Back Bay (40 page)

“If one man in our nation is not free,” Garrison announced, “no man is free. And in these United States today, there are thousands, yea, hundred of thousands, who wear the abominable shackles of slavery.”

At the edge of the crowd, well beyond earshot of Garrison, a young woman stood bewildered. Her name was Samantha, and she had never seen so many people in one place before. She approached a young couple who seemed more interested in each other than in the speaker. They were both dressed in the latest
fashions, the man wearing a short-waisted coat, vest, and silk cravat, the woman in crinolines, with hoop skirt, bonnet, and parasol.

“Excuse me,” said Samantha. “I’m looking for a lady called Abigail Pratt Bentley. I was told she would be here today.”

The two young people looked at her as though she had walked uninvited into their parlor, then they moved away. It was fashionable to listen to speeches by William Lloyd Garrison, but not to talk with a woman like Samantha. She was a Negro, and the little boy at her side was half-white.

Although she wore ragged clothes and a shroud of exhaustion, Samantha had once been a beautiful woman. Brown eyes still shone like mahogany against coffee skin, and she carried herself proudly, but a ruthless cough was squeezing the life from her body.

The boy, about six years old, had his mother’s features, but his skin was shades lighter, his hair streaked with blond, and his eyes deep blue. He held close to his mother in the forest of people and tried to ignore the hunger digging a pit in his stomach.

Rows of carriages and coaches, parked three deep, lined the streets surrounding the monument. Samantha decided to find Mrs. Bentley’s carriage and wait for her there. She asked several footmen before one of them directed her to a carriage parked on Bunker Hill Street.

A handsome man of about fifty sat atop the carriage. Beside him sat a teen-aged boy who was obviously his son. Samantha and her child drew near and stood by one of the horses.

“Can I help you?” said Sean Mannion. His gentle voice was the first trace of warmth she had found since she had arrived in Boston the previous day.

“Is this Miz Abigail Pratt Bentley’s carriage, m’sieur?” Samantha spoke with a slight French accent.

“It is, ma’am.”

“Could you tell me where she is?”

“She’ll be sittin’ up there on the platform in front of the monument.”

Samantha looked across the crowd, but she was too far away to pick anyone out. “Will she be coming back after the speaking is done?”

“That she will. But I’ll tell you now, so you won’t be disappointed, she needs no servants.”

Samantha sensed the man’s kindness. She thanked him, then crossed the street to the shade of a young elm and waited for the ceremonies to end.

Garrison had reached his peroration. He pulled two scrolls of paper from his breast pocket and held them up for all to see. “I have in my hand copies of the United States Constitution and the Fugitive Slave Law.” He struck a match and touched it to each document. “So perish all compromises with tyranny—let the people say Amen!”

The people said Amen. The people jeered. They watched in shock. They applauded. And Garrison sat down. He was followed to the podium by a representative of a pro-slavery group, who received a loud ovation. After an angry rebuke of Garrison’s speech and actions, the mayor delivered an oration on the greatness of the city. Then a local poet recited an ode to the men who fought at Bunker Hill. The ceremonies ended with the playing of “Yankee Doodle,” and the crowd began to disperse.

On the stand, Abigail approached Garrison. “An excellent speech, Mr. Garrison.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bentley.”

“Although I must admit that I was shocked to see you burning our Constitution.”

“I was burning pro-slavery construction. A purely symbolic gesture,” he said briskly.

“Whatever your motives, I am your ally. You’ll find in the mail tomorrow a small donation toward the benefit of your publication.”

Garrison nodded his thanks. “
The Liberator
needs the support of everyone.”

“This afternoon I’m having a small gathering at my home on Colonnade Row. Tea for the ladies, something stronger for the gentlemen. Ralph Waldo Emerson has promised to attend, and we should be honored if you joined us.” She put her hand on his arm. She enjoyed the appearance of familiarity with famous men.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Bentley, but even on holidays, there is work to be done if we are to publish
The Liberator
. I must decline.”

Abigail smiled. “My guests will be disappointed, but I’m sure they’ll understand. The work of
The Liberator
must go on.”

