The Messenger (29 page)

“He’s only doing what he does because he believes that thee—and all the others—should be freed.”

“He entitled to his opinion, but he got no right to make life harder for us.”

“He’s not trying to make it harder! He’s trying to make it easier.” I put a hand up to my head as I spoke. That throbbing pain was returning.

“He’s no servant, that’s for sure. We had to re-do everything he been doing. It made the work twice as hard.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t matter what he mean. What matters is what is. You remember when he want to pay us all?”

I nodded.

“What do you think Mister did after that?”

It must have been something terrible from the way Doll was looking at me. “He did something?”

“He get after us about who it was complained to your father that we ought to get paid.”

“But that was Father’s own idea!”

“That’s right. But that’s not what Mister think. You tell your father to stop meddling in other people’s work.” She was shaking her finger at me. “It’s not right.”

“He didn’t mean to meddle. He was only trying to do his fair share. Everybody’s work increased when we moved in.” I knew Father’s ways were wearing on Uncle Edward’s nerves, but I didn’t understand why Doll seemed so set against him. He was only trying to help them.

“We don’t need no more slaves. We got enough slaves already. He got to mind his own work while we mind ours.”

“I didn’t realize—”

“That’s how you folks always are. You look at us and you think we poor Negroes. That we don’t know what we want. Well, we people too! And it don’t help to have you folks pretend to be something you not. You be who you are and we be who we are. Sometimes you can’t do for others. They got to figure out how to do for themselves.”

We walked on in silence while I considered her words. I came to the conclusion that she didn’t know what she was talking about. How could any slave not want help? How could any person not want to be freed?

Jeremiah

Thank you, God!

I’d seen Hannah pass on the street three days before. Though the Negro woman had carried her basket, she’d left no message at the bookseller’s. If truth be known, I’d almost forgotten to go to the bookseller’s altogether, so pleased was I to see her out walking. Polly had told me she’d recovered, but I hadn’t dared to believe it until that moment.

And now she had passed again. And smiled. At me.

I waited until she had gone and then returned to the bookseller’s. Asked for
Aeneid
.

“Don’t know why it should be so popular today.” He took it down from a shelf and slid it across the counter toward me.

“I’ve always been partial to the Greeks.”

He watched me as I turned the pages. I could feel the message, but I couldn’t take it while he stood there. I flipped past it.

“It’s a very fine volume.”

“Indeed, it is. You wouldn’t happen to have the
Iliad
?”

“No. Sold my copy the day before yesterday.”

“How about . . . how about . . .” What? What could I possibly ask for? “Do you have anything by Homer?”

“I do, in fact. I just . . .”

As he turned around to look, I plucked Hannah’s message from the pages. Dropped it into my pocket.

The bookseller laid a volume by Homer on the counter.

I picked it up and admired it long enough not to be rude. Set it down beside
Aeneid
.

“Not to your liking?”

“Perhaps another day. For now, I’ll just take the
Aeneid
.”

As soon as I gained the privacy of my room, I took the message from my pocket. Read it once. Then again.

Is there any possibility to delay the escape?

The Pilgrim’s Progress

If the prisoners wanted to be captured! Or be placed on a prison ship instead. The British would not evacuate the city before the Meschianza. That much was certain. But I did not know how long they would stay after the new general took command.

I sighed as I took up a piece of paper. Tore a corner off the sheet. Wrote a message back.

No.

Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded

I did not have to pass the message up to headquarters. There was only one answer to give. And he would have said it just the same as me. The men would simply have to dig faster.

As I came down the back stair, I heard a commotion in the kitchen. I veered toward the public room to avoid it, but the cook’s voice made me stop. “I’ve had about enough of you as I’m prepared to take!”

She was probably yelling at her daughter again. She wasn’t the hardest working server I’d ever hired, but she certainly wasn’t the worst.

“Weren’t you I came to talk to anyway!”

But— That wasn’t the girl’s voice. It was Bartholomew Pruitt’s. I reversed my steps and went toward the kitchen. The cook had the boy by the ear and she was giving him a good shake.

“Here now!” I’m afraid I was none too kind in my tone.

As she let go the boy’s ear, he ran toward me. “It’s Ma. She’s gone and died and now they’re turning Fanny and me out of the place.”

“Who is?”

“Those redcoats. They say they’re going to tear it down to burn.”

That’s about all it was fit for. “Where’s Fanny?”

The cook closed the distance between us, threatening Bartholomew with her spoon. “She’s out in the back with that brat of hers. Like no good girl should be!” Her pronouncement on the matter was punctuated by the shake of her spoon.

I leveled a look at her. “The Pruitts are family friends, and their misfortunes need no comment from you.”

“I’ll not have my kitchen dirtied by the likes of them.”

“Mrs. Phippen, your food is abominable and your daughter is lazy. If you don’t find things to your liking here, then please don’t feel obligated to stay.”

“If you don’t like my cooking, you might of said so before now.” She pulled her apron off, stepped to the door, and yelled for her daughter.

The girls came slinking through the door from the hall.

“If we’re not appreciated here, I’ll take us off. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.” But she did not actually leave. I suppose she thought I might change my mind if I had a chance to think things over. All her delay brought was time for me to calculate her pay. And her daughter’s as well.

I showed them out the back door and then ushered Fanny in once they had gone.

