Vincent found himself standing near Ackermann again. Before he could edge away, Ackermann caught his eye.
"Curious," Ackermann murmured.
Vincent forgot himself and tilted his head at the other man.
"First, he will teach us to shoot the traditional weapons." Ackermann laid an emphasis on "traditional" that Vincent hadn't considered when Ellis said it.
"Yeah?" Vincent shrugged. "So?"
Ackermann raised his shaggy eyebrows.
"So what does he teach us second? What would be a not-traditional weapon?"
Vincent shrugged again. It was just like Ackermann to make something out of nothing. The man wasn't much better than Langston, talking to hear himself talk.
Through the barn's open door, Vincent could see that Ellis had climbed the hill from the barn turned barracks and become only a distant figure in the gardens behind the house. He walked with a straight back and ruthless stride, and Vincent thought again about how when Ellis talked, all the men fell quiet and listened.
No one had ever held that kind of power over them, Vincent abruptly realized. Even when dock foremen barked orders, men whispered, joked, laughed. Men didn't merely stop to listen to Ellis; they were compelled to do so. They breathed his words like they were air. No one ever told Tucker Ellis what to do; he told them.
A sudden sharp pang in Vincent's chest nearly stole his breath.
That, he thought. That's the kind of man I want to be.
April 1806
Chapter 8
Spring came, although for Kellen winter's cold seemed to have a permanent grip on her life. The last of the slush melted, which brought on high water and flooding. The floating bridge on the Schuylkill washed away, like it did more years than not, but the new wooden bridge at the Middle Ferry site held strong.
The Delaware had no bridges, only ferries, so the melt meant only good things. Ships found their way to port more easily and more often. More ships meant more sailors, and the bustle of the wharves grew. Carousing and fights overflowed from the tippling houses and taverns and into the streets. After dark, the constables and the night watch got even busier than the dockers.
The days lasted longer, and the steady gloom of winter gave way to sunshine and tentative warmth. The river took to smelling dank and fishy again, and when the trumpets sounded to announce that show cattle were being herded up through the market, Kellen could smell as well as see them.
Kellen spent the greater part of her days inside a ship's hold, cut off from all that sunlight and questionably fresh air. Nights she spent in the cold, bleak hole of a room she'd shared with Vincent, trying not to think about the dwindling number of coins wrapped in a scrap of burlap and hidden behind a loose brick.
On this particular day, she at least had mountainous, easy-going Michael Finch and good-natured Em Jacobs to keep her company. Em chattered nonstop, but after a while it got to be just another background noise, like the creaking hull under their feet or the screeching water birds wheeling through the patch of sky above the open hold.
Kellen had mostly stopped really hearing Em, but eventually he said, "...and that's why I think Colley was right, and all the Blacks in Philadelphia ought not be freed men. I mean, if President Jefferson's Blacks are slaves, shouldn't all of them be?"
Kellen let go of the sack of coffee she'd been about to toss onto the growing stack under the winch. She stood up as straight as she could in the hold and stared at Em. To her right, Finch did about the same thing, only his standing up straight could only amount to pressing his shoulders up against the beams and turning his head toward Em.
Em had already opened his mouth to keep going, of course. Then he caught sight of Kellen and Finch and blinked at them.
"What?"
His face was so smoothly, innocently oblivious that Kellen had to sigh before she could say anything.
"Colley never said any such thing." Kellen reminded herself that it was Em she was talking to. "He said he read it in one of his newspapers."
Em shrugged. "Same thing, right? It was his paper."
Kellen had nothing she could say to that logic. "Jesus Christ, Em."
"It's all right." Finch chuckled and shook his head, but Kellen thought she detected a stiffness in Finch's good humor. "Ain't no harm in the boy."
"Plenty of damn harm." Kellen tried to stand a little taller but only managed to whack the crown of her head against a beam. Pain stabbed down her neck and put an extra bit of sharpness into her tone. "You can't go around telling people Colley said something like that. What he said was that for a bunch of folks who put so much time and blood into the cause of liberty, they could stand to turn their own Negroes loose. And for chrissake, Em, think who you're talking to!"
