The Black Knight's Tune

by Naomi Finley

  AFTER A QUICK STOP AT home to change out of my dirty, wet clothes and wash up, I boarded a streetcar. I walked past the rows of seats with a sign that read White Patrons Only. Wiggling my way down the narrow aisle of white passengers, I stepped over their outstretched legs—they never obliged me by tucking in their feet. A pretty auburn-haired woman’s face contorted with disgust. She leaned toward an older woman who bore the same upturned nose and whispered, her disapproving eyes never leaving me.

  I narrowed my eyes at the ill-mannered women, squared my shoulders, and marched to the back of the car to the section labeled Coloreds. I dropped with a thud onto the hard wooden bench, but when I looked up to find the women watching me, I tilted my nose up. I owed the anger simmering in my chest to the dictatorship of this country—because they were responsible for putting an X on our chests, marking us as nothings by hanging despicable signs in public places. I wouldn’t allow the women to see my displeasure over their whisperings and hostility.

  A sharp ache thumped in my skull, and I massaged the tense muscles at the nape of my neck. So goes my life, I grumbled inwardly. I was exhausted and my day had barely begun.

  Seated at my desk at the newspaper twenty minutes later, I mulled over the events of the morning.

  I lived in a world where my kind was perceived as lower than even the immigrants the whites abhorred. My parents had drilled my worth as a human into my brain, and with that, the ostracizing of the nation I called home never calmed in me. It didn’t make a difference if I lived in the North or the South; I’d still be viewed as lesser-than until the outlook of the men running this country saw the wrong in the monstrosities targeted against us and took a stand against the injustice.

  For years the constant worry that my master would show up and take me back to work the fields or whatever job I’d be given kept me awake at night. At the docks three years ago, a group of sailors had almost taken my freedom from me, but I’d fought them and wiggled from their grasp. I’d grown tired of being vulnerable, and after being robbed and attacked on my visits to the Points, I’d conjured up the idea of carrying a blade for protection. Secretly at first, I’d begun to sew the pockets in my clothing until my mother found out and questioned me. For the first time, I’d mentioned the attacks. Her motherly wings spread, and she forbade me from going alone again. But upon my insistence that people needed me, she’d brought the matter before my papa with the hopes that he’d put his foot down.

  Though worry had permeated his face, he remained quiet for a dreadfully long time, until finally he spoke. “We can’t accompany you every time you visit the Points. It may be best that you learn how to protect yourself.”

  Mother had started to speak, and he’d lifted a hand to silence her. “But you must be careful.”

  “Careful?” Mother had scoffed. “If someone ends up dead, folks would act first and think later. And if it were to go before the courts, she’d never stand a fair trial.”

  My thoughts returned to the present moment. I swallowed hard and whispered a grateful prayer that God had watched over me yet again.

  “Ruby!” Kipling gave my shoulder a gentle shake.

  “W-what?” I stared up at him.

  His concerned dark eyes roved over my face. “I was in a meeting when you walked in, but I couldn’t help but notice you were late. Are you all right? You appeared lost in a fog.”

  “I suppose I was. The morning hasn’t been a pleasant one so far.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about Mrs. Kelly’s daughter. But something tells me there’s more.” His tender tone soothed the tension of the morning but sent my heart to racing at an uncomfortable speed. Kipling could read me more than anyone.

  “Slave traders…” I stood and moved away from the heat of his body so close to mine. I walked down the narrow hallway to the storage room to find a new ink bottle and paper.

  “What?” He charged after me, his boots pounding the oak floors.

  “Two men tried to grab me coming out of Mrs. Kelly’s.” I kept my back to him. Clearing my throat, I choked back tears.

  “Ruby, did they hurt you?”

  “No one will ever own me,” I whispered through clenched teeth. “Not ever!”

  Kipling’s warm hands on my shoulders gripped my heart, and he gently turned me around to face him.

  “Answer me. Did they harm you?” His fingers tipped up my chin, and bade me look at him.

