The Secrets of Mary Bowser (45 page)

“Perhaps you should take some tansy.”

I shook my head at the thought of the bitter medicinal. “It’s just the heat. Richmond July wears on me more each year.”

“Some fresh air, then. We’ll pack a picnic hamper, walk up to that stretch of creekside past Coutts Street. You deserve a pleasant Sunday, much as you did to help the Federals in their two grand victories.”

“Fifty thousand or more casualties, just at Gettysburg,” I said. “It hardly seems decent to be celebrating that.”

“I’m not celebrating anyone dead or wounded. I just think my wife needs some respite after all our working and worrying. I know her husband does.”

I supposed he was right. It was a relief to think of getting even a half mile away, just for a few hours. And stopping by Mama’s grave might help me feel sure again, even give me courage to tell my husband what was vexing me.

We filled a basket with what fruit we had from the Van Lew arbor, fly-ridden though it was, along with the last of our share of boiled eggs from their chickenhouse. Grateful we had that much to eat when many in Richmond didn’t. “What a wise husband I have, to think of such an outing,” I said, putting on my hard-worn shoes.

“And what a wise wife I have, to acknowledge it.” Wilson hoisted our basket of comestibles and followed me down the stairs. But when we opened the door, we found Bet, her fist poised to knock.

She surveyed Wilson’s attire. “I need a pair of pants, such as a farmhand might wear.”

“Aren’t any farmhands here,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re too tall anyway.”

“Then maybe you ought to find some short farmer whose pants would suit you. As though them buckskin leggings aren’t crazy enough.”

I shot Wilson a look. I wasn’t any too pleased by Bet’s arrival. But she had a bound and determined way about her this morning, and that might mean something important. “Why don’t you come upstairs,” I said, “and tell us what’s brought you?”

“I don’t know that I should stay, if you haven’t the right trousers. But where can we find such a thing on a Sunday?” She pursed her lips and turned her head, as though she were listening for something outside. “Very well, you wait upstairs. I’ll be back directly.” With that she disappeared out the door.

“Why are you letting her spoil our outing?” Wilson asked as we ascended to the parlor. “Surely she can hunt up trousers or trombones or whatever other nonsense she needs, on her own.”

“Just give her a few minutes to explain. If it isn’t important we’ll be on our way soon enough. And if it is . . .” I let my voice trail off as Bet appeared, leading a figure nearly as small as herself. A hunched-looking colored woman with large, fidgety hands, who kept her head bowed so low all we could see was the top of her bonnet.

“Miss Bet, I don’t believe we’ve met your companion.”

“Of course you haven’t. My companion is only lately arrived from Chambersburg.”

A colored woman, come all the way from Pennsylvania clear into Richmond? “How did she get here?” I asked.

The stooped figure straightened up and corrected, “Not she. He.” Pulling off the bonnet, the stranger revealed his face. “I came by invitation from the rebel cavalry. If you consider a bayonet prod an invitation.”

Wilson forgot his irritation at Bet, gesturing the man to our armchair. “Please, have a seat. Can we bring you anything?”

The visitor sat, folding the bonnet nervously. “A drink of water would be welcome.”

I fetched a cupful from the kitchen, and he drank it down. Then he recited his story, as though he were telling it as much for himself as for us.

“They rode into town in the middle of June, spent three days rounding up all the negroes they could find. Claimed every one was a fugitive slave. No matter if there were whites there willing to testify they’d known us our whole lives, that we’d been born in Pennsylvania and our mammies and pappies before us. Two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty of us they took. Marched us with them to Gettysburg, then down to Richmond after the battle. Put us all to sale once they got us here.”

Even with the Union victories, the Confederates had found another way to make negroes suffer. I hadn’t heard even a word of it in the Gray House. I wondered what else was happening to colored folks that I didn’t know about.

“And your clothes?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me, holding his gaze on Wilson. “They took everyone, women and children along with the men. Wasn’t much I could do to protect my wife, but at least I managed to trade clothes with her. Whatever they’d do to a colored man, can’t be worse than what they might try with a negress. First day of my life I’ve been glad to be this small, knowing at least we could fit into each other’s things. Even so, not much comfort in it.”

