by Laura Frantz
Bending his head, he began to pray. Haltingly. Brokenly. Though the words seemed wrenched from his very soul, a sense of wonder pervaded the still place, beginning in Ellie’s thankful heart. “Almighty Father, you created all men equal, and for that liberty we give you heartfelt thanks. These fugitives are in your faithful hands. Guide them safely to freedom and lives spent in Your service. For this we plead Your everlasting mercy.”
It was a prayer she’d heard uttered by Dr. Brunot many times in the last few months, before he’d gone missing. While she pondered it, Jack said “Amen” and led the group out, leaving her to murmur her own prayer on their behalf.
In minutes he returned, shutting the door soundly. His beard scraped her cheek as he took her in his arms. “What’s happening at New Hope?”
She shut her eyes, still woozy. “The sheriff and his men came with a warrant and a pistol—the one the bounty hunters took from me that day along the back road. They claim my father gave it to a slave, so they’ve arrested him. I feared when they searched the house—”
“Ben overheard Wade say the sheriff was planning to arrest your father today, and he told Sol.” His arms tightened about her. “I rode over in the night to give a warning. Ansel asked me to bring the runaways here in his stead. He felt his absence would arouse suspicions if the sheriff came.”
She could only imagine Ansel’s shock at Jack’s appearing. As if reading her thoughts, he murmured, “I had a rough go of it convincing him to trust me—and making sure no one else saw me. We transferred the runaways soon after.”
“You’ve been here since last night?” Beneath her hands he felt chilled to the bone, his clothes seeped with cold.
“I’m only concerned about the fugitives . . . your father.” He brushed back a stray curl from her face. “You.”
“My father—” Her voice broke. “What will happen to him now?”
“Your father has been incriminated on false evidence. He’s done nothing wrong except shame those who are cowards about their convictions, who won’t make a stand against slavery. There’s a proslavery ring in Allegheny County that is working to undermine abolitionists. Ramsay and other city leaders are among them. My father and Wade are said to be the founders of the group.”
“Then Da has little chance—”
He put a finger to her lips. “I’m doing what I can to distract them at Broad Oak and elsewhere. And I’m privy to their plans.”
“But if your father or Wade realize you’re alive . . .” Overcome, she pressed her cheek against the smooth wool of his coat.
“I’m simply giving them a taste of their own medicine. And I have no fear for my own life. Not since coming to Christ. As the old saint Whitefield said, we are immortal until our work is done.” He took her gently by the shoulders. “Go home, Ellie. I’ve more work to do. Pray for your father. The fugitives. Pray for me.”
35
Love can hope where reason would despair.
LORD GEORGE LYTTELTON
Nearly dawn, it was the day of Silas Ballantyne’s arraignment. So wary the hair on the back of his neck bristled, Jack positioned Ben at the edge of the clearing to act as sentinel. Though Jack had yet to disturb the soil, the shovel was heavy in his hand and sweat slicked his brow. A band of sunlight stretched across the silent meadow, promising to melt the remaining snow.
His breathing quickened as he turned the shovel over on its side and scraped free a sheen of ice. The grass beneath was missing, and mud met his gaze. A fresh grave, just as he’d suspected. Not only the lawman’s of old.
Brunot’s.
Heartsick, he thrust the shovel into frigid ground. His father must have been hopelessly drunk to have planted both bodies in the same place. And a hurried job it had been. Casting a look at Ben to make sure he was acting as lookout and was spared the grisly sight, Jack began to dig.
For all its gilt and glitter, Sloane’s Boardinghouse had a slatternly reputation, its posture on the edge of Pittsburgh a reminder of its removal from polite society. Though a far cry from the Palais-Royal or the Château-Gontier Jack’s father frequented when in Paris, its lush, whiskey-laden rooms boasted courtesans just the same. Till today, Jack had never been inside, though one step into the foyer shook him to the core. He spied a prominent attorney’s profile as the man disappeared for a tryst in an upstairs room.
