A Journeyman to Grief (15 page)

He peered through the window again. “Lord, he’s coming here. I have to leave. Wait till we go into the house, then get out as fast as you can.”

“How shall I get in touch with you when I have the analysis of the medicine?”

“I’m allowed letters, but they read them so you’ll have to disguise what you write. When you are ready to meet, I’ll do the same thing as I did today. I’ll give Earl the slip and come over to the gate. Keep it the same time. But we’ll need a code word.”

“What if I write, ‘Today is fire station inspection day,’ and that means I’ll be here.”

“Excellent, Murdoch. Add bits and dabs of other things to disguise it.”

“Yes, I was thinking of doing that, sir. It would sound a little odd on its own.”

Brackenreid gave him a hard slap on the arm, which Murdoch interpreted as an awkward way of saying thank you.

“I’m grateful, William. I knew I could trust you.”

“Tom! Mr. Brackenreid! Time to come in before you catch cold.”

With a groan the inspector opened the door a crack and slipped out. Murdoch watched him hurrying across the grass toward his attendant, who greeted him warmly. Then, his arm through Brackenreid’s, Earl escorted him to the house where lamps were being lit and Murdoch could see the residents lining up for their final tonic of the day. The inspector joined the end of the queue, Earl beside him.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

DECEMBER
1859

L
ena daubed the goose grease ointment as gently as she could over Fidelia’s lacerated back. The girl flinched but was silent. She was lying face down on a straw pallet in the lean-to, to which she and Lena had been relegated.

“You can holler if you like, Fiddie, there’s nobody here. They’ve all gone to the meeting at the town hall.”

“I ain’t going to holler ever again. Not for them.”

Lena continued what she was doing. She was almost blinded by her own tears but was trying to hide them from Fidelia.

“I should never have asked you to take him. You might have got away on your own. Carrying him slowed you down too much.”

“Only a bit. He was good, didn’t fuss hardly at all.” Fidelia allowed a little smile at the corners of her mouth. “He sure done like that dried chicken I give him. I done chew it up real soft till it was like mush and stuck it in his mouth. He acted like he was a little bird in a nest and I was the mother. I thought he was gonna open up his little beak and chirp at me when I picked him up.”

Lena had to stop for a moment to wipe her eyes. “If only he could have grown wings and flown to freedom.”

Fidelia rolled over and sat up, wincing with the pain from her whipping. She clutched Lena’s hand. “Don’t fret, dear one. He’s in heaven now and he surely has wings there. You know what Preacher told us just last month. Jesus done love all his children and he done pick the best to go and live in his mansion where they play all sun long and eat as much as they want and have pretty clothes and get to kiss Jesus whenever they feels like it.”

“Oh, Fiddie, do you believe that?”

“Of course I does. Don’t nothing else make sense otherwise. It was a comfort to remember those words when I knew your babe had died.”

Lena rocked back on her heels. “And you’re certain of that? Absolutely certain. There’s no chance that the preacher got out before the fire?”

“I tells you, there weren’t no chance at all. I done ask every-bodys I could. I done see the flames myself. That slave catcher made me look. ‘See what happens to niggers who get uppity. You shouldn’t have gone in there. Too bad for that preacher man. He must’ve knocked over a lamp or something.’ But we all knew it was them white folks done thrown their torches through the windows. It weren’t no accident. I’d have been in that church myself, but that good old man took Ise from me and told me to get out and run like the devil himself was after me.” Fidelia shuddered. “I knows them slave catchers done see me. They would have taken Ise and me both, but after the preacher says what he says, I took off from that church like a spooked horse. I was hoping I could draw them away and they would follow and they does for a bit till I fell over a foot that some fat pig of a white-folk passerby done stuck out to trip me up.”

“How much later did you see the fire start?”

“Not long. There were two of them slave catchers, and one done hold me down and the other ran back to the church. He was one of them that set it on fire. Oh my dear one, I wish I could tell you something else but I can’t. Ise’s with Jesus.” She grabbed Lena’s hand. “You ain’t after blaming me, is you?”

