by Oak, B. B.
We stepped away from the hatch when we heard a heavy tread approaching overhead as the armed watchman walked from aft to fore along the starboard side.
On cat feet we began to venture into the bowels of the ship. It seemed clear of men. On the first level below decks we found carpenters’ tools and heavy boxes spaced down along the length of the hull but nothing else. A narrow set of stairs led down to the next level. We had prepared ourselves for the darkness, and I scratched and lit the first locofoco match, which flared so brightly it blinded us for an instant.
And then we saw all too clearly the evidence we sought. Bolted into the sides of the ship and at regular intervals in the floor away from the sides hung and lay sets of hand and ankle manacles, each ready to hold a slave for the voyage from Africa to Brazil, the Indies, or our own shores. The sight chilled me to the marrow.
And there were more horrors to discover. We forced open a box that contained branding irons with the initials JP at one end. And in another box we found six-foot-long plaited leather whips that tapered to a cruel knotted end that could no doubt tear flesh and draw blood at every lash.
I could not see Henry’s expression in the dark, but his voice was so filled with fury when he spoke I hardly recognized it. Even so, what he said was levelheaded and practical. “I will take away a pair of branding irons, and you take a whip, Adam. We need to have some physical evidence to show the Boston police.”
“Let’s be gone then,” I said, as yet another locofoco burned out and filled the atmosphere with the smell of sizzling phosphorus. I imagined how stifling the air in here would become when the hold was packed with the bodies of men and women stacked close as cordwood. Many would surely die in the suffocating tropical heat. We could not let that happen.
We found a set of stairs at midship and emerged out onto the deck, where I breathed in welcome draughts of clean air but could not keep myself from coughing lightly.
“Who goes there?” the guard shouted from the bow. “I seen you. Stop, the both of you, or I will shoot you dead where you stand.” He rushed toward us.
“We cannot surrender,” Henry said.
I had no intention of doing so! We were as doomed as the intended passengers of this slave ship if we got captured, sure to be clapped in irons and tossed overboard once the ship was out to sea.
We turned and ran a few paces, and then Henry whirled about. As the guard raised his weapon, Henry flung one of the branding irons at him. The stout metal rod whirred through the air and caught the man full on the shoulder just as he fired the gun. The bullet struck and splintered a spar not a foot above my head.
As we raced sternward we saw another man emerge from the captain’s cabin on the quarterdeck with a grappling hook in his hand. We stopped, apparently trapped.
“Up!” Henry cried. “We must go up.”
Both of us jumped onto the rigging of the aft mast and scampered upward as a bullet was fired. It whizzed in the air above us and did neither of us harm. We reached the topmost yardarm, as shouts sounded below us. No more shots were fired as we kept the thick mast between the shooter and us.
“What now, Henry?” I said as I looked down at the deck from a height that caused my head to whirl.
“There’s nothing for it,” Henry calmly said, “but to leap into the water. When you come up stay close to the ship and swim to Cato.”
“What if the shots have caused him to flee?”
“That would be most unfortunate,” Henry said.
To get beyond the deck below and over the water, we had to slide our feet along a swaying rope under the yardarm whilst we clung to it for balance. Another bullet buzzed through the air past us as we sidled out, Henry leading the way. The other guard was climbing up toward us, growling obscenities and waving the grappling hook.
Henry scurried out to the end of the yardarm, turned to me, and said, “Leap for your life, Adam.”
Then he was gone. I moved after him, but a shot from below parted the rope below my feet, and instead of leaping I fell like a sack of potatoes straight downward. I expected to have my head cracked open like a coconut shell against the gunwale, but only my left hand grazed the side of the ship as I tumbled, arms and legs flailing. I hit the water feet first and plunged deep into the bay.
I slowly rose up along the smooth side of the ship to the surface and swam bow-ward. I saw no sign of Henry. When I reached the bow I saw Cato’s boat bobbing below the bowsprit. He looked to be alone.
He motioned me toward him, and when I reached him he leaned far over and hauled me up over the side. “Henry?” I gasped.
“Don’t see him,” Cato whispered.
We waited one, two, three minutes, or was it an eternity? What if Henry had struck a timber floating in the water and been knocked out and drowned? Or been shot? He might well be injured, clinging to the side of the ship, unable to move.
“I must swim back to look for him,” I said.
“No call for it,” Henry whispered from the water. “Pull me up, Cato.”
Henry was smiling broadly, making clear his delight with our adventure. For a man who claims to be most content in quiet contemplation, he surely loves action when it comes his way. He raised the branding iron to show me he had managed to hold on to his evidence. I still had the whip as well.
After Cato got us safely ashore, Henry and I hurried to the home of John P. Coburn, leader of the Boston Vigilant Committee. As a free black man, Mr. Coburn had attained a level of wealth sufficient to own a fine, three-story brick home at the top of Phillips Street on Beacon Hill. I had never met this friend of Henry’s, a short, plump man with grizzled side-whiskers, and introductions were quickly made at the door.
“Pray excuse my informal appearance, gentlemen,” Coburn said, retying the belt on his velvet smoking jacket, “but I was not expecting visitors.”
