“You have a patient,” said Hickox.
Blood oozed down Maggie’s sleeve as she tried to stanch the wound. The doctor went to her. She kicked him hard.
“Damn you,” said McCooke, grabbing his calf, “I’m trying to help.”
Maggie spat with amazing accuracy and potency, hitting him square in the face.
Hickox tossed Maggie’s musket to McCooke. “Watch her,” he said. He grabbed Horace by the shirt and pulled him in, the pistol inches from the fishmonger’s eye. “Where are they?”
Horace stared beyond the slaver to Maggie. Agony twisted her face. A moment ago, she had been so beautiful, her eyes sparkling over news of the birth. He felt the throbbing pain from his burns and saw the ashes of his shack, the box, and the twisted braid of his mother’s hair that had always offered him a tiny piece of comfort during the cold hard days. “Go to hell,” said Horace.
“You took my money,” said Hickox. “That was a promise.”
“Money?” Maggie turned to Horace.
“I never promised you nothing,” Horace said. “You burned up my home. Almost killed me. Way I see it, you owe me.”
“This is a waste,” said McCooke. “She had the baby. They might be running now.”
Horace’s angry gaze fell on the doctor, who swallowed hard.
“You hold them,” said Hickox to the doctor. “I’ll search upstairs.”
Maggie seemed as if she was trying to speak, but no words came forth.
Hickox exploded out of the kitchen and ran up the servants’ stairs.
On the second floor, Joe had heard the shot and the scream, and sprang from the divan. Helen and Elymas were on their feet in almost the same instant, while Imari stayed in bed cradling Margaret.
“Miss Maggie!” shouted Joe. He ran to the hallway. As heavy steps thundered up the back staircase, he flew down the front stairs. A thump shook the front door and he saw the brute Swift trying to break in. He turned and swung past the library where Galway’s bell rang unanswered. In the kitchen, Joe knocked into McCooke, who staggered, the gun still pointing at Maggie and Horace.
“Run,” urged Maggie. Before the doctor could swing the weapon in Joe’s direction, the boy careened out the door.
Maggie charged the doctor and reached for the musket. Instantly, he brought the weapon down on her injured hand. She crumpled in pain. Horace sprang toward McCooke, but felt the musket shoved hard against his ribs, and contracted.
“Nigger, get back!” screamed the doctor, fear elevating his voice, his body shaking.
Rubbing his side, Horace mumbled, “You gonna pay for that.” He wrapped his arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “I swear I never told.”
“Course you didn’t,” she said. “Sorry I got you into problems.”
In the upstairs hallway, Hickox heard the wail of the infant and burst into the room. There was his most valued prize, the slave who had killed his partner. Imari tried to calm the crying baby and turned away from him. Mr. Galway’s young wife moved in front of the mother and child, shielding the two. Elymas came around the bed, ready to fight, the fresh scar shining near his mouth.
Hickox shoved the white woman to the floor and trained the gun on the slave woman. “They’re both dead if you come any closer,” he said. That stopped the man.
The slave catcher heard the front door slam open as if a battering ram had been applied. He called over his shoulder, “Upstairs, Mr. Swift.” He took the group in with the greedy eyes of an experienced man stealer and smiled in sweet satisfaction. “And bring the chains.”
Swift and Hickox, guns ready, led the captives and Helen down the front staircase. Elymas’s elbows were pulled back tight with a rope. His feet were shackled. A single chain joined husband and wife from neck to neck. Imari’s collar was attached with a formidable lock. A set of manacles weighted down her wrists. The chains clinked and bounced against her thin blue nightdress as she held Margaret to her chest.
“You have no right to invade my house,” said Augustin, ghastly white and clinging to the library door, hands shaking, his broken leg dangling uselessly.
“You are the man in the wrong, Mr. Galway,” replied Hickox. “Harboring escaped slaves is a crime. I’ll see you in jail, sir.”
“Slaves? I did no such thing. Who are these people?” asked Augustin, as he dragged a small chair over and maneuvered himself onto it.
