Horace never asked to be involved with all this. Now his lungs felt shallow and tight and his hands throbbed. Life would have been better if he’d never got himself into it. What did he owe Maggie, really? She gave him breakfast once in a while, when he could flatter her into it. If he helped her, he got a sandwich. The other cooks smiled when he came knocking. They were more pleasant and freer with their food. What had Maggie ever done for him?
It was going to take a while to heal, he couldn’t just live off the baker. What he needed was money, much more than a few coins. Mr. Galway wouldn’t give him anything unless he went to Africa. And Mr. Stewart had millions of slaves to save. How could Horace’s own troubles ever be as important?
He had never before been involved with helping escaped slaves. He kept his nose out of such things. Knowing who was and who was not free baited no hooks. Risking jail for a stranger did not keep out the freezing wind. Spring storms would be no drier if he got involved with hiding slaves. The doctor and the runaways were Maggie’s problem and somehow it had all spilled over onto him.
No one had given him anything. He dug the worms. He caught the fish. He built his cart with his own hands. He had his customers, of course, but that was commerce, not charity. He didn’t bother with church. Sundays were for resting, so he rested. He didn’t need a preacher to tell him that. He didn’t need anyone. The reward money? Winter was on its way. One hundred and fifty dollars was an unimaginable sum.
But helping the men who had burned down his house? The thought sickened him. Was there some way to get their money and also cheat them out of their catch? Hickox looked like he knew every trick. But maybe there was a way.
He paused for a moment and looked around at the baker’s home. The man’s needs were simple. A roof, a few articles of clothing, food, and work. Horace was so tired of it all, the fishing, the gutting, the smell of rot. Maybe he’d never go back to it. But that took money. Of course, his daddy wouldn’t rest in his grave if he knew that Horace had turned Judas. There had to be a way to fool the slaver. The thought made him roll over and stare at the white wall.
Another image popped into his head: a boy to dig up worms. He imagined himself, perfectly clean and well dressed, pointing out where to hunt. More than that, he saw himself doubling the catch if he could train a couple of boys up right. And what would hiring a storefront cost? About the same in Syracuse as in Utica. Did the Mohawk go through there? The canal did. That meant plenty of customers needing food. His mind drifted to the sign that he would put above the door to his store, Horace’s Fresh Fish, with a rainbow trout on it, just to catch the eye. All it took was starter money. The kind of money that Mr. Galway got born with. The kind of money that a lawyer like Stewart might make in a few days. For them it was easy. If he had that kind of money he’d owe nobody. Instead, that damn Hickox was after him because of what Maggie and those slaves were doing. Really, Maggie and her friends owed him. They might all be sitting in jail if he hadn’t been there to help. Should he let his life get ruined? No. He did not deserve to suffer for them. He needed to start anew somewhere, somehow.
One hundred and fifty dollars—he could almost feel it in his pocket.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE SUN, STILL BELOW the horizon, began transforming the black sky to magenta, then to a vibrant peach. Birds chirped, declaring their territory. Deer grazed on the banks of the Ballou. People stirred on the Erie Canal. Several freight barges sat docked and ready to be restocked with food for their journey to Albany. Captains’ wives gave Mr. Sylvanus a few coins for his fresh loaves, still warm from his oven, and brought them down to the galley to slice.
The gentlemen and ladies of Post Street, an industrious lot, were up early for their labors, be they in the livery stables, shops, hotels, lumberyards, mills, or sculleries.
In the finer houses around town, men of business—bankers, merchants, tradesmen, local and state politicians—stirred in their beds knowing that their day’s schedule would be crowded. After they shaved their faces and dressed in their white shirts and dark pants, waistcoats and jackets, and after they had partaken of their breakfasts, they were to meet at the courthouse. It was known that among them a committee would be appointed, the Committee of 25. The men so chosen were to march the two and a half blocks to the Bleecker Street Presbyterian Church, where they would confront the abolitionists and stop them from convening their meeting to establish the statewide New York Anti-Slavery Society. Along the way, they expected that the less prosperous men of Utica, those who had been their audience during the last seven weeks of rancorous public meetings, fiery rhetoric, and scathing newspaper articles, would be swelling their ranks.
