The Third Mrs. Galway

by Deirdre Sinnott

  Sheriff Osborn dashed in front of an arriving coach stacked high with luggage, and tried to swing around the group.

  The older slave catcher waded into the mess and retrieved the sheriff. Once he had him safely out of harm’s way, the lawman took a moment to remove his hat and tamp down his unruly and unoiled hair.

  “The fugitives are secreted at Galway’s,” said the slave catcher. “We have a witness.”

  “Again?” said Osborn. “Ain’t you already been through there once?”

  “I’ve seen them,” said the doctor. “There’s a new one. They’ll leave any second now.”

  Osborn nudged his hat higher on his forehead. “Don’t you know that my hands is full?”

  Sylvanus, galvanized by a shudder of pure fear, pushed forward shouting, “Let me pass!” He rounded the corner and trotted down Bleecker Street.

  He looked neither left nor right as he hurried along, the remaining bread bouncing in his basket. They weigh me down, he thought, dumping the loaves in the gutter. A pain grew in his side as he hustled past John Street. He pressed the ache and noticed that his lungs felt as if they were filled with fire. What a sight I must be, a fat old man running down the road on a Fourth day morning. Stopping, he gasped for air and clutched a light pole to steady himself. Behind him the trio advanced. Curse it. I have been too content in life. If I could gain headway, I might be able to warn Sister Maggie. With renewed purpose, he forced himself forward, panting with the effort. His face felt hot. He passed Chancellor Square Park. There were still blocks to go. But he had to find a way to alert the poor runaways.

  A gripping tightness poked his right calf. He stumbled and fell, scraping his hands and knees, sending his hat to the ground where it rolled lazily on its brim. Several passersby came to his aid. As he massaged his leg, he panted like a dog left in the sun.

  “He is ill,” cried a lady in an ocher dress. “We need a doctor.”

  A finely turned-out gentleman called, “You there. Dr. McCooke. This man needs help.”

  Sylvanus saw the doctor pull up short and the slave catchers stop.

  “He’s fine,” said the older slaver. “Doctor, your other patient awaits you.”

  “Look to him,” demanded the lady. “It is a problem of the heart.”

  “Yes,” gasped Sylvanus, hoping to at least slow down the progress of the trio.

  Dr. McCooke kneeled, his stethoscope ready.

  “Doctor, you were the one who said our mission was urgent,” said Hickox.

  “A minute,” said McCooke. He placed the wide end of the listening device against Sylvanus’s chest. “Silence!” he shouted, seeming delighted to have onlookers crowd around him. After a few moments of pressing his ear to the instrument, the doctor looked up. “It is not his heart,” he announced with the air of authority.

  Sylvanus grasped the doctor’s sleeve. “Thou must take some time about it, Brother, just to be certain.”

  “Doctor, your appointment with the lady,” said the slave catcher.

  “Yes, yes,” said the doctor, a nervous cough passing his lips. He turned to the baker. “You are just shaken, old man. Go home and rest. That will be three dollars.”

  “Take thee to the devil!” shouted Sylvanus.

  Hickox hauled McCooke to his feet. “You heard the man. On to the devil.” And the two slavers, one on each side of the doctor, stalked away from Sylvanus toward the Galway house.

  With the help of the lady and the gentleman, Sylvanus rose, wiping away frustrated tears.

