Seven for a Secret (15 page)

“And so I’ll be damned no matter what happens, probably,” I realized.

She twitched an eyebrow, half-seated with one lean flank on the kitchen table.

“Worse things there are to burn for,” she concluded, “than family.”

Footsteps approached. Bird deposited the bits of charcoal before me with a long-suffering glare that understood her absence had been what was needed and not means for creative expression. I was about to apologize to her, and tell my friends that I must go find my sibling with all possible speed, when a heavy
thud thud thud
fell on the front door. My feet were under me in an instant.

“Stay back,” I said.

Mrs. Boehm crowded Bird away with shooing sounds while I considered my likeliest weapons. The cleaver looked tempting. I was well spooked by then, after all.

“Mr. Wilde! If Mr. Wilde is at home, answer for God’s sake!”

The voice was familiar. My spine still felt taut as a kite string in a whirlwind, but the immediate sense of danger lessened. I pulled the door wide.

Mr. George Higgins, vigilance soldier by night and by day occupied at a highly lucrative profession I’d not yet divined, stood before me. He looked terrible. In fact, the poor man seemed as much in shock as I was. With a sick sensation, I imagined our distress stemmed from the same cause and wondered how he came to know of the tragedy.

“I scoured the Tombs in search of you.” Spent, he leaned with one palm against the door frame. “It’s so huge, and I couldn’t find you anywhere. At last I discovered your address.”

“Bird, I’m sorry,” I called to the anxious girl behind Mrs. Boehm’s rail-thin arm. “Something has happened, and I need to fix it.”

Her lips tensed into a line.
Of course,
that look said,
something has happened. You utter nimenog. I’ve been managing the wreckage of you all this while.

“Whatever you need, the answer is yes,” I told Higgins. But I knew what it was. Or I thought I did. By then I supposed that Delia and Jonas must have informed him of the murder.

“Come with me back to the Tombs, then, at once. We’ve wasted far too much time. Though God knows—I only hope there’s something you can do. I fear there isn’t.”

Your brother has been arrested,
I thought,
and will now rot in a Tombs cell until they hang him. If he’s wonderfully lucky, his neck will snap and spare him the—

“Varker and Coles are old hands at their particular brand of villainy, after all,” Higgins spat out.

“Varker?” I repeated. My arms were arrowing into coat sleeves.

“Varker has him. It may well be too late already.”

“For Jonas Adams?”

“What? No,” Higgins said, looking agonized. “For Julius Carpenter.”

nine

There are few men so hardened against the claims of our common humanity, so utterly lost to the sympathy of nature, as to aid the slave agent in his work of blood. It requires those extraordinary samples of human depravity, which have lately disgraced our city, as police officers and judges, to accomplish such deeds, at which the mind naturally revolts.

—
THE FIRST ANNUAL REPORT OF THE NEW YORK COMMITTEE OF VIGILANCE, FOR THE YEAR 1837, TOGETHER WITH IMPORTANT FACTS RELATIVE TO THEIR PROCEEDINGS

M
y circuit at
the towering
Egyptian-style sepulcher of the Tombs is pretty well established. There’s my closet at the end of a narrow passage. There’s the open quadrangle at the center of the massive hive, where the sky seems very far from the earth and the gallows is assembled on hanging days. Hangings are popular sport among the more vicious of our residents, and the more curious, and among the young philosopher types who imagine they’re
more fully experiencing the world.
I avoid watching the life snuffed out of rogues whenever possible. But the open square is the quickest route to the prison, and—since I’ve made a fair number of arrests in my six months here, for all manner of crimes—I use it frequently. Then there are the cells themselves, where I bury people alive.

As for the courtrooms, I’d scarce set foot in them. We’d been addressed by Matsell on day one in a courtroom, but apart from that, I’d only twice been called to give material evidence. The fact I was entering unfamiliar territory didn’t do much to ease my heart, which clenched and unclenched like a piston propelling a steam engine.

I live five minutes’ hard dash from the Tombs, and Higgins and I took the distance at a jackal’s pace. We talked as best we could, though winded. But there wasn’t much to say.

“We’d a meeting last night to discuss things,” Higgins gasped. “The rescue, the Committee, the—well, in fact—”

“Me and the copper stars. And?”

“Julius never arrived. We thought him late or ill, but on my way home afterward, I checked at his lodgings. He hadn’t returned from work at all. He’s been employed at a chairmaker’s shop since winter set in and construction slowed. I went there at once.”

