“I still need him,” she said, worry bedeviling her face. “And I need you too. I got an idea that’s gonna keep him outta the way. It’s our only real chance.”
Sylvanus nodded. “I am with thee to the end of it.” He went into the house.
The boy pulled the horse and cart toward the front.
Maggie paced next to him. “Listen here, Joe. I got something important for you to do. We ain’t gonna get you caught by that slaver. If you show up at the judge’s, you’re gonna get grabbed.”
“But we gotta save Momma and Poppa,” said Joe.
“We will. But you got a special job. You gotta get us help.” Maggie pulled the boy close and quietly explained.
Helen ran quickly down Bleecker Street, weaving easily between stopped carriages and bickering men. She was not the only lady out on this wet day; she was, however, the only one without a hat and with tendrils of her hair loose and dripping wet.
How she might get Stewart to help, she did not know. Ahead, a cluster of angry men moved down the center of the street. She could not see over their heads, so she bent and then noticed, among the knees and britches and boots, a pair of her own shoes and the blue nightdress that she had given to Imari. The dress had a fresh bloodstain on its hem. This horrible march is killing her, she thought.
As if set on fire, Helen surged deep into the circle just as an egg struck Elymas’s face. She heard Hickox yell, “These niggers are my prisoners!” and order the crowd back. A man with a bloated red face and blond hair hovered near Imari’s ear shouting hateful words at her. Helen seized his waistcoat and, with a burst of strength, pulled him so off balance that he tumbled to the paving stones. A pair of hands, attached to a gruff-looking stranger with tobacco stains browning his white beard, pushed her to the ground. Several men stomped across her dress, covering it with muddy footprints. She rose and dove back into the center of the mob.
“In the name of God, stop!” she shouted. “Are you not Christians?”
“Quiet, you whore,” snarled the tobacco-stained man.
“She is someone’s sister, someone’s daughter.” She slapped away his silencing hand. “Would you want your child treated this way?”
The man looked at her with a curious expression. “They’s escaped slaves and we’s bringing them to jail.”
This gave the crowd more energy.
“They broke the law!” yelled a young man.
“These are human beings you attack,” she said to him. “Not animals.” Helen’s eyes met Imari’s and read her fear. “Look. She’s holding an innocent babe, alive less than a day. Can’t you hear it cry? Think of your own babies and their mothers.”
“She isn’t MY mother,” said a man dressed for shopwork, his apron covering his chest, his hair neatly parted.
“You, sir,” she pointed at him, “should be ashamed of yourself. Think of your own wife. Imagine your family dragged through the streets.”
The anger dropped from his face and he stopped moving as the knot around the captives continued to keep pace with Swift and Hickox.
A musket blast boomed and a shower of sparks shook everyone. Helen ducked low, tasting sulfur and feeling her eardrums pound. Onlookers stumbled away from Swift, who held a smoking musket, its muzzle pointing to the sky.
“Clear out!” he shouted.
“You’re impeding sworn deputies from carrying out their duty!” Hickox yelled.
Both slavers had their backs to the captives.
Imari signaled to Helen. “Take her,” she whispered, pushing tiny Margaret into Helen’s arms. “And run.”
Helen fumbled with the baby, almost losing her grip. A swift kick hit the back of her knees. She fell toward the unforgiving stones, twisting as she went and landing hard on her shoulder, Margaret pressed to her chest. Hickox loomed over her.
“If that brat is dead, you owe me seventy-five dollars.” He reached in to take the infant.
Elymas, his arms still pinned, kicked at Hickox. Swift whirled around and cracked Elymas in the ribs with the butt of his gun, sending him sprawling to the road. Swift pulled out his lash and delivered a direct strike to Elymas’s leg. The unmistakable crack of the whip sent more people skittering out of the way.
Still on the cold ground, Helen tried to soothe the infant.
“You’ve lost,” said Hickox, hovering over her. “That baby is my property.”
“No,” she cried as he tried to part her arms.
Frustrated, he turned to Imari. “Take the baby. These are the last minutes you have with it.”
“Do it,” said Elymas from the ground.
