Algie, holding Ezra’s calm, steady gaze with his hate-filled one, reached inside his coat and withdrew a rawhide pouch that was tethered to his waist. He tugged open the strings of the pouch, reached inside, and pulled out a square of folded paper.
“It’s my papers!” The girl shrieked from behind Ezra. “It’s my proof that I ain’t no runaway!”
“Drop the paper on the ground and back up three steps. Both of you back up,” Ezra said, waving the gun at Jack and Algie and realizing that he would, indeed, shoot them if necessary.
“Gimme my damn money,” Algie hissed at him.
Ezra tossed the money at them, a collection of coins and bills. They scooped it up and painstakingly counted it. “Gimme back my damn gun,” Algie demanded again.
Ezra pulled back the hammer on the gun with his thumb and the chamber rotated. The noise reverberated loudly and the two slave catchers turned and hurried away.
“I’ll see you again and I’ll remember you,” Algie called out as he fled, and Ezra knew the threat to be real. “Nigger lover!” Algie called out, his parting shot.
The crowd that had formed to watch Ezra’s confrontation with the slave catchers had not left with them, and not everyone in it was on his side against Algie and Jack. He also realized that the Colored girl still held on to him from behind. He reached around and drew her forward. “Get your papers,” he said, pushing her forward. She resisted, and he felt the trembling of her thin shoulders. Then he looked down into her face. Whom he’d thought was a young woman was little more than a child, and she was terrified. Ezra bent forward, keeping a guarded eye on the crowd, trying to find the hostile elements, and picked up the folded square of paper. He offered it to her. Hesitating briefly, she extended a tiny hand, grabbed the paper, and held tightly on to it with one hand and to Ezra’s coat with the other.
“Where do you live? Elizabeth, isn’t it?”
“Liz’beth, yessir, and I work for Miz Read, me and my Ma do.”
“Where?” Ezra asked again.
“Wherever she sends me,” the girl answered.
“Where does Mrs. Read live?” Ezra asked. His patience was eroding. He had work to do. A Colored woman stepped from the crowd and walked toward him. She was dressed like all serving-class women, Colored or white, in a threadbare homespun cotton dress, apron and stockings, and heavy hobnail boots. Her only source of warmth was a thick woolen shawl, but the color was a dark, ugly gray.
“She prob’ly don’t know her street name,” the woman said. “Mistress Read got a boarding house on Apted Street, north yonder, by the river.”
Ezra nodded. He knew Apted Street but had not known of a boarding house there. The Colored woman seemed to read his thoughts because she said, “Her folks passed away and left her with a big house, some servants, and no money. She rents out the rooms. And the servants.” The woman touched the girl on her shoulder, then turned away. She joined two other Colored women and they hurried off to whatever work they were fortunate enough to have, and Ezra wondered if they all feared being stolen off the street and sold South. He was about to reach for his pocket watch when he realized he still held the Colt revolver. It really was a fine weapon, he saw, better than his own. He stuck it into the waistband of his pants, feeling suddenly self-conscious; but there was no need. The crowd had dispersed, leaving him and Elizabeth standing alone.
“Come, girl. You must get home and I must get to work.” He started to walk and she trotted along beside him. Apted Street was perhaps a mile due north. He was calculating how long it would take to get there at the reduced speed required by having to adjust to the little girl’s shorter legs, and then hurry back down to the docks, when the girl suddenly bolted. She was running as hard and fast as she had been when he first encountered her and at first he feared that Jack and Algie had returned. Then he saw two women running toward him, one white and one Colored, both holding out their arms toward the girl. They were still clinging to each other, the three of them, as Ezra approached.
“Whoever you are, sir, I thank you,” said the white woman, a very pretty woman, sounding as if she’d just disembarked from a British schooner.
“Mrs. Read?” He knew he was correct, but he couldn’t imagine how she could possibly know to be running toward him and the just-rescued Elizabeth.
“Abigail Read, at your service, sir,” she replied with a slight curtsy. “This is Maggie Juniper. She is Elizabeth’s mother.”
