Promises to the Dead Page 7

  "How did he come by them scars on his back?" a man hollered. "'Pears to me he's been whipped and whipped good. Might be his attitude is poor."

  "Either that or he's a runaway," another fellow said.

  "He's trouble for sure," the first man said. "I'll give you twenty dollars for him. Not a cent more."

  "Now, listen here," the seller said, leaning closer to the crowd as if he had a good secret to share. "I got this man from Colonel Abednego Botfield, so you know I'm telling you God's own truth. He won't be no trouble. Not now." The seller laughed, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth worn down to stumps. "He's broke and broke for good."

  I looked at the slave more closely. He'd been whipped all right, but he wasn't broke. Despite the chains on his wrists and ankles, any fool could see the fire smoldering in his eyes—fire no man, not even one as wicked as Colonel Abednego Botfield, could put out.

  "What can I do for you, sonny?" I'd been staring at the slave so hard I hadn't noticed the man who now stood before me. Dressed in a black frock coat and striped trousers, he looked a gentleman, but he didn't fool me. No man of breeding would dirty his shoes in this place.

  "I come to find a slave child Colonel Abednego Botfield brought here a while back," I said, hoping to sound braver than I felt. "A boy by the name of Perry, about seven or eight years old. Fair-skinned and pretty."

  "The colonel never brought no child here." The man paused and gave me a long, hard look. "What's it to you, anyway?"

  "Judge Baxter himself sent me to fetch him," I said, thinking fast. "The child belonged to his son, the late Mr. Peregrine Baxter. The colonel had no right to him."

  The auctioneer came up to us and doffed his hat. "Mr. Slattery, sir," he said, "the gent over there in the brown coat is doing his best to drive my prices down."

  "I'll be with you in a minute, Jarvis. Don't be too particular, though. The way things are going, we got to take what we can get these days." Mr. Slattery spit on the cobblestones at my feet and scowled at me. "I don't know what you're up to, but it don't really matter, as I ain't got the boy."

  Before I knew what he was up to, he shoved me so hard I fell into a puddle. "Get your sorry self out of here before I lose my temper," he sneered.

  Jarvis laughed as I picked myself up. I didn't look at him or Mr. Slattery. Keeping my head up, I walked out of the slave jail as fast as I could, my heart pounding with the worst anger I'd ever felt.

  Out in the street, I took a few deep breaths. Though it shocked me to think such thoughts, I wanted to whip Mr. Slattery and Jarvis till the skin peeled off their backs in strips, like they done the slaves. Maybe I'd even hang the villains. Then I'd free the slaves and burn the jail down. And Mr. Slattery with it. The devil would be happy to welcome him to hell. He probably already had places set aside for him and Colonel Botfield.

  CHAPTER 10

  Nate was standing where I'd left him, leaning against the wall of a shabby old house. "Did you find any trace of the child?"

  Close to tears, I shook my head. "Mr. Slattery himself told me he don't have Perry. He claimed Colonel Botfield never brung him here." I looked at him in despair. "Oh, Nate, I never seen a place so hateful nor met a man worse than Mr. Slattery."

  Nate looked down the street to the gates of the slave jail. "Won't be there much longer," he said. "Mr. Abraham Lincoln ain't one to tolerate such things in a Union state. He'll put Mr. Slattery and his kind out of business soon enough. You just see if he don't."

  He reached for my arm. "Let's go along home now, Jesse. You look plain tuckered out."

  I dug my heels into the pavement to keep him from hauling me back to Athena. "What about Perry?" I asked. "I ain't going anywhere till I find him." I turned my head to hide the tears running down my face. It seemed I cried as easy as a baby these days. Must be I was still weak from the fever.

  Nate considered what I'd said. "The Widow Baxter's folks live here in Baltimore, just around the corner from the judge," he told me. "I know one of their house girls. Maybe Pamela's seen the boy."

  He led me back the way we'd come, a long uphill climb. By the time we got to the top, I was bone weary. At last Nate came to a halt in front of a house even grander than the judge's place. Its tall glass windows sparkled in the sunlight, and its brass railings shone so bright it almost hurt my eyes to look at them. The shutters and door were painted a glossy black, and the gray stone walls looked thick enough to withstand cannon balls.

  "This here is where the widow's folks live," Nate said. "Kirby's their name."

