Promises to the Dead Read online

  Somehow I made my way to that tall column and from thence to number 115 West Monument Street. It was a grand place, well kept and dignified, the home of ladies and gentlemen. Here I was, dirty and bloody and so dizzy I could scarcely stand up. How was I to knock on that big door and ask for Miss Polly Baxter? Why, she'd never speak to a raggedy boy like me.

  While I stood there, swaying back and forth, the door opened and out came a well-dressed gent wearing a black armband. I had to stare hard to keep from seeing two of him. "Come along, step lively, don't dawdle," he called to someone inside.

  A plumpish woman hastened out the door, followed by a pretty young lady with a melancholy look. Both were dressed in black silk dresses. Maybe it was the color of their clothing, but the two of them were as pale as pale could be. Behind them came a young Negro woman, toting more boxes than she could manage.

  I guessed the pale young lady to be Miss Polly Baxter, but before I dared say a word to her, a carriage drove up. In a trice, they all climbed inside and went rattling away down Monument Street.

  "Hey, what are you doing hanging around here, boy?"

  I wheeled and found myself face to face with a large Negro woman about the age of Delia. She was standing in the doorway of number 115, broom in hand, getting ready to sweep me away with the rest of the dirt.

  I reckon I'd turned too fast, for all of a sudden I got so dizzy I couldn't see straight. The woman turned into a pair of twins, everything went as black as those silk dresses, and I felt myself falling, falling, falling. The last thing I heard was the woman saying, "What's wrong, wrong, wrong..." and then I was gone into the dark.

  ***

  For a long while after that, I passed in and out of strange dreams and visions. In one, the wind blew me higher and higher, way above the roofs of Baltimore and on across the Bay, all the way back to the little house where I was born, and there was Mama alive and well and so happy to see me. All those other babies were there, too, laughing and gay, as healthy as children could be. Through the window I saw Daddy plowing the field, strong the way he was before he sickened.

  I put my arms around Mama and held her tight and smelled her sweet smell. I wanted to ask where she'd been all this time, but I knew not to. Such a question would break the spell.

  Then Lydia stepped through the door, carrying her baby girl, the one that died, only she was alive now and smiling at me. Lydia came over to Mama and touched her arm. "You can't keep him here," she said. "He's got promises to keep."

  Mama held me tighter, and then ever so gently she loosed herself from my arms. "You must go back, son," she whispered. "It's not your time to join me."

  "No, don't make me go, Mama. Let me stay with you."

  But Lydia came between us. "Remember your promise, Jesse. Find Perry and get him to Polly, so I can rest peaceful."

  In a flash, she and Mama and all the others were gone and I was alone in a dark, narrow street. Somehow I knew I was in Baltimore, just outside Slattery's slave jail. I heard sounds of misery from behind the wall, cries and sobs and groans, wails and shrieks mixed with hollering and cursing and whips cracking. Out of the shadows stepped Colonel Abednego Botfield, taller than life, his eyes glowing red as a hellhound's. In one hand he held a pistol, pointed at my heart. His other hand gripped Perry.

  "This boy is mine," Colonel Botfield snarled. "You'll never get him."

  Behind me stood Lydia, knife at my throat. "You promised to keep him safe," she hissed in my ear. "You swore on my grave!"

  Just as Colonel Botfield pulled the trigger, everything changed, and I was all alone again in a strange place, crying for Mama.

  "There now, there now," someone said softly. "Rest easy, boy."

  I opened my eyes to find myself lying on a straw pallet in a small dark room lit only by a candle. The ceiling was low and the air smelled of mold and dust. At first I thought I was in a jail cell, but just as I was about to holler in fright, a Negro woman leaned over and patted my hand.

  I tried to ask her who she was and where I was, but my throat was sore and my mouth was dry and my voice was no more than a croak.

  "Hush," the woman said. "You been mighty sick. First there was your head. You lost a lot of blood and nearly died from a concussion. Then the fever set in."

  She pressed a cool cloth against my head. "Goodness gracious, boy, you've kept me on my knees for more than two weeks praying the Lord to spare your young life."