Ezra looked at the Colored woman whose grip on the young girl seemed tight enough to break her arm. He looked into her eyes and into a potent mixture of pain and fear and hatred and anger and something he couldn’t define. Helplessness? Hopelessness? He couldn’t think of anything to say so he took out one of his cards and gave it to Abigail Read. Then he thought of something to say to Maggie. “Elizabeth is a very brave girl. And she runs faster than the wind.”
Maggie looked down at her daughter, then up at Ezra. This time her gaze held nothing but pride. “I thank you, sir, and my swift girl thanks you.” Her accent was as British as that of the white woman. Indeed, had he not been looking at them, he’d not have known that one of them was Black, turning another of his suppositions on its ear.
“How did you know to come for the child?”
For the first time the Read woman’s features relaxed and she almost smiled. She was much more than merely pretty. “A friend of Maggie’s witnessed your encounter with the . . . the hooligans and she ran to tell us. I don’t know what I’d have done if . . .” She looked at the card in her hand for the first time, then looked back up at him. “Pinkerton’s?”
Ezra tipped his hat and bowed to the women. “Formerly,” he answered before bidding the women a good day and turning away. Then he quickly turned back. “Do you have any rooms available to let, Miss Read?” Not Mrs. He remembered that the woman had called her “Mistress” Read. He’d been considering a move from the rooming house where he had lived for some time but had made no move to seek new lodging. This seemed too good an opportunity to ignore. Apted Street, unlike Flegler Street where he currently lived, was completely and totally residential. When he finished work for the day he would have no worry that someone “wanting a private word” would come knocking at his door late at night.
“I have a ground floor suite of rooms with a private entrance available, Mr. MacKaye.”
“May I visit this evening?”
When she readily agreed, he thanked her and hurried back the way he’d come. He was not looking forward to spending the day wandering the cold waterfront, trying to pry information out of people not inclined to talk to strangers. Seamen more often than not lived life on the edge and didn’t begrudge another man that choice. So, even if the Cortlandt boy was stowed away on a ship, it was unlikely that any ship’s mate would share that information with Ezra, even for a price. And no doubt, Edward Cortlandt would have paid more for the ship mate’s silence.
Ezra called to mind the image of the man he was looking for, all the bits and pieces of information about his character and habits, and could not imagine him a stowaway on a working ship. He was a dilettante and the worst kind of snob. A man like Edward Cortlandt would do nothing to inconvenience himself, not even to avoid his father’s wrath. So, if still in Philadelphia, he was not hiding on a ship; and if he’d left the city, it would not have been on a working boat. So where was the young fool? Now hungry as well as cold and weary, he boarded the first horse bus that would return him to the familiarity of Flegler Street—and give his sore feet a rest. Perhaps shaved, washed, fed and rested, he would have clarity of mind enough to imagine where Edward Cortlandt was hiding himself. But after taking care of himself he found that he wanted nothing more than to begin packing for the move to Apted Street, for even without having seen Miss Read’s lodgings, he knew that was where he wanted to reside, especially after the street noise made it impossible for him to fall asleep after his bath and meal. Flegler Street was in the commercial district and he’d maintain his office here but
he’d rest his body on Apted Street.
“I’m very sorry to be losing you, Mr. MacKaye,” his landlady said when he shared his intentions.
“You’ll not be totally rid of me, Mrs. McDougall,” he said with a warm smile. He always enjoyed his encounters with her. She was as round as a biscuit, and her red-orange hair would no more remain braided and bound within its scarf than her five-year-old twin grandsons would remain quiet and obedient at the back of the house. Her green eyes always sparkled with merriment no matter the discussion.
“I’ve a single room on the second floor that you might like for your office.”
“I hope I’m not causing you any inconvenience,” he said.
“Not a bit of it,” she said, waving away his concern with pudgy, bejeweled fingers. “I’ll have no trouble letting your suite—” She stopped mid-sentence, her brow wrinkling. “Was there a problem of some kind, Mr. MacKaye?”
He hurried to reassure her. “Oh, no, Mrs. McDougall! At least not a problem with your hospitality. I just got tired of people knowing where to find me after hours.”
