The Burying Ground
Page 14
“If you keep going there you’ll run into him sooner or later,” Thaddeus said. “You’re going to have to think of some way to disentangle yourself. Would it help if I put my foot down about you going to fancy parties or something of that nature? Claim our Methodist scruples? I have half a mind to do so anyway, truth be told.”
“Maybe. If I can’t think of any other way. Thanks.”
“Let me know.”
Thaddeus walked the short distance to the Burying Ground. He and Morgan could take an omnibus into the city, he decided. The horse and cart he used to cover his circuit was for church-related business, and he intended to be scrupulous about not using them for anything else.
Sally opened the door at his knock.
“Mr. Lewis. How nice to see you again. Are you looking for Morgan?”
Thaddeus explained his plan for the day.
“Oh dear, Morgan’s still abed. He had a late night.”
And before he could offer to come back later, she sent the children clattering up the stairs to wake him.
When Morgan appeared a few moments later, Thaddeus was shocked at his appearance. He had never been a prepossessing figure, but now there were black circles under his eyes and he seemed to have lost weight.
“I thought we’d go into the city to ask some questions, but we can do it another day if that would be more convenient,” Thaddeus said.
“No,” Morgan said. “The sooner we go the better.”
He bade Sally and the row of look-alike children goodbye and followed Thaddeus to the road.
“They tried again last night,” Morgan said as soon as they boarded the bus and found their seats. “There was someone by the back fence, but I had a lantern ready. That was enough to chase them away.”
“Have you been staying up every night to watch?” Thaddeus asked.
“Yes.”
“Then the sooner we sort this out, the better. Do you have any idea which grave they were trying to get to?”
“No,” Morgan said. “They didn’t get that far.”
“Well at least it’s certain that the first two incidents weren’t isolated,” Thaddeus said. “I suppose that’s something.”
“I suppose,” Morgan replied, but he looked gloomy for the rest of their journey.
They disembarked in front of Osgoode Hall at the corner of College Avenue. The city had grown enormously in the four years since Thaddeus had last been there. Back then, Queen Street was the northern limit of the city and Osgoode Hall was situated on six acres of country parkland. Now it was being encroached upon by the untidy bustle of Macaulaytown, with its liveries, blacksmiths, shoemakers, and barbershops. The modest one- and two-storey buildings that crowded the streetscape looked insubstantial next to the towering grandeur of Osgoode, with its dome that poked past the massive wings added to each side of the original building. It was in this hall that law students pored over the statutes and regulations of the province, and where the august body of the Superior Court handed down its decisions. Osgoode Hall’s expansive lawns were fenced, access granted through an ornate cast-iron kissing gate, designed, Thaddeus guessed, more to keep the cows off the grass than to provide the opportunity for a romantic encounter. To the west the grounds terminated at the broad chestnut-lined street that led to King’s College, guarded at either end by a gatekeeper. The approaches to these public institutions had been intended, Thaddeus knew, to blend into the park lots laid out along the north side of Queen Street, but the owners of this land had been unable to resist the temptation to subdivide their properties to accommodate spillover from the labourers’ district to the south. It was from this working-class neighbourhood that two enterprising coloured gentlemen, Mr. Carey and Mr. Richards, established the very first ice delivery service in Toronto. Their wagons often rumbled up and down Yonge Street with cargoes of precious ice carved from mill ponds north of the city. Horse cabs sprung from this community, as well; a novelty at first, but now a convenience that most Torontonians took for granted.
“According to Rowsell’s Directory, the African Baptist Church is just east of Yonge Street,” Thaddeus said. “Let’s try there first.”
“I don’t know where I’m going at all,” Morgan said, “so I’ll just follow you.”
As they walked along Queen Street, they saw placards posted on walls and in windows. Thaddeus stopped to read one of them.
CAUTION!
Coloured People of Toronto, one and all
You are respectfully CAUTIONED and advised to keep a SHARP LOOKOUT for KIDNAPPERS AND SLAVE CATCHERS who by illegal means are harassing the Coloured People of our city, freeborn or no, with intent to claim a bounty for them in the United States of America.
Be VIGILANT and have TOP EYE OPEN
The incident that Luke had been involved in was not unique, apparently. The kidnappers must be growing bold, indeed, if they were so common on Toronto’s streets.
There were even signs nailed to each side of the front door at the church. These were similar to the handbills and notices posted all along the street, urging the coloured citizens of Toronto to be wary of slave catchers.
When Thaddeus knocked at the front door of the church, no one answered. He tried the handle, but the door was locked.
“So much for finding anything here,” he said. “It doesn’t look as though there’s anyone around.”
They were about to leave when three men appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Was there something you wanted?” one of them asked.
“Just a little conversation, that’s all. My name is Thaddeus Lewis. And this is Morgan Spicer. We have some questions about a man who may once have been a member of your congregation.”
“And why would you need this information, if you don’t mind my asking?” The man’s face was wary and mistrustful.