He’d planned his visit carefully, knowing his father and most of Pittsburgh would be in court for Silas’s arraignment. Wade and Isabel would have gone with Henry, not wanting to miss the glorious descent of a man so many respected, even revered. Jack wagered Elspeth would shun the courtroom drama and remain behind at Sloane’s. Henry would likely join her here once the proceedings were over. Elspeth Lee provided a welcome distraction from all the chaos swirling around them.
His father, flummoxed and furious over the destruction at Broad Oak, had hired bounty hunters to track those responsible. He’d also ordered another still from Ireland and sent Marcum to Kentucky to bring up more slaves. Henry Turlock was not a man to be daunted for long.
Jack removed his hat and dangled it in one hand while running callused fingers over his beard with the other. The gilt mirror opposite reflected a well-dressed man, slightly gaunt, his whiskers a handy ruse. Shadows rimmed his eyes, bespeaking one too many sleepless nights and a great deal of mischief. He was growing weary of playing the game, and he couldn’t hide forever. Someone might well recognize him here and the news would spread like fever.
A sudden movement from a side parlor caught his eye. Silk skirts rustling, a woman came forward, rouge marking high cheekbones the color of her ruby gown. Madame Sloane? “Welcome to my establishment, Mister . . . ?”
Jack ignored the question. “I’m here to see Elspeth Lee.”
“Miss Lee?” She seemed surprised, slanting him a shrewd glance and reaching for a bell on a marble-top table. “Is she expecting you?”
The appearance of a maid spared him an answer. When Madame turned back to him, a question in her eyes, he said, “I won’t be long.” But in truth, he’d be here as long as it took.
“Very well, then. If you’ll wait in the red parlor, Anna will escort her down.” She began a slow, unnerving walk around him. “But I must ask that you leave all weapons at the door or in my safekeeping while you’re here.” Extending a hand, she waited as he reluctantly withdrew a pistol from his greatcoat and a knife from his boot.
In moments, he was hemmed in as the maid closed the parlor’s double doors and Elspeth Lee stood facing him. Though he’d only seen her at a distance, he knew she was a handsome woman. But the similarities linking her to Ellie’s lovely mother ended there. The sisters simply bore the same remarkable eyes, as blue as the Monongahela on the clearest day, and the same lushness of figure.
“Have we . . . met?” She was taking his measure, her gaze warming with unmistakable interest.
“I’m Henry Turlock’s son Jack.” He felt the same reluctance of old at the admission.
Her brows arched. “The one who drowned at the headwaters of the Missouri?” She was smiling at him slightly, as if privy to some secret joke. “Well, I must say, you’re in fine form for a dead man.”
He nearly smiled back at her as she sat down upon a near sofa and smoothed her skirts, her gaze swinging back to him warily.
Taking the chair opposite, he set his hat aside, gaze roaming a room made darker by several shaded windows. “I’m here to talk about your future,” he began thoughtfully, remembering all that Ansel had told him. He chose his words carefully, not wanting to rile her but simply back her into an uncomfortable corner. “I thought you’d want to know that my father will soon be in the Allegheny County Jail on charges of murder—”
“Murder!” She seemed amused again—and disbelieving—though she cast a quick look at the door as if fearing someone might be listening.
He kept his voice low. “Murder, aye. A far cry from the charges of petty thievery against you.” He let the words take hold, rued the slight harde
ning of her features. “Since Madame Sloane likes to be paid on time, you’ll soon be out on the street without my father’s backing. You can’t return to York, as your brother has a warrant out for your arrest. Even now your transgressions there are circulating in the papers.”
He reached into his coat pocket, removed a copy of the York Gazette, and placed it on the table between them. “The money you stole from your brother’s smithy has no doubt run out, making my father’s offer to keep you here a very convenient, if temporary, solution. You’ll get no help from the Ballantynes, as there is still the matter of a fire and the death of your infant son between you—”
“How dare you!” She lashed him with the words, all levity gone. “That was years ago! Nothing was ever proven, no charges filed.”
