Whispers of War Page 3

  Josephine’s misery in her loveless marriage was no secret among her friends, but each year she retreated deeper into herself, finding no joy in the world. The one person that could bring her happiness was the one I feared losing the most.

  “Did he harm you again?” I conjured up the courage to ask.

  Whitney paused mid-motion in reaching for a tea biscuit, and Josephine stiffened at my question.

  After a minute or two, she lifted the veil to reveal the ugly yellowed bruise on her cheekbone. “It is much better than it was. I’d hoped it would be gone by the time you came for a visit.”

  “But why hide what we already know?” I asked.

  “Because it’s humiliating. I never dreamed this would be my life.” She shooed away the fanning boys before scanning the perimeter for eavesdroppers. In a low voice, she said, “If I hadn’t just given birth, I’d have escaped with Jethro. But I’d only have slowed him down. Foolishly, I’d hoped when he reached freedom he’d send word, but with the Fugitive Slave Act, it isn’t safe. I suppose it’s best this way. You both must think poorly of me—copulating with a Negro and all. I am forever grateful to each of you for your friendship and for keeping my indiscretions between us.”

  I took another long drink before setting the glass on the table. My hand shook, and my prior bout of lightheadedness returned with a vengeance.

  “Willow, are you all right?” Josephine covered my hand with hers. “You look pale.”

  “I-I’m fine.”

  “Do accept my apologies. Talk of this must bring up all the pain and loss you have recently suffered. How careless of me.” Tears swelled in her eyes.

  “My heart grieves for you,” I said. “I too think of that day, and because of my part in it, I feel guilty—”

  “Oh, poppycock.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “There’s nothing to feel guilty about. It’s because of you that Jethro made it to freedom. Unless you are referring to your decision to not turn him in.” She tensed. “Please tell me it isn’t so?”

  “It’s not that,” I said with a gulp. “It’s…”

  “Willow has been pushing herself too hard.” Whitney’s chair scraped back on the garden stones. “You must rest. If you will excuse us, Josephine, I think it’s best if I take her home.” She gripped my arm and tried to pull me up.

  Although I appreciated her concern for me, and her attempts to save me from the inevitable, she couldn’t protect me from what needed to be done.

  “No!” Something snapped in me, and I slammed the table with my fist. “Sit down.” I felt fearful, verging on panic, but the loss of my son and the pain of it pushed me forward. “I have something to confess. Something I’ve hidden for far too long.”

  Whitney dropped into her chair, looking stunned at my outburst. She eyed me, and then Josephine, warily. “Please, Willow, reconsider. You aren’t thinking clearly,” she implored me.

  “Maybe not. But my heart can’t take this anymore.” I peered at Josephine through my tears. “I’ve wronged you. And after I tell you what has weighed on my heart all these years, you will hate me, and I won’t blame you, but it’s time you know.”

  Josephine gathered my hands in hers and stroked the tops of them with her thumbs. “I’m sure it isn’t that bad. You have become a dear friend to me, but if it eases your conscience, please tell me.”

  “Very well.” I took a few deep breaths. “I know where your son is.”

  “What?” She dropped my hands. “How is that possible? Jethro gave him to someone who would care—” She stopped as it dawned on her. “You?”

  I bobbed my head. “I was on the veranda when I saw him leave the babe at our door.”

  “But why did he choose you? Or Livingston, for that matter?” Her brow puckered. “Maybe he was aware of the talk of how you manage your slaves.”

  “What talk?” Whitney straightened.

  “That she doesn’t whip her slaves, and they are treated with fairness,” Josephine said. “But—wait.” She leaped to her feet, and her chair crashed backward onto the stones. She gripped the table to steady herself. “The boy. The mulatto child rumored to be Bowden’s or your uncle’s. Is he—”

  “Shh.” Whitney yanked her back down. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Your son resides at Livingston. I’ve ensured Sailor has received the care I would give my own child. He is a beautiful boy.” Silent tears cascaded down my cheeks and thickened my voice. “He is very loved.”

  She blanched. “Sailor? That’s what you called him?”

  I nodded.

  “I can’t believe this.” Her jaw quivered.

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. To ease the suffering and yearning I witnessed each time we met. But Jethro made me promise to protect the boy and you. It’s been killing me to keep it from you.” I lowered my gaze from her searching eyes. “The guilt has been consuming me not only for your anguish but for my own selfish needs.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she said.

  Nausea clenched my stomach. “I’ve been so afraid of losing him. You see, I-I’ve come to care for the child.”

  She gasped. “But he is colored.”

  “He is a child,” I said with a stubborn determination to still the defensiveness roiling within me. Fighting through the fog in my head, I forced myself to think wisely, to avoid revealing my abolitionist views.

  She sat with her lips pursed, but her gaze looked past me as though time had stolen her thoughts. “I must see him.” She met my gaze.

  “Do you think that is wise?” Whitney said. “Surely you know the danger if your husband or family found out the child still draws breath.” I elevated a hand to silence her.

  “I’ve thought long and hard about what I’d do if I found out where my son is. The only way I could sleep at night is believing and putting faith in Jethro, that he found someone who’d care for and love our child. The thought of him coming of age to work in the fields has grieved me.”