Lena embraced her. “How could I ever do that? Better he be there at peace than grow up a slave. That you got as far as you did is a miracle. You are my good and faithful friend, Fiddie. What would I do without you? And I am sorry with all my heart that the missus had you whipped so hard. And I’m sorry I had to lie and say you stole him from me. Will you forgive me for that?”

Fidelia grinned. “No sense in both of us getting whipped. Missus don’t like me, never did. She wants to break my spirit. I heard her saying so to the master. But she hates you worse and would likely have killed you if you told the truth and mister hadn’t been there.” Fidelia stroked Lena’s arm. “I’ve heard stories from Missus Craddock’s man. Moses says as there’s going to be a war coming soon and when that happens we’ll all be freed. So don’t fret, my dear one. We’ll get away from here.”

Lena touched the girl’s face tenderly. “I hope with all my heart and soul it’s true what they’re saying. But we must be ready. As soon as we can, as soon as the war is declared, we, my dearest, are going to run away as fast as our feet will carry us. I’m almost well again and even if I’m not, we’re going.”

“To the Promised Land?”

“Yes, to the Promised Land.”

“And we’ll be free?”

For a moment, Lena allowed her face to reveal the emotions she had within her all the time, subdued only by tremendous self-discipline. “I almost forget what’s that like, Fiddie. Oh I pray to the Lord that I haven’t forgotten how to live like a free woman again.”

“I ain’t never been free, not since I was borned, but don’t you fret yourself I’ll find out quick as a rat what it means. And so will you remember.”

Although they’d had this argument several times before, they still pursued it to the end, a sort of ritual, comforting in itself.

“When we’re there, in the Promised Land, we can do whatever we like. You’ll go to school, I’ll be a fine lady again with servants of my own.”

“I don’t want to go to school. I’ll be your servant.”

“No, you won’t. Dearest friends are never servants. You will be my companion, my sister. I shall ask my father to adopt you.”

“What if they don’t come? Them folks you’re counting on. What if them chickens ain’t going to hatch no how?”

“Don’t be silly, Fiddie. Why wouldn’t they? They’ve been searching all this time and just haven’t found me. I know it.”

“I ain’t heard no stories about no man searching for his love down this way.”

“He doesn’t know where I am. He’s searching, all right.”

“But what if he does get you back, how’s he going to feel knowing you had a bastard son with Leigh Dickie?”

Her words were so cruel, Lena flinched.

“I don’t think he needs to know. Ise’s dead, so it doesn’t matter. But it will be our secret, yours and mine. To the grave, promise?”

“Promise.”

“Now lie back down and I’ll finish tending to you.”

Fiddie did as she said, and Lena layered on more goose grease, then carefully covered the girl’s back with a piece of muslin.

“He cut through the skin in a few places, so we should keep this cover on for now.” She stroked the girl’s hair. “See if you can sleep a bit, Fiddie. You’re exhausted still. I’ll do your chores for you.”

Fidelia yawned. “Preacher says we must pray every day and he says as how we must forgive our enemies, but I don’t think he means forgive Missus Caddie or Mister Leigh. I don’t imagine even Jesus himself would forgive them.”

“You’re right about that. The preacher is a frightened old man. I’m not going to forgive my enemies, ever. I will never forgive the men who caused the death of my child, I will never forgive those who keep us here as slaves. And my revenge shall be terrible and exacted even on to their descendants and their descendants after that. So help me God.”

Lena went out to the vegetable garden at the back of the house, leaving Fidelia to rest. “War is coming.” The words were being whispered through the slave quarters like wind through the rushes. “War’s coming, war’s coming. Them Yankees are going to free us.” “If we don’t get killed first.” “Pray the Lord we don’t get killed first out of spite.” “They won’t do that, they needs us.” “Don’t you bet on it, missie, they’s as spiteful as adders. They’d kill us for spite.” “Not if the Yankees get here first.” “War’s coming.” “When? When?” “Soon, war’s coming soon and we’ll be free.” “Or dead, but that’s freedom too.” “I’d rather be a slave and alive than free and dead.” “Not me, not me. I’d rather be dead than live like this for the rest of my life.” “War’s coming.”

