Black Wreath

by Peter Sirr

  Sylvia wasn’t so sure. This seemed like a frightening enough place. They said its name meant brotherly love, but she didn’t see much sign of that, just milling crowds fretting and hurrying. But she knew Harry was right. It was no good sitting in the inn or pacing the narrow street outside; they had to do something. She wondered if all the men here were like Mackenzie, uncouth and cruel, bent on hurt. She kept seeing his scornful face as he loomed above them on his verandah. Was this the end of their journey, after all they had endured to get here? If only James had stayed where he was a little longer, she was sure they’d have found a way to spirit him away. She tried to think her way into his mind. If she had been him, where would she have gone? Not the country, that was sure. She had a horror of fields and woods and couldn’t imagine James was any fonder of them. And small towns were dangerous, full of prying eyes and ears. No, if she had been him, she would have tried to find her way to a city like this, where it was easy to conceal yourself in the crowds. He could be here now, wandering the very same streets as her; he could be around the next corner.

  Harry led her from street to street. He stopped and talked to hawkers, beggars, and shoeshine boys with an ease Sylvia envied. Some joshed with him because of his accent, but he was quick to joke back. He had many animated conversations, and Sylvia could see that a lot of information flowed his way.

  ‘It seems it is a common thing for slaves or servants to run away,’ Harry said. ‘And many come here and try to melt into the city. Some find jobs with kinder masters and mistresses, some try to smuggle themselves onto ships, some are caught and returned to their owners. But there’s no word of James.’

  ‘Then we need a new plan,’ Sylvia said, although she had no idea yet what that might be.

  * * *

  James aimed his axe at Mackenzie’s head and struck. Shattered bark flew from the tree and landed harmlessly in the undergrowth.

  ‘You look like you meant that,’ Connolly said, but James didn’t reply.

  He had barely spoken a word since his return to the farm. Mackenzie’s beating would have silenced anyone, but though his recovery from the fury of the rawhide had been slow and painful, his silence had a deeper cause. Not long after the beating, he had been cleaning out the stable when Amelia came to him. Amelia was his main comfort in those bleak days. If it hadn’t been for her whispers of encouragement and constant small attentions, James was sure he wouldn’t have survived. But that day her face was downcast as she approached him and James knew instantly whatever news she brought could not be good. When she had finished telling him about the two visitors from Ireland and Mackenzie’s treatment of them, he fell into a deep silence. It was too much to take in that Sylvia and John could have come all the way from Dublin to this place and have arrived exactly at the time he wasn’t here. It was like a glimpse of salvation cruelly snatched away before it had time to register. Amelia’s admiring description of Sylvia only made the pain worse. James had thanked Amelia for telling him and then returned to the silence that had been his home since. So he had no reply to make to Connolly as he hacked at the tree that he had converted in his mind into the body of his hated master.

  ‘At least you got away for longer than I did,’ Connolly said. ‘It could be a lot worse.’

  James merely swung his axe again. That could do his talking for him.

  * * *

  John Purcell might have resigned himself to abandoning the search for James and fixed his sights on the perils of the homeward journey, but Sylvia was far from finished.

  ‘I won’t even think about home yet,’ she said to her father as he broached the subject the next morning.

  ‘How long must we look?’ he asked. ‘Our resources are finite, Sylvia. And we have to think of your mother. These are lonely days for her.’

  The mention of her mother hit Sylvia hard. She missed her badly and would have loved nothing more than to see her again at this very moment, but she wasn’t about to admit as much to her father.

  ‘There must be someone in this great city who can help us,’ she said, although she didn’t really think that was likely.

  ‘I might have an idea,’ Harry said.

  ‘What?’ John and Sylvia said at once.

  ‘It’s something one of the shoeboys I spoke to said. It seems that when a slave escapes, their masters put out an advertisement in the papers, giving all the particulars and offering a reward to whoever finds him.’

  ‘We can hardly do that,’ John said. ‘It could lead to James being recaptured again. Mackenzie would be bound to recognise the description, or you can be sure someone would tell him.’