  "Two weeks?" I tried to sit up but found I couldn't manage it. The fever had left me weak as a baby. "I have to find Perry, I promised his mama I'd take care of him, I—"

  "Lie still, and drink this." The woman held a cup of something hot to my lips. It smelled like swamp water and I shut my mouth tight, recalling some of Delia's medical concoctions. They tasted so bad a body got well just to save himself from drinking them.

  "Come on, honey," the woman coaxed. "Take a few swallows, like a good boy." She pushed the cup firmly against my lips until she managed to get a few drops into my mouth. It tasted just as bad as it smelled, but I swallowed it anyway. Which encouraged her to pour more into me.

  "My name's Athena," she went on. "You been here at Judge Baxter's home since I found you, off your head most of the time, shouting all sorts of nonsense about some child and Miss Polly—"

  "Please go fetch Miss Polly Baxter," I cut in. "I got news from her dear friend Lydia. And Perry—I have to tell her about Perry." Shaking with worry, I clutched Athena's hand.

  Athena stared at me, her face full of distrust. "How do you know Miss Polly? Who are you anyway, boy? Where do you come from?"

  I told Athena my name, and then I let the whole story tumble out. How Lydia caught me in the woods and made me promise to bring Perry to Miss Polly Baxter. How the poor young woman birthed a dead baby and then died herself. How Miss Sally and I buried her and the baby in the woods. How Perry and I came to Baltimore on Captain Harrison's ship.

  I didn't leave nothing out. Not even the part about the late Mr. Peregrine Baxter being Perry's father. By the time I came to Colonel Abednego Botfield, I was sniffling and snuffling and biting my lip to keep from crying.

  "I promised Lydia I'd keep her boy safe," I finished up, all hoarse and tearful. "I swore on her very grave, and now the colonel has him."

  "Lord, Lord, it grieves my heart to hear tell of Lydia's death." Athena left off stroking my forehead and stared into the shadows. "The judge used to take me along when the family visited Mr. Peregrine and Mrs. Henrietta," she went on. "Miss Polly always sought Lydia out. They was the same age, you know. They used to chatter together out on the lawn like a pair of pretty birds."

  Athena paused like she was thinking hard. "I don't believe Lydia ever told Miss Polly about having a child with Mr. Peregrine. I never knew it myself. Lydia must have kept that boy hidden away when we visited." She sighed and wiped her eyes. "Do you have any notion where the colonel might have taken the child?"

  "The Widow Baxter wanted both Lydia and Perry sold south at Slattery's slave jail," I said. "I reckon that's exactly where the colonel took Perry. He could be anywhere now. Mississippi, Louisiana. I'll never find him, never."

  I busted out crying in earnest, which shamed me nearly as much as losing Perry. I had to get up and find him or die trying, but I didn't have the strength even to push the bedcovers back. "Please tell Miss Polly I got a message for her," I begged Athena. "Let me explain things to her. Surely she'll help me find Perry."

  "Oh, Jesse, I'm sad to say Miss Polly's not here," Athena said slowly. "On the very day you showed up, Judge Baxter sent her and his wife to his brother's place in the country. The city's in such an uproar, with some folks wanting to join the rebels and others wanting to stay in the Union, he didn't think they was safe."

  Hearing that, I knew what people meant when they said their hearts sank. Mine plummeted like a rock down to the very bottom of a deep, dark well. Perry lost, Miss Polly Baxter gone, and me as weak as a baby—what was I to do now?

  I reckon Athena
guessed how I was feeling, for she fixed her dark eyes on me and said, "Don't you fret, Jesse. When you get your strength back, I'll help you find that little boy of Lydia's."

  I lay back, too weary to speak another word. In my weak state, I even let Athena pour more of her swamp water down my throat. For a while the only sound was the rain tapping against a tiny window up near the ceiling.

  "Sleep now," Athena said. "And don't go blaming yourself for what's happened. You done your best to help that child."

  She went to the door but turned back to say, "You're in the slave quarters. No one's sleeping down here but me and Nate, the judge's man. Hyacinth went to the country with Miss Polly and her mother." She paused as someone walked across the floor over our heads. "Be as quiet as you can, Jesse. That's the judge pacing around up there. I don't want him to know you're here. He ain't a bad man, just a mite short on charity."