“Pretending ignorance?” said Hickox. He turned to Swift. “Let no one move while I deal with the niggers in the kitchen.”
“Don’t you touch Maggie!” yelled Augustin.
Hickox burst through the swinging door. The doctor still had the gun pointed at the two as they sat at the table. Horace held a bloody cloth between his first two fingers and was trying to tie up Maggie’s wound.
“It is about time,” McCooke said. “I’m a doctor, not a prison guard.”
“Where is the boy?” demanded Hickox.
“He almost knocked me out as he escaped,” said the doctor. “These two made to run off with him, but you were not a match for me, eh?”
Hickox slid his hand into his jacket and produced a heavy leather pouch. The familiar clink of gold drew Horace’s eye.
“I should deduct the cost of the boy.” Hickox handed the pouch to the doctor in exchange for the gun. “But very well done, Doctor. I didn’t think you’d come through.”
The doctor held the pouch in his trembling hand, then tucked it into an interior pocket of his closely cut jacket. It produced a noticeable bulge. “Well, I must be going.” He edged to the door and paused for a moment. “Is the infant … uninjured?” he asked, turning back to Hickox.
“Why do you care, you skunk?” said Maggie.
“The infant is my concern, Doctor. My investment, my reward,” said Hickox. “Good day.”
The doctor’s eyes dropped and without glancing at anyone, he picked up his medical bag and retreated out the back. Rain started to fall and he scanned the sky before ducking away.
“I’m feeling generous,” Hickox said to Horace. “You get to walk away right now and not face charges for helping to harbor runaways. But remember, the terrible luck that you’ve been having will continue, if you persist.”
Horace stood. “I’m free?”
“You’re getting out.” Hickox raised his gun. “So, get out.”
Horace hesitated, turning to Maggie. She nodded and he slipped out the door.
“Now, my dear,” said Hickox, “shall we all go to the court and see what charges they bring against you.”
“Charges? I got shot in my own home. You steal them people, and I get charged?”
Hickox motioned for her to stand. “If you ever want to see those people again, you’ll shut up and go help Mr. Galway.”
“Oh, I gotta be quiet,” she said as she stood. “I see.” She moved past Hickox, a bloody rag dangling from her left hand. “I get shot and I gotta be quiet.” She went through the door, letting it swing back toward Hickox.
In the hallway, she rushed toward Imari. Swift stepped in between them.
“You can’t take that baby,” insisted Maggie. “She was born on free soil. She ain’t no slave.” She turned to Augustin, who was looking pale and miserable as he sat on the chair in the doorway to the library. “This is it,” she said intently. “What I talked about. You gotta do something.”
Hickox stalked up behind them.
Augustin, his face red and glistening from pain, raised a quaking hand. “Maggie, who are these people?”
Maggie leveled her eyes on him. “They’s the ones he was looking for, remember that slave notice?”
Augustin appeared uncertain for a moment.
“Yes, you remember,” she said. “And remember I said you gotta do just what I say?”
Augustin’s eyes focused on the young man standing in chains in his hallway. Shock and pain crossed his face. Suddenly animated, he turned to Hickox. “I’ll buy them from you. All of them. Name your price.”
Hickox stared at him
coldly. “The man is not mine to sell. He belongs to Arnold Barnwell, so he may be had, but right now he must be seen by Judge Hayden. The boy? Well, he is not here, so I might be willing to sell him to you and be glad to never have to lay eyes on his mangy head. The baby? Is she a slave or is she free? Also a matter for the judge. But the woman. No sir. She will be tried in New Jersey for the murder of Mr. Colby.” He turned to Imari. “And she will be hanged. By. The. Neck.”
“Don’t let this happen,” said Helen, looking at her husband, her voice sharp, her eyes desperate.
“Any price, Mr. Hickox. All of them. Name it,” said Augustin, his voice hoarse and weak. All eyes shifted to Hickox.
“She murdered a white man,” Hickox said, his body rigid, face red. “That cannot stand. There will be justice. And let it be swift.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him,” cried Imari.