Bartholomew took her by the hand and led her over to a stool. “He fired the cook for you. I told you he would help us!”

Fanny settled the babe on her lap as she looked at her brother in horror. “He fired—but—” She looked at me. “I didn’t mean any harm. Bartholomew told me you would help us, but I didn’t mean—I didn’t know . . .”

The baby began to cry.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” She looked as if she was going to cry herself.

I hated it when girls cried. “The cook had been working herself out of a job for a while.” That’s why City Tavern had been doing such brisk business. Though I hadn’t really much cared until I saw her scolding the boy. But now I was a tavern owner with no cook to run my kitchen. And no daughter to wait on the customers.

“You need to feed it.” Bartholomew directed the pronouncement toward his sister as if he was knowledgeable about such things. “She needs to feed it.” He was looking at me now as if he expected me to do something about it.

“Fine.”

“She needs a place to do it.”

“To . . .” Oh. Oh! I strode toward the office to grab my ring of keys. Gave them over to the boy. “Show her up the stair. To the fourth room on the right.”

It wasn’t long before Bartholomew came right back down. “Fanny told me to ask you what I can do.”

“What you can do . . . with what?”

“She says the cook probably left before she’d made supper. So she told me to let you put me to use.”

“Well . . .” I surveyed the mess that had been left behind. Most certainly Mrs. Phippen had been in the process of making something, but I had no way of saying what it was. “I suppose there’s something to be made here.”

We were still staring at the pots and pans and sundry ingredients when Fanny joined us. The babe was all smiles now. “Is there something to be seen here or is there supper to be made?” Fanny handed the baby to her brother and tied on the apron that Mrs. Phippen had discarded. “Looks to me like she was going to make a stew, though she’s a bit thin on the meat. Bartholomew? Put that baby down in that basket over there. Then chop me up these onions.”

Fanny bossed her brother around with such aplomb that I didn’t see any need to stay. I took the daybook from the barkeeper and had a look. Asked him to write up the bill of fare for the night on the slate. Helped pour some drinks when he got busy. And after a while, John arrived with his coterie of Meschianza organizers. He came up to order a round of drinks. Planted an elbow on the bar and leaned close when the barkeeper went to deliver it.

“I need to beg a favor. And I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”

I raised a brow.

“We’ve spent all of the money brought in from our subscribers. And all the money raised through tickets. Those buntings and flags and costumes cost a small fortune!”

Just as I had imagined they would.

“The problem is, we’re only half done planning the banquet.”

“And?”

“And I’m in desperate need of a supplier for the wine.”

How kind of him to provide me with exactly the entrée I had been looking for. “I’m pleased you thought to ask.”

“You . . . are?”

“Indeed I am.”

“I’ve nothing to pay you with. That’s the other problem.”

Ah, but that’s where he was wrong! There was one thing he had which I desperately needed. “I think we can come to terms.”

I wrote up an order for the fete’s wine.
And
secured an invitation for myself and a guest. No one could accuse Jeremiah Jones or Hannah Sunderland of having anything to do with a prison escape if we were attending the party of the year the night that it happened.

I didn’t think to check back with the kitchen until after business had slowed. I hadn’t heard any complaints about the food and I was starting to hunger for some myself. As I stepped through the door, Bartholomew gave me a fierce look and jerked his head toward the basket where the baby was sleeping.

Fanny dished me up a plate.

I took it out into the back even though I was more than certain both Bartholomew and Fanny had eaten their fill tonight. It wasn’t half bad. In fact, I could honestly say that it was quite good! I needed a cook. They needed . . . everything. Maybe we could come to an agreement.

As I was working over what that might be, I heard the door open. Heard the padding of feet against the earth. Bartholomew soon sidled up to me. “Fanny told me to ask, did you want us to come back tomorrow.”

I put my plate down. Looked at him. “When was it that your mother died?”

“Back a week ago. Or so.”

“And you didn’t tell me? I might have been able to do something about your place.”

He shrugged.

“Did you have her buried?”

“The rector did. At potter’s field, in Southeast Square.” He kicked at a stone. “Did you want us back then? In the morning maybe?”

“Back? Are you going somewhere?”

He shrugged.

“You can stay up in that room I showed you earlier. If you want.” I was making more money than I had a right to be. And the Pruitts—what was left of them—had nothing at all.

“I suppose I could ask Fanny if she wants to.”

“I’m stuck without a cook. I could pay her what I paid Mrs. Phippen. And I could pay you what I paid her daughter.”

“You paid her daughter? But she hardly—”

I ignored him. “And you could take that room upstairs, the two of you, as your own.”

He thought on it for a minute or two. “You’d have to give us board as well.”

“I suppose I could do that.”

“And I won’t chop onions and such forever.”

“No. You probably wouldn’t.”

“Just so we’re agreed.”

“I think we’re agreed. Why don’t you go tell your sister?” I could see her peering out at us through the doorway. I let Bartholomew go ahead, lingering to collect my plate and my spoon. As I neared the door, I could hear them.

“He says he’ll let us stay!”

“Truly?”

“As long as you cook and I help. And we can have that room upstairs.”

The silence that followed was so long that I began to worry, but as I stepped up onto the stair, I could hear Bartholomew speaking. “It’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine now.”

And I could hear Fanny weeping.