  I recalled the man’s words: “You’ll be a master’s whore before the end of the week.”

  No man would use my body to pleasure himself without my permission. I’d end my life before I’d allow that to happen. After the Bloodhound Law—the Fugitive Slave act of 1850—was established, the capturing of others like me became a heightened concern for blacks and abolitionists alike. If Mother had her way, I’d be locked indoors, hidden from vigilant eyes. I couldn’t live in fear—I wouldn’t—but today had been too close. What if I hadn’t moved swiftly and evaded the men set on capturing me?

  A shudder ran through me. I mustn’t think of it. I was safe, and in that, I counted my blessings.

  “No, I surprised them by revealing my blade, and it gave me enough time to get the lead on them.” Embarrassing tears rolled over my cheeks and tickled the curve of my neck before disappearing.

  Kipling crushed me to his chest, and his arms swathed me in a protective cocoon, stealing my breath. In his desire to protect me, he’d forgotten himself. This exchange between a gentleman and a woman was hardly fitting for whites, but a woman of color—he risked bringing reproach upon himself and sending the hate mobs after my parents and me.

  “You can’t be going down there alone. I’ve told you before—”

  “To take you with me.” I finished his sentence and swiftly sidestepped out of his embrace. “I appreciate your concern but there are folks in the Points that count on me, and you aren’t always available.”

  “No excuses. If something happened to you…I–I don’t…” He swept his fingers through his dark locks.

  “I’m not your responsibility. And you certainly can’t be with me at every moment.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing! Can you wait outside my townhouse for me to leave every day? Can you follow me to the market, the shops, the dock? No! Every day I walk outside I face the threat of being captured and thrown on a ship and smuggled off to a slave-owning state. It’s just the way it is.”

  Kipling’s hands slid down and captured his waist as he paced the small room. “Maybe we should lock you up until we leave for South Carolina,” he said with a nervous laugh. “It’d make me feel better.”

  I crossed my arms and leveled a glare at him. “I’d like to see you try.”

  His lopsided grin summoned the usual fluttering in my stomach. “I take it that is a no?” he said with a laugh, his body relaxing.

  “I’m glad you find amusement in my distress.” I pretended to be irritated but felt my cheeks lifted into a smile.

  It’d always been effortless between us until I ruined everything by developing pesky feelings that jeopardized our friendship. We’d developed a bond I’d never risk by voicing my deeper affections.

  “I do look forward to seeing Willow and Whitney again,” I said.

  “It’s been too long…” Kipling’s boyish grin slipped, and Willow claimed the space in his mind once more.

  Sorrow weighted my shoulders, and I scurried past him into the hallway. I felt his eyes on me as I continued down the hall, and for a brief moment I allowed myself to imagine that the longing in his eyes spoke of his affections for me instead of my friend.

  If only things were different; maybe in another time, or another world, he’d have returned my love.

  LATE ONE TUESDAY AFTERNOON, I returned to the newspaper after visiting the Old Brewery site that’d been the focal point of the Five Points until it was demolished last December. Kipling and I’d interviewed Bishop Jones of the Methodist Episcopal Church about the new mission being built on the lot.
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  At one time the Old Brewery had housed over one thousand residents: beggars, prostitutes, pickpockets, thieves, and murderers among them. The police dared not enter the establishment without a large backup force. The cellar of the building had contained twenty rooms and the tenants often didn’t see the light of day. One great room on the main floor was named Den of Thieves. The horrors that occurred in the place had been beyond imaginable.

  “A letter came for you.” Saul hovered over my desk moments after I sat down.

  I glanced up at him. “From whom?”

  “The Hendricks woman again.”

  Excitement leaped into my chest. “Then don’t hesitate, give it to me.” I held out a hand. He placed the letter in my palm, his fingers lingering a moment more than necessary. Our eyes met, and I blushed at the affectionate glimmer in his eyes. A flutter tickled my chest, but I stifled it and hastily rebuked him. “Watch yourself.”

