I took a deep breath and placed the rod in between two of the boards above the hole that Jezebel was trying to squeeze through. I took another deep breath, and I gave the rod all my strength. The plank’s nails screeched and popped free with a snapping sound. The sow, pushing hard against the fence, fell to her knees when the resistance ended so suddenly. She staggered to her feet.
I was already running like a crazed lunatic towards Pratt Street. I had a good lead, but I wondered if it would be enough. And I wondered how the pig might behave when the moment came. But for all the wondering, the most of it was plain running. I had never moved so fast. I did not slip. I did not fall. I hit Pratt in full stride, with the sow gaining ground steadily. I was no more than twenty yards behind Woolfolk and the watch, between them and their wretched cargo, when they finally turned to see me.
I could almost feel the sow’s breath on the back of my ankles when I reached them. I slapped my hand covered in my own blood on the horse’s fetlock and flew by – on towards an alley at the other side of the street.
“What?”
“Hey!”
There was a scream. It was Woolfolk’s horse. I had never heard a horse make such a sound. Jezebel struck straight at the gelding’s legs. She ripped and tore at the fragile legs of the horse, and it fell with Woolfolk underneath within seconds. The pig was remorseless. So long tormented that night, she went mad with the hunger she had been trained for. Burrowing her tusks into the belly of the fallen animal, she was tearing at its leaking entrails.
“Fuck!” screamed Woolfolk.
“Get the pig, man,” yelled one of the Watch.
Another swung his brickbat at the feasting beast’s back, and the sow turned and snapped the man’s ankle in payment for the blow. He screamed. A lucky man, the sow turned back to the sweet meat of the gelding’s soft belly. The horse’s legs pumped in terror and pain.
“Get him off me!” Woolfolk was in pain. His leg was crushed between the death agonies of his horse and the pavement.
A gun shot. One of the watchmen had fired his pistol at Jezebel. She shrugged it off and went on with her feast. He fired again. The bullet blasted a hole in her back and was absorbed by gelatinous fat, flesh and muscle. Another shot – another greasy splash. Jezebel never slowed the ripping and shredding progress of her gore-stained maw.
I stopped on the far side of the street. No one was paying any attention to me at all. The rear guard was galloping to his boss’s rescue. Raising his rifle as his mount slid, hooves on slime and intestines, he finally came to a stop at the gory scene.
“Shoot the damned thing!”
“Fuck!”
“Get the pig, damn you!”
The man with the rifle struggled to control his horse. The mare was panicking as the smell of blood and gunpowder filled her nostrils. A quiet walk down a dark street had become a battlefield in an instant, and the horse was wild with fright. He struggled to get a good aim with his rifle as the animal bucked and shied beneath him.
Left to my own devices and completely ignored as I hoped I would be, I did not tarry any longer to observe the savage encounter. Though I heard more shouting and pistol shouts behind me, I ran back down the length of the slave column to the rear where the big shadow stood. As I passed the other blacks in the line, they gave me no notice either. Their eyes were dull as if they had been drugged, or worse, as if they had given up hope. I did not stop to consider the question.
When I reached the last two slaves, I was sure.
“Griswold.”
“Jupiter.”
Only that exchange, no more. Our friend was chained to a smaller man who just looked at us both with wonder. He did not speak. Having no way of breaking the chain, I said, “Come. Quick. Run.” I pushed at them to get them started, for they were frozen in the suddenness of events. They ran, and faster than I, if the truth be told. We headed north into the maze of streets and alleys I had so recently escaped. There was a rifle shot behind us. By the sound of the report, it was not aimed at us.
Jezebel had fallen at last. Her blood splattered on the walls and the pavement. Thrown down to disaster, she died. It all happened just as the scriptures say.
And the three of us ran. Through the streets and alleys and lanes we ran. And we snuck through shadows when voices were heard or lamps were seen. In all the danger, I found myself laughing when we stopped to catch our wind. And on we ran. Until we reached the servant’s door of Barnum’s Hotel, the least likely spot they would search for a runaway slave. Or so I hoped.