Imari gently lifted Margaret from Helen’s arms and hugged the child to her chest, adjusting the damp shawl as best she could.
“Move,” demanded Hickox, as he hoisted Elymas to his feet. The group trailed on, leaving Helen on the cold pavement stones.
Pryce raced down the stairs of the Bleecker Street Presbyterian Church. He was just noticing the rain when the blast of a gunshot broke through the gloom. He ducked reflexively, thinking that if men were firing guns at each other, his mission to board up the windows at Alvan Stewart’s house might already be too late.
As he ran, he noticed people scattering away from the gunshot. At the center of the scramble, he saw the slave catchers and the runaway female. A whip cracked and more of the mob backed away from the Southerners. The slave woman plucked a bundle from the arms of a prone figure in a filthy dress. Pryce ran toward the commotion. If only there were some way to stop this, he thought. All at once, he realized that the woman on the ground was Helen. As the crowd cleared, he brought her to her feet, wrapping a protective arm around her.
She looked up and the light of recognition crossed her face. “Save them.”
“How?” he asked. “It’s too late.”
“Get Mr. Stewart. We have to bring him to Judge Hayden’s office.”
“But what about you?”
Helen pulled away. “Where is he?”
“The convention was attacked,” said Pryce. “He’s worried the mob’ll burn down his house.”
“He’s their only chance,” she said, panic edging into her voice. “Bring me to him.”
“This way,” he said, and they hurried inside the church.
Imari’s legs felt weak and she was still in pain from giving birth. Her breasts ached as they swelled with milk. She could feel that her thighs were slick with moisture and looked down to see a wide red mark staining her muddy nightdress. She imagined her insides falling to the ground as Hickox prodded her forward, hurrying her with a jab of his gun. Crisp air blew across her bare calves and raindrops splashed into pools between the paving stones, wetting her ankles.
Margaret felt heavy in her arms. She tried to cradle the baby, but the irons were there and she was afraid that the girl would feel the cold hardness of them. She was such a tiny thing. These might be the last hours of her poor little life. Out in the freezing heartless world so early, before she even got a chance to fatten up, it would be murder and it would be the slave catchers’ fault. But God never seemed to stop men like Hickox. At least Joe is safe, she thought. The one right thing I done was to get him outta the plantation. What Master Arnold had done? Well, it certainly gave them the push they needed to get out. Hopefully the boy had forgotten all about it.
“Hurry up,” said Hickox.
He be nervous, she thought. As she looked around, she noticed that a black man hauling a wheelbarrow through the streets had stopped and stood watching. Across the road, standing on a porch, she saw a woman in a servant’s uniform pause. They each deliberately met her eye and seemed to be trying to tell her something. Be strong, maybe. Or, I’m sorry. Whatever it was, she did not feel so completely alone. Some of them may have been slaves too. If any of them made a move to help her, they too would feel the lash. It didn’t matter. Slave or free, the whip did not care who was who.
Elymas limped beside her, his shoulder touching hers. She glanced at him. He nodded and, despite eve
rything, managed a private look that was so tender it wrenched her heart. Had running been wrong? She thought back through their final months. Every part of her body said go, but they had lingered.
Then came that sticky hot day when Missus Bea had saved her from Master Arnold’s lust. It was a Friday, just one more day until she would see Elymas. On Saturday night, he always arrived at their cabin like a cool breeze. After Missus Bea stopped her son, she took Imari to her bedroom. It was as if the attack had never happened. Imari combed out her mistress’s hair and straightened her vanity table. She brought up supper and was taking the dishes away when Missus Bea said to go. Don’t come back until Monday morning, she said. Nobody needed to tell Imari more than once to take a rest.
She got back to the cabin and found Joe curled up under the table. When she asked him what had happened, he covered his head. That’s when she saw blood on his britches. After pulling him from under the table, she searched his limbs for a cut or whip mark. At first he was like a rag doll, letting her move him without resistance. But when she tried to check his backside, he fought her. It took question after question to finally hear what had happened.
Later that night, she told Elymas and he was so angry and frustrated that he howled with rage and bashed his forehead into the wall of their cabin. They decided to run.