  I shooed him away with a flick of my hand. He walked back to his office, his light chuckle trailing after him. Watching him, I admired the way he walked with confidence, and his broad shoulders. A woman would find solace and refuge in the shelter of his strong arms. “Get ahold of yourself,” I whispered.

  Tearing open the letter, I ran my eyes greedily over the first few words.

  My dearest friend,

  My heart swelled with warmth and I sank into my chair to devour each word.

  I’m writing to ask your and Kipling’s assistance in locating a slave child that I have reason to believe may have passed through New York. She was placed on the vessel Olivia I in Charleston in ’32, heading to New York.

  She would have been four to five years old when she escaped. Her given name was Mag. I know I’m grasping with so few facts, but if you could aid me in any way, I’d be forever in your debt.

  I look forward to your upcoming visit.

  Your friend,

  Willow

  I felt the color drain from my face, and a chill scurried up my spine. My heart reverberated in my skull. The letter dropped from my hand, bounced off the edge of the desk, and floated across the floor.

  I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The murmurs in the room drifted further away.

  Mag…

  Goose pimples swept over me.

  There it was—the name that’d been in my mind for as long as I could recall. The name that echoed in the wind, in my dreams, and in the fleeting memories of an Irish boy. The one link to my past that I’d not spoken aloud since the day my parents claimed me as their own. They’d ensured I understood the danger of someone finding out my real name.

  My lips parted and I softly spoke the forbidden name. “Mag.”

  My parents believed I was about the age of the girl Willow spoke of, but the chances of me being the girl were impossible—laughable, really. I blew out a long breath and squeezed my eyes closed.

  Opening them after a few seconds, I stood and retrieved the letter. My hands trembled, and my body felt numb. Again I read the letter, studying each word with the desire to find a hidden code or some clue that’d reveal that the Mag Willow spoke of was me. Nothing showed itself in the letter. I read it again and again. Minutes passed before I pulled myself from my futile efforts. I folded the letter and tucked it in my top drawer.

  The day passed slowly. When it came to an end and all the staff had left for the day and only Saul and I remained, I pushed back my chair and went to retrieve my coat and bonnet.

  “You seemed to be distraught over the letter from your friend.” Saul’s silvery voice came from behind me.

  I turned to him as he exited his office and placed his top hat on his head. His dark woolen overcoat lay over the crook of his arm. Saul wasn’t overly handsome, but there was a gentle kindness about the man that calmed me.

  “She gave me some distressing news.” I wiggled into my winter cape.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he said.

  I waltzed past him and strode to my desk. “No, I need time to absorb it, is all.” I turned to find him buttoning his coat.

  “The far-off look that paused your quill for most of the day wasn’t enough?” In the dim light of the office lanterns, his beautiful coppery skin shimmered.

  “Why are you watching me when you’re supposed to be working?” I balled a hand on my hip.

  “If Mr. Reed hadn’t placed your desk outside of my office window, maybe I wouldn’t find the view in here so pleasing.” He thrust widespread arms toward the ceiling. A twinkle of amusement glimmered in his eyes.

  What had gotten into the man? He was openly flirting with me. Heat flamed on my cheeks, and I busied my hands with tying the sapphire-blue silk ribbons of my bonnet.

  “Blue has always been your color.”

  Ugh! I clucked my tongue. “Are you coming down with something?”

  “What do you mean?” He looked at me, bewildered.

  “Dare I say you’re flirting with me, Mr. Abraham?” I said, my eyes never leaving his.

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “Perhaps.”

  “I appreciate your friendship—”

  His strong chin tilted up. “As I do yours. However, I’d prefer if you’d consider my standing proposal to court you, Miss Stewart.”

  Until now, he’d never been too ambitious with his intentions to court me. I regarded the man before me for a moment. He was chivalrous, made a decent wage, and had ethics comparable to my own. Yes, if I allowed myself to, I could fall in love with Saul. He’d been kind and patient. Saul carried himself with dignity; a proud man of color with a rare and admirable demeanor.

