Freeman looked grave and nodded. “Give me at least a half an hour,” he said as he grabbed his coat. “Keep yourself safe, you hear me?” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Your mother, father, and baby sister, is that right?”
“Yes, mister.”
The muscles on Freeman’s jaw tensed. “Miss Maggie is with them?”
“Yes, she be there. She ain’t gonna leave.”
“One half hour. Don’t warn them. Keep out of sight.”
Joe certainly understood the man, but promised nothing. Once on the street, he heard a horn blowing a prolonged note from the window above him. Gooseflesh rose on his arms. It was exactly the sound he had heard when they fought their way out of the cart of the long-faced man in New Jersey. Everyone on the street looked up to the second floor. Joe did not linger. He headed back downtown to find his family.
CHAPTER FORTY
JUDGE CHESTER HAYDEN’S office-cum-court contained two desks. The clerk, Pearly Doyle, was a thin man straight as a knife blade who might be said to worship the goddess of good order, Eunomia; his desk was neat and precise. Judge Hayden’s oak desk was massive; Eris, goddess of discord, ruled over the jumble of papers and stacks of books. It was Doyle’s job to keep the judge’s desk clear, but even Sisyphus occasionally must have had to dig in his heels, let the rock press against his back, and rest.
Shouts and the thumps on the plank sidewalk broke the silence in the court. The clerk stood looking from the judge to the door.
Suddenly, Sylvanus pushed inside, helping Augustin. Doyle scrambled forward, arms out in front of him as if to prevent further intrusions. Instead both doors crashed wide open and Alvan Stewart, the slavers, and their captives, followed by several other disheveled people, surged in.
“Bar the door, Doyle!” shouted the lawyer, as angry cries of “She killed a white man!” and “Hang her!” rose from the street. The clerk slammed the doors and fitted an iron bar across them.
“What kind of mess is this?” Doyle demanded, tugging at his drab waistcoat, as if he might at least restore order to his clothing.
Stewart was about to answer when Hickox marched across the room toward Judge Hayden, who looked stern and somber.
“Your Honor …” Hickox began.
But Hayden waved a silencing hand and leaned over the desk to address Augustin, who was coming forward with the baker’s help. “Galway, we missed you. You should have seen the precious look of impotent rage when Mr. Stewart here saw us reclaim the church from that vile assembly of abolitionists.” Hayden chuckled as he smirked at Alvan Stewart like a hunter, his prey finally in his sights. “I thought our ‘peace man’ might just commit an act of violence.” The judge’s smile drained away as Augustin drew closer and he saw the man’s unhealthy blue pallor and weakened condition. “Sorry to hear about your accident,” he said. “Matteson took your place on the Committee of 25.”
“Forgive me for missing the event, Your Honor,” said Augustin with a gravelly voice.
“Nonsense. But it’s queer to see you here, considering your injury.”
“It could not be helped,” said Augustin. “Mr. Stewart is here at my request.”
“Really? Of course, one is free to be represented by whomever one chooses.” Hayden’s gaze swept over the strange assemblage of people. “This should be interesting.”
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” said Hickox, nodding respectfully. “These runaway slaves are my captives and I need a court order to transport them back to Virginia.” He handed the judge a set of papers.
“Your Honor, these people are not property,” said Stewart. “Each has a rightful claim to freedom.”
“Sit down, Mr. Stewart,” said the judge, taking the papers.
“You all heard him, be seated. You,” Doyle indicated the slavers, “to the left, and the rest of you on the benches.” After one more tug on his waistcoat, he returned to his desk.
Swift pointed his rifle at Imari and Elymas, motioning them over to Hickox’s side of the courtroom. Sylvanus guided Augustin to a captain’s chair at the defendant’s table and eased him down. Maggie came to his side and shifted his leg so that it could be elevated on a second chair. He groaned in pain and took quick shallow breaths.
“You hurting?” she whispered.
“My leg. It’s burning. It needs air.” Augustin began to tear at the bandages.
Maggie reached out, covering his hand with hers. “Don’t you go ripping that off. We’re gonna get a proper doctor to look you over—when we get done with this here.”