The proprietors of several grogshops, including Mr. King of King’s Victualing House, had stayed awake all night and were just then readying their establishments to provide free spirits to all comers, paid for in secret by a few of the upstanding citizens expected to be among the chosen twenty-five.
Spread around in hotels, temperance houses, and private rooms, men who had made the arduous journey to Utica for the conference were trying to temper their anxiety and allow themselves a few more minutes of rest, for sleep had evaded many.
Pryce stopped in front of the Presbyterian church and looked at the orange and pink sky. The clouds’ edges were etched in gold as the sun peeked over the earth. He had exhausted himself by pacing his room all night, his encounter with Helen filling his mind. Now he imagined her sweetly asleep, the light not yet having reached her bedroom window. Bounding up the stairs, he joined Stewart on the raised stone entranceway to the church, where the big man pushed on the heavy carved oak doors.
A familiar form slinked down Bleecker Street toward them. It was Dr. McCooke and he appeared to be coming from the direction of the Galway house. As the doctor drew closer, Pryce saw him attempt to drink from a small flask and, when he found it was empty, turn his eyes toward the church. At the moment of recognition, McCooke quickly crossed away from him and Stewart and passed, chin up, eyes forward. That doctor’s just itching to be followed, thought Pryce. He started to run off the stone portico, an idea of beating the doctor senseless boiling in his mind, when Stewart pulled him up short.
“He’s just another scoundrel,” said the older man, his strong hand holding Pryce’s shoulder.
The doctor hustled to the corner and turned down Genesee toward the National Hotel, where Hickox and Swift were still in residence.
“Today is about freeing the slaves,” said Stewart, patting Pryce’s arm. “Don’t ever lose sight of that.”
Pryce saw the lawyer’s worried look and nodded solemnly. He promised himself that the doctor wouldn’t escape him twice.
At the National Hotel, Dr. McCooke sent word to Hickox’s room that he wished to talk. The answer arrived in the form of Swift.
“What do you want?”
“You, eh? I asked to speak to Mr. Hickox.”
“He ain’t interested in jawing with you.”
“I’ve new information,” said McCooke. “Only to be delivered to his own ear.”
Swift did not waver.
“Two nuggets. He will not get them elsewhere.”
Swift shook his head slowly.
“Very well,” said the doctor. “You leave me no choice. I’ll go to Sheriff Osborn. He’ll be interested in bringing the fugitives to Judge Hayden at ten dollars a head.”
Swift’s pupils widened.
“Well,” said the doctor, “I’m sure you two’ll be heading out of town—empty-handed—once the sheriff has the group in custody. Good day to you, sir.” He turned on his heel and started away.
Swift reached out and grabbed him.
The sun warmed Horace’s neck as he tapped on the Galways’ back door. The horse whinnied in the barn. Since Maggie did not seem to be in the kitchen, he decided to feed and water the poor animal. That would put the cook in a good mood and it was important he be allowed in this morning.
In the barn, Horace hummed nervously as he lift
ed dry hay from the bin and changed out the soiled bedding. Poor old horse. He had not been off the property in a while. Horace poured out some oats and winced as he grabbed the bucket to fetch fresh water.
Maggie’s arms crossed over her chest as she looked down at Augustin. “Missus Helen don’t like that opium so I say no.”
“You push me beyond my limit.”
“We ain’t nowhere close to your limit,” she said as she stretched a blanket over him. “You ain’t ready to meet your maker.” She shook her head. “I’m just about through with you. You remember that I’m a free woman?”
“Maggie,” he said, his bottom lip quivering, “don’t leave me.” He brought her hand to his cheek. She felt tears wetting her fingertips. “I need you.”
She tilted his face up and looked him in the eye. “All right then, you gotta do what I say. It ain’t gonna be easy. But right now, you need to rest up and be ready.”