  After Athena left, I was all alone in the dark. Though I meant to stay awake, my eyelids grew so heavy I soon gave up and drifted back into dreams I didn't want to dream. In some I was burying Perry in a deep hole in the woods beside his mama. In others, I was ducking bullets from the colonel's pistol. In the worst ones, Lydia came after me with that big sharp knife of hers, threatening to kill me for breaking my sacred vow.

  I feared I'd never get a good night's sleep again, not with dreams like mine.

  CHAPTER 9

  I don't know how long I lay on that pallet in the cellar. The sun never shone through the little window, but sometimes the light was gray and I knew it was daytime. Other times it was black and I knew it was night. But mostly day and night ran together in a blur of fever dreams.

  Athena came and went, bringing me food and her swamp water concoctions. Slowly I got stronger. First I could sit up, then I could totter around. I was like a baby learning how to do things all over again.

  One morning I decided I was strong enough to go upstairs and see if Athena might let me start hunting for Perry. The more time went by, the less chance I had of finding him. I waited till I was sure the judge had left for the courthouse, and then I tiptoed up the steps. My legs shook a little, but I figured they'd bear my weight. Fresh air would do me good, too.

  At the top of the stairs I stopped and listened. I could hear Athena laughing and talking with a man, his deep voice rumbling. I peered through the doorway to see who was with her. A young Negro man sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. I guessed him to be Nate, the judge's man Athena had told me about.

  I figured it was safe to join them, but when I stepped through the door, Nate stopped in the middle of a sentence and stared at me, his face as sober as a preacher's.

  "Is that the boy you been tending to?" he asked Athena.

  She nodded, her smile gone, too. "Like I said, Nate, Jesse's a good boy. He won't cause us no trouble." She motioned me to sit down and went to fix me a bowl of oatmeal.

  Nate watched her set the bowl in front of me. I was hoping he'd finish the funny story he'd been telling. After all I'd been through, I could have used a good laugh. But all he said was, "He looks like something the cat drug in, but that don't mean he won't bring us grief."

  "Now, Nate," Athena said. "I told you why Jesse came here. He's trying to get Lydia's child back from Colonel Botfield."

  Nate shook his head, but he didn't say nothing. Just sat there drinking his coffee while I tackled my oatmeal. Every now and then, he glanced at me like he was sizing me up. It was clear he had no use for me. Which hurt my feelings, for hadn't Athena just told him I was trying to keep a promise to a slave like himself? Surely he couldn't be thinking I was up to no good.

  When I was done eating, I told Athena what was on my mind. "I can't wait no longer. I've got to find Perry."

  Athena studied me as if I was a horse she was considering buying. She examined my eyes, my ears, and my throat. She even ran a finger across the raw red scar on my forehead.

  "Just look at you," she muttered. "Skinny as a bean pole and whiter than cake flour. A gust of wind could blow you away like milkweed seeds."

  "I've always been skinny, and I've always been pale," I said. "Besides, I made a promise, I told you I did, and I got to keep it."

  Athena sighed. "You been here almost four weeks, Jesse. How do you expect to find that poor child now? There's no telling what's become of him."

  "Just tell me where Slattery's slave jail is," I said. "I'll go down there and ask about Perry."

  "If Mr. Slattery's got the boy," Athena said, "he's going to want money for him."

  "Perry is Judge Baxter's grandson," I reminded her. "Surely he'd pay any price to get his own kin out of a place like that."

  "If you have the sense you were born with," Athena said, "you'll keep your mouth shut about that."

  Before I could think of a comeback, Nate spoke up. "I'm done my work for today. I'll take Jesse down to Mr. Slattery's place. Might be good for him to see it."

  Athena didn't look happy about this turn of events. "You be careful, Nate. A strong young man like you—somebody's likely to snatch you up and sell you south, too."

  "Don't you worry none, Athena," Nate answered. "I'll take good care of the boy and myself, too. Besides we got Union soldiers all over the city now. Things are changing."

