by Tara Johnson
Something haunted him, that much was certain.
Pounding steps echoed down the hallway. She turned, eyes rounding to see Father running toward her, his chest heaving. “Father! What’s wrong?”
“It’s your brother. Tate . . . he’s hurt . . . just outside of Richmond. He’s asking for us. We must go to him.”
Cadence gripped the bars of the rumbling train through gloved fingers. It belched black smoke, quivering as if it too wanted to flee the Confederate capital with all haste. Behind her, Father murmured in her ear, “Courage.”
She descended from the train car and stepped foot on the train depot’s boardwalk, clutching her reticule with a tight grip. All around her, gray-clad Confederate soldiers swarmed the station. She barely noticed Father’s hand at the small of her back, prodding her forward . . . straight into enemy territory.
Richmond was a hornet’s nest of activity. Men and women, soldiers and officers, peddlers and the hungry all crowded the streets around the depot. Wagons and buggies rattled past, stirring up clouds of dust. A galloping horse cut through a crowd down the far side of the street opposite the train station, causing a string of gasps to rise from the crush of people clogging the walkway. Its rider paid no attention, intent as he was on his mission. Buildings, offices, and homes closed in on every side. In the distance, Tredegar Iron Works rose up like a giant in the sky.
She was suffocating.
Father leaned in close, his whisper taut. “Remember, speak as little as possible. We need only find the boardinghouse where Tate is recovering.”
Nodding tersely, she followed him through the maze of people. He hailed a hack and gruffly gave the address Tate had mailed to him, saying little so as not to betray his Northern accent. The driver flicked the reins, setting the carriage into motion, maneuvering through the congested streets with silent aplomb. When he pulled the horses to a stop before a modest two-story boardinghouse, Cadence breathed a sigh of relief.
After paying the driver, Father rapped on the front door. A robust woman with a round face and narrowed eyes opened it. “May I help you?”
Father took off his hat and worried the brim between his fingers. “We’re looking for Tate Piper. Is he here?”
Her dark brows rose. “He is. You’re his father, I take it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stepped aside to allow them entrance. “It’s good you’ve come. He needs more help than I have time to provide. Got my hands full feeding the other boarders. Follow me.”
Cadence bit back a retort. This woman was sorely lacking in grace. Poor Tate. She glanced back over her shoulder as the woman led them through the boardinghouse.
“My name’s Mrs. Dupree. Can’t say I’m going to be sorry to see young Mr. Piper go. The other boarders never did take a fancy to him, you see. Though he seems a bit more subdued now.” She sniffed.
Mrs. Dupree’s manner set Cadence’s teeth on edge. Still, what had Tate done to cause such a reaction among the others? Father said nothing.
Finally they came to the end of a hallway and Mrs. Dupree opened the door. “I’ll give you all some time alone.”
Cadence slipped her hand into Father’s and they entered the dimly lit room. The curtains were drawn, casting a dark pall over the scant furnishings, yet the light from the hallway illuminated the lone figure on the bed.
Even with his left leg wrapped and splinted, and his torso stripped and covered by poultices and large swaths of bandages, she’d know that shock of dark hair, those cheekbones, that mouth anywhere. She breathed his name. “Tate.”
Father fell on the bed, sobbing as he clutched Tate’s hand. “My son, my son! Praise God! He returned you to me.”
Chapter 9
CADENCE LEANED FORWARD and slipped another spoonful of willow-bark tea between Tate’s dry lips. He blinked in the near darkness, the lone candle casting dancing shadows across the right side of his whiskered jaw. The sun had long since set and Father had retired to catch some needed rest. It had taken all of Cadence’s pleading, but he had finally acquiesced. It would do no good if he fell ill too.
Mrs. Dupree had tolerated their presence with a long-suffering air, offering them a room and a meal of stew and biscuits. Food, Cadence had learned, was harder to come by in Richmond than it was in Washington. No doubt the boardinghouse mistress would be relieved to see all three of them gone.
