face that caught her. With one more glance at the clock, she decided that there was plenty of time before she had to go back to that shed. Reaching out, she put the back of her hand on Augustin’s forehead. It was clammy, but not feverish. She plucked a few stray hairs off his face. Even in the peace of sleep, the skin around his eyes crinkled. Deep lines fell from the outside of his wide nostrils to the corners of his mouth. He was a handsome man, but thin blue veins snaked at his temples and the skin under his chin hung loosely about his face. His head and rusty beard were frosted with gray.
Mr. Anwell had whiskers too. Except, of course, he had no gray, no wrinkles, no slackening skin, nothing but striking green eyes that danced at the thought of seeing the comet.
How he had dazzled her with his knowledge of the night sky. She imagined spending hours looking through a telescope with him to guide her eye. Unconsciously, she traced the path that his finger had made around her hand’s contours. Shivers of joy spread around her belly, tightening her bosom and raising heat below her waist.
Augustin sighed, his shoulders twitched, and the tip of his tongue darted out of his mouth to wet his lips. But this was the man to whom she was bound. She brought the lamp to his injured leg. It was dry and warm beneath her fingers. Perhaps a bit swollen, but that was to be expected. His leg would heal and he would be visiting her bedroom again. If she was not already with child, she would be soon enough. That was her lot. Mr. Anwell had to be avoided. Imari and Joe must be turned over to Mr. Sylvanus. And Dr. McCooke had to be expelled.
She thought that she had better say her goodbyes to the fugitives and make certain they were fully prepared. Having them in the shed had been very trying. But the story that Imari told her about the way she had been treated at the plantation—well, she would not soon forget that. She knew nothing about slavery, nothing. Clearly Miss Manahan was wrong when she had taught that slaves were part of the family. Perhaps, she thought, I can ask Imari why she stayed as long as she did—and why she left.
Helen slipped out of the library. The doctor had not yet returned. She would never allow him to take the liberties he assumed were his due as a man, but solving that problem had to wait.
Light came from under the kitchen door, so she went out the side of the house. When she got to the back corner of the building, she saw the full moon shining over the treetops. With much deliberateness, she crept toward the quiet yard. Light glowed from the kitchen window, and as she came forward, she noticed that the curtains had been drawn. Maggie’s bedroom window was ablaze behind muslin fabric.
The shed door was wide open. Helen hurried across the lawn. The smell of burnt black powder lingered inside. Her hands began to shake.
“Imari?” she whispered. “Joe?”
The wall of baskets was in disarray. She rushed to the farthest recess and found the quilt and blanket, but no Imari. A shiver went through her. Could Mr. Sylvanus have already been here and taken them away? Had they been captured? If so, Augustin would have been awakened. Everyone would know that she had been guilty of hiding them. The evidence must be gotten rid of. She swept the bedding into her arms and grabbed the chamber pot. Behind the shed, she heaved the pot’s contents into the night. She went back to the house and brought everything to the basement. There she wrapped the pot in the blankets and shoved the package deep into the dusty shelves.
Maggie had to know what was going on. There was nothing to do but face her.
In the empty kitchen, a lamp burned on the table. Muffled sounds and the ping of metal hitting metal came from the cook’s bedroom. Helen tapped on the door. The sounds stopped.
“Maggie, it’s Helen.”
A chair scraped on the floor. Maggie opened the door a crack. “You alone?”
“Yes,” whispered Helen.
The door swung open. Inside Imari lay on her side with her eyes pressed shut. Several candles and lanterns surrounded her. Joe held her hand and talked softly in her ear. Bloody pieces of cotton dotted her arm and back. Her left leg was speckled with dark holes that leaked onto the bed.
Maggie pulled Helen into the room and shut the door. “She got shot. Bird shot. I done it.” Maggie looked back at the prone figure. “By mistake.”
“Imari,” said Helen, going to her knees by the bed, “are you all right?”
The woman opened her eyes, but then her irises rolled up and her lids fluttered.
“I gave her some a Mr. Augustin’s medicine,” said the cook.
“I know you?” asked Imari, now focused on Helen’s face.
“We gotta get the pellets outta her,” said Maggie. “I’m mostly done, praise heaven.”
The clock in the hallway began to strike midnight.
“Joe,” said Helen, “you remember that bread maker you met this morning?”
“Yes ma’am,” Joe nodded.
“He might be out at the shed this moment—come to take you both away. Go outside and quietly bring him in.”
“She can’t go nowhere,” said Maggie.
“Of course,” said Helen. “But Joe, bring him in. He may be of some help.”
Joe left.
Maggie sat at Imari’s side. “I’m gonna start digging again, Imari. You gotta
hold quiet.” She picked up the knife and focused on an open wound. “Missus, bring that light a little closer.”
Helen moved the lamp and could see a wet round ball just under the surface of the skin.
“This one’s not too bad,” said Maggie. “Now sister, you hold still and be quiet.” Maggie’s eyes flashed to Helen, who began speaking softly in Imari’s ear.
“Quiet … shush … I know it hurts, but be calm and quiet. You’re going to be all right. Elymas would want you to be brave.”
“Elymas,” said Imari in full voice.
Maggie dropped the knife.
“Shush,” said Helen to Imari.
“What’d she say?” asked Maggie.
“Elymas coming?” asked Imari, sitting up.
“Yes,” said Helen. “He wants you to be quiet.”
Maggie stared at Imari. “Who’s Elymas?”
“Her husband.”
Maggie went to the head of the bed. “Where you from?”
“They’re from Virginia,” whispered Helen. “At least that’s what the slave notice said.”
A tremor rattled Maggie’s hand.
“Elymas was recaptured,” Helen continued.
Maggie’s breathing became strained. “Elymas was my granddaddy’s name … and …” She tried to pick the knife up off the floor. Both her hands quaked. “I can’t do no more. You gotta take over.” She pointed to her vacated seat.
Helen’s brows rose. “I can’t,” she said, hiding her face in her hands.
“You know her?” said Maggie, wiping her wrist across her eyes. “’Cause she’s gonna die and take the baby to the grave if we don’t get that shot out.”
Helen looked at the poor soul on the bed. “Yes, I want to help.”
“Good then. Pick up that knife.”
Helen obeyed.
“You gotta lay the knife flat against her skin at the edge a the hole. Firm now, but don’t cover it up. You’re gonna press with your thumb and see if the shot pops out. If it don’t, you gotta dig.” Maggie turned to Imari. “You’re gonna bite your voice now. Quiet. Here it comes.”
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 17
