The Third Mrs. Galway

by Deirdre Sinnott

  When Imari reached the top of the hill, she saw that one of the small buildings, a little way from the main house, was ablaze. Bright flames, sparks, and smoke roared into the air. Slaves and the master’s family worked together throwing water on the fire, but the heat that radiated from the building pushed them back. Master James ordered everyone away just before the front wall of the structure collapsed into a burning heap.

  Elymas stood next to Imari. She knew that it was the overseer’s house, burning as quickly as if the devil himself were pumping a set of bellows. But the overseer was nowhere in sight. He had not been near the slave cabins to sound the alarm. He was not now moving people into a line to make a bucket brigade, or instructing slaves to douse the nearby buildings and the flames that spread across the dry grass. Master James and his boys were doing all of that.

  Imari slid her gaze away from the scene and looked at Elymas. His face was placid and the sweat on his chest reflected the orange dance of the fire. With deliberate slowness he turned toward her and stared into her eyes. Her throat tightened and her heart beat so hard that her fingers throbbed with its rhythm. She understood it all. The overseer was dead—lying, no doubt, among the flames and embers of his house. With that one look, she knew that Elymas was not afraid to risk everything for her. The line that had started with the overseer raising his hand to crack the whip that caused the welt now wound her and Elymas together as tightly as a wedding knot.

  Later, Elymas pulled her into the woods and she let him touch her anywhere he liked. She let herself be his, never underestimating his anger again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HORACE WILBERFORCE KNEW THE BEST PLACES for digging worms. When your profession is fish, you’d best be a master at sniffing out the fattest, liveliest crawlers in town. He also knew just when each of the town’s comely black cooks boiled morning coffee, rolled out biscuits, and whipped up eggs. Putting those two chunks of knowledge together was one of his talents. It did no good to hunt in the same place more than once a week. As a matter of fact, if he timed his worming and his flirting just right, he might get breakfast as well as a flaky biscuit and a bit of ham to wrap in his kerchief and save for later. Being about the business before dawn was crucial for catching the worms and demonstrating a level of motivation that the gals in charge of those generous kitchens liked to see in a man.

  Once dressed, he put on his droopy hat and grabbed his pail and his broken-handled shovel. He made his way from his shack on Water Street, behind Bagg’s Hotel, and up the hill toward the Galway house. The leaves had been dropping and there were moist spots behind the Galway barn where a few shovels of dirt could turn up a dozen industrious, fat worms. Maggie was never so easy to pry breakfast out of, but it had been a while since he’d gone there and he was feeling lucky.

  He approached, careful to avoid disturbing the house. The only lamp burning was in the room next to the kitchen, Maggie’s bedroom. He slipped off the street and headed to the yard. On the path he paused at the shed. Something seemed different, but what? He took another step, dismissing the feeling as the kind of nonsense that comes with the dawn, and continued to the barn. Galway’s mare snuffled in her stall looking for feed. Horace tiptoed behind the building, intent on surprising his prey. Worms weren’t stupid. They knew his tread and if he shook their territory, they would flee through the earth just as fast as a fish slips through impatient hands. After yesterday’s rain, the worming was good. He got thirty or so tucked away in his bucket with a bit of dirt and a few leaves for cover.

  He heard Maggie singing and smelled the smoke from her morning cook fire. When he came around the corner he thought that surely she was the very best person to see in the early morning light. She stood at the well, lowering the water pail into the cold pool at the bottom.

  “Now you let me do that, Miss Maggie,” he said.

  Maggie continued working the rope. “Ain’t seen you for a while. All them prettier cooks sick a you?”

  Horace smiled and took charge of the well pulley’s handle. His shoulders pulled a little as he lifted the heavy wooden bucket.

  “You out collecting Mr. Augustin’s worms?” asked Maggie.

  “Last time I look, worms belong to the soil.”

  “And he owns the soil, don’t he?”

  “Why we talking about worms, when they’s secondary?” He locked the pulley in place and grabbed the bucket. Maggie pointed to a water jug and the kettle. Horace poured in the fresh water. He straightened.