Abigail rejoined Artemus and his family, and they started back toward their carriages. Dust rose everywhere as a thousand people hurried to leave and carriages jockeyed for position on the streets around the monument. The smell of fresh horse manure baking in the sun and transported on the soles of Bostonian boots overpowered the smell of the sea breeze and the aroma of wild-blooming roses.

Sean jumped down and opened the carriage door when he saw the Pratts approaching through the crowd. Abigail arrived on the arm of Artemus Jr. Samantha and her child crossed the street.

“Thank you, Artemus,” said Abigail. “I’ll see you and all the children at Colonnade Row. Your father and I will be discussing business on the ride back.”

“It’s a holiday, Abigail,” said Artemus Sr. cheerfully. “We can’t be talking about business today.”

“My father did business every day of his life. You would do well to emulate him.”

“He would do well to relax. You’re a terrible influence on him,” said Cynthia. The daughter of a Harvard professor, she was plump, fertile, and, from the day they had met, an admirer of Abigail Pratt Bentley.

“I must discuss the consolidation of the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroads with your husband.” Abigail grabbed him by the arm and tried to push him into the carriage.

Cynthia took his other arm and tried to pull in the opposite direction. Cynthia, Abigail, and the children began to laugh uproariously at the sight of Artemus Pratt turned into a wishbone, and Artemus laughed along with them. Then, he broke loose, straightened his cutaway, and agreed to ride with Abigail.

“Very good,” said Abigail.

“Excuse me, madame.” Samantha and her little boy appeared out of the rising dust and traffic.

“Yes?” said Abigail imperiously.

“I would like to talk with you.”

“I don’t need servants.” Abigail waved Samantha away and started to climb into the coach.

“I am not looking for work.”

“Then what is it?” snapped Abigail.

Samantha glanced at the faces of Artemus and his family, and she felt like an insect studied by hungry birds. “I would rather talk in private.”

“This is my family. You may speak in front of them.”

She hesitated a moment, then pushed the child toward Abigail and blurted out the words she had been rehearsing for almost three years. “My boy is your great-nephew. He’s Philip Pratt’s son. I was Philip Pratt’s wife.”

A cloud of dust billowed past, and Abigail held her handkerchief to her nose. She had not heard from Philip since he had left ten years earlier. She had presumed him dead, but the news was nonetheless a powerful shock. She felt her legs begin to tremble, and she leaned on Artemus for support.

“Philip told me to come to Boston. He said you’d take care of me and my boy.” Samantha hoped that Abigail’s arms would open to her, but they did not.

Abigail regained her composure and eyed the little mulatto, who stepped back and tried to hide himself behind his mother’s skirts. “My nephew has been dead to his family for many years. I have accepted his death. But I do not believe that he would marry a Negress and produce a—”

Before she went further, Artemus intervened. “My aunt has a great many things to do today. Come to her house tomorrow and we will talk to you.” He pushed Abigail into her coach.

“But sir…”

“Do not persist, young lady, or I shall call the constable.”

“I have no money and no place to stay, and my boy is hungry. Please help us.”

Abigail relented. “They may sleep in the barn tonight. I’ll instruct Mrs. Mannion to make supper for the boy.”

“Oh, thank you, madame.” Samantha tried to climb into the carriage.

Artemus grabbed the door and stepped in front of her.

“Can’t we ride with you?”

“Accept what charity we give, young woman, and walk.”

Samantha let go. The carriage eased into the traffic and clattered down Bunker Hill Street.

Samantha nudged the boy and they started to walk.

“Mama, I’m hungry. You said the lady would be nice to us.”

“She will be, when we get to her house.”

“But Mama…”

“Stop your whinin’.” She slapped the boy, more in frustration than anger. Then she began to cough. The spasms hacked through her, and when they ended, she was crying. She threw her arms around the boy and held him tight. “I’m sorry,
mon cher
. I’m sorry. You’re all that your mama has, and I don’t want to hurt you. Never.”

“It’s all right, Mama. I won’t cry. I promise.”

She stood and brushed the tears away. “It’s a long walk, dear. We must go.”

The next afternoon, Sean Mannion ushered Samantha and her son into the sitting room of Abigail Pratt Bentley’s home on Colonnade Row. Four stories of Bulfinch brick townhouses stretched along Tremont Street and housed some of Boston’s leading citizens. Abigail had lived there for twenty-five years.