Em studied Kellen for a second first. Then, finally, he looked at Finch and stared hard, as if he'd never before noticed that the skin covering Finch's massive, muscled arms was nearer the color of coffee than of cream. Understanding crept across Em's face then—his eyes widened and his mouth drooped.
"Oh. Sorry."
Finch chuckled again, more sincerely this time, and reached out a big hand to slap Em gently on the shoulder.
"No harm at all in our Emmy."
But as they set back to work, Finch looked at Kellen and spoke again, before Em could start rambling.
"How you been doing, Kellen? You getting by all right?"
Kellen's stomach immediately yanked into a tight knot.
Without Vincent, Finch meant. How was she getting by without Vincent to take care of her. How awful was her life, now that she had nothing left.
She shrugged, gave her head a cocky tip, and grinned at Finch. "Not so bad. Nights aren't quite as warm as they once were, but it won't be forever."
"I miss Colley," Em said. "Byrne, too. But mostly Colley, because no one else will tell me what the newspapers are saying."
"Nobody else can read, Em." Kellen missed Byrne and Colley, too—Byrne especially. The missing was mixed with anger, though. How long had they been friends, and he'd just up and left without a word? It was almost worse than Vincent's betrayal. At least Vincent had the balls to tell Kellen he was going.
But she put an extra lilt in her voice and smiled a little longer, just to prove how well she was getting by.
Finch eyed her for another second. Then he hoisted another bag of coffee onto the stack. "Guess this bundle's about ready for lifting."
Kellen left off tossing sacks and gathered up the ends of the rope they'd laid out under the coffee before they'd started. Dragging those ends up behind her, Kellen clambered to the top of the pile and started lashing the knot that would hold them all together.
"Colley always had good stories." Em took a step back and tipped his head back to look up at Kellen. "He even read to me about the water ghosts, and that's the best story. That was all me, right there. I told that story first."
Kellen snorted. "And every damn day since. For chrissake, Em. There's no such thing as ghosts in the water. And Colley never read to you about any ghosts."
"Sure he did. He read all about the trouble they caused up in New York, all those people rioting and tearing things up."
Kellen paused in her knot-tying and stared at Em. "That had nothing to do with ghosts."
"Sure it did. Who do you think got those people all riled up? Water ghosts, that's who." Em rolled his eyes and tossed his head. "Colley never mocked my stories. That's because he could read and he was smart. I miss Colley."
Kellen sighed. Off to her right, Finch chuckled, low and deep as a distant rumble of thunder.
And everything was fine. Just fine.
~
After the last rope had been secured and the last bale of cargo lifted clear, Kellen climbed out of the hold and tromped down the gangplank to collect her day's wage. It was just one more day, like any other day.
She climbed the steps near Chestnut instead of backtracking down to Walnut. There wasn't much point in walking that extra three blocks when there was no on
e to walk it with. She looked toward Walnut every time, though, and every time she didn't see Vincent, it was a little like being punched in the stomach.
From Chestnut, she turned onto Front Street and headed north toward Market—one foot after the other and don't think about anything else. By the time Kellen slipped into the courtyard behind Widow Howland's house, the ache of missing Vincent had given way to the sick dread of facing the Widow.
Mistress Kreuger was outside, pretending to work in her garden. That garden wasn't much more than overturned dirt so far, but that didn't prevent her from laboring over it most of the day. Her head was turned so her ear tilted toward the other ladies in the courtyard, who were chatting as they took in their laundry, and when the side gate squeaked, her eyes darted toward Kellen.
Kellen hurried down the steps to the cellar door, into the house, and then up the stairs to the kitchen.
The Widow wasted no time getting to it. She was waiting by the hearth, a gray woman in gray clothing, with her hands folded before her as if she were a patient and kindly woman.
"Thy next week is due."