  “Well, pick them up,” she said, walking back toward the kitchen.

  She put a hunk of fatback onto a hot griddle and poured out four circles of batter. They snapped and bubbled.

  “Why you toting water? Your cistern still broke?” He put the jug in the dry sink and the kettle on the stove.

  “Don’t you never mind what’s broke and what’s fixed around here.”

  “Remember, I’m here … if you ever break,” he said, cuffing her cheek. He looked over her shoulder at the pancakes, mouth moist.

  “Who says I’m broke?” snapped Maggie. “Men, you think you know everything. And don’t go pretending that I’m the reason you come. I ain’t no fool.”

  “You got me there. I come to see if Mr. Galway agree to us getting hitched.”

  “You want an old woman like me, huh? You know I don’t come with no food.” She turned the cakes over on the black pan.

  “It ain’t about food now. I’m guessing you a little neglected. I could take care a you real good.”

  Maggie laughed. “You’re just plain outta your mind if you think that I’m gonna live in your poor little shack, when I got all this right here. I don’t need no husband telling me what to do.” She flipped three steaming-hot pancakes onto a plate. “You want some?”

  “You know I do.”

  She hid the plate of cakes behind her back. “I got just one request,” she said, as Horace tried to reach around her. She stopped him with an irritated glance. “I told Mr. Augustin that I’d get a boy to help him. He done broke his leg and he needs some boy to do for him. You got a nephew or somebody?”

  Horace’s belly stirred like a tornado. “Broke it, huh? That’s too bad.” There was no nephew, but what did it matter? If a nephew was the only thing standing between himself and breakfast, he’d find one right quick. “You know I got whatever you need. Now, hand over them hotcakes.”

  While Horace sat and ate, Maggie took bites of her own breakfast. She bustled around putting the coffee to boil and cutting thick slices of smoked ham. A bell rang over the plaque that read, Dining Room. She looked up and went right back to her business. Horace studied her. The bell rang again with more force behind the pull and again she continued working.

  After a few more moments, a blond gentleman with dark circles under his eyes burst through the dining room door. Horace whipped off his hat and stood over his mostly empty plate.

  “There’s two of you?” The doctor looked Horace over with startled indignation. “Oh, I see. You feed your suitors before your employer?”

  “You suddenly in charge and I don’t know about it?” said Maggie, a carving knife in one hand.

  “I forgot you were the queen of Third Street,” said the man, smoldering with rage. “When might I expect some food and coffee, Your Majesty?”

  Horace had seen Maggie’s temper rise before. He looked from one to the other thinking he had no idea what she might do.

  “If you want a bite a breakfast outta this kitchen, you’ll wait till seven when I serve it.” She stabbed the knife into the carving block. The gentleman jumped back. “You come early, you get nothing. You come late, you get it cold. I got too much to do to be running every time you get it in your head to ring that bell.”

  “And feeding a shiftless beau is ‘too much to do’? We shall see about that,” the doctor said, looking flustered. He turned on Horace. “You come with me.”

  Horace grabbed the remaining pancake off his plate, winked at Maggie, and followed the man into the h
allway. As he watched the doctor knock and open the library door, he remembered his daddy warning him about men like this. They likely to toss you down like you ain’t nothing and stand on your back, just to see the view.

  Inside the room, Augustin was covered in sweat, his eyes red. “I’ve been awake for hours,” he said, his tone biting.

  “How are you? Any pain?” McCooke went to the bedside and felt his patient’s head.

  “Of course I’m in pain. That medicine you gave me wore off.” Augustin noticed Horace standing quietly in the open doorway. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “I caught your cook’s paramour stealing food in the kitchen.” Mc-Cooke went to the side table and poured some brandy into a glass and counted out the drops of opium. Augustin watched as he stirred. The doctor brought the mixture to him and he drank it in one swift draft. The effect seemed instantaneous. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment of total relaxation. Finally, he shook himself, opened his eyes, and took in his audience.