  “After all these years? I thought you’d putter out and move on to another woman by now.”

  “That may have been so with another man. But I love you,” he said.

  Taken back by his bold confession, I lifted a hand to my burning cheek. “L-love me?” I repeated.

  “I would go to your father tomorrow and ask for your hand in marriage, if you’d consider.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say. I mean…I knew you cared…but love…I hadn’t realized…”

  “How could I not? I’ve watched you stumble in here exhausted each morning from your noble deeds in the Points. Without complaint you put in a full day’s work, then race off to do Mr. Reed’s bidding, regardless of your exhaustion.”

  At his insinuation of me chasing Kipling, I twisted away from him to hide my embarrassment. Was I that transparent? No, surely not. Panic tightened my chest.

  “I know”—he’d come to stand behind me—“that you leave for Charleston soon. I…” His words trailed off and he dropped his eyes.

  Something in me needed to know what he intended to say. “Go on,” I said without moving.

  He inhaled a deep breath before I felt his hands grip my shoulders and turn me to face him.

  “Saul…”

  “Shh.” He placed a finger to my lips. “Don’t speak. I fear I’ll lose the courage to say this if I don’t say it now. I want you to be my wife. I know your heart yearns for another—”

  “What—”

  “Let me finish. What you desire can never be.”

  He knows about Kipling. My eyes darted back and forth, searching his. I didn’t read judgment or harshness in his gaze, only the desire of a man.

  “If you’d give me a chance, I’d love you with all that I am. Our life together could be beautiful. In time you may learn to love me.” Sadness reflected in his eyes. “But if not, a life spent listening to your boisterous laughter and watching you mother our children would give me great pleasure. You’re a woman deserving of love. It hurts to see you pine after someone that can never be yours.”

  He knew my deepest secret. Kipling had been too much a numbskull to see, but Saul had seen through me. The knowledge of this panicked me, yet washed me in relief at the same time.

  “I don’t know what to say.” My body quivered under his hands. Strong yet tender hands. A tear crept out of the corner of my eye.

  “Don’t answer now. G
o on this trip you’ve planned and when you return you can inform me of your decision.” His large thumb stroked the tear cascading down my cheek before he stepped back.

  I had no words to say. I nodded and lifted my fur muff from my desk and slipped my hands into it.

  “Let me see you home.”

  Again, I nodded.

  THAT EVENING, WITH THE LETTER gripped in my hand, I entered the dining room to join my parents for supper. The glass oil lamps sitting in the center of the oak table bathed the room in a soft ambient glow and caught the gold embroidery in the burgundy curtains hanging from the room’s two windows overlooking the street.

  Mother had prepared a meal of light bread, fish, and stewed fruit.

  “Good evening,” I said, sweeping into the room.

  “Ruby, my darling,” Papa said, offering me his cheek for a kiss.

  I pecked his weathered cheek and circled the table to plant one on my mother’s before sliding into my appointed chair and tucking the letter under me.

  “It looks lovely, Mother.” I smiled at her.

  Though Mother tried her best at cooking, her meals were barely palatable. Papa had afforded us the luxury of a hired cook. Martha, a freed black, arrived soon after my parents had decided to keep me. She had been with us until her daughter had died during childbirth—when I was twenty—and she needed to help her son-in-law care for their three children. I loved her dearly, and my monthly visits with her hardly satisfied the ache of missing her daily presence around the house.

  “Did you forget my paper?” Papa asked, picking up his white cotton napkin and tucking it into the collar of his shirt. His thick silver brows arched.

  “I’m sorry, Papa. Forgive me, but it slipped my mind.”

  “That’s unlike you.” Mother passed the platter of fish to Papa, her expression concerned.

  “I suppose I got sidetracked. I was preparing to leave when Saul approached me—”