Her sitting room, like most rooms in Colonnade Row, was long and slender, illuminated during the day by a single set of windows that overlooked the Common. The ceilings were edged with pine molding, and pine wainscoting covered the lower third of the walls. A brass chandelier hung in the middle of the room. Directly above it was a ceiling medallion of white plaster fruit; small holes in the medallion, artfully placed to look like part of the arrangement, allowed the escape of smoke from the oil lamps on the chandelier. The walls were papered light yellow with crimson stripes. An oriental rug covered the floor. Chairs and settee of mahogany and velvet were arranged about the room. Abigail sat in her favorite chair by the window. Artemus leaned on the marble mantelpiece.

But Samantha was not intimidated. She hadn’t coughed since the previous day, and she looked much better after a meal and a night’s rest. She was certain that when she told her story, Abigail Pratt Bentley would accept her son.

Abigail gestured to the settee, and Samantha sat gingerly. Abigail spoke without warmth. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you this
morning, but I wanted my nephew to join us, and he’s a very busy man.”

“Thank you for the meal and a place to stay.”

“I’ll not see a mother and her son go hungry, even if they are trying to take advantage of me.”

Samantha shook her head. “I am not trying to take advantage of you, madame.”

“You tell me my nephew is dead. You tell me he married a black woman. You tell me he fathered a mulatto child who has come to claim his inheritance. And I must tell you that I do not believe you.”

Samantha felt her little boy’s hand close tight around her own. “I tell you the truth. Phil Pratt died three years ago. I nursed him till the end.”

“I long ago accepted the fact that I would never see Philip again,” said Abigail coldly. “I have wept for him many a night. I wept last night, but I will not believe that you are his wife.”

“Maybe you cried for a night. I cried for a month,” said Samantha bitterly.

“Where did he die?” asked Artemus gently.

“In Angel’s Camp, about a hundred and thirty miles from San Francisco.”

“The Gold Rush?” Artemus was amazed and secretly pleased. His younger brother had been an adventurer; he suddenly wished that he’d known Philip better.

“Yes, the Gold Rush,” responded Samantha. “Four men came to our cabin one night, liquored and drunk. They wanted…” She hesitated and looked at her son. She tried to phrase it delicately. “They wanted to take me out into the woods. Philip fought them off, but one of them shot him in the stomach. It took him a week to die.”

“My poor Philip,” said Abigail softly. Even if the story wasn’t true, the thought of a lingering death chilled her.

“What did the men want with you?” asked Artemus. He knew the answer already.

Samantha looked at her son, then back to Artemus. Her eyes tried to tell them she did not want to answer in front of the boy.

“Tell my aunt where you came from and what you did in California,” said Artemus.

“I grew up in Martinique, in the home of a gentleman.” She offered nothing else.

“And why did you go to California if you lived happily on a Caribbean Island?”

“I was not happy.” The anger cracked in her voice. “Slaves are never happy. I was given to a friend of my master as payment for a bet. The friend took me to California.”

“For what purpose?”

“To go to the Gold Rush.” She shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the settee.

The little boy sensed Artemus’s hostility. He turned his body so that he stood between Artemus and his mother.

“Your master certainly didn’t drag you to California because you could swing a pick and shovel. From what I know of the Gold Rush, the only women to be found there are whores. Isn’t that how my brother met you?”

After a time, she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“What’s a whore, Mama?” asked the boy softly.

“It’s a job that women do, dear. Hard work. Bad work.”

Abigail would not believe that the woman in front of her had married Philip Pratt. She could accept that Philip would fornicate with someone from the lower classes. She had done it many times herself. But he would not marry a Negress and make a black child heir to the Pratt fortune. “How long had you been with Philip before the child was born?”

“Eight months.”

“You mean you were having other men at the time?” asked Artemus, almost gleefully.

“Philip came in almost every night for the whole two months before I moved to his tent. He loved me and he wanted me. Once, when he had a big strike, he bought me for a week. Old Cheverus, my master, he did not want me to go, but Philip gave him two hundred dollars, and that is when we…” She glanced at the boy, who was listening closely, but understanding little. She embraced him. “That is when we made our baby. I know it. I just know it. And so did Philip.”