  "Not fast enough," Athena muttered, but she went to the door with us. "Go down the alley to Centre Street," she told Nate. "You don't want the neighbors seeing you out and about like you ain't got nothing to do."

  "I told you, I can take care of myself, Athena."

  Nate led me outside and down a narrow alley to Centre Street. After all that time in the cellar, the bright sunlight made me squint. The city seemed bigger and noisier than I remembered. More crowded, too. I kept close to Nate, glad to be with someone his size.

  On Charles Street, we stopped to watch a unit of Maryland soldiers march past. They looked right smart in their brand-new blue uniforms. A band led them, playing stirring songs. I spied a drummer boy no older than me, looking mighty pleased with himself.

  Even though they were Yankees, the music made me want to run along behind them, following wherever they went, earning glory in battle like them. I reckon I'd have felt the same way if they'd been Confederates. It was the music that got to me more than anything else.

  Most of the people on the street didn't give a fig for the music or the soldiers either. They jeered as the troops passed and called them traitors to the state of Maryland.

  Among the crowd were three young ladies dressed in red and white gowns, sporting the Confederate stars and bars. "Look at that fellow carrying a ham," one girl laughed. "Why, it's bigger than he is!"

  The little soldier just grinned and waved, but some of his companions hooted at the girls. It didn't seem to bother them none. They just drew closer together and giggled, swishing their silky skirts.

  "Big brave Lincoln's lambs," the girls called.

  The crowd guffawed and took up the name, chanting it till the soldiers turned down Pratt Street at the bottom of the hill.

  Slowly the music faded away and the people went back to doing whatever they'd been doing before the soldiers came along. Still whispering and giggling, the three girls passed right by us and disappeared into a house on the corner.

  Nate scowled. "Miss Polly's friends," he muttered. "Baltimore Belles, they call themselves. They're for the South, like their mamas and papas."

  No matter what Nate thought, those girls were mighty pretty. Especially the one who'd cried out about the ham. Their dresses were fetching, too. I kept my opinion to myself, for I didn't want Nate to think I was for the South, too. Truth to tell, I hadn't made up my mind which army I'd join when I was old enough. But I couldn't help wondering a little about Miss Polly. If she agreed with her friends, how was she going to feel about Perry? It hurt my head to think about it, so I pushed the question away and hurried along with Nate, trying to match my step to his.

  On we went, making our way downhill toward the harbor. By the time we got in sight of the slav
e jail's tall wooden gate, we were in the worst part of Baltimore I'd seen yet. Tumbledown old houses propped each other up, roofs sagging, paint peeling, windows busted. Mazes of muddy alleys and narrow rutted streets led off in all directions. Rats as big as cats sniffed the garbage. People in rags, their faces grimy, eyed Nate and me like they were wondering how much money we had. Luckily they decided we didn't have enough coins in our pockets to bother with.

  Nate stopped on the corner about a block away from Slattery's. "I'd best wait here, Jesse. Like Athena said, some of them slave catchers will grab any Negro, slave or free."

  I had no wish to enter that jail by myself, but I didn't want to put Nate in danger. Leaving him where he was, I followed a smartly dressed gent through the gate.

  The first thing I saw was a group of white men crowded around a platform, pushing and shoving each other to get a better look at slaves chained to posts. Some of the Negroes held their heads up and stared at the crowd, but others sagged in their chains, their heads bowed, their bodies covered with cuts and bruises. I saw one or two that weren't much bigger than me, and I shuddered to think Perry might be here, bruised and bleeding and scared.

  Behind the platform was a two-story building with barred windows. On the second floor, women pressed their faces against the bars. They waved their hands, they reached out, they cried the names of their husbands and sons, they wept. Some clutched little children to their breasts, their eyes wide with fear. Other shook the bars in rage and screamed at the crowd. It seemed hell was right here in Baltimore, and I hadn't even known it.

  Paying no mind to the women, the men around the platform began yelling out bids for a tall black man. The seller, a scrawny white man, his narrow face pitted with pox scars, stripped off the slave's shirt to show his broad shoulders and muscles.

  "This here's a mighty fine worker," he yelled to be heard above the racket. "Just look at him, strong as an ox."