Politely ignoring our own appearances, for we must have looked like two drowned water rats, he ushered us into his library and invited us to sit down. We hesitated, not wanting to apply our damp posteriors to the horsehair cushions, but he insisted we pay no mind to that.
Henry told Coburn of our discovery of the slave ship, making sure to praise Cato’s bravery in putting himself in harm’s way to guide and assist us. Coburn listened intently and without interruption, but his eyes expressed his growing horror, and when Henry produced the branding iron and I the whip, Coburn outright shuddered.
“So this evil pollutes even the Boston harbor, despite laws against building slave ships,” he said in a voice hoarse with emotion. “Millions upon millions of souls are in bondage, yet ships are still being built to capture more slaves! When will it end?”
“As long as slavery remains legal, it will continue to grow,” Henry said.
“And for every thousand we help escape to freedom each year on the Railroad,” Coburn said, “thousands more are born or sold into slavery.”
“We cannot give up,” Henry said. “There is victory in every effort.” He hefted the branding iron in one hand and the whip in the other. “And at least we have evidence to stop one slave ship from sailing.”
“Let us go to the police forthwith,” Coburn said.
“What about Pelletier?” I said. “If he receives word from the guards on his ship that security was breached, he will likely flee the country.”
I volunteered to go back to Plumford to prevent him from leaving before authorities came to arrest him, and Coburn supplied me with a change of dry clothes and a horse from his stable.
JULIA
Monday, May 22
I was left in a limbo between hope and despair after Adam and Henry departed for Boston—hope that they would be able to put a halt to Pelletier’s criminal plans; despair that nothing could stop Pelletier from any of his evil intentions. My spirit rose one moment and plunged the next, and to calm myself I took the best cure I knew. I went for a walk. Unfortunately, I had become the town’s Unrespectable Spectacle, so rather than have people silently glare at me on the G
reen or public byways, I limited my stroll to my own long backyard. Up and down it I paced, the late afternoon sun warming my back and the breeze cooling my face. My inward musings turned to an outward awareness of my surroundings, and for a while I felt at peace with myself and the world around me. The wisteria and iris were blooming, the aspens were shimmering, the warblers were warbling, and the air was redolent with the scent of honeysuckle. How good Mother Nature was, how gentle and bountiful!
But then plangent squawking and screeching broke my short-lived peace, and from a nearby mountain laurel burst a Cooper’s hawk, clutching in its talons a piteously peeping robin hatchling, still naked, its stubby wings barely formed. Two adult robins, screaming madly, made a valiant attempt to save their baby by pecking at the hawk’s back, but they could not stop it. The hawk disappeared into the dense leaves of a sycamore with its helpless victim, leaving the parents to circle aimlessly in the sky.
I buried my face in my hands and wept for them. In my overwrought mind I could not help but think of the hawk as my avenging husband and the hatchling as Adam’s and my child. I did not allow this maudlin notion to overcome me for long. After a moment I took a deep breath and wiped the tears from my face. This was not the right time for self-pity. Indeed, there is never a right time for such an indulgence as that.
I returned to the house and went up to the attic to see if Tansy needed anything. She was lying on the makeshift bed, staring up at the rafters. “I’m getting mighty twitchy to move on,” she told me. “My whole life seems to be at a standstill.”
I sympathized. There is nothing more frustrating than having one’s life put on hold for reasons out of one’s control. “You must try to be patient,” I said. How much easier to give that advice than take it.
“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Julia. I do appreciate having a safe place to hide out. And I thank you for putting me up for so long.”
“It’s only been three days. How long did you stay with the Tripps?”
“Only a day. But that was long enough to see something I wish I hadn’t.”
“What was that?”
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Whatever you saw might help us find Mr. Tripp’s killer, Tansy.”
“This has nothing to do with his murder. And I do not wish to talk against the man who lost his life because he was helping me.”
I debated whether or not to tell Tansy about the other Conductor who had been killed the same night. Would knowing that Mr. Vogel hadn’t been transporting a runaway when he was murdered appease her guilt? Or would learning that there was an assassin out there bent on killing UGRR Conductors make Tansy think it would be safer to strike out on her own? Surely Prouty would catch her if she did.
I decided to hold back telling Tansy about the assassin. I also held back from questioning her further about what she saw regarding Mr. Tripp. It had been my experience with Tansy that she would only divulge information in her own good time. Unbidden, she often talked about Prouty, and I knew more about the man than I really cared to, such as his preference for beets over okra, and his extraordinary ability to smell rain coming. But whenever I tried to ascertain Tansy’s true feelings for him, she would just press her lips together and shake her head.
“I wager a change of scenery would cheer you up,” I told her. “We can’t chance having someone catch sight of you through a first-story window, but if you stay upstairs you’ll be safe enough from prying eyes.”
“What if your housekeeper comes upstairs?”
“That’s no longer a concern,” I said. “Molly didn’t come today, and neither do I expect any visitors. Indeed, I would much appreciate your company, Tansy.”
We settled at a card table in my bedchamber, and I taught her how to play the French card game écarté. She learned the game quickly but soon grew bored with it and suggested that we read to each other instead. I immediately went to my bed stand and picked up the book atop it.