“Did Varker and Coles take him quietly?”

“They dragged him into the middle of the street, put a leg iron on him, and told passersby he was a runaway from Florida. His employers were surprised. But he hasn’t worked there above two months. So they let him go.”

Stone loomed grimly above us when we reached Franklin Street, blotting out far too much sky. The weird, upward-tapering windows of the Tombs are the height of its full two stories, barred in iron and casting judgment on all who pass antlike through the prison’s monstrous entrance columns. At the threshold, Mr. Higgins stopped me.

“I went to his house already.” Reaching in his navy greatcoat, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment. “You take his free papers.”

“Gladly. But why—”

“Because I’m
not
white
, Mr. Wilde.” His words were bullets, all velocity and sharp points. “I can’t legally testify as to his identity. Do you think I’m too stupid or too cowardly to act as witness myself, if I could? Are you really that dense?”

“All right. You could be a gentleman about it,” I snapped back.

A bright gleam of well-aimed meanness shot through that remark. One I regretted the instant it left my mouth. I like to think of myself as an agile-brained fellow. And so embarrassment—like hurt and helplessness—translates to anger somewhere between my gut and my tongue about nine times out of ten.

As for Higgins, his eyes turned cindery. “Could I
really
, Mr. Wilde? Be a gentleman? Heavens, just thinking on it . . . you truly suppose so, sir?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did. You could be a man about it.”

Holding your tongue by nearly biting it off isn’t pleasant, but I prevented making a further ass of myself. It was a near thing, though.

“In any case, do you think the way I conduct myself has any effect whatsoever on whether or not I am considered a
gentleman
?” he growled.

I looked George Higgins over. He was finely clad, tall and agile and self-made. His beard was so meticulously trimmed it looked
cultivated
, a hedging mask over his rather inscrutable features. As dark a man as I’d ever seen, and as poised a one. There had been something about the way he’d said
Delia, it’s me
at that wretched slavers’ den that had positively glowed with urgency. Passion, perhaps. I wasn’t yet certain. He wasn’t a docile chap by nature, and neither was he a scrapper, like my brother and me. He was a reasonable man who’d been told countless times, in our rules and our practices and our speech, that he wasn’t a man at all. And it ate away another piece of him every single morning. Tiny holes dotted his heart and his mind as if they’d suffered an infestation of moths.

“I’m sorry. Fair warning, calling me dense again would be a bad idea even though you’re entirely right.”

“You’d better try harder, then.”

He was off again, at a clean, smooth stride through the stone halls. I am a mustard-tempered-enough idiot that some further stupidity might well have emerged from my lips, but Higgins stopped before a wide door.

My companion entered, beckoning me into the courtroom. Many heads swiveled from the audience benches in our direction. Most native, some Irish, some tourists. A number of uppish sorts educating themselves so that they could better endorse whatever social opinions they already held. Tight-collared ministers, foreign businessmen with wax in their hair and perfume on their wrists. Bespectacled spinsters devoted to serious, salacious causes. Others were poor, and cold, and simply wanted benches. Up on the dais, next to the American flag hanging bright with optimism before the whitewashed walls, sat the judge.

Judge Sivell,
I thought, though in truth I knew him only by sight. His reputation is for impatience and querulousness, tempered by an almost secretive streak of good sense. His robes seemed to hail from the eighteenth century, and his powdered wig was squashed and yellow with use. A very prominent hooked nose was just then directing his gaze to me as if he were looking down a rifle sight. Hurrying to the front with George Higgins, I sat down, and then spied Julius in an elevated prisoner’s chair to my far right. A copper star hovered behind him, bored and half asleep.

God help Seixas Varker if he ever meets me alone in the dark,
I thought.

They’d done a flash job of it. Julius’s togs had been taken, replaced with loose cotton rags that looked exactly like what a New Yorker would costume a runaway slave in if producing a melodrama at Niblo’s Garden. His shoes were likewise missing. I wondered how they’d muscled him into the disguise and then took a deep breath because I didn’t need to wonder for very long. He held himself like a wax statue, as if any movement might set something bleeding. My friend sat straight in the chair, not touching its back, leaning one elbow on the arm with a finger over his lips. Doubtless several things wanted saying that he was busily forcing down.

“As you were telling us, Mr. Varker,” the judge coughed, having glared at me sufficiently.