"Yes ma'am." The aroma of broth and oysters wafted out from the pot hanging over the fire, making Kellen even hungrier than she'd already been.
The Widow crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow at Kellen.
As she had every week since Vincent left, Kellen drew from her pocket a pile of coins. The coins and the pile looked about the same size as the ones Vincent had always paid. They slid from Kellen's palm and onto the Widow's table with a sad little clatter.
Widow Howland stepped briskly forward and poked the coins around—counting them, Kellen knew, although she'd never learned her numbers. Kellen only knew that the coins remaining in the scrap of burlap in the cellar hadn't looked like enough after she'd taken out these ones, not even combined with what Kellen would earn on the docks between now and next week.
The Widow finished counting and pursed her lips. She looked at Kellen through half-closed eyes.
Kellen's heart froze up. Had she misjudged the payment so badly? She'd done well so far, guessing the right amount every time. Jesus, if only Vincent were here. If only the money he'd promised to send back would get here.
She should ask. She'd been thinking she should ever since Vincent left, but she'd been too scared to speak up. Now she was too scared not to.
"Vincent." Kellen blurted the word out, like it alone should explain everything. "He was supposed to send money."
The Widow didn't answer, just raised one eyebrow. Kellen took another breath.
"He was supposed to. And I wondered if... if maybe he'd sent it to you. If you might have gotten it."
Widow Howland's face grew very still and very smooth.
"Dost thou accuse me of withholding this supposed money from you?" The Widow's voice was also very still and very smooth.
"No! No, ma'am." Christ. Kellen hadn't thought how the question might be taken. "It's only that I haven't gotten anything from him."
Widow Howland continued to stare at Kellen through lidded eyes.
Kellen fought the urge to squirm. "I meant no offense."
Widow Howland swept the coins from the table and into her pocket. Then she stepped back from the table, still looking at Kellen.
"I suppose thou art allowed forgiveness for an ill-worded question. In answer of that question, I say with certainty that thou should never have relied on the word of a man like Mr. Bradley to begin with. A woman should want better than a man like that."
And with that, the Widow took Kellen's empty bowl from the table and turned toward the kettle over the fire.
Kellen was tempted for a moment to argue that whatever kind of man Widow Howland meant, Vincent wasn't one of them. He'd taken care of Kellen, and he always would.
Except she couldn't find any fire to put into such words. As much as she wanted to believe in the Vincent who'd stolen away from the orphanage with her, protected her and loved her and been her best friend in all the years since and promised to take care of her always, the Vincent that she kept hearing was the one who'd shouted that she was holding him back.
Without saying anything, Kellen pulled out her chair and sat. When the Widow put the bowl of thin soup in front of her, she ate. But more than anything, she tried to ignore the breathless fear that kept stealing into her chest, that Vincent really might be that sort of man after all, and that he was done taking care of Kellen.
Chapter 9
Ger had avoided Alvie Fox, stayed out of Burke Ripley's path, and watched.
Winter released its grip and slid into spring. Ger mostly noticed because he came not quite so close to freezing to death each night, and because sun warmed his back during the day more often than a chill wind raked across it. The icy slush in the Delaware melted, and the water rose and flowed more swiftly.
A handful of bridges across the Schuylkill to the west and over smaller creeks and runs within the city were swept away, but on the wharves the melt was a good thing. Spring winds and clear waters brought in ships and their cargoes at a far brisker pace. Philadelphia's waterfront bustle doubled and tripled. The city's bells, always busy, chimed so often that some days Ger swore they just never stopped—calls to meeting, calls to market, calls to speeches and events and announcements.
All the time that Ger shadowed Ripley but stayed well out of his direct path, Ger kept telling himself he was just being smart. It wasn't like he could just walk up to Ripley and call him out. And Ger sure wasn't going to beat any kind of justice out of Ripley. But Ger could watch. He could watch and wait for Ripley to make a mistake—something Ger could take to a constable or use to extort Ripley or... something. There had to be something he could do, and eventually he'd see what that something was.