Helen joined them just as the cook’s fingers intertwined with his, gently pulling it away from the bandages. The wrappings, however, had parted and Helen gasped. The leg—red and brown—looked like a piece of liver. “My heavens,” she said quietly. “This looks … unwell.” She met Augustin’s eye. “No wonder you’re in pain. Maggie, can this really wait?”
“I don’t know,” said the cook, peering at the injury. She lowered her voice. “Them people ain’t got no chance without him. But this here leg is bad.”
“I won’t leave,” said Augustin. “Don’t make me try. Promise,” he demanded, gripping Maggie’s arm.
Maggie turned to Helen, fear in her eyes.
“I promise you,” said Helen to Augustin. She nodded at Maggie. “I make the promise.”
Maggie nodded, seeming relieved.
Augustin began muttering, “God, hide not Thy face from me in the day when I am in trouble. For my days pass away like smoke, like an evening shadow, like withered grass …”
Judge Hayden settled back in his chair and examined the slavers’ papers. He knew that, as always, truth would need to be separated from fiction. He prided himself that his role in Utica was to be that sieve. The judge shifted his gaze to the prosecutor’s table.
“Doyle,” he roared, “are you getting sloppy in your old age?”
Doyle stood and put his hands on his hips, as if to dare the judge to show him one error.
“The musket. Secure the musket, man.” Hayden pointed at Swift.
The clerk’s shoulders slumped. “Forgive me, Your Honor.” He strode over to Swift, hands out. The slave catcher looked uneasy. A momentary standoff was broken with a nodded permission from Hickox, who also turned over his own guns.
Pryce joined Stewart at the defendant’s table. “He’s the judge from the Committee of 25,” he whispered. “He hates you, does he not?”
Stewart reflected for a moment. “He might hate me, but he loves the law.”
Baby Margaret began to fuss.
“Take the infant out of here,” said Hayden.
Helen rose and went to Imari’s side. “There is still a chance,” she whispered into Imari’s ear as she took the baby.
“Joe got a chance,” Imari said. “Elymas got a chance. Margaret got a chance. But back on the plantation, I done prayed to God to save my family. I forgot to say nothing about me. So you got to promise me to see this baby through.”
“We will,” said Helen, lowering her eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped toward the street door.
“That baby’s status must be determined by Your Honor,” said Hickox, leaping to his feet. “Before someone runs off with it.”
Hayden peered over his spectacles. “Very well. Stop right there, young lady. You may sit with the child, but keep it quiet.”
“Yes, Judge,” said Helen, returning to Imari’s side. “I think she’s just hungry.” She handed the baby back to Imari, who shielded herself with the blanket and began to nurse. Helen sat next to them while Swift maneuvered himself to be between the two women and the door.
The judge turned to Hickox. “You’re the slave catcher, correct?”
“Your Honor, I am an officer of the law in Virginia.”
“And here in Utica, you’re nothing but a problem,” said Hayden. “But problems and difficulties crawl into this court and the law sees that justice marches out. Now, as I understand it, these three are slaves from—”
“Your Honor, referring to them as slaves is prejudicial,” said Stewart. “Each one has a claim to freedom.”
“Noted,” said the judge with sarcasm. He picked up Hickox’s handbill. “These are the Negroes who may have escaped from the Barnwell Plantation?”
“There’s a boy too,” said Hickox. “He slipped away, but I purchased him from the Barnwells along with the mother and the unborn baby.”
“That baby appears to have been born,” said Hayden. Hickox was about to object when the judge silenced him with a look. “That is what babies do. They get born. And that means its status has changed. How shall we proceed? Why not from largest,” he pointed to Elymas, “to smallest?” He was clearly pleased with himself and his role in the momentous happenings of the day. The traitors at the abolition convention had been stopped and now a complicated slave case bloomed before him with the lead conspirator, Alvan Stewart, at his mercy. The judge would show the scoundrel what the law meant in a free society. It was a victorious day and he would not let anything ruin it. “So,” he said, turning to Elymas, “you ran away?”