  I studied the big stone house. It seemed like a fortress locked tight against me. Even if Perry was inside, I didn't see how Nate and I would get him out.

  Nate tugged my sleeve. "Come on, Jesse. You want the widow to see you standing here, staring at the house?"

  I came to my senses and followed Nate down a narrow alleyway between the Kirbys' house and the house next door. Soon he was knocking softly on the back door.

  The slave who opened it was young and pretty. She seemed both pleased and surprised to see Nate.

  "Morning, Pamela," Nate said. "You're looking mighty fine today."

  "What are you doing here at this time of day?" Pamela asked, giving him a big smile to show she was teasing him. "Don't you have work to do?"

  "I done it all early," he said. "Polished the judge's boots, tended to the horses, mended a busted carriage wheel."

  Pamela noticed me standing behind Nate. "Who's this raggedy white boy tagging along with you?" she asked.

  Nate patted my shoulder. "This here's Jesse Sherman, come all the way from Talbot County. He's seeking a little slave child named Perry. Colonel Botfield might have brought him here a few weeks back."

  Pamela stared at me distrustfully, all the happiness gone from her face. "What do you want him for?"

  "It ain't what you think," I said, fearing she believed I was a slave catcher after a reward. "I promised Perry's mama I'd bring him to Miss Polly Baxter, but the colonel stole him away from me. Is he here?"

  Pamela glanced at Nate. He shrugged. "Athena swears Jesse's a good boy," he told her.

  Pamela hesitated, still unsure, I guess. "Is Perry about seven years old?" she asked. "Blue-eyed and fair-skinned?"

  I nodded. "That's him! Have you seen him?"

  "Not since the night Colonel Botfield carried him through the front door," Pamela said slowly. "I let them in. The child was putting up a mighty struggle, kicking and hitting and carrying on. A regular little hellion he was."

  Worried as I was, I couldn't help smiling at the picture she was painting of Perry. It seemed the colonel hadn't busted the child's spirit any more than he'd busted the spirit of that man I'd seen in the slave jail.

  "Miss Henrietta came flying to meet him," Pamela went on. "Her face was terrible to see—cold and hard and full of hate. She snatched the child out of the colonel's arms and told him she'd only give him half the reward because he didn't have the boy's mother."

  "That's because she died," I put in, but Pamela went on telling her story as if I hadn't spoken.

  "Before Miss Henrietta knew what he was up to, the colonel grabbed Perry back. 'The boy's a pretty thing,' he said. 'Unless you give me the whole amount, I got half a mind to keep him for myself. 'Tain't my fault his mama died.' 'You forget, Uncle,' Miss Henrietta cried. 'I own the boy! You have no right to him!'"

  At this point, Nate touched Pamela's hand. "Hush," he whispered. "You want the whole household to hear you?"

  Pamela looked over her shoulder, but the kitchen was empty. Taking a deep breath, she went on in a lower voice. "They stood there arguing till Mr. Kirby came downstairs to see what the trouble was. By then, Miss Henrietta looked a sight, red-faced and rageful. The boy was still kicking and hitting, biting and hollering fit to kill. Only the colonel was his usual self, smirking like Satan at the ruckus he'd caused."

  Pamela paused to listen to a sound from inside the house. Satisfied no one was coming to the door, she continued her story. "Miss Henrietta
told her daddy the colonel had brought her slave child back but refused to hand him over unless she paid him the whole reward, even though he didn't have the boy's mother. Then the colonel spoke up and said he had claims on both the boy and his mother. Mr. Kirby said that was all water under the bridge and that the child belonged to Henrietta."

  Pamela shook her head. "I never saw such carryings-on. While the colonel swore a blue streak, Miss Henrietta walked off with the child. Mr. Kirby spied me standing there and told me to fetch a bottle of whiskey for him and the colonel. They stayed in the study drinking and playing cards for the rest of the night."

  "Where is Perry now?" I peered through the doorway, hoping to see him somewhere. "Is he still here?"

  "Miss Henrietta keeps him locked in a room in the cellar," Pamela said. "She won't let anyone go near him. There's no telling what that woman intends to do with the poor child."

