The Resurrectionists

by Michael Patrick Hicks

  Hicks spat on the ground then turned on his heel.

  Outside, his friends had already made progress unearthing a recent burial. Hicks joined the third boy, who was digging on his own, and began scooping away loose soil. He was grateful for the wooden shovels, which made less noise than their metal-bladed counterparts when striking rock, and these burial plots were certainly a rocky pair. After nearly an hour of digging, wood hit wood, and Hicks’s shovel-mate dropped into the hole to break apart the head of the coffin. A similar scene played out behind him, as the other pair set about freeing the body within that plot.

  “Ah, Jay-sus,” the Irish boy said. Despite the cool air, he was sweating, and he swiped at his rosy dirt-streaked cheek with the sleeve of his coat.

  “What?” Hicks said, crouching beside him.

  “It’s nothing but a wee baby. Lookit.”

  Hicks smiled, a wave of malice riding in him. “Too fucking perfect, then. Get it.”

  “It’s nothing but a baby, John,” Irish said, his words hardened with disgust.

  “You bring out that fucking thing, or I bury you with it,” Hicks said.

  Irish shook his head, his eyes downcast. Nonetheless, he reached down and removed the mortal remains of a small infant, still wrapped in a swaddling blanket.

  “What have you got?” Hicks asked, looking toward the other boys over his shoulder.

  “Somebody’s ol’ grandmama.”

  “Just a shriveled old cunt,” the other digger said. “Sure you want it?”

  “Aye,” Hicks said. “Get her out.”

  The boy in the hole hefted up the stiff remains of a weathered old soul. His partner in crime grabbed hold of her collar to help lift, then he got his arms under hers and pulled while the other shoved from below. Her heels drew lines in the dirt as she was pulled away from her resting place.

  “It’s your turn to carry,” one boy demanded of the other. “I got the last one.”

  “Yeah, fine,” the other digger said, hauling himself out of the hole. “Give her here then,” he said, shouldering the load.

  The boys headed toward the street. Irish held the small bundle in his arms, as if the child were still animate. His eyes were haunted, and Hicks clapped him on the back, grinning.

  “A dead little nigger baby and a wizened old crone. This wasn’t a bad haul,” he said. Passing the front entrance of Gray’s house, he caught sight of the old man standing in the doorway, watching them.

  The free Black wiped at the blood on his lips with the back of a hand. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?” Gray shouted at their backs.

  Hicks stopped, a cloud of expiration curling from his nostrils and drifting into the cold. “I’d do the same to my own granny,” he said, smirking. “Cutting up that old bitch wouldn’t hardly even be a crime!”

  Laughing, he skipped away, chasing after his diggers. He was in too good of a mood to argue, even with a spent old nigger.

  Word spread fast through the community of the bodies snatched away from Scipio Gray’s private yard and of the violent youths who had stormed his property and threatened to kill him. By the time Hawley heard of the attack, he and Prince were just finishing the boy’s lessons for the day and were ready to break for lunch prior to his afternoon chores. Hawley gave Prince an almost-paternal pat on the head as he said his goodbyes, then he gathered his few belongings and left, resolved to visit Scipio.

  Although Scipio’s was out of the way, Hawley felt an urgent pull toward the man’s property, and his feet carried him along rather swiftly. When the man finally answered his door upon Hawley’s insistent knocking, Hawley let loose a gasp of surprise. Scipio’s face was uneven and lumpy with a number of swollen knobs. Each shined with a bruise. The man’s lips were puffy and braided with thick scabs. Beyond the lips were several empty spaces where teeth should have been.

  “My God,” Hawley said.

  Scipio couldn’t meet the younger man’s eyes. Staring at the floor, Scipio nodded slightly and made way for Salem’s entrance.

  His fingers curled tightly around the brim of his hat, Hawley asked, “How bad are you hurt?”

  Scipio shrugged then winced. He led his visitor to a pair of chairs and slowly lowered himself into a seat. “I’ll endure. It is my pride that has been more gravely wounded, I fear. Children, Salem—children did this to me.”