“Mr. Spicer is the Keeper at the Strangers’ Burying Ground. There have been two graves tampered with recently. One of them was that of Isaiah Marshall, whom we discovered was a coloured man.” Thaddeus shrugged. “It’s a very small detail to base an enquiry on, but we have no other information to start with and we would like to prevent any further desecrations.”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know anybody named Marshall.” He continued to regard them with suspicion, but Thaddeus noted that the other two men appeared to relax a little.
“Me either,” one of them said. “I only came here three years ago. I don’t know the old-timers.”
The third man nodded. He, too, was a newcomer. “For a minute there, we thought you were kidnappers,” he said.
“I understand your caution. We saw the posters. I don’t understand it, though. Why are slave catchers coming here? They have no legal claim in Canada, and I would think that coming so far north would cost them more than any bounty they could collect.” The question seemed to loosen the reserve of the trio even more.
It was the man who had spoken first who answered. “It wouldn’t be worth it for one fugitive. But some of the plantation owners don’t bother chasing their runaways — they just sell the right of ownership to someone in the north who sweeps up whatever coloureds he can snatch. They don’t have to be taken all the way back to the plantations, you see. They’re just sold in blocks on the open market.”
Thaddeus was appalled. “What are the authorities doing to stop this?” he asked.
“If the catchers are found with dangerous weapons, they’re fined. Other than that, not a lot, although we do find some support from the white folks. Mr. Douglass and Mr. Brown have helped us with that.”
George Brown, editor of the Globe was a vocal abolitionist. Thaddeus had read many of his scathing editorials attacking the United States senator Henry Clay, the Fugitive Slave Act, separate schools, and anyone who opposed the Elgin settlement, a black community in the Western District established with the help of the Presbyterian Church. And the anti-slavery citizens of Toronto were galvanized into action when Frederick Douglass, a leading figure in the American abolit
ionist movement, addressed them at the newly built St. Lawrence Hall, their support demonstrated by a stream of letters to the aforesaid Mr. Brown’s editorial page. Still, Thaddeus reflected, it was one thing to be part of a cheering crowd or to write a letter, another to actively intervene in an attempted kidnapping, as Luke had done. Not for the first time, he was filled with admiration for his son. Betsy had done a grand job of raising the boy.
“Mr. Douglass and Mr. Brown are fine for the speechifying,” the man went on, “but the Blackburns are the ones who really help us here. Them and Mr. Abbott.”
Thaddeus wasn’t familiar with the names. “Mr. Abbott?”
“He’s coloured, like us, but rich. He owns all sorts of buildings around here. The Blackburns own the cabs and they do everything they can to make it easier for the newcomers. They make it easier for everybody.”
There was pride in the man’s voice. “The coloureds don’t ask for anything,” Christie had said. They didn’t need to, Thaddeus realized, because they helped each other.
Thaddeus thanked the men for their time and then he and Morgan walked along Richmond Street. Thanks to Dr. Christie’s directions, they soon found the building that housed the dissecting rooms. It was, as Christie had commented, an awkward, squat structure made of brick.
“What are you going to say?” Morgan wanted to know. “You can hardly ask them outright if they’ve been cutting up stolen bodies.”
“That’s one of the reasons I brought you with me, Morgan. You’re Keeper at the Burying Ground. I can say that we’re trying to locate lost relatives, so the bodies in question can be moved to the Necropolis.”
“Even though it’s not the truth?”
Morgan was right. It wasn’t the truth, but Thaddeus could think of no other approach. Finally, he said, “Well, if we could find their relatives, we could ask them if they want the bodies moved, couldn’t we?”
“I suppose,” Morgan said, although he looked skeptical.
“Otherwise, they’re apt to shoo us away without telling us anything.”
Morgan nodded, which Thaddeus took to be agreement. He knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked again. After a long interval, the door opened just wide enough for a young man to peer out through the crack.
“Are you the physician in charge?” Thaddeus asked.
“No. I’m just a student.”
“Might we ask you some questions?”
“I don’t know anything,” the young man said.
“I’m Thaddeus Lewis and this is Mr. Spicer, who is Keeper at the Strangers’ Burying Ground in Yorkville. We’re trying to locate some records regarding …”
“Abraham Jenkins and Isaiah Marshall.” Morgan supplied the names, which had momentarily escaped Thaddeus, much to his annoyance.
“Yes. We believe they were … that is, we believe they might have come from here before they made their way to the cemetery.”
“I don’t know anything about records,” the student said.
“Could you tell us who might?”
“I don’t know,” the student said. “I don’t know anything about anything.” And he shut the door.
“Well, he’s made his ignorance abundantly evident,” Thaddeus remarked. “At least he admits it. I’m afraid Dr. Christie was correct. We’ll get no information here. Well, on to the next place. Let’s see if we can find the African Chapel.”
“Why isn’t the African Church part of your circuit?” Morgan asked as they walked back along Richmond Street.