  I was ready to rescue Perry then and there, but Pamela stopped me. "Not now. Colonel Abednego Botfield has been staying here ever since he showed up with Perry. At this very minute, he's talking treason with a roomful of bankers and politicians. He's got rifles to sell to the Confederates, he says, good ones, and if they—"

  A bell on the kitchen wall jangled behind her. "That's the library," she said. "The gentlemen must be wanting more brandy. You'd best leave before someone catches me talking to you."

  Scared as I was of the colonel, I didn't aim to go running off without Perry. "We can't leave that boy here," I told Nate. "The widow's bound to be the death of him."

  Pamela hesitated, looking fearful. "Come back after midnight," she whispered. "I'll meet you here at the door. We'll get the child out of the house somehow."

  The bell jangled again, longer this time, and Pamela shooed us away. "Go on," she warned us. "Mr. Kirby will be poking his head out the library door any second now."

  ***

  By the time Nate and I got back to the Baxters' house, I was so tuckered out I could scarcely put one foot in front of the other. Athena took one look at me and snapped at Nate, "You must have walked this poor boy all over Baltimore. Didn't I tell you he's still weak? You aim to kill him?"

  "Now, now, don't get all het up, Athena," Nate said. "The boy's fine."

  Truth to tell, I felt more dead than alive, but I done my best to hide it. I didn't want Athena putting me back to bed and dosing me with swamp water, not when Perry was in worse danger of dying than I was.

  Athena turned to me. "Did you learn Perry's whereabouts?"

  "The widow's got him locked in the cellar at the Kirbys' house," I said. "But Pamela's going to help Nate and me get him out of there tonight."

  Athena turned to Nate, her face creased with worry. "Surely you ain't aiming to take a risk like that. What's going to happen when the Kirbys find the boy gone? And how about Pamela? You given any thought to what they might do to her?"

  Nate studied the tabletop a second or two. "The child's sure to die if we don't get him out of there," he said in a low voice.

  Athena turned away. "Lord help him," she whispered. "Lord help you, too, Nate."

  "Didn't I tell you that there boy would bring us grief?" Nate asked, jerking his thumb at me.

  Athena laid a hand on my shoulder and frowned at Nate. "You can't blame Jesse for what the colonel and the widow done."

  "Huh" was all Nate said. He didn't have to say more, for I knew what he was thinking. I was a white boy from across the Bay. My uncle owned a slave and leaned strong toward the South. Worse yet, my granddaddy and my great-granddaddy and on back before them had bought and sold slaves.

  "Well," Athena said with a long quivery sigh, "I reckon you're going to do what you have to do, and that's that."

  Nate nodded and turned his mind to the dinner Athena set before us. Sweet potatoes and ham slices, corn muffins and turnip greens. It was a mighty fine meal, but I didn't relish it as much as I might have, for I was scared of what might happen at the Kirbys' house.

  When I'd eaten all I could, Athena took my plate and told me to go down to the basement. "The judge will be coming home soon," she said. "It won't do for him to see you sitting at the table, enjoying his food."

  ***

  Late that night, Nate woke me from a troubled dream. "Time to go," he said.

  I followed him out the back door and down the alley. I didn't care for Baltimore in the daylight, but it was far worse at night. The moon shone down on the narrow streets, casting long black shadows. I expected Colonel Abednego Botfield to pop out from every alley we passed. He could be lurking in a dark doorway, he could be hunkering behind a wall. Like the devil himself, he could be anywhere, casting his snares, ready to pounce. By the time we reached the Kirbys' house, I was as jumpy as a grasshopper at harvest time.

  As quiet as quiet can be, we sneaked around to the back door. Nate tapped softly, and Pamela opened it so fast we almost fell into the kitchen.

  "Colonel Botfield and Mr. Kirby are still in the library," she whispered, "drinking and playing cards. I think the colonel's fixing to win every cent Mr. Kirby owns. I heard him joking about winning the boy."

  That was bad news. But there was no going back now. We had to get Perry out of that house before the colonel got his hands on him again.

  Pamela took a key ring from a hook by the cellar door and lit a small candle. We followed her down a creaky flight of steps into a dark, narrow hall. The ceiling was so low Nate had to stoop to keep from hitting his head. The cold, damp air smelled as old as the earth. The place was a sight worse than the judge's cellar, that's for sure.