“Quiet,” said Hickox, striking her across the mouth. The sounds of metal clanking against metal filled the hall. Elymas surged toward Hickox. Swift yanked on Elymas’s neck chain, choking him back.
Hickox pointed his gun at Elymas’s head. “Mr. Swift, get the prisoners outside.”
Maggie removed her knit shawl and gave it to Imari, who wrapped it around the baby. “We gonna help,” said Maggie.
Hickox turned to her. “There is nothing you can do.” He nodded to Augustin and left with Imari carrying the infant, blood seeping from her lips, Elymas behind her. Both upright and silent as they passed into the cold rain. Margaret’s plaintive cries grew fainter as they drew farther away.
Maggie, Helen, and Augustin were left in the hallway.
“You must fix this,” said Helen, moving to her husband and grabbing his hand. “We cannot lose them.”
“Of course, you’re right,” he said. “We need help. My dear, get Alvan Stewart out of that abolition meeting. He must, no matter what, meet us at Judge Hayden’s office.”
Helen threw a cloak around her shoulders and ran out the door.
“Promise,” said Augustin, turning to Maggie, “to get me to that courthouse.”
She hesitated, eyes dropping to the broken leg and the bandages she had put on the day before. Was this right? she wondered. She thought about the poor baby and the awful noise of the shackles and the intensity of Hickox’s anger. No. Augustin had to go. No other voice would be heard. A shudder raced through the man. She put her hand softly on his knee. He needed his rest, but the new fire in his eyes couldn’t be denied.
It would be hard on him, that was certain, but not as hard as explaining to God that he had done nothing. I’ll be right at his side if anything goes wrong, she thought. I’ll pack a few things. Opium and some brandy. When we get back, I’ll get some icy water from Ballou Creek and give him a cold bath and bring that heat down. He’s strong. A man like that. No broken leg could stop him from his duty and he knows it.
“I will,” she said, finally.
“What happened to your hand?” he asked.
“It ain’t nothing. You ready for this?”
He nodded.
“You just wait. I’ll get the horse hitched up.” It’s only a few blocks, she thought as she hurried to the back. After thirty years, that was not too far to go for redemption.
Horace kept his eyes on the blond head of Dr. McCooke, who had just disappeared onto Jay Street, moving swiftly and with purpose. His first step, Horace imagined, would be liquor. From there he might be going toward Bagg’s Square and the hotels, or perhaps to the ticket office at the canal building. If he made it that far, he might leave Utica by packet, or even a freighter … if. Horace knew that the doctor could not stay in the city now. The things Maggie had said he’d done? No one would ever allow him inside their home to see their wives—not rich, not poor. Besides, what about that gal and her baby? They were in the hands of Satan because of him. He gets on the next boat and steps off somewhere else, clean. Who would ever punish a worm like him? He had to be stopped before he wrecked someone else’s life.
Horace rubbed his rib cage where the doctor had struck him. He shivered and turned his collar up against the rain.
He knew the city better than that soft, weak white man. Jay Street dead-ended at the Bleecker basin. From there the doctor would have to go back to John Street and swing over to Genesee to get to the canal building. Horace knew a faster way, by sneaking by the Exchange Building. He could beat him to the Genesee Street Bridge and keep a look out from there.
He started to run across Bleecker Street, but a disturbance at the Presbyterian church caught his eye. An angry crowd had gathered and several men were scaling tall ladders that had been moved against the building. He had no time for any white men’s nonsense. The idea that the doctor might get away boiled Horace’s belly. Into that stew, he heaped his lost fish and his relationship with Mr. Galway, which was ruined, along with his reputation with his black customers. And the box. Coins and papers might be replaced, but no one could clip a new braid of hair from his mother’s head. She had been sleeping in her grave for two decades. The only part of her he had left was gone.
He raced to the basin. Within moments, he was over the canal and took a good position under an awning across Liberty Street. He was breathing heavily, but tried to appear unruffled. He pulled his slouchy hat over his face and peeked out from under the brim.