  “Did you say stealing? Where was Maggie?”

  “Eating right next to him—as close as two conspirators.”

  Augustin laughed and then grabbed his leg and moaned. “Maggie is in charge of the kitchen, Doctor,” he said, as he tried to breathe through the pain. “I suggest, for your health, you stay out of there.” He turned slowly and tried to ease his broken leg out of the bed. “Horace, come here, boy, and get me out of this confounded bed. You take the other side, Doctor. You both need to earn your bread.”

  “Sorry your leg got broke,” said Horace, as he joined the doctor at Augustin’s side. Each lifted him under a shoulder and with care helped him to the chair, where he settled with some difficulty.

  “I best be getting out to that river, Mr. Galway,” said Horace. “Maggie told me you want a boy. I’ll find you one and send him over.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Augustin. “I’ve been meaning to ask you how that fish business is doing.”

  “They’s biting good, Mr. Galway, and I know where to find ’em.”

  “Yes, yes. That’s good, but Horace, you have to ask yourself, is that enough?”

  “Well now, sir,” Horace started, his throat thickening so suddenly that he had to clear it, “I been thinking that if I could get me a few dollars built up I could open myself up a shop. That way I could salt some a them fish. Maybe smoke a few and sell them. Make getting through winter a lot easier.”

  “Is that so?”

  “And … I was thinking maybe you’d be … maybe you’d lend me some money, just to get started. I don’t need much.”

  The doctor snorted. Augustin looked at him through narrowed eyes. McCooke busied himself pouring a shot of brandy. A slight tremor rattled his hand.

  “I’ve been thinking about your situation too,” said Augustin, focusing back on the fishmonger. “You see, I was at a meeting of the Colonization Society the other night. I have an idea that could make you into a big man.”

  “Me?” Horace replied. “Begging your pardon. I don’t need to be no big man or nothing. I just need me a little bit a help.”

  “Oh, this is help. It’s an opportunity. A man like you here in Utica? How high can you ever hope to get?”

  “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “You have an enterprising attitude. You could be the leader of men. That can’t be said for everyone of your race. You know what’s happening right now in Liberia?”

  “Liberia?”

  “Africa. The land of your ancestors. The new colony we’re building. We don’t take just everyone. We want only the most industrious and temperate. People like you. I would speak for you, put my reputation on the line. You’d be among peers there—not a Negro in the white man’s land. A boy like you could rise to the very top.”

  “Africa? But sir, I don’t know about no Africa. I know Utica. Born here. Lived here my whole life.”

  “You could be a leader there. And that will never happen here,” continued Augustin. “Just think, right now we are setting aside five cleared acres, planting vegetables, and putting a comfortable cottage on it just for you. The Colonization Society is putting fifty dollars into each plot. A man could live well on five acres. Say a number of you boys get together and you want to grow sugar, cotton, or coffee—you get more land. Why, an enterprising man could get rich. You helped us build that canal, didn’t you? You’ve got the expertise.”

  “You put me on the bend of any creek around Utica, I don’t care if it be the blackest night, and you spin me around, I’m gonna find my way home.”

  “All I’m asking is that you think about it. Get in there before all the good spots are taken. We need to have some ambitious men as the foundation there. When those waves of uneducated slaves arrive they’ll need a strong hand to guide them. Slavery won’t last forever and there needs to be someplace for them to go. Look at what the white man has done with the wilderness here. You could go there and do the same thing.”

  “I’ll get you that boy,” said Horace, retreating.

  “Think about it,” said Augustin.

  “Yes sir.”

  Horace appeared back in the kitchen. Maggie was filling a tray with coffee, pancakes, and ham. “What’d he say? He don’t care about no breakfast, I’m sure.”

  “Mr. Galway say he thinking ’bout me. When a white man start thinking ’bout the black man—well. That ain’t likely to be a good thing. He been talking to you about Africa?”