Varker had spied me as well, of course, and his simpering look shifted into an uneasy smile. If he thought I was daydreaming over my fist meeting the pink folds of his neck, he was spot on target. His wrist had been bandaged and splinted from palm nearly to elbow. It was the only cheerful sight in the room. Long Luke Coles lounged on a bench, skinning me with his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Varker continued. “So as you’ve seen, this letter from Mr. Calhoun St. Claire commissioning me describes the accused to perfection. And as much as I disrelish discussing it, this is not the only occasion on which Coffee St. Claire, the runaway you see before you, has escaped the St. Claire estate. He began as a house slave, but soon proved to be most intractable, Your Honor. By the age of twelve, he was set to fieldwork. When he behaved well, he would be rewarded with housework for a time, but rebellion and indolence always sent him back to the cotton fields, I’m sorry to say. The St. Claires almost despair of reforming him, but have prevailed on me to return him to his home, to his wife and his three children, and see whether Christian forgiveness and generosity may prevail at last. They think it not impossible, sir, though their fondness may sound foolish to some.”

Julius had begun to look like a man in a bear trap attempting to ignore the metal sunk in his leg. A thin sheen glazed his temples, an unholy amalgam of pain and disquiet. I felt a palely echoing twist in my own gut.

How clever they’re being,
I thought. How very many questions they’d just forestalled in a single statement.

How do you know it’s Coffee St. Claire?
Oh, he answers this description perfectly.
What was he running from?
Fieldwork is a hard path for a useless gadabout like him, though the diligent thrive at it.
But if he’s a cotton picker, why does he carry himself so proud?
Trained to be a house slave.
Why does he speak like a New Yorker?
Well, I’ve said he’s run away before now, and he lights straight for Manhattan every time. He’s learned to ape high talk.
Why should they want him back, then?
These folk are Bible-fearing caretakers, and they trust this wretch will do right by them one day, repay them all their kindnesses. Do right by his wife and sons as well.

I stood.

“I beg your pardon, Your Honor, but this man’s name has never been Coffee St. Claire. His name is Julius Carpenter and he’s a free citizen of New York.”

Judge Sivell’s attention returned to me. “And just who—”

“Timothy Wilde, copper star one-oh-seven, sir. I have his free papers.”

“That’s preposterous.” Varker’s lips tugged up as if something had curdled at the back of his throat. “I regret to state that Mr. Wilde holds an unfortunate personal grudge against me, sir.” He glanced meaningfully at the splint. “He is a mightily violent and hot-tempered
abolitionist
, you know.”

A murmur passed through the crowd. I turned back, curious. The talk proved too low to hear, but a good many lips were visible, and barmen worth their salt don’t need to actually hear a drink order to understand it.

These dreadful warmongers.

They’ll not stop before blood courses through our streets.

Pity they don’t channel their energies into worthy causes, like the Colonization Society. When we’ve sent them all to Liberia, our troubles will be over.

“This isn’t about abolition,” I announced, admitting to nothing. “It’s about identity.”

“Well, of course it is, Mr. Wilde,” Judge Sivell sniffed. “It is also about due procedure, which may be superfluous to point out now that you are trampling roughshod over it.”

“I’m sorry for interrupting, but I’m prepared to swear that’s Julius Carpenter. I worked with him for years in an oyster cellar before the fire. My word against Varker’s ought to be enough.”

“And what about
my
word? Ain’t that good for nothing?” Long Luke whined. “I back Mr. Seixas Varker one hundred percent: we’ve caught Coffee St. Claire, and the day he arrived in New York too. Just look at the creature.”

“You’re his partner, of course you agree with him,” I shot back.

“All of you keep your peace this instant,” the judge hissed shrilly. Tossing his head, he sent his wig an inch or so askew of true north. “Can any of you provide an
unbiased
witness as to this man’s identity? Not one who stands to profit, Mr. Coles, nor who wishes to further a deranged cause, Mr. Wilde.”

“Why, certainly I can.” Varker bowed, exiting the witness box. “Thank you very kindly for coming, Miss Marsh.”

Pivoting in disbelief, I saw her. I think my brains came unraveled a little. Distantly, I realized I’d an ivory-knuckled grip on the wooden barrier before me.

Not that,
I thought.
God in heaven. Anyone but her.

I’d not seen Silkie Marsh in two months, not since last I’d checked to ensure her brothel met my personal age standards. She looked neither wealthy nor fashionable enough to be a brothel madam that day. Low, cheap-cut shoes revealed themselves as she approached the witness box, and her beige walking costume was quite plain. She passed me by without a glance. That didn’t queer me for an instant though.