  I started to say something, but Pamela motioned to a row of closed doors. I could hear someone snoring and someone else coughing. A bed creaked. A voice muttered.

  "Don't wake the others," Pamela whispered. "No one must know I had anything to do with the boy's disappearance."

  At the end of the hall we came to a locked door. Pamela tried several keys before she found one that fit. Stepping over the threshold, she held the candle high. Rats squeaked and scurried away from its light, making the straw on the floor rustle. In one corner, curled into a motionless ball, was Perry.

  Fearing he was dead, I dropped to my knees beside him and whispered his name.

  He sat up and backed away, hands raised to shield his face. "Don't," he cried, "don't!"

  I reached for him. "Hush, Perry. It's me, Jesse. Nobody's going to hurt you."

  Slowly his eyes focused on me. To my surprise, he flung his arms around me. "Jesse," he cried. "Where have you been all this time? I thought you'd gone back home and I'd never see you again. I thought you—"

  "I came as soon as I could," I cut in, "but my head was busted and I was sick of a fever and I—"

  Nate pushed me aside gently and lifted Perry from the filthy straw. With Pamela and me following close on his heels, he carried the child from his prison.

  My heart was pounding so loud I thought the colonel might hear it and come to investigate. He wouldn't hit me with the butt of his revolver this time. No, sir. He'd shoot me, kill me for sure. And Perry and Nate, too, most likely.

  In the kitchen, Pamela blew out the candle and quietly opened the back door. "Go quick," she whispered.

  Down the hall behind us, I heard the colonel laughing. "Looks like I win again, Daniel!"

  As Mr. Kirby bellowed a string of cuss words, I eased outside on shaking legs. Any minute those two would come looking for brandy and see us.

  Eager as I was to go, I waited while Nate hesitated on the doorstep. "Come with us, Pamela," he said. "You're bound to be blamed for this."

  She shook her head. "I'll get in more trouble running away."

  Nate seized her arm. "Listen to me," he begged. "I got it all thought out. We'll go to the Yankee camp on Federal Hill. I hear they shelter runaways as long as we do a good day's work for them."

  But Pamela didn't budge. "You go," she said. "Join up with the Yankees and do their dirty work, but don't expect me to come along with you."

  The bell on
the kitchen wall jangled, but Pamela was too busy arguing with Nate to pay it any mind. I plucked at his arm. "Come on," I whispered. "They're wanting more to drink."

  A door opened somewhere, and I heard the colonel say, "That worthless wench of yours must be asleep. Am I going to have to get the brandy myself?"

  Perry tightened his grip on Nate and began to whimper. "He's coming, he's coming. I hear him!"

  "Please go, Nate," Pamela begged, but it was too late. Just as she started to close the door, a red-faced man stepped into the kitchen.

  "Didn't you hear me ringing the bell, girl?" he hollered. "Where's my brandy?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Kirby. Go sit down, sir, I'll bring it to you." Pamela tried to block his view, but, drunk as he was, the man managed to spot Nate.

  "Who's at the door?" he asked, peering around Pamela. "You entertaining callers, girl?"

  Nate thrust Perry at me. "Get him out of here!"

  At the same moment, I glimpsed Colonel Abednego Botfield following his host into the kitchen. Terrified, I staggered backward into the alley, hauling Perry into the shadows with me.

  I heard Nate say, "Sorry, sir, but I been drinking with my friends and I got the notion to see Pamela. She told me to go away, so I guess I best leave now." He was slurring his voice and putting on a good show, but Mr. Kirby wasn't done with him yet.

  "Does Judge Baxter know you're out so late?" he asked. "If you was my slave, you wouldn't be traipsing around the streets at this hour. The judge gives you way too much freedom."

  Colonel Botfield stepped forward. "Is someone with you?" he asked Nate.

  "No, sir, it's just me."

  "I thought I heard a noise in the alley," the colonel said. "Excuse me while I take a look."

  I started running then, faster than I thought possible, dragging Perry along with me. Behind me I heard the colonel shout, "Stop right there or I'll shoot!"

  His gun went off, but the bullet went wide. I heard it hit the wall over my head as I ducked around the corner. On St. Paul Street, the two of us tumbled down a flight of steps and crouched in the shadows by a basement door. Scarcely breathing, we heard Colonel Botfield pounding up the alley toward us.