by Lyn Cote
Rebecca shivered. “I don’t know why you’re doin’ all this for me. I’m nothing.”
The desolate phrase pinched Blessing’s heart. She squeezed Rebecca’s hand. “Thee has never been nothing. God loves thee, and he gives us new beginnings by his grace. Thee didn’t choose the life thee lived, did thee?”
Rebecca replied with a sound of derision.
Blessing decided enough had been said.
Before long they arrived at Cathwell’s Glassworks. As she glimpsed home, Blessing’s heart lifted. Over the years, her parents’ two-room cabin had grown to four rooms. And the nearby cabin where Joanna’s parents lived had also doubled in size since she was a child. Before the gig arrived at the door, her mother had already come out and was waving in welcome.
“Mother!” Blessing waved back. Soon she was surrounded by her younger sisters. Then her father, Samuel; her brother, John; and her cousin, Caleb, all streamed out from the large glass workshop.
As always, coming home felt bittersweet, reminding Blessing of her marriage and how it had separated her from these dear ones for nearly six years. Amid the hubbub of greetings, Rebecca hung back beside the gig.
“And who is this?” Honor, Blessing’s mother, finally asked with a smile.
Blessing introduced Rebecca and let her mother take over the hospitality. A look passed between Blessing and her mother, and she knew that Rebecca would be invited to stay. She could always count on her mother.
After all, Honor had never given up on her when she’d chosen to marry Richard and forsaken the meeting. And when Blessing had returned as the prodigal daughter, she’d been welcomed not with recriminations but with grateful tears and the fatted calf too. Not for the first time, she silently thanked God for the family she had been born to.
After dark, when everyone else had turned in for the night, Blessing and her mother sat beside the low fire. Blessing had trouble believing at times like this that she had ever been tempted to turn away from her family. She’d been barely eighteen when she married Richard, yet youth explained only part of her reason for rebelling.
She’d mistaken the plainness of being a Quaker for hypocrisy and lifelessness. And as Joanna had said, Richard had laid siege to her, and before she knew it, she’d stepped away from family and faith.
Reunification with her family had brought with it the gift of conversations with her mother, a gift she no longer took for granted. Now she longed to discuss several people with Honor. Rebecca, of course, who was sharing a room with Blessing’s two younger sisters; as well as Tippy . . . and perhaps Gerard Ramsay.
“I take it Rebecca was engaged in prostitution,” Honor began.
“Yes. She just miscarried her first child.”
Honor let out a sigh of weariness. “The poor girl. We’ll do what we can for her. But she’s still so young. And I think that children who have been perverted have a harder time breaking free. Their scars run deeper.”
Blessing let a glance reply for her and gazed into the scant flames, gathering her words. Ramsay pushed to the forefront of her concerns. “Mother, I need thy advice on something that has come up—or, I should say, on a man who has intruded into my life.”
“A man? Intruded?”
“Yes. He’s from Boston, a wastrel from all I’ve seen. I keep bumping into him at the docks. He’s the cousin of the man who is courting Tippy Foster.”
“Ah, I see. What’s thy question?” Her mother’s calm voice soothed her. Did anything ruffle her mother?
“He’s invited me to a play, Hamlet, that’s to be performed by students on the seminary grounds.”
“And he knows quite well that Friends do not attend plays.”
Her mother, kind as always, did not mention her marriage to Richard Brightman or the tenuous place Blessing still held within the meeting. But it wasn’t necessary. Blessing’s thoughts were already there.
After her husband’s death, Blessing had confessed her sin of becoming unequally yoked and asked for the elders’ forgiveness, and she had been reinstated into the fellowship. If she went to this play, the elders might discipline her again. The mere thought pressed on her like bookends coming together. “I think he’s trying to tempt me, to ensnare me.”
Her mother looked worried for a moment but drew herself up. “Then thee knows what thee must do.”