“All sins cast a long shadow, as the Irish say. My father is no exception. Whiskey and women have ever been his downfall.” He leaned back in his chair and studied her, feeling her own alarm was but a mirror of his own. The lovely Elspeth Lee was clearly trapped, as was he. He’d taken a terrible risk talking about his father. Elspeth could tell Henry everything before the day was out, and he’d hunt Jack down and kill him. Or have someone else do it in his stead. Even now his father’s warning of years before turned him to ice.
If you tell a soul, you’ll share the same grave.
Since the sheriff was in league with Henry and Wade and those who comprised the Pittsburgh kidnapping ring, Jack doubted an arrest would be made. He had to act quickly. Stay hidden. Everything hinged on the response of the woman facing him.
“There’s a remedy to all this.” He forged on, aware of the rush of heat beneath his damp collar. “I’ll repay your debt to your brother in York and provide you a handsome allowance, enough to live on comfortably the rest of your days. But you’ll have to cooperate with me.”
Her chin lifted. “What makes you think I can be bought?”
“What makes you think I’d think otherwise? You have no history of doing things out of the goodness of your heart.”
At his rebuke, she turned her face away, staring into the hearth’s fire. “The truth is, no matter what I’ve done, I’m fond of my nieces and nephews. They’ve shown me more kindness than most—and precious little judgment.”
“Then you need to help their father.”
“Help him? How can I?” She sank back on the sofa as if all the fight had gone out of her. “Your father is determined to bring the Ballantynes to ruin. He told me so within these very walls.”
“I’ll wager he told you a great deal more that can be used in the Ballantynes’ favor.”
“Only that he forced a free black man to lie about the pistol or else be sold south—the very gun Elinor was carrying along the lane when he sent his slave catchers after her. Apparently the sheriff is all too willing to believe the ruse.”
“I want you to testify against my father. And the sheriff.”
“What?” The fear in her face almost smote his resolve. “You must be mad! You’d actually betray your father?” Her gaze turned smoldering. “You’re certainly no saint to be speaking to me of my sins.”
“I never claimed to be. But God in His mercy has forgiven me. And I’m bound by Him to tell the truth.” Jack reached for his hat. “You have until the Ballantyne trial begins to make up your mind. My offer to repay your debt and shelter you stands. But not a word to anyone.”
She stood up, her demeanor still far from obliging. “How will I know when the legal proceedings start?”
“I’ll send word to you here when I find out.”
If my father doesn’t silence us first.
“Your mouth—it’s bleeding.” Ansel’s concern barely dinted Ellie’s misery as he fished a handkerchief from his coat pocket.
She’d bitten her lip repeatedly, trying to quell the emotion that roiled inside her. Each step into the filthy jail was like a blow. Even in winter, the chill failed to suppress the stench, making Ellie glad she’d eaten nothing at breakfast lest she lose it on the straw-lined floor.
Mama had gone first, into a small anteroom off the sheriff’s office. Sand sifted through an hourglass on a crude table by the barred door, marking what little time remained. At the last moment, no doubt brought on by the incident in New Hope’s parlor, Ramsay had denied Andra entry, and she remained outside in the coach with Peyton.
When Ellie saw her father bound from ankle to wrist, the long chains grinding and dragging at his barest movement, something broke inside her. He was unshaven, clad in the same clothes he’d had on when arrested four days prior, terribly disheveled, and seeming a stranger. Shackled so tightly his wrists were raw and bleeding in places, he couldn’t embrace her, and she sensed his keen regret. With a little cry, she threw her arms about him as Ansel stood by silently.
“When all this is over, we’ll go to Scotlain, aye?” His lilt settled over her, his words sure and steadfast. “Home to the Highlands.” He pressed his bristled cheek to hers. “Ye ken what the Buik says. ‘The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust.’”
“I ken.” Her voice was small as a child’s. Her faith felt just as small. She longed to tell him about Jack, upon whom she’d pinned her hopes, but she was checked by a startling thought. Who was her Savior at such a time? None but Christ. The message in her father’s eyes was unmistakable.
Fear not.
“Time is up.” Ramsay was at the door. Unsmiling. Cold.