In front of Horace, two white men, one tall and burly, the other deeply sunburned, confronted a small group of neatly dressed young men, a mix of both white and black. The burly fellow produced a basket and led the sunburned one into pelting the group with eggs. Clearly the force of their attack worked, as the lads broke into a run and passed Horace’s position, turning at Whitesboro Street. The sky began to pour down a torrent of rain. People ran for cover and Horace found himself joined under the awning by the two who had been the cause of the mischief.
The burly man focused on him. “You one of them ab-o-litionists?” he asked, his hand in the basket.
Despite his bandages, Horace pulled back his coat, revealing his favorite fish-gutting knife, a sturdy specimen sharpened to perfection, with a solid antler handle that he’d mounted himself. “Chase them boys if you gotta chase someone,” he murmured, pulling out the knife.
The men backed away into the downpour. Just as they did, the doctor appeared, complete with his medical bag, at the foot of the Genesee Street Bridge. He stopped for a moment and dug into his hip pocket. Horace squinted, trying to see if the man was removing the leather purse with the reward money. McCooke pulled out a flask and took a long drink from it. He raised the container, as if saluting the god of rain. After another sip, the doctor nodded with satisfaction and tucked it back into his pocket.
Resentment burned in Horace’s chest. On a day like this one—with that family probably in chains—how could the man who had handed them over to the slavers be happy?
Hate filled the fishmonger with power. He surged toward the doctor and in a few steps the two were face-to-face. Horace’s blade was buried in the doctor’s side.
As McCooke slumped, Horace withdrew the knife and wrapped his arm around him, guiding the unsteady man to a corner of the bridge. With all his strength, he pulled the doctor down to the towpath and threw him onto the dusty gravel.
Blood began to stain the doctor’s fine wool coat. The prone man tried to sit up, but could only lift his head. The wind shifted, cooling his face.
The doctor felt confused. The black man who stood over him was talking to him, but it was like his ears were stuffed with cotton. He felt something moving around inside his clothing. The villain had his hand in his jacket. After the Negro extracted something from an inner pocket—something very important, the doctor thought, but couldn’t quite remember what—he felt himself grabbed under the arms and dragged. A large pile of rope appeared next to him and as McCooke studied it with interest, he heard the man say something else and understood that he was being left alone. Good, he thought, I’m too tired to deal with this nigger right now. He touched his side, lo
oking for the flask, but instead felt a warm wetness. When he looked at his fingers, they were bright red. How strange, he thought. But he couldn’t quite sort out what was happening. I must be drunk. His thoughts drifted off to his father’s plantation on the very day young McCooke headed off to medical school. Father’s face shone with pride. Mother hung on to him and sobbed as if she were sending him to Hades to seek out Dr. Faustus. He went to pat her back, but couldn’t feel his hand. Sleep, sleep, he thought, and closed his eyes.
Once Horace had the leather purse, he quickly leaped back up to Genesee Street, leaving the doctor to his fate. As he sped away he tapped the bulge in his coat, once again hearing the familiar guilty clink of gold coins.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
MAGGIE EMERGED FROM the house and splashed through the backyard toward the barn.
“Sister Maggie,” Sylvanus called. Joe ran ahead of him and caught up with her.
“They took Momma and Poppa. We gotta save them.”
Sylvanus approached. “I can take the boy to Oriskany. We must keep him safe.”
“We will,” said Maggie.
“But what about Momma and Poppa?”
“We’re gonna help them,” she said, turning to the boy. “And you got a job to do.”
Maggie hurried past them to the barn, but the moment her hand made contact with the heavy wooden door, she cried out.
Sylvanus stepped in front of her and swung both doors open.
“Mr. Sylvanus, go get Mr. Augustin ready to move. He’s gotta come down to the court.” She leaned in. “He ain’t in good shape. You gotta help him.”
“Why we need him?” said Joe. “He slow. We got this white man. Ain’t one good as another?”
Sylvanus laughed in spite of himself.
“Hitch up that horse,” said Maggie sharply.
Joe got the horse out of its stall and began backing it between the shaft rails of the cart.
“I shall see to Mr. Galway,” said Sylvanus. “But,” and he pulled Maggie outside of the barn, “we must shield the boy from those villains.”
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 30