Blessing nodded. More and more when she was with Ramsay, she sensed a deep, festering hurt in him. She wished she knew what drove him to push the limits, flirt with sin. Also, she admitted her desire to see a performance of Hamlet, which she’d read in school. But this inclination was not enough to pull her from the fellowship. A highly respected Quaker like her mother might be able to attend the play and receive only a minor reprimand from the elders. But not Blessing.
Then an outrageous thought occurred to her. She chuckled. If she correctly suspected that Gerard Ramsay was trying to ensnare her, this might teach him not to test her. Did she dare?
SEPTEMBER 30, 1848
The early evening play was nearing its climax. Since it was an outdoor performance, benches had been ranged around a makeshift stage. In spite of the felicitous setting, everything about the production grated on Gerard. He could barely discern Shakespeare’s poetic phrases due to the amateur actors’ mangled lines and poor performances. In addition, a few boys whose voices hadn’t changed yet had been drafted to play the female roles. Though Gerard knew this practice was common in Shakespeare’s time, these boys didn’t look happy about their parts. To a man who’d enjoyed professional theater in Boston, performed by accomplished actors and actresses, this amateur production rankled—a travesty.
But all of that wasn’t even the worst aspect of this evening. A few days ago, Blessing had accepted his invitation, but she had told him she would come in her own carriage. He’d thought it was her way of keeping gossip at bay.
At the last moment before the play began, however, a white-haired Quakeress leaning on a cane had arrived with the ticket he had given Blessing. She’d introduced herself as Deborah Coxswain and explained that the younger woman had been detained at the orphanage. Apparently Blessing had graciously offered Mrs. Coxswain her ticket.
Stoddard, who had been vexed with him for enticing the widow to attend the play in spite of her protestations, had smirked at Gerard as he’d been forced to welcome Mrs. Coxswain to his theater party. So tonight Blessing Brightman had bested him. He’d steamed in barely polite silence ever since.
Just as Gerard was sure he could abide no more of this theatrical posturing, fire bells rang out, breaking over the dialogue. A trumpet sounded. Police whistles shrilled with alarm. Many men in the audience leaped to their feet and started running in the direction of the noises. Gerard glanced around, unnerved.
“They must be volunteer firefighters,” Tippy said, sounding troubled.
The actors on the stage tried to go on with the play, but the wind carried the sounds of danger over the crowd. Then gunfire split the gathering twilight. The audience rose almost as one. The actors fell silent, staring in the direction of the unexpected sound.
“Cousin, we had better get the ladies home safely,” Stoddard said.
“What’s happening?” Gerard asked. “Who’s shooting?”
“The noises are coming from the direction of Little Africa,” Mrs. Coxswain said. “Something like this has happened before. I have a bad feeling.” She sighed. “Will thee take me to Blessing’s orphanage? If what I fear is happening, she might be a target.”
Gerard couldn’t make sense of the woman’s words, but he offered her his arm and started helping her toward the carriages. People rushed around them. Deborah Coxswain, with her halting gait, slowed their pace.
“What’s going on?” Gerard demanded of Stoddard, speaking close to his ear.
“Haven’t you been reading the newspaper articles alleging that the presence of free blacks in the city is hindering trade between Cincinnati and the South? Even the mayor has declared this to be true.”
A burst of gunfire exploded to the west. Some women shrieked and lifted their skirts, dashing off. A few men swung their ladies up into their arms and ran.
“I have read the dreadful articles,” Mrs. Coxswain declared. “We’ve been afraid that there might be an outbreak of violence intended to drive the free blacks out of the city.”
Gerard’s head spun. “The mayor wants mob violence?”
“Toward Little Africa. And he can count on prejudice to fuel it.” The woman’s expression became grim. “Greed and hatred blinds many to right and wrong.”
When they reached the place where the Foster and Coxswain carriages should have been, they found the vehicles gone. The street had emptied of people, carriages, and horses.
“Our drivers must have been forced to go on home,” Tippy said above the noise of chaos, which was nearer now. “The horses might have been bolting and could have hurt themselves.” She moved nearer to Stoddard. “The drivers knew we had male protectors.”