“Whatever you say.”
Maggie poured him a large glass of brandy. After a moment of thought, she added several drops of opium from the vial in her pocket. He took the drink between his shaking hands and brought it to his lips.
“Swallow that and we’re gonna get you through.” She tightened the curtains, further darkening the room. At the door, she looked back. He greedily sipped the drink. She pressed her lips together and nodded to him before leaving.
In the hallway, Maggie lingered at the bottom of the staircase. Imari, Elymas, the baby, and Joe were asleep in the guest room—at least she hoped they had finally been able to settle down. Everyone had been so exhausted after the birth that she decided to wait to let them know the truth. What difference would a few hours make? She’d tell them over breakfast and explain to Miss Helen how it had all happened, as best she could.
She would manage Augustin and keep him quiet. Lord knew he needed to rest. In a day or so, maybe a week, she would confess everything. After that, she’d go to Mr. Sylvanus and ask him what could be done to make the family safe. It can wait, she thought. She needed sleep herself, but she put it off until later, after her morning chores. Her heart still felt a little soft at seeing the child born. She shook her head and went through the door to the kitchen.
She opened the curtains for the first time in days. Her eye lit on Horace as he filled the horse’s water bucket. She thought work was a good thing for him—move on from the killing of his fish. That’s how she handled setbacks. Keep pushing each task forward. This one a little. That one a little. At some point, you could look back and see that you were in a new place—your sorrows and troubles behind you.
She opened the door. “Morning. Fine day for fishing, ain’t it?”
He looked up. “I’m taking a day off. I only came by to see if you in need of any work around the house.”
“You working or taking off? Make up your mind.” She smiled at him.
“Now, why you so happy today? Don’t hold back nothing. Share it with poor old Horace.”
“I can’t exactly say,” she responded, and waved him closer. As he put the full bucket on the ground and came to her, she noticed the bandages on his hands. “What happened?”
“Oh, me not thinking, is all.” He folded his arms behind his back. “You’re happy, but can’t say nothing? Ain’t no secrets ’tween us, is there?”
She smiled, wide and open. “When you’re done with the horse, come on in. I’ll set the coffee on and fix you up enough food to keep you going. I got a lot to tell you. Can’t even start, I got so much.”
Imari shook herself awake. Elymas slept next to her, snoring loudly and still in his rumpled suit. Joe had collapsed on a carved walnut divan with a tufted cushion seat, his right leg and arm dangling off the edge. Imari watched as Helen rocked the baby and gently straightened her clothing. The room was as nice as Missus Bea’s, and for the moment it was hers. The baby was alive and safe. Joe was still by her side. And Elymas had somehow found his way back to them. All of the planning and figuring, the years of yearning, a lifetime of slavery, all of it pushed to the side for this moment.
She wanted to savor it, but whenever she closed her eyes, she remembered how it felt to swing the musket and hit the slaver’s head. And how he had dropped like a bird shot out of the sky. The action and its consequences were part of her now. That he was an evil man, she did not doubt, but the desperation that had driven her to the fatal moment, and the impact of the gun and the wet thud stayed with her like an anvil around her neck. The instant she saw that Colby was dead, relief and satisfaction had filled her heart. The victory faded as Hickox shoved her husband into the dirt. She brought up the musket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. By that time the slaver had Elymas pinned and was going for his gun. Joe pulled her arm. Elymas yelled “Run!” over and over. The word stuck in her head and she followed the boy, run, run, run, run, repeating in her mind. Run, run, run, run, matched each thump of her feet.
Colby’s death must have outraged the already stonehearted Hickox. It put them all in danger. If she had been strong enough to slip away last night and spare them all, she would have. Her gaze lingered on each member of her family as she memorized the details of the moment. Despite the warm fire and the calm in the room, she shivered as she looked at the infant. It was as if the promised noose already hovered above her own head.
The baby fussed and mewed.