She looked over at the house. Leigh Dickie claimed he was a poor man and had no money for maintenance, but everybody knew he was a gambler and spent everything he could on dice and cards. His marriage was miserable, and Caddie never stopped nagging and complaining. There were times that Lena almost felt pity for him, but she shrugged it off. Nobody had pitied her when calamity befell her.
War’s coming, war’s coming.

On impulse she walked toward the house. Everybody was gone to the meeting about the secession and the war and she doubted
they would be back for a while. The other slaves were in the cabin. Quickly, she opened the door, slipped inside, and headed for Mrs. Dickie’s bedroom. Everything was tidy, but she could see the dust everywhere. Caddie didn’t let her clean because she said bluntly it was a waste of time. Mrs. Dickie wasn’t ever coming back.

Lena went over to the dainty painted lady’s desk under the window. All clear so far and she could see if anybody was returning. She lifted the lid. Inside were piles of papers, neatly tied with ribbon. A quick look confirmed they were old letters that Mrs. Dickie had kept from the friends of her youth. She pulled open the little drawer at the back of the desk. There were more papers there, a last will and testament, a deed to the house, and a creased document, handwritten, which she recognized as the bill of sale that Prescott had drawn up and given to Mrs. Dickie in exchange for four hundred dollars. She took it out.

Know all by these presents that I, James Prescott, of the County of Guildwood and the State of Maryland have this day delivered to Mrs. Catherine Dickie of the city of Baltimore, a negro slave woman aged seventeen years old, named Lena, for the sum of four hundred dollars and the right and title to said woman I warrant and defend now and forever. I also warrant her to be sound and healthy of meek character although inclined to be fanciful. She can read and write. Signed and dated this twenty-eighth day of August, 1858.

She knew there had been two papers: this bill of sale and the forged right and title that Prescott had also handed over. Frantic now, driven by need but not even acknowledging to herself what she wanted to know, she upended the drawer, spilling the contents onto the floor.

There it was. A piece of paper on the outside of which was written
Original title to slave called Lena
. She grabbed it up and unfolded it.

Know all men by these presents, that I…

The name of the seller was written in the space provided, a neat, legible hand that she recognized at once.

In consideration of the sum of three hundred dollars, in hand paid by James Prescott to have and to hold, I deliver the said described negro girl unto the said James Prescott

A second signature, the witness’s, was scrawled at the bottom of the page. She was familiar with that hand as well.

She had to sit down, otherwise she might have fainted. Her temples were throbbing so violently she thought her head would burst open.
War’s coming, war’s coming.

CHAPTER
TWENTY

M
urdoch lit his bicycle lamp and set off back along Wellesley Street. His encounter with the inspector was bemusing. When Murdoch had been accepted into Inspector Stark’s newly created department of detectives three years earlier, Brackenreid had made no bones about the fact that he didn’t trust Roman Catholics and insisted Murdoch have the lesser position of acting detective. It was only after Murdoch had solved a major case earlier this year that Brackenreid had promoted him to full detective. That’s why all his words about trust and respect had rung a false note. Murdoch wondered whether he was being set up as a scapegoat if this so-called cure collapsed. He wouldn’t put it past him.

Murdoch thought back to Elijah Green’s remark that if you were a negro man living in Toronto, you’d notice another coloured person, however brief the encounter. He’d felt a pang of empathy on hearing that. He’d had similar experiences as a Roman Catholic in this city, which was governed by Protestants who tended to fear and despise other faiths, even those under the
banner of Christ. Forget about Jews or the few Chinese residents. They were even more ostracized. None of them could have public office, and there were none at all on the police force. Not that Catholics were immune from prejudice and self-righteousness. He’d seen vicious diatribes in both the
Orange Banner
and the
Catholic Register
, one against the other.

He wondered if Jesus wept.

He had been picking up speed as he rode along Wilton Street and now he smiled, knowing he was like a lost dog heading for home as fast as it could. He scorched down Ontario Street to his boarding house, which beckoned a welcome with bright lamplight.

He wheeled his bicycle into the hall and Amy immediately came out of the kitchen to greet him with a kiss.

“You taste like wine,” said Murdoch.

“We’re celebrating.”

“Don’t tell me the school board has offered you a permanent position?”