Jeffers opened the door. “And sometimes men are good,” he said.
I remember that.
Then, without warning, I smelled the decay of rotting food, copper blood, and my own sour fear. I heard a clashing of ivory teeth, a cracking of splintered bone, and ripping rifle-ball. My mouth was filled with gorge. My eyes died, and everything was as black as Jezebel’s passage. If only it had been the end. If only the void that called to me had signaled my escape. But my old sins were not yet forgiven. And there were new sins yet to come.
I fell deeper into the labyrinth.
Chapter 22
September 30, 1849 6:55 a.m. - Spirits in Wing, and Angels to the View -
There was no dream.
I wavered between worlds as strong hands lifted me and bore me to healing waters, the warm water on my bare skin a blessing. I smelled the sweetness of soap and felt the ministrations of gentle physicians tend to my wounds.
My eyes remained closed, for I had little desire to the world again. The warmth of the bath surrounded me, and the whispered voices left me, at last, alone. All the filth of the night was washed away, and I sat in silence. The door to whatever chamber I was in opened. I heard soft measured steps approach – and a voice.
“Thank you.”
I opened my eyes. I was in a zinc tub centered in a brick walled washroom. Hooks covered in white jackets, aprons, and boiled shirts hung the length of the wall in front of me. A crude, but well painted bench plank ran beneath the garments. On the adjoining wall, tin basins and bowls were hung by their handles on nails in precise rows. Above the array was a cellar window. The first hint of dawn’s sun had begun to reach through its cracked glass panes. The voice spoke again.
“Thank you.
Jeffers stood to my left in a formal pose, the posture he must have assumed a thousand times in his duties as bellman.
“Why do you thank me?”
“For saving him.”
“Jupiter?”
Jeffers smiled. “Yes, him. But you also returned my son-in-law in the bargain.”
“The bargain?” Had I made a bargain? My thoughts were still garbled.
“He was chained to your friend.”
“Your son-in-law?” I still struggled to piece the events of the night together in my head. “He was attached to Jupiter?” I remembered the looks on their faces as I ran towards them. My lungs burned again with our mad dash through the dark streets.
“Mr. Jim Tasker is free, sir. And I thank you.”
“And Poe?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Molly?”
“I’ve only just talked to Thaddeus.”
It came back to me – Thaddeus, the young black who had been sent to gather Jeffers’ men and intercept the slavers.
“He has no news of Poe?” I sat up in the tub.
“Not as of yet. Thaddeus was unable to round up more than three or four men. We were not ready.” There was blame in his voice – blame for himself. “They hooded themselves and set ambush on Lancaster.”
“Hoods?”
“We could only hope to hide identities as best we were able. They waited. Poe and your, ah… lady friend showed up. Then the shots rang out over near Pratt and Concord. Quite a ways off, but they knew something was happening.”
The image of Jezebel tearing into the horse’s belly appeared in front of me as if it were happening again. I smelled copper blood and heard the panicked screams of animal an
d man. The water in my bath seemed to turn as cold as the night air had been.
“By the time they reached Pratt there was quite a ruckus going on. Blood everywhere. The horse had been put down, and its ruined carcass was lying in a pool of intestines and such. Full fifteen members of the Nightwatch had arrived to see what was the matter.”
I remembered my three stalkers. “Fucking pigs,” I said aloud.
“Pigs? Yes there was a pig there, too. Thaddeus didn’t know what to make of it. A great sow ripped by twenty or more bullets – and Woolfolk down with a shattered leg. Maybe two or three other men hurt.”
“Throw down Jezebel,” I muttered.
Jeffers looked at me puzzled. “There was nothing we could do – my men, that is. With the watch alerted…” His voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry.”
“You are sorry?”
“I only meant to save Jupiter. He was my aim.”