Stoddard drew Tippy’s arm through his. “Let’s start for the orphanage. It’s closer than home. Though also closer to Little Africa. But we have no choice.”
Gerard stepped over to the older woman and pressed his hand over her arm in reassurance. “How far can you walk?”
“As far as necessary,” Mrs. Coxswain said with iron in her tone.
As the sun set, the red glow shading the sky in the direction of their destination raised Gerard’s tension. People seemed to be running helter-skelter through the streets. More gunfire rent the air. Gerard wanted to run ahead, to see for himself what was happening, but he had to think of the lady he was escorting, who was bravely moving as fast as her advanced age let her.
Finally, as night closed in, the orphanage came into sight. When the four of them opened the gate, a deep, gruff voice from the shadows challenged them. “Who goes there?”
“Hello, Brother Ezekiel. It is I, Deborah Coxswain.”
“Hurry in! We’re guarding the front door and back gates. You’ll be safe here.”
Heading toward a lantern light, Gerard and Stoddard bustled the ladies forward. From the title the Quakeress had used to address the man, Gerard surmised he must be a minister. “What’s happening? Where’s Mrs. Brightman?”
“We tried to stop her, but we got word that Theodosia’s block had caught fire,” Brother Ezekiel replied as Gerard and the others drew up beside him. “Mrs. Brightman took my grandson to find Theodosia and bring her family out safely. I’m worried. Many of our people have already lost their homes to the fires, and many were beaten as they fled. Now they’re hiding here in the basement and carriage house.”
Gerard noticed that a number of black men with clubs stood near the entrance. His head whirled. He’d never faced a mob before. One sentence found his mouth. “You let Mrs. Brightman go to the fire?”
“You try stopping that woman,” the silver-haired minister said as he helped Mrs. Coxswain up the steps.
Stoddard nudged Tippy to follow her. “We’ll go find Blessing and bring her back.”
Tippy turned. “I can come—”
“No. If I know you are safe here, I can go help our friend. Otherwise all my efforts will be spent protecting you.”
Impulsively Tippy rose on tiptoe and kissed him. “Go then! Quickly. Find her!”
Stoddard kissed her in return. For once Gerard was undisturbed by their open affection.
As soon as Tippy had disappeared into the orphanage, Stoddard addressed Brother Ezekiel. “Where is Theodosia’s home?”
Gerard listened carefully as the minister directed them.
Stoddard swung away. “Coming, Cousin?”
Gerard followed him through the gate, then jogged beside him down the street. “Doesn’t the mayor know that any fires could spread beyond Little Africa?” Gerard’s pulse pounded in his ears.
“He’s a fool. One can’t control a mob. And the fire might already be out of hand.”
Soon Gerard actually felt the heat from the blaze. Flames leaping above the rooftops lit the night, garish and frightening, as if a portal to hell had opened.
“This way!” Stoddard shouted above the noise of yelling and the roar of the fire.
Gerard hadn’t prayed in a long time, but he found himself beseeching God that they’d find Blessing in one piece and get her home safely. What kind of woman ran straight into danger?
They turned a corner, and by the light of the fire, Gerard saw her. She was trying to force her way into a house already aflame. He sped up, racing to her, and grabbed her arm. “Are you mad?”
“My wet nurse is upstairs!” Blessing cried, shrill with panic. “With her two toddlers and my newest orphan. I must save them!”
Gerard wrenched her backward. “Stay here.” He shouldered his way through the door. Inside, the acrid smoke nearly choked him. He bent low, feeling his way toward where he thought the stairs might be, and found them fully engulfed in flame—impossible to climb. He rushed outside. Bent over double, coughing.
Stoddard grabbed his arm and dragged him to the side of the building. “There!” He pointed to a small upper-story window.
A woman’s scream split the air.
Through his watering eyes, Gerard saw a black woman peering over the windowsill, an infant in her arms. Two children, just tall enough to see out the window, were visible beside her.
“Catch them!” the woman cried.