Thaddeus sighed. “Because of divisions within the Methodist Church.” It wasn’t a pretty history and he disliked telling it. “The American church officially took an anti-slavery stance, but they watered down their opposition in deference to the members who were wealthy southern landowners. Even so, things came to a head and the church split in two, north against south. And in spite of official policy, the northern congregations didn’t exactly extend a welcome to its coloured members. There were coloured ministers, but they were allowed to preach only to coloured congregations, things like that.”
“It seems to me the Methodist Church is mighty fussy about who it lets preach,” Morgan said.
“Well, yes,” Thaddeus had to admit, “it is, isn’t it? In any event, the coloured congregation got fed up and formed their own Methodist Church.”
“And they brought it here with them?”
“Yes, but a long time ago, when we were all still organized under the American conference. When we established our own governance there was some attempt to include the African Church, but it didn’t ever seem to go anywhere and they were left on their own.” As he said this, Thaddeus realized that he didn’t really understand why this had happened. Maybe it was the pride of having their own church that kept them separate. Maybe. But given what he knew about people, it was far more likely that they were made to feel unwelcome, just like they had been in the States.
The African Methodist Episcopal Chapel was a small building set well back from the street, and again there were warning posters displayed at each side of the locked door. And again, within a few moments, a tall, grey-haired man appeared behind them, followed by two others, one of them waving a poker.
“Can we help you with something?” the first man asked, the challenge in his voice in contrast to the politeness of his question.
“We are here with an inquiry,” Thaddeus said, tipping his hat, “but I must admit that I’ve been curious about this church for some time. I am a minister with the Canadian Methodist Episcopal Church and I’m currently stationed on the Yonge Street Circuit. I know that your church is separate from ours, but I can’t help but think that we have much in common.”
“And what would that be?” the tall man said. “Other than our names?”
“I know that two unexpected visitors at your door must seem alarming,” Thaddeus replied. “If I show you my appointment book, will you accept that I am who I claim to be?”
The tall man nodded, slightly and just once.
Thaddeus fished the small booklet out of his pocket and handed it over. He hoped it would be enough to gain him entry to the chapel as he had no other means of identification. The man looked it over and handed it back, but he made no move to dismiss the other two men, who continued to watch with suspicion as Thaddeus explained their mission to discover something of Isaiah Marshall.
The man’s face relaxed a little at mention of the name. “Isaiah Marshall. He’s been dead a long time.”
“He has. That’s one of the things we find so puzzling about what has happened. Did you know him?”
“We have never been a large community, although our numbers have grown in recent times, so that I no longer know everyone who lives here. But yes, I do remember Isaiah Marshall. He was a carpenter.”
“Was he a member of this church?”
“No, I don’t recall ever seeing him here. He was a private man and kept to himself mostly.”
“Do you know if he had any family?”
The tall man shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. I don’t know where he came from either, whether he was freeborn or a traveller. I do remember that he was a very fine carpenter. A cabinetmaker, really, except that he’d take the rough and ready jobs as well.”
The man gave the information freely enough, but there was a guarded undertone to the response. There was something more that this man did not wish to share. Marshall had “kept to himself,” he said, but offered no reason for it. It seemed an odd thing in such a small, close-knit community. Thaddeus waited, but the silence stretched out unbroken.
“Thank you,” he said finally when it became clear that no more would be forthcoming. “I’m sorry to have bothered you Mr. …?”
“I’m John,” the man said. “John Finch.”
“Thank you, Mr. Finch.”
He turned to go and motioned Morgan to follow. He was curious about this church, but it was clear that their presence was unwelcome. He would impose himself no further.
“No,” Thaddeus replied. “They had no interest in the body itself. Whoever did it opened the coffin and threw Isaiah aside.”
The man frowned. “So it doesn’t have anything to do with the kidnappers?”
“I don’t think so,” Thaddeus replied, “although I admit I hadn’t considered that possibility. The first grave that was opened contained a white man. At least we think he was.”
“Oh.” The man thought about this for a moment and then looked shyly at Thaddeus. “I thought maybe they were digging up coloured bones and using them to claim the bounty somehow.”
Morgan spoke for the first time since they had arrived at the church. “I don’t see how they could. Once the flesh has worn away, there’s no difference between the bones of a coloured man and that of a white man. They’re all the same underneath the skin.”
Thaddeus knew that Morgan was speaking literally, his knowledge gained from his experience as a sexton, but the answer seemed to please the man, for he smiled.
“You’re right, brother. We’re all God’s children.”
The exchange seemed to have dispelled the tension entirely, so Thaddeus ventured another question.
“Where do you bury members of your congregation?” he asked. There seemed to be no graveyard attached to the church. Not enough land, he realized.
“Generally, they are laid to rest in the Strangers’ Ground,” Finch said. “Not because they are strangers, but because there is nowhere else to take them. The families who can afford it put up marble stones so the souls of their loved ones know they’re remembered.”
“The records seem to indicate that Mr. Marshall was indigent. And he had a plain stone marker.”
“So it’s unlikely that he was buried with anything of value,” Mr. Finch said. “Is that what you mean?”