“Don’t answer that,” injected Stewart. “He was illegally sold and purchased, and therefore had the right as a free man to walk away from his enslavers.”
“Judge … Your Honor,” Maggie said, pushing herself to her feet, “I gotta talk to you.”
“Do not interrupt the business of the court,” snarled Hayden.
“But I know about this here business,” said Maggie. Then, as an afterthought, “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”
He leaned over the desk toward her. “The truth is, you’re not really sorry at all, are you? Now, sit down.”
Maggie, cheeks burning with anger, sank to her seat.
“That’s better.”
The judge addressed Stewart. Maggie looked around her—suddenly exhausted. Her injured hand throbbed and the lack of sleep muddled her mind. She heard the judge’s sharp tone when he talked to Mr. Stewart and she noticed a satisfied smile on Hickox’s face.
No, she thought. Enough. He ain’t winning again. She pushed herself to her feet and stood upright before the judge. “Elymas is my boy,” she said firmly, her voice rattling around the room. Her eyes flashed to Helen, who sat frozen and pale. “My own boy,” she continued, finally speaking the words she had not allowed herself for three decades. She covered her face in shame. God made His rules for a reason, she thought. You break them, you pay. “And I let him go. I shoulda fought,” she said, looking heavenward. “God forgive me, I shoulda died.”
Hickox was on his feet. “She can’t testify,” he barked. “She harbored these runaways. She’ll say anything.”
“Quiet,” said Judge Hayden. “Do you think I’m incapable of sorting out what is important in my own court?”
“No, Your Honor,” said Hickox, clenching his jaw and staring hard at Maggie.
“So, let us get to the truth.” Hayden pointed at the cook. “You won’t be sworn in in this courtroom. But as quick as you can, tell me what you have to tell me. Keep in mind, if I find you’ve been telling tales, you will sit in a jail cell for contempt and you’ll have harmed the people you mean to protect.”
“Only thing I got is God’s honest truth.”
“Proceed.”
“Judge, sir,” Maggie began, her voice shaky. She pointed to Elymas. “This here man is my son. I was born a slave in Utica and lived in the Galway house all my life. In 1805, Thomas Galway took me from Utica to Virginia. I was already carrying the baby when we started,” she said, purposely avoiding Augustin’s eyes. “I got put down in a slave quarters to be sold. Well, babies got they own time and God got his time, and it don’t always match with our time, do it?” She looked at Imari, who nodded gravely.
Maggie went to Elymas and let her finger touch the indentation between his eyes. “My God, you’re my boy. My lost boy.” She put her arm around his shoulders, drawing him close. The feel of the ropes that secured his arms was like a knife through the heart. She squeezed him and whispered, “I’m sorry.” The solid truth of his muscles and the relief and dread on his face brought her right back to that awful time thirty years before. In the courtroom, looking into the eyes of her grown son, she felt again the terrible emptiness. “Hickox gotta wait,” she said, speaking to Elymas. “I got scared we both gonna get sold separate. So I did something. Only thing I could do. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Sir Judge, Your Honor,” said Elymas, “I got something to show you.”
“A paper?” asked Hayden.
“No, Judge.” Elymas looked down. “My wife there seen a paper back home, but we ain’t got it. This here be something just as good.” He lifted his right foot and nodded solemnly to Maggie. Their eyes locked for a moment before she kneeled to remove his shoe.
“I’ll not look at his foot,” said Hickox.
Elymas held up his scarred sole. The judge squinted behind his spectacles, finally leaving his desk. He bent low and inspected a series of dark scratches.
“What am I looking at?” he asked. “Is that U-T-I-C-A?”
Helen’s mouth dropped open in shock.
Maggie nodded at her. “I just knew we was gonna get separated.” She looked back to Elymas. “So I done cut your foot with a little knife and rubbed soot into them wounds. You was so tiny. And you cried like a brass band.” She took Elymas’s face in her hands. “I ached for you. It was like I got split open and half a me dragged off with Satan.”
“Judge, that can’t be used,” said Hickox.
“You weren’t even a week old,” said Maggie.