Her face relaxed into a sympathetic smile. He paid what he owed, promised to have his belongings out by the end of the day, then went into the street to look for a trap to hire to make good on his promise. He also sent a note to Mistress Read saying he’d arrive that evening prepared to move in, enclosing enough money to convince her of his sincerity.
CHAPTER THREE
Genie and Adelaide were so busy in the shop the next morning that the arrival of Eli at the back door caught them both by surprise, startling them. They already were overwhelmed by the day’s deliveries and were expecting no more. Adelaide went to the door and Genie heard the muffled conversation, then Adelaide returned with the message that Eli was there, as requested, and for a brief, confused moment, Genie didn’t know what he wanted. Then she remembered and hurried to the back door.
“Hello, Eli. Thank you for coming.”
“Yes, Ma’am, Miss Genie. Mr. William said you wanted to see me.”
“Come in out of the cold, Eli,” she said, beckoning to him, and she thought she’d have to grab his arm and drag him inside. “Come stand beside the stove and warm up.” It was a very cold morning but Eli wore his usual cut-off pants held up with rope and a checked shirt, which at least had long sleeves. His feet, however, were bare. While Eli all but hugged the cast iron stove, Genie went to stand beside Adelaide and the pile of clothing they’d been sorting through. “See if you can find a pair of pants for him, please, and a shirt and jacket.” Adelaide nodded, looking down at the boy’s feet. There were no shoes of any kind in the donated pile.
“I wanted to ask you, Eli, if you remember what the man who chased you wanted to know—”
The boy’s eyes got big and he backed up a step. “I ain’t done no wrong, Miss Genie!”
“I know you haven’t, Eli! That’s not why you’re here and you’re not in any trouble. Honest! And the man who was chasing you apologized. He’s not a slave catcher and he knows he was wrong to chase you.” Genie was talking fast, watching Eli closely to be certain he understood and would not bolt. His breathing slowed, but he watched her warily.
“What do he want with me?”
“He’s looking for the Cortlandt boy, the banker’s son, and he thought you might know where to find him.”
“He ain’t the p’lice,” Eli said forthrightly; he knew a policeman when he saw one.
“No, he’s not. He’s a . . . he’s like a Pinkerton’s. You know what they are, don’t you?”
Eli nodded. “Ev’erbody know ’bout the Pinkertons.”
“Do you know where the boy is?”
Eli nodded again but he didn’t speak. His body stilled and Genie realized that he’d been shivering. For a brief moment she thought she should have secured Ed Blanding’s back room for Eli, but it was indeed a fleeting thought for Eli would not have been able to pay for such a lodging, and he would have shared it with anyone who needed shelter. Genie could vouch for Eli but not for some of the boys he associated with. And even those she knew, she knew nothing about. “Will you tell Mr. MacKaye where the boy is, Eli?”
Eli was shivering again, this time not from the cold, and shaking his head back and forth, his face a stubborn mask. “I don’t like talking to no white mens, Miss Genie.”
She didn’t need to tax her imagination to understand why: The boy had been a slave, and it required her entire imagination to envision how one so young could have planned and executed his own escape. He now worked the most menial jobs in the most disreputable establishments, servicing the men who frequented them, most probably because he had no skills other than farming. Of course he didn’t like talking to white men. “If I go with you, will you tell Mr. MacKaye what you know?”
He considered this, then nodded. “If you stand with me I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you, Eli. When and where?”
He thought for a moment. She knew that he worked odd jobs all over town. “T’morrow in the evenin’ time, back behind the big church on the square, the one with bells that ring the time. When they ring six times, Miss Genie.”
Six o’clock tomorrow evening behind Christ Church. “I’ll be there with Mr. MacKaye, Eli—wait!” she called out, for he had turned and was headed for the door. She looked over at Adelaide, who approached holding clothes out to Eli.
“These are for you, Eli,” Adelaide said, offering a pair of heavy trousers, a woolen shirt, long underwear, and a thick scarf.
The boy looked at the items as if they might attack him.