  This time, it was Hawley who shrugged. “I’ve met my share of vicious children, friend. They can be surprising, particularly if underestimated.”

  “They took me by surprise. I thought a late bit of business came to my door, but I was not expecting to meet a fist when I opened it.”

  “They threatened you, I heard.”

  “One boy did.” Scipio raised his head, less shy now that he was settled in his favorite seat. “The ringleader of those little vandals. The other three, he put to work.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He’s on the smaller side, which I suppose makes it so he has quite a lot more to prove to most boys. He’s stronger than he looks, with a vicious streak no boy his age should possess.” Scipio provided what details he could on the boy’s physical appearance, but his recollection was murky, having observed his attacker largely through a fog of tears and pain.

  Hawley nodded, weighing the information. “I believe these bandits are the same as killed Jeremiah and stole the remains of his beloved and their precious child.”

  Scipio’s jaw fell, his tongue sliding briefly between his lips before being sucked back inside. “They’re dangerous, Salem. The boy in particular. He is pure evil, I fear.”

  “They cannot be allowed to continue as they’ve been,” Hawley said. “An end must be brought to them for our people to have any peace of mind.”

  A hint of a smile played out upon Scipio’s face, a gleam in his eyes. “And it’s you to bring such an end to them, eh?” When he chuckled, it came forth with a liquid, gravelly rumble.

  “The council refuses to act. The night watchmen refuse to act. Somebody must do something.”

  Scipio regarded his friend, a stern glint in his eyes. “You best mind yourself, then. I won’t see your bastard husk resurrected.”

  Hawley laughed, the first laugh in days; it warmed him. Scipio joined him, clutching his belly in obvious pain but unable to quit his humor.

  “Ah, hell, that hurts,” he complained, which only made Hawley laugh harder. After a time, their enjoyment waned, and a somber tone resettled upon them. “Is there anything you need from me?”

  After a moment’s consideration, Hawley said, “No. Not yet.”

  “That boy is due his comeuppance,” Scipio said. He seemed on the verge of saying more, his eyes glistening. Hawley waited for him to continue, and finally he did. “That child’s cruelty, the evil in his eyes… Maybe I’m crazy, but it’s as if, in those moments, he had put me back into those old chains. I forgot my place in those moments, you understand?”

  Hawley nodded. He reached across to the armrest and curled his fingers around Scipio’s hand, giving him a gentle squeeze. He felt his own tears rising then, weighted with a measure of guilt. His friends and community were being terrorized, and he could no longer stand idle while it continued. He had delayed much too long already.

  He rose, clutching his hat once more, a fresh hatred settling in his heart. He knew what he must do. “I promise, if I need anything at all, you’ll be the first I’ll call upon.”

  He gave Scipio a quick but firm embrace and let himself out. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness of day after having spent such a time in the dark.

  Hawley’s feet crunched through a frozen shell of snow as he plodded over the uneven ground of the Trinity churchyard. Even under the golden glow of moonlight reflecting brilliantly off the icy white surface, he found it hard going. He had nearly twisted his ankle walking over a hillock of freshly turned soil buried beneath the snow, a fresh grave he surmised, and perhaps a sprained ankle served him right, given his injurious plans for this ev
ening. This grave, he decided, was as good as any other.

  With his back to the picket fence outlining the churchyard, he cast a look at the darkened and empty church before him. He thought of offering a prayer but knew his soul was beyond saving. What the priests said of forgiveness mattered little in the end, and even if God were to forgive him for this particular trespass, he was not sure he could ever forgive himself.

  A vaporous cloud bloomed off his lips as he let out a weary sigh, then he put his back to it. The wooden shovel blade bit into snow, cracking the fragile, frozen shell, then struck the stiff resistance of cold earth. Hawley stepped upon the shoulder of the blade, his weight forcing the shovel deeper, and scooped away clods of dirt. In no time at all, his back grew stiff and achy, and his heart pounded hard with the exertion. Sweat bloomed beneath his cap, along his forehead, and his hands turned hot beneath his gloves. He checked his surroundings periodically, afraid he would be spotted. It was a bastard of a job this digging, but after an hour, he hit the lid of the coffin interned there in the burial plot.

