Must the Maiden Die

by Miriam Grace Monfredo

  "How did that come about—that your daughter was indentured?" Cullen asked her, his tone considerably milder, as if he, too, had seen the tears.

  She hesitated, as though making a decision, just as she had done with Glynis the day before, and then explained, "That was not done by me, Constable Stuart. I had no choice. My husband, Tamar's father, made the arrangements. He and I are...we've been separated for some time now."

  Glynis quickly got to her feet and went to the office window, her anger so strong she feared she could not restrain it. There was silence in the room behind her as she stared out at the canal, seeing wave upon wave of petitions asking, pleading, begging that the law be changed; the law that gave a father sole custody of a married couple's children—absolute custody— allowing him to sell those children into servitude despite the heartbroken objections of a mother. The law that gave a father the right to take a child from its mother in all cases of divorce, no matter how reprehensible the behavior of the man, or how venial the purpose. A father could be a drunkard, an adulterer, a profligate spender, a wanton degenerate, and still retain custody of his children.

  For two years Susan Anthony had canvassed the state in pursuit of legal reform. To gather signatures on the petitions, she'd delivered lectures all over the state, covering hundreds of miles between cities and towns by stagecoach and train, by sleigh and canal boat, through summer heat and winter blizzards. And it was mostly through her efforts that the New York legislature had finally the previous year granted to women some rights to their purses and to their children. A married woman now shared with her husband equal custody. And this reform had been brought about by the tireless campaigning of the unmarried Anthony. And by the articles and written speeches of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who, although tied down with seven children in Seneca Falls, still managed to wield a powerful pen.

  Glynis heard Cullen shuffling papers on his desk. She took a deep breath before turning back to the room to say, "Are you aware, Mrs. Jager, that New York State recently passed a new law called the Earnings Act? It also addresses the custody of children."

  "Yes, I just learned of it," the woman answered eagerly. "That's why I've come here. The indenture period was supposed to be for five years, but I want Tamar released from it now. Can you tell me, Constable Stuart, how I would go about asking for custody of her?"

  "Go to the Seneca County Court House in Waterloo, and talk to the clerk there. He should be able to tell you how to file an application petitioning the court for your daughter's custody. The circuit judge isn't there now, but I'm told he'll be back in a day or two. He could probably hear your request then."

  "I'll go there this afternoon," Elise Jager said. "And thank you, Constable."

  Glynis glanced at Cullen with curiosity. He had been writing something on a piece of paper, and when he looked up his face was grim.

  "I think you may be in for a rough time," he said to Elise Jager, "and your daughter is going to need legal representation." He stood, leaning over his desk to hand the paper to her. "Jeremiah Merrycoyf is one of the best attorneys in western New York. I've written down the address of the Merrycoyf and MacAlistair law offices on Fall Street. Tell him of your daughter's situation. If he's reluctant to become involved—which he might be since he insists that he's retired—I'll try to intercede for you. And so, I'm sure, will Miss Tryon."

  When Elise Jager took the paper from him, her eyes threatened to overflow. "Thank you, again, Constable. And you, Miss Tryon. I hope you'll forgive ..."

  "It's O.K.," Cullen said. "I'm about to get a search party under way, and for that I'll need a complete description of your daughter."

  "But I haven't seen Tamar for two years."

  Glynis turned back to the window as Cullen handed the woman more sheets of paper, saying, "Just do the best you can then, when you fill these out. I know you want to find your daughter, but I need to find her, too. And regardless of whether I like it or not, she is still the best suspect I have in Roland Brant's murder."

  Elise Jager's face flushed as she said, "But Tamar would never—" She broke off at what might have seemed an inflexible stance on Cullen's part, but Glynis knew better. He was a fair man, and would search for the girl whatever the reason.

  Elise Jager took a handkerchief from her purse, and after wiping her eyes she said, "How long do you think it will be until you find her?"

  "I can't say. At the moment we don't have any leads as to where she might have gone, and this is a big county. Parts of it even I'm not familiar with. There are thousands of acres of marshland, and if someone really wants to stay lost..."