She felt Tate’s steady gaze on her but concentrated on slipping another spoonful of tea between his lips.
He swallowed and whispered, “I can’t believe you came.”
She lowered the spoon. “Of course I came. You’re my brother. How could I not?”
“After what I did, how I treated you and Father . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”
He pinched his eyes closed, his face drawn and tired. “If only I could forgive myself as easily. When Mother died . . .” He released a long exhale. “I lost myself.”
She reached for his hand and squeezed. “I know.”
Opening his eyes, he returned his focus to her face. “I pushed you and Father away. The drinking and gambling, cursing and carousing. You must have been happy to see me go.”
“Never believe such a thing. We were worried sick. Father turned Boston upside down searching for you.” Her curiosity could no longer be quenched. Her breath snagged in her chest. “Where did you go?”
He blanched. “All over. I stayed drunk most of the time and only sought work when I needed more money to put me back in the gaming halls for cards and cups.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
He looked away as a streak of crimson crept up his neck. “I worked as a bouncer for, uh, places of ill repute.”
She’d not push him further.
“I tried to return home once, you know.”
“I didn’t know that.”
He nodded, his eyelids heavy. He let them slide shut as if remembering something painful, then lifted his gaze to hers. “By then, you and Father had moved away. Mrs. Harvey from the neighborhood told me you had packed up and gone to Washington.”
“So that’s how you knew where to write to us.”
He swallowed. “When too many people began coming after me, I decided to head south. I was tired of living hand to mouth, barely scraping by. I discovered a way to make good money. Fast money, so I threw myself into it with gusto.” A thick breath escaped between his lips. “God forgive me.”
“Tell me. You’ll not receive any condemnation.”
He looked at her with sad eyes. “Don’t promise something you can’t deliver.”
“Tate, please.”
He hesitated only a moment. “I’m a . . . a slave trader.”
Horror iced her veins. Tate—her big brother, the one she’d looked up to since she was a child—was responsible for ripping babes from their mother’s arms? Shackling men and women like beasts? Buying and trading them like animals? Subjecting them to cruelty beyond comprehension? No, such a thing could not be.
She fought to school her reaction.
“So you’re a Confederate then?”
“No.” His face was bleak. “I’m nothing, Cadence. Nothing but a fool. I’ve benefited from the slave trade but have no particular love for the Confederacy. All I’ve done has been to line my own pockets. Nothing more.” He stared at her hard. “I repulse you, don’t I?” He looked away, his jaw hard. “I repulse myself.”
As she searched for words, he stared out the window. “I never thought much about it. I didn’t start slavery. The institution doesn’t rise or fall with my word, so I reasoned, what difference would it make if I gained money from it?” Stark pain flooded his eyes, turning them glassy.
“One day I bought a slave woman from the auction block. She was weeping and wailing. Her child had been sold, torn from her, and sent to another plantation down Georgia way.”
A knot lodged in Cadence’s throat.
“That woman clung to my arm, pleading with me to hel
p, tears running down her face. She kept saying, ‘Help me. I can’t live with this pain. Oh, please, help me!’” Thick tears ran down Tate’s face, swallowed in the stubble of his jaw. His lips trembled as he turned to stare at Cadence. “Those were the very last words Mother said to me before she passed.” A sob escaped and he covered his face. “Same words. Same plea, and I did nothing to help either of them.”
Father, help me love him the way you do. A wave of mercy and love so deep rose up inside, it nearly caused her to weep. Scooting forward, she cupped his face in her hands. “I love you, Tate. Nothing changes that. Nothing.”
He clung to her and shuddered in her embrace.
When the worst passed, she released him and smoothed his hair. “You still haven’t told me how you came to be injured. A gunshot wound to the knee, multiple stab wounds to the torso . . . those aren’t accidental.”