Margaret started to whimper. Imari raised her and kissed her. Miss Helen said Margaret wasn’t a slave. Miss Maggie too. But what did they know about the way the white men acted? To think of her baby being sold on the block. How could God let it happen? Take me instead, she prayed. Even if I gotta hang, please, God, save my baby.
Just then Elymas, as if he had been reading her mind, cooed at Margaret and made a kissing noise. Imari met his eye and knew that she had no say in her daughter’s life any more than she’d had with poor lost Jimmy. She brought one hand to her heart and tapped it. Pulling the shawl over Margaret, she savored her last moments with the infant as she breathed and moved against her chest.
“We tried,” Elymas said, his voice tight.
“But our Joe be free,” she murmured.
“Our Joe be free,” he repeated.
Maggie drove the cart to the corner of Catherine and Genesee, across the street from Judge Hayden’s office. The four-story redbrick building was neither simple nor fancy, but had mystifying angular designs above each window that seemed like tricky little maps trying to pull the unwary off their path. Just like the law, she thought. It could be twisted to suit powerful men’s purposes. The actions of the runaways would never be considered lawful in a place like this. Self-defense was good enough for the whites, but she knew it would never be considered good enough for slaves or even free blacks.
She snapped the reins and the horse jerked forward. Nothing else could be done, except to keep herself near and be ready for anything. The cart came to a stop. She looked back at Augustin, wrapped in blankets and propped up against the side of the cart. His leg was on pillows and Mr. Sylvanus helped to hold it still. She shook her head. The old fool was in no condition for a fight.
Sylvanus hopped down from the back of the cart just as Pryce and Stewart arrived, both a bit short of breath. Helen was with them, circles of red on her cheeks. Maggie noticed her mistress’s bright eyes track the young man as he followed Mr. Stewart to assist Augustin.
“Wait.” Augustin gestured toward the lawyer. “Mr. Stewart, there is something you must know.” Stewart drew close and Augustin glanced resentfully at Pryce and Sylvanus. “Excuse me, Mr. Anwell, please. It’s a private matter. You too, Quaker.”
Both stepped away. Augustin leaned heavily on Stewart, who wrapped his arm around the man, almost lifting him off his feet as they eased toward the building.
“Miss Helen,” called Maggie, “I need you to steady me.” Helen came over and offered up her hand. Maggie moved slowly from the cart’s riding seat to the footrest and down to the ground. I’m tired, she thought, turning her eyes to the young Mrs. Galway. “They’s things that’s gonna be talked about.” Maggie paused and sighed. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen, but …”
“None of us can undo what’s been done,” Helen said, blinking hard. “The truth is, I’ve failed them. Failed everyone. Even my Christian duty. How will Imari … How will she get clear of Mr. Hickox?” She tried to dry her face with her sleeves.
“Maybe God’s not done with us.” Maggie squeezed Helen’s hand.
“Here they come,” said Pryce.
The two women peered up Genesee and saw the dreadful approach. Imari and Elymas in chains, the innocent babe wailing. A crowd of onlookers trailed behind, some looking as if they were part of a funeral procession, others, red-faced and fists waving, seeming ready for a hanging.
“No!” yelled Maggie, as she tried to run toward them, her feet slipping on the wet paving stones. She crashed to the ground. “I gotta get them the warm things.” She slipped as she tried to rise. “They’re all three soaked through.”
Helen took Maggie’s elbow, calling to Pryce: “Get the blankets out of the cart.” He brought them over. “Help Maggie,” she said as she took a blanket from his arms.
She ran up the street to Imari and wrapped a salmon-colored blanket around her shoulders, bringing the corner over Margaret’s head. Imari shivered and Helen wrapped her arm around the captive’s waist.
“Stay away,” ordered Swift. He pointed his rifle at her. Helen ignored him.
“They’ve lost the game,” said Hickox. “Let her.”
Swift stepped back, his weapon still at the ready. Helen fell into step.
“I thank you,” whispered Imari. “Sorry I brung you all this trouble.”
