“What’s next for the jury’s consideration, Mr. Lincoln?” Judge Thomas asked. He gave an innocent smile toward the audience, which shouted with glee.
“A moment, Your Honor,” Lincoln replied. He bent over next to Patterson and the two whispered back and forth at some length. Eventually Lincoln straightened and said, “We call Jane Patterson to the stand.” He looked toward the audience.
An excited buzz arose from the crowd. Jane Patterson herself, however, did not rise. No one did.
“Miss Patterson?” called the judge, gazing out at his courtroom. “Miss Patterson?” He looked down at Lincoln. “Where’s your witness?”
“I’m not sure, Your Honor,” Lincoln said, glancing around with agitation. Dr. Patterson, too, was on his feet and scanning the audience, a perplexed look on his face.
“If I may have a minute,” said Lincoln. He gestured frantically to the office boy Hay, who had been crouched in a corner of the well. Hay scurried over and, taking quick instruction from Lincoln, raced from the room as fast as his little legs would carry him.
In Hay’s wake, the courtroom let down its guard. The gallery talked excitedly about Prickett’s cross examination. The gentlemen of the jury stood and stretched. On the bench, Judge Thomas took out a new cigar and, having caressed it lovingly, struck a match.
Hay did not immediately return. Where could Jane have gone? I wondered. Surely she knew Lincoln intended to call her this afternoon. At length, the jury sat down again and started looking bored. Judge Thomas’s pulls on his cigar became increasingly agitated. Several members of the crowd left the courtroom in search of a necessary.
“Mr. Lincoln,” said the judge after some ten minutes had passed. “Why don’t you call your next witness.”
“I’m not sure I have one,” said Lincoln. “I’d very much prefer to put Miss Patterson on next. I’m sure Hay won’t be too much longer.”
“I’ll give him five more minutes,” said the judge. He pulled out his pocket watch and laid it on the bench in front of him. Lincoln pulled out his own watch and studied it nervously.
Five minutes passed. Judge Thomas glowered at Lincoln. “Any minute now,” Lincoln offered, hopefully. The crowd hummed with excitement. What might happen next if the witness was nowhere to be found? Perhaps, some wondered aloud, a hanging before nightfall. Seven minutes. Ten. Judge Thomas cleared his throat loudly.
“Mr. Lincoln—”
He was interrupted by the crash of the courtroom door as Hay burst through. The bedraggled boy was drenched in sweat. He raced up the central aisle and stopped at the gate, right next to me, seemingly unable to muster the strength to advance any further.
“Well?” said the judge.
The boy panted. The courtroom was silent, staring at Hay with anticipation. At last he managed to speak. “Miss . . . Miss Patterson has been . . . abducted.”
The courtroom was thrown into tumult.
Hay looked at me and added, “And your sister’s gone too.”
CHAPTER 38
About five things happened at once. Dr. Patterson, suddenly reanimated, shouted out, “My dear Jane!” and started to rush from the well. Sheriff Hutchason dove and managed to catch Patterson around the leg. Men shouted; women shrieked. Judge Thomas pounded madly for order.
But none of this mattered to me.
“What happened to Martha?” I demanded, taking Hay by the lapels of his jacket. The boy tried to wriggle free, but I pulled him closer, staring into his small, dark eyes and breathing in his stale, foul-smelling breath, and said, “Tell me. Now.”
“I only know what I learnt from Molly Hutchason in between her screamin’,” he said. “And what some trades-fellow said he’d seen on the street in front their house.”
“Tell me what you know,” I demanded again. I was vaguely conscious of Lincoln beside us, listening to what the boy had to say.
“A slave-catcher snatched up the Negro midwife, right from Hutchason’s yard,” Hay said. “Asked to see her papers, and when she couldn’t show him none, he bound her and loaded her into his cart. I guess your sister and Miss Patterson was there, and the catcher seized them up too. He drove off with all three of ’em.”
“Don’t tell me you neglected to register Phillis,” Lincoln said to me.
I did not spare a glance for Lincoln but rather tightened my grip on Hay. “Who was the slave-catcher?” I demanded.