“No, they’re not. A fortnight ago I was returning from delivering two slaves to Lumpkin’s Jail in Shockoe Bottom. It was dark and I was accosted by a group of men.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t recognize any of their voices, and I couldn’t make out any faces. Not after they’d pulled me into the alley. They asked me if I was the no-account slave trader. I denied it, but they knew better. They started beating me with their fists, kicking me, all the while muttering things like ‘The Almighty will punish you scum.’” He rubbed his hand over his face, as if reliving the memories was too much to handle. “I suppose they were some sort of abolitionist radicals.”
Nausea rose within her. “Fighting for abolition is one thing. What they did is hate, pure and simple.”
Fatigue shadowed his eyes. “I deserve worse, in truth. What I did . . .” His throat bobbed, cutting off his words.
“What happened next?”
He inhaled a steadying breath. “I managed to fight my way free from the worst of them in the darkness. As I took off running, one of them pulled out his gun and fired. Hit my knee. As I lay there bleeding, two of them came up behind me and stabbed me multiple times before running away. When I came to, a physician was pulling lead from my knee.”
Her heart burned for what he’d endured, some of it through his own poor choices. But the stabbing, the gunshot . . . such hate was beyond the pale.
“I didn’t know abolitionists roamed Richmond.”
“They don’t. Not openly, anyway. They work in secret, just as Confederate sympathizers do in Washington.”
“What is to be done about your attackers?”
He looked away. “Friends have vowed to see justice meted out.” His fingers fisted the quilt, worrying the fabric into tight bunches.
She frowned. “What friends?”
“Don’t ask questions!”
She startled at his snapped retort. He forced the agitation from his face with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have asked you and Father to come. It’s too dangerous.”
“Nonsense.” She smoothed the quilt under his fingers. “But staying here in Richmond—you know we cannot.”
“I know. Nor should you.”
“As soon as you’re able to travel, and if you’re willing, we’ll take you home. We have a friend who’s a congressman. He’s already provided all the necessary paperwork to ensure our safety.”
His chin quivered. “You would so readily embrace me after all I’ve done?”
She pressed a kiss to his bruised, cut knuckles. “Love can do no less.”
The next day, Cadence handed a coin into the driver’s hand and descended from the hack near Richmond’s most populated markets. Father had been only too eager to sit with Tate and tend to him, freeing her to search out an apothecary for medicines to aid his recovery. Her brother would benefit greatly from slippery elm and chamomile, and an envelope or two of morphine would be helpful in his return trip to Washington, though it was doubtful she could procure it. Such medicine came dear now.
Clutching her reticule, she hastened toward the cluster of buildings, eyeing the food available for purchase. Loaves of bread for a quarter apiece and eggs being sold for a dime each. Who could afford such prices? She wrinkled her nose as she passed a cart loaded with salted fish. A swarm of flies buzzed around the fare, rising from the catch in a dark cloud as her shadow passed it. She swatted the pests away and shielded her eyes from the sun’s rays. Where was the apothecary shop?
A figure crossed the street in front of her, shoulders hunched. The man wore a tall hat—a tar bucket, as Father called them—and kept his hands shoved in his pockets. She would have paid him little mind save for his stride. Something about his manner and build seemed so familiar. He wore a green coat despite the warm spring day. A green coat frayed around the cuffs.
She gasped. Dr. Ivy? She nearly called out to him, but with the distance and his swift stride, she knew he’d not hear her. What was he doing in Richmond?
She scurried toward him but found her way blocked by shoppers. She bit back an oath of frustration as she watched his long-legged stride eat up the distance away from the markets. Lifting the edge of her skirt so as not to tangle her hem, she walked as fast as she dared and followed. At the corner of an intersection, he looked to the right and darted sharply to the left.
Cadence fought to keep him in sight. He acted as if he was trying to hide something. She caught up just in time to see him turn down another street. She paused, heaving against her stays, and scanned the crowded street for his green coat. Had he eluded her?
There! She caught sight of his broad shoulders heading toward a building marked Lumpkin’s Jail and Auction.