My husband’s eyes flashed sympathy. “Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. Dear God, both of us born free and thirty years married, I never imagined my own wife could be sold away from me. I just pray McNiven can find her.”

“It was Thomas who interceded on Mr. Watson’s behalf,” Bet explained. “They are acquainted from some work Thomas did in Pennsylvania before the war.”

I thought of the many trips Hattie’s father made to Chambersburg to collect baggage. “Perhaps you are similarly acquainted with Alexander Jones? Or David Bustill Bowser?”

Mr. Watson nodded. “Know them both. Good men.”

“My name is Wilson Bowser. David is my cousin.” Wilson offered his hand to our guest. “I used to send him things before the war, by way of Chambersburg.”

Mr. Watson shook Wilson’s hand. “I believe I may know what you mean. I received items from this area and forwarded them to Jones and Bowser, from time to time.”

Bet clucked her tongue, impatient at all this talk she couldn’t understand. “Our first matter of concern is finding Mr. Watson some proper attire. And then figuring out how to get him back home.”

I could hem up a pair of Wilson’s pants well enough to fit our guest. But how we’d get him and his wife across the lines to Pennsylvania, I couldn’t guess. Nor could I imagine how they’d feel returning home, when so many of their neighbors would still be gone. Folks born free but made slaves by war. My worry over how spying in the Gray House threatened me seeped into a new dread terror, as I realized how vulnerable negroes were, even in their own houses in the North.

I was so distracted at the Gray House that week, Hortense reprimanded me at least three times a day, and Queen Varina had a slap for me nearly as often. I could barely maintain my composure come Thursday, when Aunt Piss called on her. But it was fury more than fear that had me shaking as I walked home that evening.

“It’s over two hundred miles to Chambersburg.” I heard Bet’s harangue the moment I stepped inside. She was lodging Mr. Watson at her house while McNiven tried to locate his wife, Mag. “Fort Monroe is less than half the distance. And with my pass—”

Wilson cut her off. “Your pass isn’t going to get the Watsons any closer to their home. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but Fort Monroe is southeast of here. Chambersburg is due north.”

I held to the bottom of the stairs. The ugly things I’d learned that afternoon haunted me so, I suddenly wanted to flee. Flee from war and worry and death, from the horror of it all. But where could I possibly escape all horror, with things as bad as they were? I forced myself up to our parlor to deliver the latest news.

Bet, who sat facing the landing, caught sight of me first. “Mary, tell Wilson that what matters is getting the Watsons to Union territory as soon as possible.”

“We need to get these people home, not to some army camp.” Wilson turned to me for confirmation.

“I don’t know that it matters whether you take the Watsons to Chambersburg or Fort Monroe, or just keep them in Richmond. Seems there’s no place safe for us.” I swallowed down a mouthful of bile. “They’re killing negroes in the North, right in New York City.”

“New York?” Bet was incredulous. “No rebel troops are anywhere near there.”

“It’s not the rebels who are doing it. It’s the Yankees.” I shivered over the pleasure Aunt Piss took in relating the details to Queen Varina. “All week long, they’ve been beating and burning and killing. Rioters set fire to a colored orphanage, lynched colored men in the street. They’re angry at being drafted to fight for a bunch of slaves, so they’re murdering every negro they can find.”

Wilson sank back into his chair, but Bet teetered forward on the sofa’s edge. “This cannot be,” she said. “Your source must be mistaken.”

I reminded her I’d had the same damn source for a year and a half, bringing news of Confederate battle plans, and she never thought to question it. “Just because you don’t like what I’ve learned now, doesn’t make it any less reliable.”

“There is no need to snap at me.”

“No need?” Wilson repeated. “And what need is there for whites to harass colored folks, North and South? To deny us a single half-acre of this country in which we might be left peaceably to ourselves?”

Bet didn’t dwell long on such questions. “All I know,” she said, “is that Henry Watson is relieved enough to have word that McNiven is bringing his wife back to him. And it’s our responsibility to find a way to ensure their passage to freedom.”

Freedom from slavery, maybe, but clearly not freedom from harm.