  His heart raced, but no longer solely from the exertion of this chore. He took yet another look around the churchyard before lowering himself into the hole, certain that he was still undiscovered. The wooden boards of the coffin creaked beneath his feet. He jimmied the shovel blade into the dirt-caulked crack between the lid’s boards and pulled the handle back. The top half of the first board broke free, and he moved onto the next.

  The woman inside was youthful, her hair golden under the moonlight. Her white face was softly rounded, her nose upturned at the tip. Had she been alive, Hawley might have admired her cute features, and he wondered, briefly, if she had carried a certain charm about her in her previously animated state. Shamefully, he banished those thoughts. The chore held no charming appeal for him, and he could not linger. Already, he felt as if his time were running out, and he worried he would be discovered at any moment.

  He flung the shovel over the lip of the grave then bent down to retrieve the woman. As he hauled her free of her resting place, she was loose limbed. The rigor mortis that would have seized her muscles had already passed. The smell of death, however, lingered, and he turned his face away from the body, gasping for the fresh, cold bite of winter air. Each inhalation, unfortunately, was stained with musky, fecund rot that was inescapable even as he breathed through his mouth.

  The resurrectionists, he knew, stripped the cadavers before absconding with the bodies. The reason was simple—though grave robbing was illegal, body snatching, however morally dubious and perverse, was not. Given that such thefts had been limited to the Negro graves or the remains of the poor populating the potter’s field, the Common Council had not seen fit to invent new laws to act as a deterrence.

  Perhaps now that shall change, Hawley thought. He dropped the woman’s body to the cold earth and drew his blade. He pressed the knife’s edge against a taut piece of dress, but his hand was indecisive. He could not bring himself to cut loose her garments. He tried again, the guilt weighing down upon him.

  “Damn it,” he said, so softly the words were barely audible to his own ears. He returned the knife to his pocket then hoisted the woman, still clothed and bejeweled, over his shoulder.

  Plotting his steps carefully, he retraced his path back to the fence and out of the churchyard, listening for the voices of watchmen or, worse, the shipyard ruffians and drunken rowdies who freely caroused the city streets, searching for violence and hungry for blood. He kept to the shadows and hoped the pale countenance of his cargo was not white enough to draw attention his way. He mentally cursed himself, already regretting his actions and knowing the worst was yet to come.

  If he couldn’t even remove her clothes, Hawley wasn’t sure how he would manage what lay ahead. You stupid fool!

  He could not take the body back to his apartment, for various reasons, least of which was the smell. Such an effort was risky and required covering too much ground. He had to secret the body away somewhere that was both safe and nearby, where he could work for several hours without being discovered.

  Hawley’s head sank under the weight of his thoughts, his stomach roiling. Bitter heat rose up his middle, a savage cramp twisting his belly, as a singular realization hit home—he could not do what he’d come to do.

  His knees buckled, and the corpse slid off his shoulders and out of his arms. The body hit muddy earth with a wet slap, and in reflex, Hawley’s hands darted out to break his fall. His knees sank into wet, freezing earth; black snow squeezed between his fingers. Bile kicked loose from his stomach, burning its way up and ejecting in a searing spray. For several long moments, he stayed on hands and knees, dry heaving over the puddle of his own waste.

  The woman in white lay on her back, her head lolled toward him. Her open eyes, though vacant, had somehow found his. His gut lurched, and it felt like his innards were sloshing against his spine, attempting to force their way out of him on another tide of vomit. A thick line of drool dangled from his lip, slinking toward the slush he knelt in.

  Digging her up, disturbing her rest, and stealing her corpse—all of that had been quite bad enough, quite literally making him sick. He knew he could proceed no further with his plan.

  The resurrectionists would dissect her if given the chance. Her organs would be pulled from their cavities, her limbs torn from her trunk piece by piece, her body dismembered and then cut into pieces to be dumped up and down the streets and shores of Manhattan. That was what those body-snatching trash would do. Salem Hawley was not among their number, though. He could never do that, not ever. Not without losing whatever was left of his soul.