  ‘No,’ Harry said. ‘Not James. I was thinking of his friend, the one Amelia mentioned.’

  ‘That’s a great idea!’ Sylvia said, excited now. Then she frowned. ‘But we don’t know his name, and even if we did, he might be using another.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ John said. ‘I might have the answer for that.’

  And so, when the next edition of the Weekly Mercury came out Harry rushed off to buy it and bring it back to the inn. He handed it shyly to John Purcell.

  ‘Not much of a hand at the reading,’ he said.

  John took the paper and scoured it for his advertisement.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said finally. ‘Ormond Butcher, newly arrived from Dublin, seeks Trinity Liberty Boy to impart news of dear friend. And then the address of the inn.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll see it?’ Sylvia said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ John said. ‘All we can do is wait awhile. If we don’t hear anything, then we’ll have to take ship back to Ireland.’

  ‘No!’ Sylvia said, despairing.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Harry said. ‘It seems to me that gentlemen never stop reading newspapers. And how many Liberty Boys can be here?’

  For days they waited. Too impatient to sit still, Harry hung around the streets, doing the rounds of shoeboys and street sellers, loitering outside coffee shops where gentlemen went to read their newspapers. But nothing came of it. John took out his leather purse and began counting out the remaining coins.

  ‘We can’t stay here much longer,’ he said.

  ‘I could find work,’ Harry said. ‘There’s always gentlemen who need their shoes shined.’

  ‘You’re a good lad,’ John said. ‘But it would take more than that. We’ve done our best. All we can do is pray James finds a good life for himself if he isn’t taken again.’

  ‘But what if that horrible man finds him?’ Sylvia said.

  Her father had no answer for her.

  In spite of Sylvia’s pleadings, John Purcell began to make preparations for the voyage home. He had found passage on a ship bound for London in a couple of days. John was paying the landlord the reckoning for their stay when there was a rap on the door and the landlord excused himself. A well-dressed young man crossed the threshold and examined the little group closely.

  ‘Forgive my intruding,’ he began, ‘but I wonder if you have relations in Dublin. You resemble to an extraordinary degree a butcher I once met in the Ormond Market.’

  It was John Purcell’s turn to stare. Sylvia saw the surprise on his face slowly resolve itself into recognition.

  ‘The young gentleman from Trinity College, isn’t it? Still a Liberty Boy then? I’ll warrant there aren’t many here.’

  The man smiled. ‘It is you, then! I was never much of a Liberty Boy, to tell the truth,’ he said. ‘Just that one foolish jape, which, but for you, could have cost me my life. The name is Hammond, by the way, John Hammond. I saw the advertisement in the Mercury only an hour ago. But what are you doing here? And this must be …’ He indicated Sylvia, bowing elegantly to her.

  ‘My daughter,’ Purcell said. ‘Do you remember the boy who was with you that day?’

  Again the man smiled, this man who called himself Hammond but whose real name was McAllister.

  ‘Why of course I do,’ he said.

  ‘James Lovett, or rather Lord Dunmain,’ Sylvia
said. ‘Abandoned by his father and usurped by his uncle.’

  ‘Quite,’ McAllister said. ‘But I still don’t understand what brings you here. Have you come to seek your fortune in the New World?’

  ‘No fortune,’ Sylvia said, ‘but James. His uncle had him shipped here as an indentured servant.’

  ‘What?’ McAllister said, adding, ‘We mustn’t talk here. Do you take coffee? There’s a place near here I favour.’

  He led them to the coffee house and there the Purcells told him the whole story. McAllister, as they now knew him, listened carefully, stopping them occasionally to extract further details. He questioned them closely on their dealings with Mackenzie and the exact location of the farm. He didn’t seem surprised that James had run away.

  ‘The indentured servants are very often abused,’ he said, ‘and particularly those from Ireland. And it must have gone very hard for James. We can only imagine what he must have had to put up with.’