“What about this?” I said. “It’s a novel I recently ordered from London that I am most eager to read. It’s said to be rather radical.”
Tansy looked interested. “Who wrote it?”
“Currer Bell. But that’s probably a pen name. Rumor has it a woman wrote this novel. It’s called Jane Eyre: An Autobiography.”
Tansy’s interest appeared to wane. “That doesn’t sound very radical.”
“Apparently male critics find the book so. In their opinion the character Jane Eyre is far too independent and rebellious in her thinking.”
“Then let us read her autobiography by all means!” Tansy said.
We spent the rest of the afternoon reading aloud to each other, our voices growing more intense as the story’s excitement built and the characters’ emotions deepened. At dusk I brought up a pot of tea and a tin of biscuits, along with the Argand lamp from the parlor. Before I lit the lamp I drew the curtains tightly closed, for my bedchamber windows face the Green. The tea was weak and tepid, the biscuits were stale, but what did that matter? The writing was strong and fresh, the story both heartrending and inspiring, and another few hours flew by.
And then, as evening fell, there was a sharp rapping on the front entrance door. Tansy stopped reading mid-sentence and stared at me, wide-eyed. “Who might that be?”
I knew exactly who it was, for I recognized the staccato rhythm of Pelletier’s cane. I considered ignoring his rap but feared that would only provoke him to defame me publicly again with vile insults shouted on my doorstep.
“I must deal with this visitor,” I told Tansy.
“Should I go up to the attic?”
“Yes, that would be safest.”
I picked up the lamp, and we went down the hall together. We paused at the attic doorway, and I cautioned Tansy to take care going up the stairs in the dark and to not make a sound. I then proceeded downstairs to open the door to Pelletier.
“What do you want?” I asked him.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“We have nothing further to discuss.”
“What took you so long to answer the door? Is your lover with you?”
“I am quite alone and wish to remain so.”
Pelletier pushed his way past me into the hallway and snatched the lamp from my hand. “I would like to verify how alone you are, faithless wife.”
Off he went searching from room to room as I followed close at his heels. “Get out of my house, Jacques!”
“Our house, my spouse.”
After looking into all the downstairs rooms, he headed up the stairs with me right behind him. I prayed that he would not get it into his head to inspect the attic, too.
He did not. After looking into all the other bedchambers, he got to mine and glared at the two teacups on the table. He even took the liberty of sticking his finger into one of them. “He was here with you just a little while ago, wasn’t he, my dear?”
My husband’s voice was as smooth as silk, and his eyes were as hard as stones. Those were warning signs I was regrettably familiar with, and I moved as fast as I could to get out of his reach. ’Twas not fast enough to get out of the reach of his cane, however. He managed to give me a glancing blow on my forehead with it. Dazed, I stumbled against the table. The china teapot fell to the floor and shattered as I dropped to my knees.
“I could beat you to death and be pardoned for it,” he said, standing over me with his cane raised.
Before he could strike me with it again, I picked up a porcelain shard and plunged it into his thigh. He yelped like a dog and dropped his cane. I tried to rise to my feet, but he hit me again, this time a punch to the eye with his fist. That sent me right down on my back. He was on top of me in the next instant. I still had the sharp teapot fragment in hand, and I meant to plunge it into his chest this time, but he caught my wrist and twisted it until my china weapon fell from my grasp. He hit me a few more times in the face, but not as hard as the first punch. He was panting, and I sensed he was growi
ng weak fast. I believed I still stood a chance of getting the better of him before he raped me, for I was sure that was his intention. But then I felt his hands around my neck and realized he intended to throttle me instead. What strength he had left was directed into that grasp. My vision dimmed, but I clearly heard the sound of insane laughter. It did not seem to be coming out of Pelletier’s grimacing mouth.
A thwacking sound followed, and I saw that Pelletier was being attacked from behind by a shrouded creature that continued to howl with laughter as it used Pelletier’s own cane to beat him about the back and shoulders. When he took his hands from my throat the beating stopped. He pushed himself up and stood. His attacker and he were of equal height, but he did not attempt to take on the deranged creature. Instead, he stumbled out of the room and down the stairs without looking back. The creature threw his cane over the banister after him, and it clattered on the floor. I scrambled upright, found his hat on the floor, and threw that over the banister too. A moment later the front door slammed shut. The creature flew to the window and peeked through a slit in the curtain.
“There he goes. Looks to be limping toward the tavern. Good thing I threw him back his hateful cane. Don’t think he could have walked away without it. I could have done him worse injury, but feared I would kill him if I hit him on the head. I didn’t want to get myself hanged for killing a white man.”
“He might well have killed me if you hadn’t come down from the attic and scared him off,” I said.
The creature turned to me and let the sheet shroud drop away. “Mrs. Rochester at your service.” Tansy curtsied.
And I applauded. But then I had to hold on to the bedpost to steady myself. I was quite shaken up. “It was brave of you to come to my aid, and I thank you, Tansy.”
“Who was that nasty old man anyway?”
“My husband.”
“No!” Tansy’s eyes widened. “I drove off Satan himself!”