  He stopped as Glynis sent him a look of appeal.

  "We'll do our best, Mrs. Jager," he said. "With luck, we'll find your daughter. That's all I can tell you right now." He turned to Glynis saying, "I'm going back out to the Brant place late this afternoon. Need to talk to the family and servants again, now that we have a little more to go on. Since Zeph and Liam will be heading the search party, I'd like you to come with me." His face bore the ghost of a smile when he added, "You know the women there."

  "Constable, I want to see the Brants, too," Elise Jager said, looking up from the forms Cullen had given her. "They had Tamar for two years!"

  "No," responded Cullen somewhat sharply, "That's not a good idea. At least not yet. Your daughter is a murder suspect—the Brants are not likely to welcome you. Wait until I have more information. I assume you aren't planning to leave town?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Good. Don't. You can be reached at Carr's Hotel?"

  "Yes."

  "Cullen, I'll be at the library," Glynis told him, "and I need to stop at the Women's Refuge before I leave with you for the Brant place."

  "I'll come by there after I get the search started. I need to talk to the doc, anyway."

  "Mrs. Jager," Glynis said, "if you need me, I'm usually at the library at the corner of Fall and Cayuga Streets. But if I'm not there, you can leave a message with my assistant, Jonathan Quant."

  As Elise Jager was thanking her, Glynis suddenly remembered what she'd wanted to ask. "Can you tell me how long your daughter Tamar has been . . . has not talked?"

  "Not talked?" The blue eyes widened. "Whatever do you mean?"

  Since Glynis had her answer, she shook her head, saying only, "I understand she is a rather quiet girl?"

  The woman's shoulders relaxed, then slumped. "Yes, she's always been shy."

  Although she feared Mrs. Jager might resent it, Glynis could not keep herself from briefly touching the woman's shoulder before she left, saying, "We'll find Tamar."

  At least, she thought, I pray that we do.

  It was only when Glynis reached Fall Street that she recalled the question Bronwen had put to Mrs. Jager. And that it had not been answered.

  10

  Already, we begin to cry out for more ammunition, and already the blockade is beginning to shut it all out.

  —Mary Boykin Chesnut, 1861 entry from A Diary from Dixie

  The two men stood several feet apart, facing each other, the set of their shoulders uncompromising. During their argument, the intensity of which waxed and waned, both continually glanced about to make certain they could not be overheard. They had isolated themselves, so they thought, under an oak of great age that grew on a slope overlooking the port city of Oswego, New York. The only objects within hailing distance of them were a few empty hay wagons.

  The city of Oswego lies on the southeastern shore of Lake Ontario, the smallest of the Great Lakes but eventual heir to all their waters that flow to the sea; waters funneled east to the Atlantic by the powerful, rapids-frothing St. Lawrence River. Below the two men, the port bustled with activity under a bright noonday sun.

  The Oswego River and canal also empty into Lake Ontario The city itself straddles the river, and when the men—one English, the other American—looked to the high banks east of it, they could see a symbol of their centuries-old enmity in the brick Fort Ontario, reconstructed after the
British burned it in 1812. Due north of the men, and too far across the shining water to see, lay the Canadian shoreline and another port city, that of Kingston, Ontario.

  But these two men were more absorbed by what sailed on the water than by what stood on the land.

  Lake schooners and three-masted frigates plied the lake and mouth of the river, as did sloops, trading ships, canal packets, and fishermen's boats, and even an occasional bark canoe. Both men turned their eyes often to scan these voyagers. Only the American, however, studied anew the half-mile distance between the Oswego-Syracuse Railroad and the wharves. These wharves at midday were swarming with dockworkers, and the smell of the fisheries reached even the men standing under the oak. Overhead in a cloudless sky, gulls screamed and wheeled in endless, searching arcs.

  The slender, hawk-faced Englishman took an immaculate white handkerchief from a pocket of his gray-wool morning coat and dabbed the perspiration on his clean-shaven upper lip. "Those are the terms, my good man," he said with a restrained smile. "You are quite welcome to reject them, although I would not advise it."