  He had failed them all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  OCTOBER 21 WAS THE DAY that had been planned for months. At precisely ten o’clock in the morning, Alvan Stewart took to the pulpit of the Bleecker Street Presbyterian Church. Behind him a banner, which had been stitched together by some of the ladies who felt the issue of abolition most keenly, hung across the chancel wall proclaiming The New York Anti-Slavery Society in broad yellow letters on a blue background. It was as if the organization already existed. Stewart knew better. He had an agenda that had to be approved by the body so that the business would be a fait accompli. He looked over the sea of faces squeezed into the rows of wooden pews. As he drew in a breath, his eyes came upon the men whom, when the Utica Anti-Slavery Society had first put out the call for the convention, he had only dared to hope might attend. Lewis Tappan, one of the principal financers of abolitionist publications, had come because a Virginia newspaper had put a $20,000 bounty on his brother Arthur, promising the money to anyone who delivered him “south of the Potomac—to be dealt with according to his merits.” With him was the brilliant young Negro abolitionist David Ruggles, who ran a bookstore on Broadway and Lispenard in New York City. And there were the young faces, both light and dark, of students from the Oneida Institute of Science and Technology, who had been brought by his good friend Reverend Beriah Green. Stewart wondered if new effigies of himself and the reverend were right now being stuffed with hay. Near Green, he noticed Gerrit Smith, a very rich gentleman and a leading light of the Colonization Society. Smith had never promised to make an appearance, but Stewart knew that Green had been shaking the man’s opinions. Perhaps the convention would push him in abolition’s direction. The room was filled with steadfast men who might just be able to bring about freedom for the slaves. He settled his papers on the smooth wood surface of the lectern. The meeting was happening—no matter what. That was already a victory.

  Stewart raised his hands. Conversations ended and all faces turned forward. He picked Pryce out of the snarl of delegates standing in the back of the sanctuary. The two men nodded to each other.

  “Is it true,” Stewart asked, his powerful deep voice bouncing off the whitewashed walls, “that the philanthropy which warms our hearts to organize for the release of the suffering slave stops our patriotism? Is it true that because we feel for bleeding humanity, that we wish to cut the throats of our white Southern countrymen?”

  As the responses of “No!” and “False!” filled the church, Pryce studied the assembly. He felt certain that anyone who was working to disrupt them would make themselves known during Stewart’s address. He scanned the many familiar faces, men he had greeted the previous day. They had traveled from across the state singly or in small groups. This morning, everyone looked engaged and hopeful.

  “We have been proclaimed traitors to our dear native land, because we love its inhabitants, no matter their color,” Stewart said. “Are those who accuse us the patriots? The so-called friends of the Union? They are willing to see eternal and unmitigated slavery for every colored man, woman, and child.”

  “We’re the patriots,” called a thin fellow with a wispy brown beard, known to Pryce as James DeLong, a member of the Common Council.

  Stewart pointed to DeLong. “That’s right, my friends. We are the patriots because we will not permit the great cancer of slavery to continue to grow on the neck of the Union.”

  The massive audience, upwards of four hundred men, rose in applause.

  “Those Unionists,” Stewart went on, “are willing to destroy you and me because we are not terrified at the roaring of the slaveholders, and because we feel for two and a half million men, women, and children who are now being offered at the shrine of cruelty, lust, and avarice.”

  As Stewart continued to hammer on the idea of slavery, Pryce noticed that the delegates seemed joined by the righteousness of their cause, each person gaining strength from having come together. It was as if they were no longer alone, even though they might be the only abolitionist in their village. Now, because they saw so many in this place, they too might believe that the fight for the immediate end of slavery was something that could be won.

  Pryce found himself thinking about the pregnant woman at the Galway house. What would have happened to her if he and Stewart hadn’t been there to help? He didn’t know her condition now, but since the slave catchers still lingered in town, and the fishmonger’s shack had been destroyed, clearly she and her boy wer
e still under great threat. And Pryce knew, as he watched the assembly hoot and clap, that just two and a half blocks away, the Colonization Society was at that very moment choosing a committee of twenty-five prominent members to lead a march to their convention.

  A shiver of fear troubled the budding abolitionist. How would he handle violence if it came? Stewart had said that he shouldn’t use physical measures to counter any dissent. But if Dr. McCooke appeared, he would drag the man into the street and deal with him—he was a special case. His father would never even consider using violence or any weapon to defend the conference. Pryce burned to take his anger at McCooke out on someone, but would that help the cause? The Founding Fathers had picked up weapons, as had the men who fought in 1812. However, here in this church, among so many peaceable men, he decided armaments would be sacrilege. It was his job to protect the delegates—if he could—but without resorting to the methods the doctor or the slave catchers might use. Squaring his shoulders, he resolved to be vigilant and ready to isolate anyone who tried to disrupt the convention.