“Take them, Eli,” Genie said, “and go into the storeroom there and change.” The two women walked away and left the boy to change into the clothes they’d thrust at him. They returned to their work and after several long minutes they heard the back door open and close. Genie went to the storeroom to find Eli’s old clothes in a neat pile on the floor. Yes, they were little more than rags, but that wasn’t why he’d left them: He had no place to store a second set of clothes. She locked the back door and walked slowly back to Adelaide after first depositing Eli’s old clothes into the stove. “I hope we get some shoes that will fit him.”
“If we do,” Adelaide said, “I’ll add a pair of William’s socks.”
For most of the year their shop—called Miss Adelaide’s Dress and Hat Shop—did what was advertised: They made and repaired dresses and hats. Genie owned the business but it bore Adelaide’s name because the Genie who had escaped slavery had been a well-regarded seamstress named Clara, and anyone looking for her runaway self would be looking for a seamstress. But since Adelaide was at least twenty years older, four inches shorter, and twenty pounds heavier than Clara the runaway slave, Miss Adelaide’s was a safe hiding place. This time of year, however, as winter bore down, the two women used their skills to repair and refashion articles of clothing and material donated by churches and social organizations and given free to the poorest among them. Shoes and socks, however, always were in short supply because everyone, well-to-do and destitute alike, wore them until they were worn beyond the possibility of repair.
Because she was the more skilled seamstress, Genie undertook the most complicated tasks—making dresses or coats from the heavy draperies no longer welcome in a society drawing room, or fashioning garments of any kind from pillow coverings. Because nothing that was donated was thrown away, they always managed to create something useful for those who had nothing at all. By midday, Genie’s fingers were bleeding and her eyes were burning. She got up from her sewing table, stretched her back, and changed from her Eugenia clothes into her Eugene clothes. At Adelaide’s questioning look she explained that she was going to tell Ezra MacKaye when and where to meet Eli tomorrow night.
“Do you think he really knows where to find the Cortlandt youth?”
Genie nodded. “I do, otherwise he wouldn’t subject himself to questioning by a white man.” And wearing enough clothes to both keep her warm and give her bulk, she set out for Flegler Stree
t, Ezra MacKaye’s card and a note to him in one pocket, her hand caressing the ever-present derringer in the other. She walked swiftly; the afternoon was cold and no doubt it would turn bitter with darkness. The horse-drawn streetcar moved swiftly past on the iron rails in the middle of the street and for not the first time Genie felt strong, bitter resentment at the fact that Colored were forbidden to ride it. William kept telling her she needed to buy a horse and cart. Perhaps she would do that. How much time and effort she could save!
Flegler Street was busy and bustling as always—and loud! She didn’t know how Ezra MacKaye could live here. She knew that she could not. Her quiet, dark, hidden Back Street was perfect for the peace of mind she required. She stopped in front of MacKaye’s address and immediately was approached by a scruffy young man she recognized as one of Eli’s housemates, though she didn’t think she’d ever known his name.
“Can I help you with somethin’, Miss Eugenie?” he asked in a whisper, standing very close to her. She couldn’t think of his name; perhaps she’d never known it though he knew hers. He also knew who she was beneath her Eugene Oliver camouflage, and knew to respect it.
She withdrew the note and the card from her pocket. “Will you take this note to Mr. MacKaye—”
“He ain’t there,” the boy said before she could complete her request.
“Then give it to the landlady to give to him.”
The boy was shaking his head. “He don’t live there no more, Miss Eugenie.”
Genie was speechless. This she had not expected. “Since when?”
“Yesterday. Me and Absalom helped him.” He looked closely at Genie. “I know where he went, Miss Eugenie.”
Genie almost laughed to herself. Of course, he did! Eli probably knew, too. “Can you tell me?” She needed to know his name.
“Reverend Richard Allen,” he replied when she asked, and Genie almost choked. The boy hastened to explain: When he left slavery, he left it all behind, including the name he’d been given. Upon arriving in Philadelphia, he heard the name of the Reverend Richard Allen everywhere, including among the white people. He wasn’t at all certain who Reverend Allen was or what he had accomplished but he knew that he was Colored and that was enough. Then he gave her a card—one of Ezra MacKaye’s with the Flegler Street address on the front, and written on the back in a strong block hand: 765 APTED STREET. “That’s where he went.”
Two Wings to Fly Away Page 3