“I know that, Mr. Griswold. But one good may bring another.”
“And the rest.” In my memory, I saw the faces of the slaves as they stood blankly watching me run by them. “What of the rest.”
“They’ll be on the Kannapolis by now.”
“Slaves.”
“Slaves.”
“Again I say, I am sorry.”
Jeffers sighed. He pulled up a small bentwood chair and straddled it. Looking at me, he sighed again. “Mr. Griswold, ten years ago on a Christmas Eve, they marched another group of slaves down Pratt Street in the middle of the night. Ten years ago.” His eyes were intense. “Ten years ago old man Woolfolk, the Celebrated One himself, marched them. He marched my wife and daughter off to the boat, and I did not stop him.”
“Mr. Jeffers, I…”
“I did not stop him. I hid in this very room, and I let it happen without a tear shed for man to see. Since then, they’ve done it again and again. This time finally, I was ready. We were ready.” He shuddered. His voice trembled. “I was wrong. We were not ready. I failed. You succeeded.”
“You might have started a war.”
Jeffers sighed. “Oh, war will come, Mr. Griswold. War will come with a vengeance.” There was a red ember in his words.
As if to quench the threat of that fire, I splashed water on my face. I stared at my wounded hands. “I saved only two.”
“Praise be.”
“And Poe?”
“Thaddeus and the men slipped away. There was no choice. It was my fault for not having them at the ready. Thaddeus said that Poe and Molly refused to leave.”
“Refused?”
“Your Mr. Poe was quite intent on finding Jupiter. No one knew you had pulled him out of the line.”
“You’re not telling me something.” Jeffers’ expression left that impression clear in my mind.
“Poe and Miss Molly apparently advanced down the street and into the disturbance itself.”
“They did what?”
“Poe told Thaddeus that he’d just walk on up there ‘like a white-man.’ That’s what he said, and they just walked on up there.”
“What happened?” The thought of Poe sauntering into the confusion, the blood, and the anger I had left in my wake filled me with apprehension. “What happened then?”
“Thaddeus couldn’t stay around to see. The other men sifted away towards their homes. Thaddeus came straight back here.”
“There’s still something else.”
“He couldn’t tell what happened. He didn’t see.”
“What? Damn you. Tell me.”
“He heard shots again. Shots down on Pratt Street.”
I sank back in the water. A wave crashed over the side of the zinc tub and splashed on the floor. “Shots?”
“Four, maybe five shots. Thaddeus heard them as he made his way here.”
“And Poe?”
“We will see what time brings. Jupiter is up in your room. We’re mending some of your clothes from where we found them in the closet, and we’ll send them up as soon as we can. Finish here, and go up there and wait.” Jeffers stood up.
“Wait.” I said the word as if the saying would bring acceptance. It did not.
“I’ll send someone in with a robe. Then go to your room. You should be safe there for now.” It was hard to tell if even he believed that. Jeffers turned and went through a stout oak door. It closed with an echoing, hollow, and heavy sound.
Poe and Molly had walked into the storm I had created. My head rolled back on my neck in despair. My eyes found the cellar window. The breath froze in my throat.
A face was looking at me – a woman’s face. Her teeth were sharp pearls. Her eyes were green, and her tongue was tar-black. The apparition stunned me. I jerked in fright and slipped by chance under the water. Gasping for air, I pushed myself up in the tub and looked at the window again.
It was empty.
Chapter 23
September 30, 1849 9:30 a.m. - She Stands Without the Door -
That Sunday began dull, dark, and soundless. The autumn clouds hung oppressively low and dreary, replacing the promise natural to every morning with the threat of a winter’s eve. I found myself back in my hotel room, watching Jupiter perform his oblations. He seemed wounded by his near return to bondage. And I was struck by the melancholy sense of this once mighty edifice of an African, now fractured and tilted at the very foundation.