  ‘Where would he have gone, do you think?’ Sylvia asked impatiently.

  McAllister looked at her, sensing her urgency. ‘You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?’

  Sylvia coloured, and McAllister immediately regretted his question. One clear look at her would have told him she loved James. Every movement of her features, the coiled tension of her voice: all were unmistakable evidence of her feelings.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But as to where he might have gone, the truth is many don’t get very far at all. The territory is unfamiliar, travel is slow and difficult. Most are caught pretty soon–’

  ‘What happens them when they’re caught?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘I suppose that depends on the master. From what you tell me of Mackenzie, I imagine he would deal as harshly with James as the law allows him. And the law allows a great deal, I’m afraid. And the term of servitude would be increased, of course.’

  ‘He may not be caught,’ John Purcell said. ‘He could be right here under our noses for all we know.’

  ‘I’ll make inquiries,’ McAllister said. ‘I know a good many people in the city. Someone might have seen something. But we need to be sure he hasn’t been found. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go to Mackenzie’s farm myself and see what I can find out.’

  Sylvia’s eyes shone. ‘Would you really?’ she said.

  She looked at her father. ‘Why don’t we join him, Father?’

  ‘No,’ McAllister said. ‘I can move quicker alone. Besides, Mackenzie has seen you already, so you’d just arouse his suspicions.’

  John Purcell looked relieved at this news. He was in no hurry to leave the city again. Sylvia wasn’t entirely convinced, but she made no objection. Until an hour or so ago she had been in despair, and the possibility that she might ever see James again had been utterly remote. Now she was sitting in a coffee house with someone who had known him in Dublin and was more than willing to help. Maybe it wasn’t too foolish to allow herself to imagine that they might be able to return to Dublin with James. Her father seemed to sense her excitement and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s only a small chance,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t hope too much.’

  Sylvia smiled. ‘I know, Father. But I’ll take a little hope over none at all.’

  Then she looked at McAllister. ‘I’ve no doubt you might move quicker on your own, but you won’t know I’m there–’

  ‘No,’ McAllister said, ‘it’s out of the question–’

  ‘If you knew what we’ve endured so far, you wouldn’t be so quick to fob me off. I’ll be no hindrance to you, but don’t ask me to sit still in this city waiting anxiously for news of your adventure. I won’t do it.’

  McAllister looked to John Purcell for support. ‘Won’t you convince her?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve never been able to convince her of anything she didn’t want to be convinced about, and I’m not about to start now,’ John said. ‘It looks like we’re all going.’

  * * *

  Day succeeded day, an endless grey monotony. Toil and sleep, sleep and toil. And sleep a restless tossing and turning, full of useless dreams that broke over him in waves of sadness when he woke. He knew he was no worse off than any of the others here; he had no special right to feel sorry for himself. He was alive, after all. His body still functioned.

  If he was a beast, he would have no complaint. But he wasn’t a beast, and though it might be much diluted, he still had enough of his old self in him to know that this life was no life. But how often had he said that to himself over the years? What life was the real one? Maybe there was no real life, just a series of random scenes thrown together. Why should he expect it to make sense? Once a little, angry, persistent flicker inside him had somehow forced him from his bed, somehow assured him that the world would right itself and his place in it be properly acknowledged. But now the flicker was nearly dead. Every day his tools felt heavier and more useless in his hand, as if the world was a weight he wasn’t able to bear any more, as if everything in it was meant for someone else.

  He was a long way from home now, and a longer way from himself.

  * * *

  McAllister rode up the dirt track to Mackenzie’s farmstead. He had left Sylvia, Harry and John Purcell in an inn in the local town with strict instructions not to move until he returned, no matter how long that might take. Sylvia had insisted he leave them one of the brace of pistols he had with him for protection. He’d thought it unnecessary but he had given up arguing with Sylvia. She was feisty enough when he met her first, but it was as if she had grown another cubit in the time that had passed since then. There seemed to be nothing she couldn’t learn. She wanted to know all about the countryside they were passing through; she pored over the maps of the territory and of Mackenzie’s farm that McAllister had brought. The girl from Phoenix Street had grown to be a match for many a man, and McAllister envied James her attachment to him. If only he could meet someone half so spirited.

