Worthy Brown's Daughter

by Phillip Margolin

  “He aims to own Roxanne, but that ain’t by our agreement.”

  “What agreement is that?”

  “May I explain? I don’t want to take up your time, but the story goes on some.”

  Worthy looked anxious, and Matthew saw that his hat brim was taking a beating.

  “Mr. Brown, where children are concerned, I have an infinite amount of patience. Take all the time you want.”

  A look of gratitude suffused Worthy’s features.

  “Thank you, suh, thank you.” Worthy took a deep breath and gathered himself. “My wife, Polly, she’s dead,” he said sadly. “But when she was alive, we was slaves to Major Whitman in Georgia. Then Major Whitman fell on hard times and sold us to Mr. Barbour for his debts.

  “I was a field hand on Mr. Barbour’s plantation, and Polly worked up to the house waiting on Mrs. Barbour. When Polly took sick and died of fever, Roxanne went up to the house to look after Mrs. Barbour. Roxanne be about ten then.

  “Mr. Barbour was hard on Mrs. Barbour. She took to drink then she died. Soon after Mrs. Barbour passed, Mr. Barbour fell on hard times and sold off most of the slaves. One evening, Mr. Barbour fetched me and Roxanne and said we was going. Why he had to leave I don’t know, but I know he was a dear friend of the cards, and I ’spect it was something like what happened to Major Whitman.

  “We went off in the middle of the night so no one would see, me driving the wagon with Mr. Barbour’s trunk and such in the back, Roxanne huddled in among his belongings and Mr. Barbour seated beside me, casting fearful looks every way until we was clear of Georgia. I didn’t say nothing, of course. I just do like Mr. Barbour say. Soon, we was in Oregon, and I was working for Mr. Barbour like I done in Georgia.”

  Worthy looked embarrassed. “Mr. Penny, I can’t read. Never could.” Then he smiled proudly. “But Roxanne is very smart. While she was working up to the house in Georgia, she sneaked looks at Mrs. Barbour’s books and she figgered out some reading by herself. I ’spect Mrs. Barbour helped, too, even though it was against the law for a slave to read. But Mrs. Barbour was a kind woman, and she took to Roxanne.

  “After Roxanne got some reading in her, there was no stopping her. She was all the time trying to read and learn. Well, suh, one day Mr. Barbour left the newspaper in the house and Roxanne saw where there was a new constitution with no slavery. I pretended I learnt that in town, and I asked Mr. Barbour about it. All that did was make him mad. He said we was his slaves and that was that, but I kept at him and I wore him down. Finally, he said if I worked for him for one more year he would free us. I helped clear his acreage and plant his crops. Roxanne done his washing and cooking. After he promised I never said no more about it. Finally, the week before court in Phoenix come the day to be free. Only Mr. Barbour said he never made no such promise.”

  Worthy’s fist clenched, and his jaw stiffened with anger. “I didn’t know what to do, but I thought on it all week. The day we returned from Phoenix I faced him again. I told him what you said ’bout the constitution saying no slaves. I said he’d given his word. Mr. Barbour been mad ever since you made him look foolish, and he was drinking more than usual. He fetched his rifle and ordered me off the property, only he wouldn’t let me take Roxanne. He wasn’t thinking right from the drink, and I was scared he would shoot me if I stayed, so I left, figgering to come back for Roxanne when he was sober and calmed down. I been back there twice since, and each time he told me he got investments in Roxanne and is gonna keep her till the debt is paid off.”

  “What kind of investment does he claim to have made in your daughter?”

  “For clothes and feeding her and giving her a roof over her head.”

  “How old is Roxanne?”

  “Almost fifteen.” Worthy’s voice cracked. “She is a very good child, Mr. Penny, very mindful. If you can see your way to helping me . . .”

  Matthew saw how hard it was for Worthy Brown to ask for help, and he raised his hand to stop the man’s plea and allow him to keep his dignity.

  “No need to go further, Mr. Brown. You and your daughter are clearly the victims of a terrible injustice, and I’ll help you.”

  Worthy looked stunned. Matthew guessed that he had never truly believed that he would be able to convince one white man to take up his cause against another.