  “Don’t be no fool,” said Maggie as she lifted the tray. “Africa? What I gotta do with Africa? Now don’t forget to water and feed that horse before you go. Earn that sandwich I made for you there.”

  Horace put the sandwich into his kerchief and tucked it in his pocket. Once outside he lowered the bucket into the well. The eastern sky was just lightening. For years he had enjoyed his exchanges with Mr. Galway. The financier had always stood out as being fair to the black man and had an ease that other whites lacked. But this was different. Horace relied on his business and Maggie’s kitchen. Would all of this be lost if he refused go to Africa? There had been some talk in the black neighborhood around Post Street that fever and death stalked the newcomers in Liberia. Just yesterday Schoolmaster Freeman, who ran Utica’s School for Persons of Color, had given him a newspaper that said the colonists in Liberia had been attacked by nearby tribes. Did Mr. Galway know this? If so, then maybe he really was like all the other whites. What was so wrong about just living here? Why should he get kicked out?

  As Horace passed the shed, he again had a strange feeling. He noticed that the tall grass had been trampled in front. He listened at the entrance. Silence. He opened the door and stuck his head in.

  “Anybody in here?” Absolute stillness pervaded the inside. Something felt strange. He closed the door and told himself that it was nothing, just his mind playing tricks. He made his way to the barn where he mucked out the stall and watered and fed the horse, thereby earning his sandwich.

  Upstairs, Helen watched Horace out her window. She barely breathed as he approached the shed. When he appeared to see nothing amiss after going into the barn, she figured that Imari and Joe must have left during the night. It was for the best, what with the slave catchers dropping by the house. Now at least she could just do her sewing and start to settle into her new home. Maybe today she would look into the nursery. When had it been furnished? Mrs. Galway was almost forty when she died. The linens and baby clothing had to be at least a decade old. Today she would see to it. If only that doctor wasn’t around. She must make some excuse and check the shed to see that no evidence of the runaways remained. Why, Imari and Joe might be halfway to … She realized that she had no idea where they were going. Imari had mentioned that some man was supposed to help them. They must have gone to him. She hoped they arrived safely and nobody besides her had read the notices and turned them in to Mr. Hickox. To think of what might befall a woman that far gone with child. No. She would drive the two slaves from her mind. They were on their way and she had do
ne her Christian duty by risking herself and bringing them food and the quilt. Whether it was also her Christian duty to turn them over to the authorities no longer mattered. Perhaps she should drop by St. John’s Church and go to confession. She had done right and wrong, both. It would be good to discuss this with Father Quarters.

  She hesitated at the top of the stairs. If she went down the main staircase, Dr. McCooke was sure to be lurking nearby. It seemed clear that a few hours later in the day he would still be there. For all she knew he might still be living on the very same floor as she a year from now. Instead of stiffening herself and facing him, she slipped down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen, drawn by the smell of the griddle cakes.

  “Morning, missus. I was just gonna bring you some food.” Maggie put a plateful of pancakes down on a tray. “You want it in the dining room?”

  “No thank you.” Helen brightened. “I’m so hungry, I’ll eat it right here.”

  “I bet you’re hungry,” said Maggie. “I seen someone’s been dipping into those biscuits and fish last night.”

  Helen froze. She thought, foolishly, that the missing food would not be noticed. “You saw that?” she said, deliberately easing herself onto a stool. Maggie smiled as she moved the plate of pancakes, butter, and syrup to the table.

  “A course. And I know that doctor woulda licked the plate clean.”

  Helen nodded and started to eat. Again, she looked at the cook, fear troubling her stomach. Imari and Joe had to have moved on, she assured herself. Otherwise Horace would have found them this morning.

  “And you got a little shine to you today,” said Maggie.

  “I do?” said Helen.

  “You do. Maybe we’re gonna have somebody new living here before too long.”

  “You mean the doctor?” said Helen, frowning.

  “Not that darned loafer. He’s a pain in my side.” Maggie looked pointedly to Helen’s stomach and then back to her face. “Maybe you don’t even know.” She leaned in and whispered, “You got your monthlies?”