“You brought me no trouble,” said Helen, her voice wavering. “I’m so sorry.”
As they arrived at Judge Hayden’s building, Hickox leaned in, an expression of excited energy on his face. “Look upon this murderess for the last time.” He pulled back and scanned the group that had followed them. “This nigger killed my partner.” He pointed to Imari. An astonished hush grew over the assembled onlookers. His voice grew louder with each sentence. “A man of the law. Killed in cold blood. I’ll see to it that she hangs!”
Some of the crowd roared their approval.
Stewart motioned to Sylvanus. “Take Mr. Galway inside—quickly.” The lawyer pushed his way through the knot of men. “Mr. Hickox,” he cried, arm extended, finger pointing at the slaver, “I represent these people. I’ll not have you stir up the specter of Judge Lynch.”
“It’ll be done according to law,” called Hickox, pointing skyward. “But it will be done.”
“She killed a white man,” said someone in a tailored broad coat. “We want justice.”
“You ain’t nothing but trouble, Stewart,” called a pimply man.
“We must get them inside,” said Helen to Stewart.
Hickox smiled and nudged Swift. “Tarry a moment to enjoy this. Everyone is moving toward their proper place. The disorder of the world is being defeated.”
Joe worked his way across Elizabeth Street. His challenge was to not be noticed. But unlike the other time when he’d been walking on his own, today a bustle of men crowded the streets. He decided to look like a boy with a message and trotted at an easy pace, weaving in and out, shouting, “Excuse me, sir!”
After six blocks, he turned onto a short alley and recognized he was in the right area—Post Street. He saw none of the troublesome whites. Instead, black women and children went about their business as if there were nothing extraordinary going on.
Maggie had told him to ask around for the schoolmaster. If there was anyone in the neighborhood who could help, it would be him.
A lady, so bent over that her back was at the same angle as the street and who carried a bucket of apples, tottered by him.
“You know where Schoolmaster Freeman be at?” he said.
“Your momma never taught you to ask nice?” she responded, her head raised. She studied him with one bluish eye and another that looked
more like fried egg white.
Pressure built in his chest. Didn’t she know that his parents were in trouble? He took a deep breath. “Sorry, ma’am. I gotta find Schoolmaster. Where he be? Please?”
She laid her bucket to the side and put a wrinkled finger to her lip. “School got called off on account of the danger. So he’s most likely to home. Come on, son. Liddy gonna show you the way.” She picked up her bucket and rattled slowly down the street rocking from side to side as if her hips were frozen and she needed her whole body to move each leg.
Joe grabbed the bucket from her.
“Boy,” she said, “what you doing?”
“Helping you.”
“Well ain’t that nice. Ain’t nobody falling over theyselves to help old Liddy.”
“You a slave?” asked Joe.
“Where you get that notion?”
“Sorry.”
Liddy looked at him with her one good eye. “This be New York State, boy. Ain’t nobody a slave in eight years now.” She stopped in front of a whitewashed clapboard building. “As I recollect, Freeman’s up there, second floor.” She ran her tongue over her gums, lingering on the one front tooth she had left. “If I was you, I’d keep my questioning down. Especially ’bout slaves and such.” She turned back and proceeded across the street. “Think he knowed a slave when he see one, huh.”
Joe ran up the staircase and knocked on the door. A well-dressed boy appeared. He was Joe’s age, with spectacles and a book in his hand. The boy’s face looked more like Joe’s own than anybody he had seen in Utica. He stood still for a moment, stunned. They could be kin, yet the boy’s clothing and demeanor were vastly different.
“Miss Maggie told me get Schoolmaster Freeman,” Joe said finally.
“Come in.” The boy led him into the parlor filled with what Joe thought of as too much furniture for a black family. He could see several tables, chairs with fabric on them, and rugs. No one had rugs but the whites.
Schoolmaster Freeman sat talking to Horace, who quickly stood and turned away wiping his cheeks.
“You gotta help us,” Joe said, running to them. “Miss Maggie sent me,” he added, as if the cook’s name was a magic key that unlocked people. He now had their attention and explained her plan.
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 31