“I’ve no idea,” said Hay. “Don’t get too many ’round Springfield, do we? Maybe Billy would know.”
“You didn’t get a description?”
“The fellow on the street said he didn’t recognize him neither. Said he had an ugly smile. Oh, and he was wearin’ a straw hat, an old torn one.”
“That was no slave-catcher,” I said. “That was the poorhouse master, Hathaway.”
“From what you’ve described,” Lincoln said, “slave catching could easily be a side dish for him.”
“As could kidnapping white women and passing them along.” I shuddered. “I’ve got to go after them at once.”
I released my grip on Hay, who staggered away and was immediately grabbed up again, this time by Sheriff Hutchason.
“Who’s caring for Molly?” demanded Hutchason.
“No one, Sheriff,” said Hay. “She was alone, shoutin’ out the window for somebody to help, when I happened by lookin’ for Miss Patterson.”
The sheriff gave a loud, fearful wail—no one in town had ever considered that the massive Sheriff Humble Hutchason might be afraid of anything—and the singular noise put an end to the chaos. In short order, Judge Thomas adjourned court for the day, telling the jury to come back in the morning. The sheriff and Dr. Patterson made ready to depart for the Hutchason house, the doctor agreeing to Hutchason’s plea that he avoid any of his modern methods in helping bring Molly’s labors to a successful conclusion.
“Find them, Speed, and bring them home safely,” Patterson said as he was led out by the distraught Hutchason.
“I fully intend to,” I said, “but not for your sake. It’s not Miss Patterson’s fault she was burdened by a father like you.” Patterson grunted, but I turned my back on him before he could say anything else.
“Let me walk with you for a moment,” said Lincoln, taking my arm. We pushed our way through the departing crowd, which was rumbling with a combination of disappointment that there was to be no hanging tonight after all and excitement for whatever the next morning might bring. Outside, we found a comparatively deserted corner of the square.
“I haven’t another moment to lose,” I said.
“Your bondswoman Phillis is in great jeopardy,” Lincoln said, giving me a severe look. “Without papers proving her identity, she has no rights whatsoever. And neither, I needn’t remind you, do you over her, not in this state. I told you you were being reckless in the extreme in allowing her to be brought here.”
“Whatever the slave’s fate, I’ll be fine,” I said, my temper rising. I could not understand Lincoln’s interest in her. “I barely know the woman. But if anything happens to Martha, I’ll never be able to live with myself.”
“I can hardly believe this fellow Hathaway took your sister and Miss Patterson,” said Lincoln. “Seizing a Negro woman without papers is perfectly legal. But kidnapping a white woman is grounds for hanging. I’ve no doubt Hathaway is venal in the extreme, ready to prey on the unprotected at the slightest provocation. But I doubt he’s that stupid.”
“You haven’t met Hathaway,” I said. “Besides, you heard what Hay said.”
“I need Jane as my next witness,” said Lincoln. He worked his hands together with agitation. “She’s going to corroborate Patterson’s testimony about his creeping madness—at least the doctor said she would. Otherwise it’s just his own say-so.”
“I don’t mind telling you I’ve no interest in helping your defense,” I replied. “Not after hearing Patterson’s testimony today. But I have to find Martha. And if by chance I locate Miss Patterson at the same time—w
ell, I suppose I won’t stand in front of her testifying.”
I turned to leave and then asked, “Will the judge hold the trial for her?”
Lincoln shook his head. “I doubt it greatly,” he said. “Either she’s here first thing in the morning, ready to testify, or we’ll go directly to closing argument. Either way, Patterson’s fate will be sealed tomorrow.”
“Good,” I said, and I hurried off toward van Hoff’s stables.
Fifteen minutes later, I set off astride Hickory. On horseback, I could make much faster time than Hathaway could in whatever sorry cart he was driving. But I didn’t know how much of a head start he had.
As I raced through the prairie, I found myself repeating Lincoln’s phrase in my mind. Ready to prey on the unprotected at the slightest provocation. The description applied to all too many people these days, especially in these economic times. The sun was fading behind us now, sending up lengthening shadows across our path. It would be dusk before long.