  “Have you thought of taking Roxanne when Mr. Barbour is not at home?”

  “Yes, suh, but we is colored, and there ain’t no place we could hide. Then, too, I don’t want to chance Roxanne getting hurt.”

  “So you’ve come to me.”

  Worthy sat up straight and laid the hat in his lap. He looked very serious.

  “Mr. Penny, I believe things should be done legal and by agreement. I made my word with Mr. Barbour that I would work for my freedom, and I kept it. I want him to keep his word.”

  “Quite right, and we will make Caleb Barbour keep his word. I intend to file a petition for a writ of habeas corpus. That’s Latin for ‘bring the body,’ and we will get the court to order Caleb to transport Roxanne to your arms. You have my word on it.”

  Worthy Brown sat ramrod straight for a moment. Then he clasped Matthew’s hand, shaking it up and down like a thirsty man working the handle of a water pump.

  MATTHEW SPENT ANOTHER HOUR ASKING detailed questions about Brown’s history in Georgia and Oregon. When Worthy left, Matthew wrote a draft of his habeas petition, which he put away when the fading sun cast shadows across the room. There was an inexpensive café across the street that catered to sailors, workingmen, and neighborhood businesses. After finishing off a glass of beer and a plate of sausage, potato, and cabbage, Matthew climbed the outside stairs to his office.

  A chessboard lay on the floor of Matthew’s apartment. It had taken Matthew a month and a half to make it. When he had finished the board, Matthew had begun carving the pieces. Two white knights and the white king’s bishop stood on their appropriate squares. A half-finished queen’s bishop lay on its side, unable to stand because Matthew had not yet whittled the base. It was almost dark when he sat down on the narrow landing that fronted the office and settled in his rocking chair to work on the bishop’s miter. He whittled slowly on the half-finished chess piece until the night sky filled with stars.

  Matthew put down his knife and walked to the railing. There was a constant din from the street below. Matthew welcomed the noise. It was a comfort to someone who lived alone and missed the company of the woman he had loved deeply. When Rachel was alive, he had never felt alone, even when he was by himself.

  Time had softened the pain caused by his loss, but there were moments when a memory would blindside Matthew. At first, he had fought the grief that could make him howl like a dog. Then he came to believe that his grief was a tribute to the depth of his love for the woman he would never hold again, and he’d learned to let it flow through him like the river that had carried Rachel away.

  Matthew pulled his thoughts away from Rachel and focused them on Worthy Brown. There had never been any question that he would take on Worthy’s case. Some cases demanded to be taken: cases that nourished the spirit, uplifted the soul, and gave a lawyer the strength to pursue all of the tired, often petty, lawsuits that make up the bulk of a practice. For Matthew, the deciding factor had not been the loathing he felt for Caleb Barbour or the incredible inhumanity of the man’s actions or the value of Worthy Brown’s information to the case in Phoenix. What convinced Matthew that he had to represent the former slave was Worthy Brown’s unwavering belief in the sanctity of contract and his willingness to resort to the legal system that permitted his people to be treated like cattle. Brown had demonstrated a belief in principle that transcended personal experience and an ability to understand the idea of law sorely lacking in many people of Matthew’s acquaintance, including members of the bar.

  What worried Matthew was the possibility that he would not succeed. They were in Jedidi
ah Tyler’s district, and Tyler was still bitter about the defeat of the pro-slavery platform at the Constitutional Convention.

  Matthew leaned on the railing and thought about the feelings of rage and impotence Worthy Brown had to harbor as a black man unable to save his own daughter without the help of a white man. Then he remembered his own feelings of impotence and rage, pinned to the ground, screaming helplessly, as the river took Rachel from him.

  Matthew’s chest seized up. Heat seared his cheeks, and his eyes began to water. He had not been able to save the most important person in his own life, but maybe he would be able to save the most important person in Worthy Brown’s life; maybe he could spare Worthy Brown the pain of separation that Matthew himself felt so deeply. He stood up straight and took deep breaths. When he was calmer, he brought a lantern onto the porch, sat back in the rocker, and whittled away on the bishop’s hat.