She froze. Wasn’t this the same place her brother was leaving when he was attacked? The very place they took slaves to hold before selling them? A stone sank to the pit of her stomach.
She scanned the signs mounted around the building. Jail, Slave Pen, and Auction Block marked off the sections of the building. A man and woman walked past, casting a condemning look at the structure.
“The devil’s half acre.” The man’s murmur caused a shiver to course down Cadence’s back.
Mouth dry, she followed Dr. Ivy inside, sure her soul was tainted just by stepping foot across the threshold.
A crowd of men had gathered in a large room, their booming voices ricocheting against the hard walls. Amid their grating conversation, the sound of scraping iron could be heard, drawing ever closer. A man appeared moments later, a long chain in his hand. Five shackled slaves bound by iron ankle cuffs shuffled in behind him, their heavy chains clanging across the floor. The first two were brawny men, their clothes tattered. Their faces were solemn, but their onyx eyes glittered defiance. The third was a much lankier man, stripped to the waist. His expression was void, his eyes empty. The fourth was a small child, a boy of no more than six or seven. The fifth was a woman. She was completely naked and her hair had been shorn.
Bile rose in Cadence’s throat. She averted her eyes as her face burned. She should not have come. No one should.
“Five specimens up for bid today, gentlemen. The first is hale and hearty. An excellent field hand. Stronger than three horses! The bidding starts at eight hundred.”
A heavyset man with side-whiskers called out, “Not a penny will be bid until I see his teeth.”
The man holding the chain barked, “Show them your teeth!”
All five slaves opened their mouths wide to let the crush of people examine their teeth. Cadence had never felt such revulsion. Barbaric. And Dr. Ivy was among them.
“Bidding starts at eight hundred for specimen one.”
“Eight hundred!”
As the men haggled, Cadence held back against the far wall, squeezing her eyes shut. She couldn’t believe Dr. Ivy was party to such a dreadful thing. Yet hadn’t Nurse Meyers intimated he had secrets? Never would she have dreamed it was something as vile as this.
What if he bid on the naked woman trembling at the end of the line? Unable to stomach any more, Cadence fled the building on shaking limbs.
/> How could he? The refrain beat round and round in her head like a drum.
Once she was sure she wouldn’t cast up her accounts, she pushed away from Lumpkin’s outer wall, prepared to flee from the dreadful place and never look back, when the sight of a green-coated figure caught her attention. He was holding the hand of the small child who had been on the auction block inside.
Something white-hot licked her insides. So Dr. Ivy had bought the poor child like he was nothing more than a pet, had he?
Before she could consider her actions, she followed them, her fury mounting with every passing step. The doctor took the child down one alley, then another and another. What was he doing?
Her heart hammered as she finally caught up. Dr. Ivy was kneeling in front of the boy, who was nodding solemnly. Another man appeared, and Dr. Ivy handed him some papers. What was going on?
Scoundrels!
From the end of the alley, she shouted, “Stop!”
All three of their heads snapped up. She rushed for the slave child as Dr. Ivy turned toward the strange man.
“Go! Now!”
The man scooped up the child, spiriting him away before Cadence could draw him into the comfort of her arms.
“No!”
Her fingertips managed only to grasp the edge of the man’s tattered coat before he disappeared. Strong arms lifted her from the ground. She squirmed and kicked, fighting with all her might, but she was no match for the muscled strength subduing her.
“I mean you no harm!” The harsh whisper cut through her screaming thoughts. Hands pushed her up against the brick wall of the alley. She stilled, fighting to catch her breath. When Dr. Ivy realized whom he held in his arms, his face went slack.
“Miss Piper?”
Chapter 10
JOSHUA GRASPED MISS PIPER’S SLENDER ARMS, watching her chest rise and fall, her blue eyes flash fire, and was rendered speechless. He didn’t know whether to shake her or kiss her. Never had anyone caught him before.
Her nostrils flared as she stared at him, and one thing was abundantly clear: she was furious.