  "We had a deal," snapped the robust American, who had taken off his short box coat and slung it over his shoulder. "And this is the third shipment. You can't change the terms now!"

  "Oh, indeed I can. And it is not I but you who have proposed changing the original agreement. Thus the situation is somewhat different than when we implemented the initial shipments. Your Mr. Lincoln's blockade of the southern Atlantic ports has limited my options."

  "We had a deal!" the American repeated. "It's not my fault the damn shipment is three days early! And your options are not the issue here."

  "Ah, but they are, you see—"

  "No, I don't see. You're not the one running those rifles to the South."

  "And there is the rub." The candor in the Englishman's voice belied the shrewdness in his eyes. "You misled me, as well as my associates in Britain, into believing that we would simply be shipping the rifles to Canada, and that would be the end of it. Now I have learned, to my consternation, that you expect an additional, and more hazardous, course of action. Since that course is out of the question, I may be forced to look elsewhere for markets. I've just come from the South and demand there is high. But to supply that demand will almost certainly involve the blockade—"

  "Just a minute. I'm taking the lion's share of the risk here. My partner and I are the ones smuggling those rifles and bayonets, let's not forget that."

  "Delivering them to my contacts in the South. Let us not forget that."

  "What the hell is there to argue about?" the American demanded. "So the Enfields are arriving early. All I'm asking is that you unload the damn things! Once that's done, I'll get them the rest of the way. But Seneca Falls," he added, "is forty miles from here."

  "Nonetheless, our original agreement called only for the Enfields to be shipped from London across the Atlantic to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. And then up the river to—"

  "We've been over that!" interrupted the American, anger flushing his face. "I admit we made a mistake. We figured the canal bypassing the rapids at Montreal could handle a deep-draft ship. That the guns could come straight up the river to Kingston. We were wrong!"

  "Yes, and because of your error, the guns must now be brought almost two hundred miles overland from Montreal. As if that were not complicated enough, you insisted that we put them aboard a Canadian ship and sail them to this port. And my partners agreed to that, although under some duress, if memory serves me. But that was all the agreement covered."

  "I told you," said the American, "we've had a problem with ready cash. It's nothing that can't be fixed in a few days. But you refuse to unload! And you won't wait without more money!"

  "I cannot wait. The rifles are in Montreal, due to reach Kingston today or tomorrow, and will immediately be loaded onto a Canadian ship. Every minute that ship rides at anchor in port is costly."

  The American wiped his hand across his forehead. "You know this takes careful planning. One small hitch and—"

  "My dear man, I hardly need to be lectured about planning." The Englishman's eyes took on a brighter glint. "Just what is it you are not telling me?"

  "Nothing. There's nothing to tell. Except the damn shipment is early and ... and I don't have the men to unload it. But again, why the hell can't your crew unload the guns?"

  "Quite simply because I refuse to violate the law of the United States."

  "Oh, c'mon!" the American jeered. "Since when did you become so law-abiding? I'm not a fool—you're just playing my partner and me for more money. And don't act self-righteous! You'll do anything to see the Confederacy succeed so your cotton supply is protected. You and your associates are involved in this up to your greedy necks."

  "Not so. I merely bring our rifles through international waters. What happens to them after that is none of my concern. And, my good man," the Englishman added, "our greed, unlike yours, does not embrace treason."

  The American's look of exasperation heightened, and his glance went again from the limestone railroad station to the wharves. "All right! If you won't unload, then hold the ship up in Kingston."

  "I believe that is what I suggested earlier."

  "No, what you suggested is that this delay will cost us plenty."

  "Regrettably, that is correct. And now having come full circle we are back precisely where we started," said the Englishman. "Those are the terms. If you accept them, I will have the ship held in Kingston."

  "I need to talk to my partner. It's a lot of money, de Warde!"

  The Englishman's eyes widened into the intent black stare of a raptor, and his voice carried a dangerous edge. "Don't ever call me by name. Not ever." Then his face relaxed, and he went on as if nothing untoward had occurred. "I'm afraid that I cannot afford to wait for consultations. Do you accept the terms or not?"