  CHAPTER 9

  While Matthew was working on the bishop’s miter, Sharon Hill was sitting on the edge of her bed in the Evergreen Hotel, engaged in futile attempts to move the air in her bedroom with a folded newspaper. Her dress was rolled over her knees, and her bare legs were spread apart to catch any breeze that fortune sent through her open window.

  Benjamin Gillette had been a perfect gentleman during the trip from Phoenix and had not questioned the lies she’d fed him about her past. For her part, Hill had plied the older man with subtle questions. Among other things, she’d learned that Gillette was a widower with a daughter who had just returned home from several years of schooling in the East.

  When they arrived in town, Gillette had suggested that Hill stay at the Evergreen, Portland’s most elegant hotel. Hill told him that the hotel was too expensive for her. As she had hoped, Gillette offered to assist her with the cost of her lodging until she established her business. Hill had protested, but not too strongly. By the time she had said good night to Benjamin Gillette, she was ensconced in a suite with a sitting room, a large bedroom, and a spacious bathroom with a deep, claw-foot tub.

  Gillette had not tried to take advantage of her that first night, but he had since come calling for his quid pro quo. Hill had no illusions. She knew she would have to share her bed with Benjamin Gillette in exchange for the luxury of the Evergreen. And sleeping with Gillette was not much trouble. He treated her like a lady. More important, he was quick in bed and usually did not have the staying power for more than one ride.

  Trading sex for money was something Hill had done for a long time to survive, but it was not something she had ever enjoyed. She smiled as she remembered the relief she’d felt when she’d closed the door to Warren Quimby’s room on her way out of the seedy San Francisco boardinghouse that had been her home for so many years. There was a hundred dollars in her purse, which she’d taken from the metal lockbox Quimby hid in a secret compartment under the floorboards. Her pimp did not mind. He was dead, his leaden pallor testimony to the effectiveness of the poison Hill had used to dispatch him. She’d earned most of the hundred dollars by faking hours of pleasure under the sweaty bodies of the men who had used her. Quimby’s only contribution to her labors had been the deft application of painful blows that left no marks and spurred her to greater exertion when the evening’s take was too small.

  A knock on Hill’s door made her jump. “Who is it?” she called as she searched the room for her handbag, which contained the derringer she had carried for protection ever since the night a sadistic customer had beaten her unconscious.

  “Francis Gibney, ma’am,” boomed a deep voice. “I have a message from Benjamin Gillette.”

  Hill’s heart jumped. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Mr. Gibney.”

  Hill rushed to the mirror that hung above her dresser and hastily applied makeup. Then she did the best she could with her hair, which had been ruined by the soggy heat. When she had salvaged as much as possible, Hill straightened her dress, slipped on her shoes, and opened the door.

  Benjamin Gillette’s massive bodyguard was forty-five years old, well over six feet tall, and gave the impression that he was hewn from oak that had been seasoned in the woods he’d trapped in during his youth. His face was scarred, and part of his left ear had been chewed off in a fight. His easy grin could not disguise the fact that violence had always been a part of his life.

  “Miss Hill,” Gibney said, “Mr. Gillette requests the pleasure of your company this Friday evening at a reception at Gillette House to celebrate the arrival of the Oregon Pony.”

  “I believe I’ll be able to attend,” Hill answered.

  As she spoke, Gibney’s eyes roamed over her. There was nothing sexual in the appraisal, and Hill sensed a shrewd intelligence behind the brawler’s exterior.

  “I’ll send a buggy at seven,” Gibney said. Then he touched his fingertips to the bill of his navy blue cap before leaving.

  He knows, damn him, Hill thought. But would he tell? That was the question. She thought that he would not. Gibney was from the world of the rough and tumble. That breed lived and let live. His insolent grin was the tip-off. He wanted her to know that he could spot a whore the same way a connoisseur can discern a fine wine.