Without stopping to think, both he and Stoddard dropped their canes, stepped under the window with their arms extended.
“One at a time!” Gerard shouted.
The woman screamed again as she dropped the swaddled infant from the window. Stoddard caught him and swayed.
“Again!” Gerard shouted, the pandemonium around him fading as he concentrated on the next falling child.
The little girl landed in his arms, jolting him.
Blessing snatched her from him.
Then the woman let go of the third child. Gerard caught him as well.
“Take off thy coats!” Blessing ordered, wresting the boy from him.
Stoddard quickly obeyed after passing the baby to her, and Gerard followed automatically.
“Put them one atop the other and hold the corners. Tight!” Blessing directed.
The woman above shrieked. “My hem is on fire!”
“Beat it out!” Blessing shouted. “Then jump! They’ll break thy fall!”
Gerard panicked. Break her fall?
Before he could consider what he was supposed to do, the woman came straight at them.
“Hold!” Stoddard yelled as he tried to brace himself.
The woman hit their coats, and the weight drove both men to their knees on the brick street.
Gerard gasped for air. “Are you all right?”
The woman rolled onto her knees and tried to stand.
“Help her, Ramsay!” Blessing shouted. She carried the infant in one arm and shoved the other children toward Stoddard, who swept them both up.
The mob was nearing. Gerard could hear their yelling and jeers. He grabbed his cane and Stoddard’s, tucking them under his arm. Then he helped the black woman to her feet. When she staggered, he slid his arm under hers. He turned to Blessing. “Widow! Run!”
She obeyed, racing away from the burning house. He and his cousin rushed alongside her. The mob nipped at their heels, pelting them with rocks and pummeling them with curses. In a burst, Gerard shoved the two canes into the widow’s hands. He swung the wet nurse into his arms. “Faster!” he urged.
Finally the orphanage loomed ahead. The widow raced forward to the gate, unlocked it, and disappeared inside. Stoddard ran in behind her and Gerard pushed the black woman after him. He turned and drew his pistol, facing the men who had chased them.
His abrupt movement caught them up sharply. They halted, staring at him as if dumbfounded.
“Go about your business!” Gerard ordered.
“That widow’s got blacks living in there!” one of them challenged.
The men moved forward. Gerard lifted the pistol and took aim. They froze.
“Go about your business,” he said again, evenly.
The men eyed him. The moon had risen now, so he could see their twisted faces. They outnumbered him, but his gun trumped their clubs. If they attacked, one or more of them could die or be wounded.
“It’s a repeater. A Colt,” one man observed. He cursed Gerard and turned away.
The others followed suit, melting into the night.
Gerard stood there, trembling and gasping from exertion. Alone at last, he entered the gate, securing it behind him. He looked up, and Blessing stood on the steps with a lantern at her side. He’d never faced such naked evil in his life. As his heart still pounded with the aftermath of danger, his respect for Blessing Brightman rose. He couldn’t believe he’d come through this alive. Thank God.
He shoved his pistol into the holster concealed beneath his arm, aware of the black men guarding the gates and the back door. It was just as well they had stayed in the background as reserve troops. The thugs would back down when faced by a white man, but not by a black man. They would have rushed him regardless of the pistol.
Before he knew it, Blessing had run forward. “Is thee all right?”
“I’m fine,” he murmured.
“Thee is not completely unscathed. Come inside.” She took his hand, leading him. He didn’t pull away, all his senses dazed by the recent events. And suddenly he registered stinging in various parts of his body.
Inside the kitchen, the brighter lamplight made him blink as his eyes adjusted. Every window shade was drawn. Black men ringed the room, and a few women hovered near the table, including Deborah Coxswain, who sat with the infant who’d been rescued. Blessing nudged him into a chair. Tippy was bending over Stoddard’s head, dabbing what smelled like alcohol onto his face.
The black woman he’d carried here sat slumped in her chair. Her two children huddled on her lap. Another woman was comforting her and trying to get her to rise.