As Hickory and I pressed onward, I wondered about Hathaway. What had been his provocation to take Phillis? He could hardly have happened upon her in Hutchason’s rear yard by accident. And then it hit me—hit me so plainly that in the next moment I wondered how I could not have seen it from the start. Jane Patterson had sent him. And in the moment that followed, the answer to the next logical question arrived as well: Jane had been afraid of whatever Phillis overheard during her argument with her father, and she encouraged Hathaway to spirit the Negro out of town before she could relate the knowledge to anyone else.
What had Phillis heard? Dr. Patterson boasting of the lies he had just foisted upon the jury? Perhaps he was confessing his guilt—and his sanity—all along. Or perhaps he had been attempting to suborn Jane into supporting his fantastical story with her own testimony. Whatever it was, if it was worth Jane instigating a slave-stealing over, it must have been truly damaging to her father’s case. Phillis must have important evidence against the doctor. Suddenly my search for Martha was compounded by a considerable interest in retrieving the old slave woman as well. I spurred Hickory onward through the tall grasses with still greater urgency.
The sun had dropped to the tree line and the shadows in front of us were impossibly long as the farms surrounding Decatur finally began to materialize out of the prairie. Through the twilight we rode up to the poorhouse. In a small pen to the side of the house, a cheerless horse grazed next to an unhitched box cart. I went up and, murmuring sweet sentiments, put my hand on the horse’s back. It was warm and damp. They hadn’t been back for long.
As I turned toward the poorhouse, I noticed a single crow perched on the top rung of the pen, staring at me silently. Then it took off, a flutter of ink-black wings, screeching mercilessly at the heavens. Trying to avoid feeling shaken, I left Hickory in the pen and raced up the walk of the house.
The front door opened from the inside when I was five feet away.
“Thought I might see you,” sneered Hathaway. His corncob pipe was stuck in the side of his mouth and his battered straw hat sat resolutely atop his head. He wore the self-satisfied smile of a steamboat gambler who thought he knew where all the cards lay.
“Where’s my sister?” I demanded.
Hathaway shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“You kidnapped her from Springfield,” I said. “You must know.” I could dominate the man, kill him easily if I had to, but that wouldn’t get me any closer to finding Martha.
“She took an unauthorized ride in my carriage is more like it,” he said. “I never wanted her along. Neither her nor the doctor’s daughter. They don’t do me any good. I only wanted the Negro.”
I expelled my breath in relief. “Where’s my slave then?” I said. “Give her back to me.”
“Your slave? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he countered, smiling his gambler’s smile.
“An old Negro woman who goes by the name Phillis. She’s my family’s property.”
“Got anything to prove it?” he said. When I paused, he continued, “Didn’t think so. She’s my property now, and I’ll dispose of her how I choose. In fact, I’ve done so already.”
This statement knocked me back. “What do you mean?”
“Passed her along to a trader, as soon as I got back to town,” Hathaway said. His grin stretched from ear to ear, his discolored teeth gleaming dull in the twilight. “Took pennies on the dollar for her, though I’m not sure how much she’ll fetch down the river. Maybe there’s a plantation owner near New Orleans planning a large family and in need of a midwife. One never knows what the market will be for them.” He shrugged.
“You’ll pay me compensation for my loss,” I said. “But first, you’ll tell me where you last saw my sister and Miss Patterson. If you don’t, I’ll strike you down on the spot.” I clenched my fists and took two steps forward.
Hathaway was not, for all his bluster, a steamboat gambler, and he flinched. Perhaps the memory of the earlier time I’d hit him in the mouth, not far from where we now stood, weakened his resolve. In any event, he spat onto the ground near my feet and said, “I expect you’ll find them at one of the public houses.” He nodded over his shoulder toward the village. “After I made clear I wasn’t giving back the slave woman, they went off in search of food and lodging. Your sister was hysterical about her slave when I first took her, wouldn’t let go of her arm, but by the time we’d jolted all the way across the prairie, I think her sense of charity had vanished.” He laughed harshly.