  “You,” Stewart said, pointing at his audience, “are the representatives of American liberty. If today you are driven from this sacred temple, dedicated to God, by an infuriated mob, then, my brethren, wherever you go, liberty will go. Where you abide, liberty will abide.”

  Just then, the doors of the church banged open. Pryce recognized Representative Samuel Beardsley, tall and well dressed with an upright thatch of brown hair, surging up the aisle.

  “Damn the fanatics!” Beardsley yelled, his crystal clear voice shattering the mood of the assembled. Pryce knew he had to do something, but could one manhandle a congressman? As he moved toward the older man to slow him down, Beardsley cut left with astonishing agility and continued forward. The other ushers stood still with shocked faces, their only defense a waving of hands, a flattening of palms, and an outstretching of fingers. Once at the front of the room, Beardsley turned and Pryce followed his eyes. The back of the sanctuary filled with the Committee of 25, each a well-dressed gentleman.

  “Sit down, Beardsley!” bellowed Stewart.

  The congressman dashed to a position in front of the podium. “We, the true leaders of Utica,” he began, “some of our number duly elected, do hereby declare this dangerous convention an amalgamation. You traitors would celebrate if our guiding document, the Constitution, went into the flames of another bloody slave uprising. We officially declare this convention a danger and demand that it be disbanded.” His steely gaze swept across the attendees. “This is your chance. Leave now or face the consequences.”

  Stewart, red-faced and puffing out his chest, marched toward the representative. “How dare you threaten violence. You claim to love the Constitution. We’re a peaceful assembly. The Declaration of Independence states that all men are created equal. Are not the Negroes men of flesh and blood?” He turned to the audience. “I ask you all, when will this nation live up to our founders’ intent?”

  Beardsley pushed in front of him. “Get up here, Judge,” he called, and waved to Chester Hayden, who marched forward, dressed in his impressive black robes. The congressman grasped Hayden’s hand and pulled him up the steps.

  Pryce seized the other arm and tugged him backward. The judge turned on him, face burning with outrage. “You just bought a few more nights in jail.”

  Pryce slackened his grip and Beardsley jerked the judge forward.

  “We, the patriotic Committee of 25,” Beardsley said in a commanding voice, “represent true Uticans. Now, hustle the traitors out.”

  As Pryce yelled to the ushers to close the doors, two of the imported ruffians from the Sixth Ward stepped to either side of him, picked him off the floor, and hurled him into the audience, where he knocked down several men. He staggered to his feet, only to see a portly hunter in tweed trousers releasing a pack of dogs. Each hound ran in a different direction and soon the hall was filled with the sounds of barks and howls. Pryce pushed into the aisle and tried to grab one of the beasts, but the sleek short-haired pointer snapped at his wrist. He let it run.

  Angry men, far more than the twenty-five, continued to charge into the sanctuary. Stewart attempted to regain order, but he was shouted down. A chant of “Give us Stewart!” swept through the intruders.

  A few agitators closed in on the big lawyer, trying to grab him. Pryce surged forward and began tearing men away from his friend. The ruffians from New York wrestled him to the back of the room and delivered several thumps to his chest. As he gasped for breath, he saw the elderly secretary, Reverend Oliver Wetmore, struggling with a man over the minutes of the convention. The reverend twisted away from his attacker, laying in a sharp elbow to the lout’s jaw. As Wetmore’s assailant stumbled back, the papers scattered into the air and fell to the floor where they were soiled and torn underfoot.

  Hymnals flew. Some of the interlopers noticed Negroes among the assembled. Epithets of the most brutal nature were hurled at them. Black and white abolitionists locked arms. A cry of “Amalgamators!” came from one of the better-dressed rioters.

  A pug-nosed, powerfully built canal runner threw his arms around Stewart and tried to drag him off the riser. Pryce spotted the attack. He leaped onto a pew and used the backs of the seats like stepping-stones to dash across the sanctuary. Just before he reached the pulpit, Stewart planted his feet, thrust out his arms, and threw off his attacker. The canal runner staggered toward the seats, meeting Pryce, who leaped for the man and grabbed his coat. The garment, newly purchased that week, was torn in half.