  Hill was excited by Gillette’s invitation. This was the first time he had asked her to join him in society, a sign that her plan to get more from Gillette than temporary lodging was working. The old man was incredibly rich. Hill’s scheme involving Benjamin Gillette ended with marriage, but snaring him would require a lot of work. She opened her closet and examined its contents. She had stolen two exquisite frocks from Quimby’s wardrobe and all of the jewelry in the lockbox. She chose a low-cut silk gown of emerald green and a diamond necklace. They’d been snatched in a second-story job at some nob’s mansion. Hill had worn them on a few occasions when she’d entertained upscale trade. She knew that she would look stunning, and she prayed that they would help to introduce her to a life of ease.

  CHAPTER 10

  Roxanne Brown served refreshments to the men seated in Caleb Barbour’s parlor the way Mrs. Barbour had trained her to serve in Georgia, quietly and deferentially. Most of the men knew Roxanne from previous visits and ignored her, even though the topic of conversation was the Negro race. The Reverend Dr. Arthur Fuller, a visitor to Portland, cast an interested glance at Roxanne the first time she entered the room, but Roxanne was plain, so the reverend paid no more attention to her after his first inspection than he did to the table on which Roxanne set down his lemonade.

  It was true that Roxanne’s brown skin lacked luster; her close-cropped, kinky hair was indistinguishable from a boy’s; her nose was broad and flat; and she hadn’t much of a figure. But a person is more than the sum of her physical attributes. If the reverend had taken the time to study Roxanne more closely, he might have noticed that the serving girl was paying close attention to the men’s conversation, and he might have discerned the keen intelligence hidden behind Roxanne’s large brown eyes. There was, however, little chance that a man like Reverend Fuller would suspect the presence of intellect in a colored serving girl. Men like the reverend know everything and see only what they want to see.

  “What do you think about the question?” Roxanne heard Caleb Barbour ask Fuller during one of her forays into the room. The Baptist clergyman was in town to lecture on the benefits of slavery at a rally in support of John C. Breckinridge, the presidential candidate of the pro-slavery Democrats. Many Oregonians had an interest in Breckinridge’s candidacy because his running mate for vice president was Joe Lane, the former United States senator from Oregon.

  Fuller smiled confidently at the men who had come to Barbour’s home to meet him. A sturdy gentleman with sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion, he looked more like a healthy farmer than a man of the cloth.

  “The answer is simple,” Roxanne heard Fuller say. “Throughout history, slavery has been almost universal, and it is expressly and continuously justified by Holy Writ. If slavery is morall
y wrong, then the Bible can’t be true, for the right of holding slaves is clearly established by the Holy Scriptures.

  “In the Old Testament, the Israelites were directed to purchase their bondsmen from the heathen nations, except if they were Canaanites, who were to be destroyed. And it’s declared that the persons purchased were to be their bondsmen forever and an inheritance for them and their children.

  “The New Testament presents a view consistent with that of the Old. Both the Greek and Roman Empires were full of slaves. Many Greek and Roman masters and their slaves converted to Christianity while the Church was still under the ministry of the apostles. In matters purely spiritual, they appear to have enjoyed equal privileges, but their relationship as master and slave was not dissolved. The ‘servants under the yoke’ mentioned by Paul to Timothy as having ‘believing masters’ are not authorized by him to demand their emancipation or use violent means to obtain it. Instead, they’re directed to ‘account their masters worthy of all honor’ and ‘not to despise them, because they were brethren’ in religion; ‘but rather to do them service, because they were faithful and beloved partakers of the Christian benefit.’ Similar directions are given by Paul and other apostles in other places.” Fuller shrugged. “Had the holding of slaves been a moral evil, it cannot be supposed that the apostles would have tolerated it for a moment.”

  “But what about the Golden Rule, Reverend?” asked Jedidiah Tyler, who thought that Fuller was a pompous ass. Tyler had asked the question not because he disagreed with the minister’s conclusion but because no one else in the room was willing to put forward a contrary view.

  Fuller smiled tolerantly at the judge. “Good sir, the abolitionists have urged the Golden Rule as an unanswerable argument against holding slaves. But surely this rule is never to be urged against the order of things, which the divine government has established. A father may very naturally desire that his son should be obedient to his orders. Is he, therefore, to obey the orders of his son?”