“Let me,” said Imari, glad for the distraction. “She hungry. I know the sound.” Helen handed her over. Imari settled the infant to her breast and marveled at how much her trust in the young mistress of the house had grown. Here they lay, dependent on the woman who, a short time ago, wanted them off the property. After the betrayal by the long-faced black man, feverish need had propelled her actions. The innkeeper’s wife who’d hidden them in the Cranbury Inn after Elymas’s capture was a gruff, tough-minded lady. That type could often be called upon once they decided to act. Helen had been soft and subject to emotion. At first, influencing her had been crucial to their survival. But Imari knew that weak people could sway back in the opposite direction. Yet this young woman had not allowed herself to be bullied by Hickox or her husband. Imari smiled and nodded to Helen, who watched her quietly.
“You want to know what I done decided?” said Imari, after checking to see that the baby was suckling properly.
“Of course,” said Helen.
“I know what her name gonna be.” She looked at her little girl and ran a finger gently down the infant’s long, perfectly smooth arm.
“Had you one all picked out?”
“Not till this minute,” said Imari, her eyes flashing. “She gonna be Margaret Helen Galway.”
Helen laughed and wiped away a tear.
Owen Sylvanus became known to many of the masters who piloted the 363 miles of Erie Canal as the chubby man who sold bread. Secretly, the masters’ wives who loved to gossip referred to the man who delivered the bread as the Quaker Baker. Much more mystery swirled around him than his outward appearance might suggest. No one argued that his superb bread was overpriced, but for many his wide-brimmed black hat and outdated language remained a curiosity. Additionally, his habit of referring to their husbands as Brother So-and-so instead of Master Thus-and-such signaled a sure sign of disrespect. None, however, broached the issue to his face.
As his bread basket lightened and the coins in his pocket grew heavier, his mind stayed on the image of Horace, burned and broken over the loss of a box and the rubble of what had been his home. Sylvanus exited through the canalboat terminal, past the office of the toll collector. He paused for a minute to hear a rancorous argument between the collector and one of the masters. It seemed that the master’s vessel had traversed the “long level,” a section of the canal west of Utica with no locks, skipping the stations where he should have gotten his clearance papers endorsed. The implication was that he had been racing above the four-miles-per-hour limit. The normal penalty of twenty-five dollars was not imposed, but a lesser sum may have changed hands in the few mom
ents of tense silence.
He chuckled, knowing that simple honesty and an adherence to the regulations kept him out of most conflicts. Of course, his rejection of the morally abhorrent law of slavery had given his life—he had to admit—more purpose. Particularly as of late. Perhaps after searching for Horace’s box, he might visit the post office to see if he had received a reply from Oriskany with regard to a place for the mother, child, and expected infant. Sister Maggie had been properly concerned about moving the woman before her lying-in time. Yes, he decided, this work was far more important than all the bread his two hands could produce. And doing it gave the greatest satisfaction to his spirit, as well as some heart-enlivening moments.
He made his way through the bustle to Genesee before he saw the slave catchers hurrying out of the National Hotel, followed by Dr. Mc-Cooke. He quickly moved sideways to hide under the striped awning of a dry goods store. The younger slaver had a rifle, a whip, and a brace of chains. The elder carried pistols on his hips and a coil of rope swinging from his belt. They turned up the street and were quickly at the apex of the canal bridge.
A flood of perspiration covered Sylvanus’s body as he began following them. I am just a simple baker, he thought. What will I do if I catch them? He quickened his pace and saw the slavers ahead, still on Genesee. I will just look at the direction of their travels. If they take the left turn toward the Galway house I shall sound the alarm.
Ahead, a knot of loud men had gathered in the busy crossing of Bleecker and Genesee. The trio he was following stopped and seemed to be confounded by the disturbance. Sylvanus grew closer. When the doctor peered behind him, the baker stiffened. He knows me not, re membered Sylvanus. He closed the distance between them and joined other bystanders at the corner.
A group of rough-looking, oddly dressed characters trotted past. Several carried stout canes. “Come on, laddies,” shouted one of them, “dis way!”
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 28