Ellie’s hands slid down her father’s wrinkled greatcoat. She was unable to leave him with a smile or a reassuring word.
Ten o’clock in the morning. Court proceedings had begun. Seated in a hired coach parked in an alley by the courthouse, Jack flexed his cold hands and wished he could stretch his cramped legs. The coach curtains were closed, denying him the view he craved—the sight of Elspeth Lee’s arrival. She was to meet him here in the alley and they would enter the courtroom together. Excruciating minutes ticked by, confirming what he feared.
She wasn’t coming.
He’d have to face his father alone without a shred of evidence to back him up save the gravesites. Decomposed as Brunot’s body was without benefit of a casket, the authorities might well dismiss it altogether. Given so many were in league with his father, he didn’t doubt it. His own life was in danger the moment he stepped from the coach. Elspeth Lee had likely told Henry everything.
He clasped the door handle and gave it an aggravated turn as dread pooled in his belly. His mischief shall return upon his own head, and his violent dealing shall come down upon his own pate. The Scripture, unbidden, solaced him not a whit.
Ellie kept her eyes down, hands folded in her lap. As with the jail, she’d never been inside the courtroom, and its austereness stole her breath. Not even the presence of two hundred or more onlookers—many shoulder to shoulder in the gallery above—could warm the large space. This was the place of hardened criminals. Not her beloved father, who sat in a wooden box at the front of the room as if guilty of some contagion, a bailiff nearby.
Beside her, Peyton whispered about the proceedings as if to ease her, but anxiety left her struggling to breathe beneath too-tight stays.
Mama, clear-eyed and firm of gaze, was to her left, hemmed in by Andra and Ansel. Behind them sat the Camerons and Reverend Herron. Ellie kept her eyes on her father, wavering only once when the Turlocks entered the room. Henry and Wade escorted the black-clad Isabel up the aisle to sit opposite the Ballantynes, creating a stir. Ellie suppressed a shudder. The only Turlock she longed to lock eyes with was missing. She’d last seen Jack at the mill six days past.
The bang of a gavel seemed to shatter her heart. Someone was asking her father his plea to the charge of arming a slave. Not guilty. Despite his unkempt appearance and several days’ growth of beard, Da sat straight of shoulder and was remarkably strong of voice, as calm as if in kirk.
His legal counsel huddled in a tight knot to the left of Judge Treadway, the sheriff and a great many alder
men in the front row facing the jury. Too sore to watch, Ellie lowered her head, eyes fastened on the beaded reticule in her lap as the Negro who’d incriminated her father was led out and seated. At once the room grew hushed. The man appeared so beaten down, so careworn, Ellie felt a tremor of pity when she lifted her head to look at him.
The attorney stood several paces from him, as if reluctant to get too close. “Your name?”
The man stuttered and wheezed as he began. “My name is Mose, sir. I come up from New Orleans on one of Mister Ballantyne’s boats.”
“Can you tell the court the name of the steamer you were aboard as a stowaway?”
There was a pause. “Yes, sir—it was called the Elinor.”
The exchange continued on for several endless minutes, sounding stilted and rehearsed. Ellie had never seen this man in her life, nor had he ever darkened New Hope’s doors. When the sheriff presented the weapon, she felt a sickening dismay.
“Is this pistol familiar to you, Mose?”
He nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Mister Ballantyne—he give me the gun. Said to use it to help me gain freedom.”
The irony of his words tore at Ellie’s heart.
“And did Silas Ballantyne urge you to any action besides escaping your owner and arming yourself with this weapon?”
He hesitated, swallowed, gaze falling to his lap. “He asked me to do violence to a man named Brunot.”
Brunot? Ellie held her breath as audible gasps sounded all around her. Peyton reached out a hand and clasped the bench in front of them till his knuckles whitened. Ellie expected Andra to leap to her feet in agitation, but she simply shifted in her seat, arms crossed.
“Can you point to the man who gave you the gun?” the prosecutor asked. “Who urged you to do this violence?”
A tremulous finger pointed to Da’s straight figure.