Elymas swallowed hard. “Master James told me he got me cheap ’cause a them there cuts. Damaged goods, he said.” He turned to the judge. “I don’t think Master James bothered to try and read it. I couldn’t. Not till my wife found them papers about me. Then she done figured out what it say.”
Maggie rested her head on his knee.
Judge Hayden let his fingers cross the length of his chin as he slowly returned to his place. He settled himself and crossed his hands, fingers tapping on the desk. As the silence filled the room, Maggie looked up. The spectators studied him as if fearful that the judge might ignore all that had passed.
Finally, he spoke: “I agree that the scar has some kind of weight—unusual as it is.” He focused on Maggie. “But this sounds like a tale to me. Why would Thomas Galway risk breaking the law to take you there? And if he did, why weren’t you sold too?”
“Since I ain’t supposed to say nothing about no white man,” Maggie said, turning to Augustin, “I guess I can’t tell.” Their eyes met.
“My father took her there,” Augustin said loudly, attempting to stand. Stewart held his arm. “In 1805, he took her to Richmond. I followed them. I knew of the sale of the infant—and consented.” He wobbled, falling back into the chair.
“Were you aware that what your father did was against the law?” asked Hayden. “No one could sell a slave outside of New York State after 1799.”
“The hearing is about the status of these people,” said Stewart, “not Galway’s actions.”
“Silence!” shouted the judge. “Mr. Galway, if you have something to say, say it. There will be no tomorrows for the truth.”
Augustin clutched the lawyer’s arm. “Your Honor,” he said, his voice full of emotion, “I admit that I knew the baby should have been free. And—” He hesitated and looked at Elymas. “And that he is … my son.” His head dropped. “After the baby was taken, Maggie begged me to let Father sell her too, so that they’d be together.” He looked up at her. “I was selfish, I suppose.” He shook his head, his face crimson. He met Maggie’s eye. “Hickox wanted you both. But he was so businesslike about it. To him you were nothing. To me you were—everything. I couldn’t let Father do it. I loved you.”
Augustin took in a sustaining breath before speaking directly to Judge Hayden. “I knew Father was wrong. I knew he was breaking the law by selling her after emancipation.” He turned back to Maggi
e. “While you were downstairs in that awful place, I threatened to kill myself if he sold you. But selling the baby was the price.” He leaned back, seeming to shrink before their eyes. He wiped a ragged handkerchief across his brow. “Father said I would forget. Said that if people ever found out about the baby, I would be turned out—without family or name. He was going to disinherit me. Where could she and I have gone? Live in a slum in New York City?” He dropped his hands to his lap. “But the old man was stricken by the whole affair,” Augustin resumed, his voice pleading. “I said that selling the baby and bringing you back would raise fewer questions. He looked at me with disgust. He left me in New York City, but what I had done ate away at him. I think it killed him.”
“You thought it wouldn’t touch you and you could just forget,” said Maggie, shaking her head. “You’ve been drunk ever since.”
“Well there it is,” said Hayden slowly. “Truth.”
Truth, thought Helen, stunned and blinking, as if all those around her were speaking in a different tongue. How could she not have noticed? She felt small, like an uncomprehending half-wit. She leaned into Imari. “Is that why you were in our shed?”
“Yes,” Imari whispered. “The man who done help me in Frankfort give me the address. I know that shed be on Galway’s property. I wasn’t gonna go nowhere till Elymas caught up. I had to lie.”
“What other proof have you,” asked Hayden, “that this man is the infant in question?”
“Nothing, Judge,” Augustin said, short of breath.
“You admit that you fathered a child with this woman and that your father, Thomas Galway, took her to Virginia and sold her infant son?”
“I do, Your Honor. Heaven forgive me.”
Helen’s hands started shaking. The sleeping baby in Imari’s lap was her husband’s granddaughter—Maggie’s too.
“And you knew of a sale of a male infant to Abel Hickox here?” said Hayden.
Augustin nodded.
“Mr. Hickox, do you admit to buying a male infant from Mr. Thomas Galway in 1805 for the Barnwell family?”
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 32