  The American, who had been looking northward across the water, now returned his gaze to the other man. At last, he shrugged. "You've taken advantage of this, you bastard— but it looks like I have no choice."

  "Excellent. And I am certain, now that we fully understand each other, that this can continue to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Good day, my dear sir."

  Colonel Dorian de Warde gave the other man a pleasant smile before turning to walk down to the harbor. The American stood for only a moment, directing a resentful glare at the back of the Englishman's gray morning coat, before he started at a run for the rail station.

  Neither man had paid much attention to the empty hay wagons parked a short distance away. Nor did they now see the lone figure who crawled from beneath a false floor of one wagon. And who also took off at a run, but toward the city.

  11

  Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, returning to this country from England about the time of the breaking out of war, fresh from an acquaintance with Miss Nightingale, and filled with enthusiasm, at once called an informal meeting at the New York Infirmary for Women and Children....its object being to concentrate scattered efforts by a large formal organization [called] the "Woman's Central Relief Association of New York."

  —History of Woman Suffrage, edited by Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, and Matilda Joslyn Gage

  After leaving Cullen's office, Glynis was walking toward the library when she saw Bronwen dash from the Fall Street telegraph office. She then darted across the road to the entrance of Carr's Hotel. Glynis stood puzzling over her niece's behavior, until she remembered that Professor Thaddeus Lowe was staying at the hotel. Bronwen had mentioned that she needed to see him, as she might have found a place with gas available to inflate the balloon—a place most likely to be Rochester or Syracuse. That could explain the telegrams. But it could not explain Bronwen's newly acquired obsession with time. Glynis again reminded herself that Bronwen's business was not also her business, and that her sister Gwen would be there soon enough to ride herd on her youngest daughter. Despite an aroused curiosity, Glynis had other pressing things to do at the moment.
No doubt she'd have opportunity to talk with her niece that evening.

  ***

  It was late afternoon when Glynis found herself trudging up Fall Street toward the side street on which Dr. Neva Cardoza-Levy's refuge was located. Her arms and the large canvas bag slung over her shoulder were laden with books, mostly children's literature. Jonathan said he would bring along the remaining ones she had designated for the Women's Refuge after he closed the library, but Glynis had promised the children's books and she knew that some of the youngsters there were waiting for them.

  There had been no further sighting of Bronwen. Nor had Emma been at her shop. Perhaps she was with Adam, which Glynis hoped was a good sign.

  After she had turned off Fall, and was nearing the refuge, she thought about the time, several years before, that she had first seen the place. She had just returned from a year in Springfield, Illinois, at the home of her brother Robin, where his wife Julia had languished for months before dying of consumption. Glynis, on the day she had returned with Emma to Seneca Falls, had gone to the refuge, which Neva had written about with enthusiasm. She remembered her first impression: that the abandoned warehouse with its stark brick walls and few windows, most of them broken, had evoked an image of nearby Auburn Prison.

  Since then things had improved, often as a result of generosity on the part of anonymous donors. Neva had told of arriving at the refuge on more than one morning to find awaiting her, from unknown sources, items such as feather mattresses, or wooden chairs, or crates of eating utensils, bowls, rag dolls, clothing, and on one occasion, a Franklin stove.

  There were also the efforts of a small but disparate group of men: Neva's husband, hardware store owner Abraham Levy; Lacey Smith's husband, the blacksmith Isaiah; the young deputy, Zeph Waters; and even Adam MacAlistair. New windows had been cut in the warehouse walls to let in more light. Broken glass had been replaced. Partition walls had been erected. And now grass surrounded the building where there had once been only hard-packed dirt; or, still worse, a sea of mud. Several of Cullen's sturdy, curly-horned merino sheep tolerated the children and kept the grass cropped short. The yellow bloom of forsythia bushes now spread against the brick walls, and stout, young oak trees held rope swings. Here and there patches of scarlet tulips and white candytuft bloomed in the sheltered places where children's feet did not tread.