  Gerrit Smith looked shocked at the mayhem caused by his confederates in the Colonization Society. He climbed onto the seat of his pew. “These men have the right to assemble!” he yelled. “You are trying to silence debate and that I cannot allow.” He opened his arms wide. “Delegates, your discussions will be heard. Come to Peterboro and tomorrow I will guarantee you my protection.”

  Lewis Tappan shouted to Stewart, “Motion for adjournment!”

  Mr. Ruggles, whose arms were locked with his friend Higgins and a white abolitionist, cried, “Second!”

  Stewart hobbled back to the lectern, shouted, “Adjourned!” and slammed the gavel to the podium with an earsplitting crack.

  Abolitionists fled the church in ones, twos, and threes. Those with linked arms pulled themselves through the aisles and were met on the street by the growing mob. The fleeing conventioneers were pelted with mud, stones, and eggs. Many were jeered and chased through the streets. Some retreated to their hotel rooms, others to their homes.

  Pryce joined Stewart on the altar. “We must get you to safety.”

  “I have to go home and be ready if they come to burn it down,” said Stewart, his face flushed with excitement. “Go find Josiah Tripp. Tell him to bring his carpentry tools to my house. Hurry, man, we must build barricades before they get organized.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  FINISHED WITH HIS CHORES, Horace came from the barn and looked through the open kitchen door, surprised to see Maggie asleep in her chair, arms across her stomach. He hesitated, foot already poised to tap on the doorjamb. A shiver of regret tightened his chest. Hers was a good soul, gruff but straight. But it was her fault that his belongings had been destroyed. That was the truth of it. He no longer even had a rickety roof over his head.

  A cold wind blew off the Ballou. It smelled like the soil and foretold of an autumn storm. Behind it he knew the wind of winter rushed toward Utica and there was not a thing he could do to stop it. Survival—his own—was in jeopardy. Somehow it had come to this. His face was wet and he swiped at it with his sleeve. Shaking himself, he locked his jaw and rapped on the wood with his boot. Maggie lifted her head, a smile bursting across her face.

  “I guess I fell asleep,” she said as she rose. “Come on in.” She pulled a steaming pot of coffee off the stove and added a few pieces of split wood to the firebox.

  “Now what got you so tired?” asked Horace. He smiled, but again felt the sting of shame biting at
his gut. He’d been in this kitchen a thousand times, but never as a spy.

  Gripping his wrists, she flipped his hands over and saw the stained bandages. “Burns?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “I’ll fix you up once I’m done with a few chores. Don’t go nowhere.”

  “You too nice,” he said, choking a little.

  “Don’t tell nobody.” She smiled and poured him a bowl of coffee. As she worked, producing two plates of scrambled eggs, each with a thick slice of ham, she told him about the birth of the baby girl.

  Horace winced at the mention of the infant. Filled with the information Hickox sought, he felt as if searing-hot stones were pressing against his back. He suddenly understood that his plan was all wrong. He couldn’t go through with it. Maggie joined him at the table.

  “That sounds mighty exciting,” he said, smiling, relieved of the guilt. He took her hand and was on the verge of telling her about the fire when a shadow darkened the kitchen door and the two old friends turned to see a silhouette surrounded by a halo of bright morning light.

  Abel Hickox passed through in the doorway, pistols drawn. Horace’s hands shot up in surrender, but Maggie leaped to her feet and reached behind the open door for her musket. Hickox fired at her and the ball, propelled by the exploding black powder, cut through the air and sliced off the tip of the pinkie on her outstretched left hand. It ricocheted off the stove with a loud pong, and flew out the window, shattering one of the panes. A man’s yelp came from outside.

  Both the shot and Maggie’s scream reverberated through the house. Hickox grabbed her by the collar and shoved her toward the table. He seized the musket from its place. Horace, arms still raised, saw the slaver’s second loaded pistol move back in his direction. Maggie clutched her bleeding hand. A bell rang furiously from the front of the house.

  “McCooke!” roared Hickox.

  The doctor, hands trembling, came to the door. “That almost killed me,” he said, setting down his medical bag.