I doubted this, but I didn’t doubt Martha’s ability to make a tactical retreat while pondering her next charge. So I left Hathaway without another word and strode up the hill to Decatur’s public square. One or two persons hurried along the far side of the green, but most of the populace of Decatur had, it seemed, headed inside this cool fall evening.
It had been a few years since I’d been in Decatur proper, and I thought I remembered two taverns plying their trade along the east side of the square. I headed off in that direction and saw, as I neared, that there were actually four public houses in a sorry row.
I walked into the first one I encountered. It was dimly lit and nearly deserted. “Martha?” I called out. “Martha, are you here?” The only person who responded was a young, ill-dressed woman standing near the entranceway, a glass in hand, who reached out to touch my arm and murmured, “I can be ‘Martha’ if you’d like.”
“Not what I’m looking for,” I said and quickly walked out.
The next public house in the row featured a large sign projecting sideways from the facade identifying it as the Hound’s Breath. This tavern was much better lit inside, with squat candlesticks burning on each table. A Union Jack was tacked to the wall behind the bar—the citizens of Decatur evidently more willing than most to forgive our recent enemy. There were several dozen people inside the low-ceilinged room, and it fairly roared with conversation.
“Martha?” I shouted out.
“Joshua!” came a welcome call from the corner. I rushed forward and my sister leapt into my arms. Her lavender lace dress and gloves were filthy, and her hair had been blown around wildly, but she’d never looked better to my eyes. We held each other tight, our tears of relief mingling.
“Is Miss Patterson with you?” I asked.
Martha nodded. “She’ll be back from the backhouse any minute. I’m so glad you’re here, Joshua. We need your help in rescuing Phillis.”
“I just came from talking to Hathaway,” I said. “He told me he’d sold her down the river already.”
“He’s lying. I’ve no doubt he means to sell her, but he hasn’t yet.”
I looked around the tavern and saw no sign of Jane. “You do realize, Martha, it was Miss Patterson who put Hathaway onto Phillis?”
“Impossible,” my sister said with emotion. “She would never do such a cruel thing. Besides, Jane’s the one who risked her own well-being by remaining with me when I wouldn’t leave Phillis’s side. She’s a heroine, not a villain.”
“What could Phillis possibly know that—”
“Mr. Speed,” called Jane’s voice from behind us. “I must say I’m glad to see you. I’m afraid we’ve found ourselves in a pickle.”
Jane’s costume was just as soiled as Martha’s, but I saw a glint of steel in her eyes I’d never noticed before.
“Good evening, Miss Patterson,” I said with a bow. “I’m relieved to have found you both unharmed.”
“What happened at Father’s trial this afternoon?” Jane said. “Is there still time for me to testify? Father told me I’d have to, but then I happened upon that horrible man trying to snatch away your bondswoman and I couldn’t let Martha go after her unaccompanied.”
“I’m very grateful to you,” I said, ignoring Martha’s I-told-you-so look. “As it happens, the trial day ended awaiting your testimony. If you’re back in Springfield by daybreak, I think Lincoln can put you on the stand.”
“What a relief,” Jane said, expelling her breath. “Why don’t you join us for supper and then the three of us can ride back together. I wasn’t certain how we’d cross the prairie at night, just Miss Speed and I, but with you along to protect us, I’m sure we’ll be in safe hands.”
“I’m not leaving without Phillis,” said Martha.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” said Jane. “You heard your brother—the trial won’t wait for me. What if Father were to be convicted, where my testimony would have produced his acquittal?” Her voice rose with genuine emotion. “As soon as we eat, we must be back on the trail to Springfield.”
“I’m not leaving without Phillis,” repeated Martha.
“Dear, don’t you think you’re being a little stubborn?” said Jane. I could tell she was trying hard to maintain her composure. “And selfish. You’ve done all you can, especially in this state, where no part of officialdom will lift a finger to protect your rights. Molly will have given birth by the time we’re back. And you won’t need a midwife yourself for several years now, will you? Meanwhile, my father’s life is at stake. Tonight.”
These Honored Dead Page 25