  He had an idea of the reception he could expect from James’s master and steeled himself for a rough ride. Mackenzie didn’t disappoint him. McAllister’s clothes and bearing at least got him farther than Purcell and Sylvia, and he didn’t have to stand in the yard and be dressed down from the verandah, but the man sitting on the other side of the table presented the same sullen face and rough manners. McAllister had got to the end of a slightly rambling speech, in which he presented himself as a lawyer with a communication for one of his indentured servants, a certain James Lovett. He had concocted the letter himself and had it ready in the pocket of his coat, but it didn’t look like it was going to be necessary to produce it.

  ‘Do I have the look of a messenger boy, do ye think?’ Mackenzie was saying, working himself into a temper.

  ‘But surely you can’t object to the boy receiving a letter?’ McAllister’s voice was calm and reasonable. All he really wanted was knowledge that James was there.

  ‘I can object to whatever I like. And especially to a runaway who would cheat me of my money.’

  ‘A runaway? You mean he’s not here?’

  ‘Oh he’s here alright, and well versed in what happens to runaways,’ Mackenzie said with satisfaction.

  So he’s here, McAllister thought. That’s all I need. There was a second letter in his pocket, and his mind now moved to the tricky problem of getting it to James. The slave who had showed him in, with her proud bearing – Sylvia was sure she could be trusted. It was a great risk, but McAllister could think of no alternative. Mackenzie had tired of the conversation. Most men in this backwoods country would have welcomed company, but not Mackenzie, it seemed. His own grim company suited him best. Well, McAllister would leave him to it now, before the man threw him out.

  ‘You know,’ he said, as he stood up and took his hat, ‘there is no law that requires a man to abandon his humanity as soon as he gets a little land and some hands to help him work it.’

  Mackenzie laughed. ‘When I need the advice of a city gentleman in how to conduct affairs of which he kno
ws nothing, you’ll be first on my list,’ he added.

  The slave who had shown McAllister in accompanied him back to the yard. As his horse was brought to him, he quickly pressed the second letter into her palm, without even glancing at her. Nor did he risk speaking to her in case Mackenzie should be watching from the house. Amelia’s palm closed on the carefully folded paper and she made no comment. The fact that she accepted it without question gave McAllister some hope that the message would find its way to James. He mounted his horse and rode back down the track. There was nothing more he could do before darkness.

  Thirty-Two

  A Lantern in the Woods

  James read the letter once, twice, three times. He couldn’t believe what it was saying.

  ‘Tell me again what he looked like,’ he said to Amelia, though she had already described the stranger in great detail.

  ‘Same as last time, James, tall enough, and thin and quite intense, with a sharp nose. And carried himself like a gentleman.’

  ‘But how did he find this place? How does he know I’m here?’

  ‘I don’t know, James. I know nothing about him, only what I have told you. But I did tell your friends about him, so maybe they found him,’ Amelia said. Even talking about him now made her nervous. ‘Be careful, James,’ she said. ‘There are ears everywhere.’

  James lowered his voice. ‘He has come for me,’ he said. ‘He means to take me away from here.’

  James read her the letter. She looked at him, her eyes anxious and fearful.

  ‘James, this is dangerous. If Mackenzie catches you again, he’ll surely kill you. Your back has barely healed; you’re still weak. This isn’t very wise, I think.’ Still, she knew he must go.

  ‘Oh Amelia,’ James said, ‘is this not death here? How long do you think I can survive in this place? And if this is true, how can I refuse it? I might never get another chance like it.’

  There wasn’t much Amelia could say in response that she hadn’t said before, but she reached her hand out and touched James’s arm. ‘I don’t want to see you go, James, that’s my problem. No, that’s not right. I do want to see you go. It’s just that I will miss you.’