We did not speak. When I returned to the room, the Negro was at the basin, splashing water onto his face, running his fingers through his wiry black hair, and rubbing his hands and wrists as if he could wash away all trace of the rusty chains that had lately bound him. Drying himself with a linen towel, he stood looking at himself in the beveled mirror framed in a tiger-maple that, in its darker stripes, matched his skin. Having satisfied himself that the reflected face was, indeed, his own, he plunged his large hands into the basin again and repeated the process.
I took to the bed, my exhaustion having overwhelmed me. With my head propped up on the down pillows, I watched him. For at least half-an-hour he washed, rubbed, dried, and washed again and then again. Not a word was spoken.
Poe and Molly were lost somewhere in the streets of the city. I had not forgotten that terrible reality, nor did I discount it. Yet my exhaustion was too strong to resist, and I slept. Without intention, I sank into a dreamless state of unconsciousness until the noon Angelus when the triple toll began.
I could hear the church bells of Baltimore ringing. The stentorian tones of the Cathedral sounded out above the others. Two bells tolled in slightly different but complementary rhythms. A deep, resonating wave rolled in a slow, majestic meter that crashed like a wave on the roofs of the city. Each strike of the ponderous clapper like a footstep of God come to earth. The second bell was cast in a tenor’s bronze, and it struck lightly and quickly. I wondered at those hurrying footfalls. Did they run towards their Lord? Or did they flee? I could almost hear a French voice in the notes, but the words were beyond meaning to me as I hid my head beneath the blankets.
When the ringing faded, I stayed in my dark refuge. I did not move – not even a single flex of a solitary muscle. I feared the onset of the revenge I knew my misadventures combined with the inexcusable indulgence of the previous day would exact. I swore again to myself, as I had the previous morning, to abstain from further reliance on intoxicants. My silent prayer for fortitude in this matter was interrupted by a knock at the hotel room door. I did not move.
There was the sound of someone walking towards the door. Then I heard the latch click, and the door gave a slight squeak as it was opened.
I listened carefully.
Jupiter’s low voice came first. “Yes?”
Then a slightly hoarse voice that I immediately recognized, “Jeffers, sir.” The door creaked open.
“You’ve gotten all I asked for?’
“Right out in the hallway, sir. May we bring it in?”
“Of course. Of course.”
There was a bustle and a flurry of steps. Something banged agains
t the doorway. The veins in my head pounded in unison with the commotion.
“Over there on the table.” Jupiter’s voice was distant, as if he were distracted by some deeper concern than the fulfillment of whatever request he had made.
“You found the man on Fish Alley?”
“Yes.” Jeffers’ manner was as solicitous and respectful as if he were addressing a white man, perhaps even more so. “And we delivered the rum in trade.”
“The Loas must be paid,” Jupiter muttered, still distracted.
“As you have explained, sir.”
“The powders?”
“Here you are, sir.”
“On the table.”
Though I remained under my blanket, I could tell from the carry of Jupiter’s voice that he had crossed to the window and was looking away from the room out onto Calvert Street.
“There is no word, sir.”
Jupiter continued to face out towards the city. “The opium and the leaves?”
“Yes, sir.” There was a pause, and then Jeffers’ asked almost meekly, “You follow the Vaudou, sir?”
“I never follow.” Jupiter was irritated.
“Pardon me.”
“No.” Jupiter turned to face the room again. “I am sorry. Yes, the Vaudou, the Vodun, the Voodoo – whatever you care to call it – I know the Vaudou.”
“You believe in it, sir?’
“I believe in what works.” Jupiter changed the subject. “They are looking?”
“Yes, Thaddeus himself is out. We have friends. If they are to be found, we will do it.” Jeffers cleared his throat. “I wish you good fortune in your search for your wife, sir.”
“If they don’t find Poe…” Jupiter’s voice trailed off into a silence. Then, “Tell me, Jeffers. Do you know this Fox?”
Imp: Being the Lost Notebooks of Rufus Wilmot Griswold in the Matter of the Death of Edgar Allan Poe Page 16