Some days, Ger got so caught up in just working and living that he forgot about Ripley for hours at a time. When he realized what he'd done, when he was tempted to forget about Ripley and just build a life of his own—those were the days Ger let anger drive him to follow Ripley with renewed determination.
Those were the dangerous days.
Market Street was simple. Even with the stalls emptied out for the day, enough people were out and about that Ger had no trouble shielding himself from Ripley's direct view. He just walked like he always walked, only with the men in front of him always in mind. As he left the waterfront behind, the clamor of ship bells grew distant. When the church bells sang out to announce market in the morning, Ger could hear nothing else.
Ripley strutted several paces ahead. Scrawny Alvie Fox trotted at Ripley's heels, like an underfed, well-beaten dog that gets more eager to please its master with every kick.
The covered stalls of the market ended at Fourth Street. When Ripley and Alvie kept walking, on west toward where the houses got bigger and fancier and fewer, Ger hesitated.
Fewer houses meant fewer people on the street, and that meant Ripley would be more likely to notice Ger following him. What in God's name were Ripley and Alvie doing this far from the wharves, anyhow?
The two of them walked like men who were up to no good. All Ger had to do was stick close and hope he'd see what sort of no good that turned out to be. Maybe this time, it would finally be something Ger could use to get Ripley locked up—off the streets where he couldn't hurt anyone else.
When Ripley and Alvie reached Fifth Street, they turned north.
Damn it all. They had to be up to something. The longer Ger stood here wondering what, the likelier they'd get away from him.
Ger hurried up Market, only slowing when he reached Fifth and turned the corner. Around him, the bells finally fell quiet again. All Ger heard then was the slap of his own shoes on the cobblestones.
Ripley and Alvie were still ahead of him. They strolled along at a leisurely pace, talking and laughing like good old pals with not a care in the world.
Ger followed them, shuffling with his head tilted slightly down and to one side but watching the street ahead from the corner of his eye. Ripley and
Alvie stuck to the right side of the street. Ger stayed on the right, too, and tried to hang back far enough that they wouldn't notice him. He'd just reached the looming brick wall of the Christ Church's burial ground when the other two reached the corner of Arch Street and abruptly turned right.
By the time Ger rounded the corner, Ripley and Alvie were gone.
Uneasiness crept across Ger's shoulders. He stopped, straightened, and looked around.
To Ger's right, the graveyard's wall stretched for most of a block, taller than Ger's head and unbroken save for a single gate. A row of houses faced onto the far side of Arch, marked by the shadowed entrances of two alleys.
They couldn't have gone far. Maybe they'd ducked down one of those alleys. Ger walked a little further, watching the far side of the street for signs of movement.
Hands closed around his arm. Before Ger could even shout, that arm was cranked behind his back. His shoulder screamed in pain, and then Ger did yell.
Then Ripley was there, and his fist drove into Ger's gut. With a gasp, Ger's shout cut short. Ripley grabbed Ger's other arm and spun him around. Before Ger could gather breath for a second shout, Ripley shoved him through the graveyard's open gate.
~
Kellen was pretty much tired of pretending she was fine, but she didn't know what else to do, so every morning she got up and got dressed and walked down to the docks. Every evening, she walked home again, with a coin or two in her pocket that were more than she'd had in the morning but still not enough.
Kellen's shoes made only a thin slap on the cobblestones. She turned from the hubbub of Market Street and onto the quiet of Fourth Street. The buildings on her left blocked the feeble sunset light, and evening's chill breathed down her neck.
It wasn't just because of the money Vincent wasn't sending, this sense Kellen had that this time winter would never really end. She'd been counting on that money, sure. But she'd been counting even harder on waking up some morning to find Vincent back beside her or walking in at the end of some day to find him waiting in their cellar room.
A Stillness of the Sun (Crowmakers: Book 1): A Science Fiction Western Adventure Page 6