Bet bent to upturn the hem of her skirt. Tucked inside was a folded bit of paper, an old letter that had been turned sideways so a new message could be written over it. The method was common enough, with paper in short supply throughout the Confederacy. But when she passed me McNiven’s missive, I marked how queer the content was.

Friend Eliza,

Between the Denizen o’ Paradise and the Mad is One, made to hail a man for who the Main brought Missery. Henry will be finding his dear Mag in a place o’ Strength. If the name o’ the Riverway is the first and the place o’ the man is the last, what son and will son maun be arrived and the happy Mag awaiting.

Yours,

Thos. McN.

“Why doesn’t he tell us where they are, when they’ll be back?” I asked.

“It is odd, I’ll warrant you.” Bet peered at the note. “But of course for Henry Watson the main has been misery, to be kidnapped by slave-mongers and have his wife sold away. I suppose that is why Thomas describes him as between mad with grief at losing her, and in paradise at the news that she is found. At least we know she has remained strong through her ordeal.” She pursed her lips into a smile. “And perhaps the last bit means that Mag is
enceinte,
and Henry may have a son before long.”

I tried to imagine a colored lady telling McNiven she was expecting, if her own husband didn’t know already. It hardly seemed likely. Just as unlikely as McNiven waxing poetical just to write such a circumlocutory note, given how spare with words he always was. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to puzzle through what it all meant with Bet about.

“It’s getting late, and Mr. Watson may be worrying on your absence. Why don’t you go home? There’s no need to settle on a route until McNiven and Mag return.”

She nodded and stood. “Yes, surely Thomas will tell us what we are to do.”

I suspected he already had. And so I pondered his note as I lay in bed that night, rearranging the words in my mind just as I had Timothy Smith’s first message in Mr. Emerson’s
Essays
. But McNiven hadn’t struck out any words or letters, hadn’t underscored any either. The words were all set down regularly, no marked clue to reveal a hidden meaning. All set down regularly, I repeated until sleep began to overtake me. Except for that one odd spelling.

I was full on awake in the next moment, imagining the Scotsman pronouncing
for whom the Main brought Missery
in his heavy brogue.

I shook Wilson from his slumber. “Maine and Missouri.”

“Ohio and Oregon,” he answered. “What kind of game are you playing now?”

“When Maine became a state, they brought Missouri into the Union, too. One came in free, one slave, to keep the balance in Congress.”

“Thank you for the history lesson. But couldn’t it wait until morning?” He rolled over, turning his back to me.

Henry Clay was the man for whom the Maine brought Missouri, I knew that thanks to the thoroughness of Miss Douglass’s history instruction. Clay brokered Congress’ passage of the Missouri Compromise back in 1820. And he shared a given name with Henry Watson. But what could McNiven intend for me to make of that?

I pictured the whole of the note again.
Main. Missery. Denizen of Paradise
.
Mad is One
.
Strength
.
Riverway
. All capitalized, these words were the oddest bits of the message, which meant they were the ones McNiven had chosen most carefully. Adam and Eve were the denizens of paradise, so I started puzzling over all the Eves and Adams I could recall. And before too long I thought of John Adams and John Quincy Adams, presidents both.

Then came
Mad is One
. Madisone. Madison. James Monroe held the presidency between John Quincy Adams and James Madison. Back when the Missouri Compromise was passed.

One more reason to damn Henry Clay to hell, confusing me like that. But I didn’t dwell on him, now that I had Monroe in my mind instead.

In a minute I was shaking Wilson again. “I’ve got it now.”

He groaned, pulling the summer coverlet over his head. I pried the blanket loose. “Mag is waiting at Fort Monroe. You’re going to bring Henry to her.”

He blinked awake. “You’re worse than that damn Bet, you know that? At least she only acts crazy, not clairvoyant.”

“I’m no mind reader. More of a sign reader.” Like Mama, I thought proudly. I explained about the place of Strength being the fort, right from the French. About Monroe being President between Madison and Adams, during the Missouri Compromise. How his Christian name, James, was also the name of the river at the mouth of which stood Fort Monroe. And that Henry was the Watson who would arrive to find Mag waiting, and my own husband was the Wilson who would take him.