  The wooden handle of his hatchet was heavy against his thigh, and he knew too well the evil purpose he had intended for it this eve. He could couch his actions up to this point in some perverted form of nobility. He could consider this a small bit of evil to do a larger work of good for his people. He could justify all this as recompense for the memories of friends lost, for those who have suffered at the depraved hands of grave robbers and body snatchers. But he could not lie to himself.

  Snow fell gently, to melt against the exposed stretches of his black flesh. The white flakes slowly accumulated atop the dead woman’s body, whiter than she was pale. He decided to leave her here, then, in the alley. Perhaps the snow, for a time, would bury her. Mayhap she might even find the rest he had denied her, if for but a day, or a handful of days.

  He rose slowly, his joints aching in the cold, his body numb despite the burning heat of shame that trembled his limbs. The woman’s eyes followed him as he rose. He met her gaze for a final time and directed a nod toward her before quickly discarding the inchoate prayer on his lips. He could offer her no words of prayer. Nor did he expect forgiveness from her or anything else that lay beyond the realm of life itself. Certainly his soul was damned, and this night had done little to ease that burden. He shook as fingers of cold danced across his neck, chiding himself for his self-pity. He had done wrong, and it was not for his soul he must grieve, but for the woman, whose name he did not even know.

  He nodded again, this time more to himself, and turned on his heels. He shuffled through the accumulating snow, a caul of cold air wrapping him in its violent embrace. The handle of his hatchet danced against his thigh with every step, the promise of violence coiling within him with every tap and shush of the wood against his pants and the long overcoat that covered it. His night of devilry was over. But only for this night, he thought. It was only the first eve of necessary evil. More were on the way, as sure as the snow and ice.

  100 Dollars REWARD

  Whereas one night last week, the grave of a person recently interred in Trinity Churchyard was opened, and the Corpse, with part of the clothes, were carried off.

  Any person who will discover the offenders, so that they may be convicted and brought to justice, will receive the above reward from the Corporation of the Trinity Church.

  By Order of the Vestry

  Robert C. Livingston
, Treasurer

  New York Feb. 21, 1788

  From The Daily Advertiser

  We have been in a state of great tumult for a day or two past. The causes of which, as well as I can digest from various accounts, are as follows: The young students of physic have, for some time past, been loudly complained of for their very frequent and wanton trespasses in the burial grounds of this City. The corpse of a young gentleman from the West Indies was lately taken up, the grave left open and the funeral clothing scattered about. A very handsome and much-esteemed young lady of good connection was also carried off. These, with various other acts of a similar kind, inflamed the minds of people exceedingly, and the young member of the faculty as well as the mansions of the dead, have been quickly watched.

  Chapter Six

  Knots exploded in a series of loud pops as the fire chewed through the wooden logs. The first sizzling bang startled Hereford, nearly making him leap free of his skin. For a brief moment, he was on the battlefield once more, decade-old memories rushing to the forefront of his mind with the sound of gunfire and the screaming of injured men, some of them little more than children. He smelled not the pleasant odor of burning pine but of burning flesh and gunpowder.

  As the fire consumed the wood, a trio of rapid explosions boomed through Dr. Bayley’s study. Finally, Hereford calmed, recognizing the noise for what it was. Still, it took a long moment for his heart’s pace to steady and even.

  Bayley, who had been speaking and noticed Hereford’s surprised reaction, gave him a queer look, eyeing him over the rim of his brandy glass.

  “Is something troubling you?” Bayley asked.

  “The sudden noise shook me is all.”

  Hereford felt like a child under Bayley’s gaze, and he could feel the older man sizing him up, judging his worth. In some ways, many of them minor, Bayley remind Hereford of his own father. Although the doctor was prone to fewer fits of violence, and when he was in his cups, Bayley was certainly much more delightful than Hereford’s father had ever been. Bayley shrugged, and whatever Hereford had glimpsed in the man’s eyes disappeared, as if washed away with the sip of brandy.