  But not as a fan boy forced to forgo a childhood so that his owner wouldn’t suffer from the heat? Ridicule fired within me, but I bit my tongue to keep silent.

  She continued. “And the likelihood of him being sold away—unbearable. But I pushed away such thoughts and dwelt on visions of my son living happy and content.”

  Why your son and not the millions of other enslaved children? Her blindness to her hypocrisy angered me. What of her dismissal of the wenches her husband bedded to save herself? The ways of the South were so ingrained in her she failed to see the fallacy of her concerns, and how deeply embedded they were.

  “I do not wish to jeopardize him, and I fully understand the importance of keeping his identity hidden. The question is, why do you continue to help me? I’m indebted to you for your help with Jethro, a crime that’s punishable if you were caught.”

  “Then let’s not talk about it so openly,” Whitney said hotly. “Such talk endangers everyone, and I do not intend to swing from a rope.”

  Josephine ignored her and directed her question at me. “Does Bowden know?”

  “He does, but you mustn’t worry; he won’t see you or the child harmed.”

  She relaxed in her chair, and a tender smile touched her mouth. “Do you think I could see him?”

  An uneasy fear stole my breath.

  “I would never tell him who I am. I just need to see him for myself.”

  “Very well. We will arrange a time.” I stood.

  “May the Lord bless you richly, Willow Armstrong.” She walked us to the door, and as we stepped out, I turned to find her standing with her eyes closed and face raised to the sky. For the first time in years, happiness haloed her.

  I tried to calm the anxiety in my gut. Had I done the right thing in revealing the child’s whereabouts? My heart told me yes, but my mind swirled with fear of what it meant for Sailor…and me.

  Bowden

  THE CARRIAGE PULLED TO A stop outside of Astor House, one of the luxurious hotels in Lower Manhattan, which occupied a ful
l block. Built with blue-gray granite in Greek Revival style, its entrance was flanked by two vast columns. Lights from the lobby and guest rooms above illuminated the boardwalk.

  “Shall we?” I said to James, who leaned forward to take a gander at the hotel.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Armstrong.” He’d forgone “masa,” as I’d instructed him to do while in the North. “Et sho’ do luk fancy. Dose folkses ain’t gonna lak me dirtying up de place.”

  “This is one of the few hotels that will allow slaves. They won’t accommodate free blacks, but have quarters for men such as yourself.”

  His brow puckered. “Don’t seem right.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. But what does make sense these days?”

  The driver opened the door and I disembarked, followed by James. I opened my coat to retrieve payment from my pocketbook and thrust it into the hand of the scowling driver. I arched a brow at his demeanor. “Is there an issue, sir?”

  “We don’t take too kindly to the stench of you. Coming down here and bringing your niggers with you.” His lip curled with disgust. “The greedy people that own this place may seek to cater to you wealthy Southerners, but the rest of us won’t be so accommodating.” He climbed up onto the carriage and unstrapped our trunks. “Seeing as you brought your slave with you, why don’t you get him to carry your belongings.” He pushed our luggage over the side. James and I jumped out of the way to avoid being struck.

  I gritted my teeth and swallowed the sarcasm on the tip of my tongue. And with the grace expected of a Southern gentleman, I bowed at the waist and said, “Thank you for your Northern hospitality.”

  The driver mumbled a profanity before taking his seat and flicking the reins. We stood staring after the departing carriage.

  “Welcome to New York.” I extended my hands to the heavens and gave James a cheeky grin.

  “Swell fellow,” James said with a grunt.

  “He will be the first of many.” I clapped a hand on his shoulder before bending to retrieve a trunk. James took care of the other.

  Inside, he waited with our luggage while I checked in at the front desk.

  “Good day, sir, how can I help you?” The lanky gentlemen behind the desk regarded me over spectacles perched on the tip of his long nose.

  “I’m looking for a room for three nights,” I said

  The man eyed me before looking past me to where James stood, wide-eyed, admiring the imperial ceilings and chandeliers of the lobby. His expression grew taut. “Can I have your name, sir?”

  “Armstrong, Bowden Armstrong.” I removed my hat and tucked it in the crook of my arm.

  “Welcome to Astor House.” His smile was false; the glint in his eyes revealed he was hired to perform a service, and like the carriage driver, he held no use for my kind.

  A polished man who glistened from his oily complexion to his dark slicked-back hair appeared beside the clerk and offered me a brilliant smile. “Good day, sir. I am the hotel manager. Have you stayed with us before?”

  “No, sir. This will be the first.”

  He gave me his full attention. “We hope to make your stay enjoyable. And as I’m sure you are aware, we have accommodations for your slave.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll have the porter deliver your luggage to your room.” He moved from behind the desk and came to stand beside me. “During your stay, I hope you will take advantage of our private dining room, where businessmen, politicians, and professionals often visit for lunch.”

  “Perhaps I will.” I tilted my head in polite acknowledgment.

  The manager left me in the hands of the clerk, and when we’d finished, I went to inform James of the arrangements.

  “I will send a message to your daughter and inform her of our arrival,” I said.

  “Dat be good, Ma—” James caught himself. “Mr. Armstrong, sir.”

  I expected we’d face hostility during our stay in New York, but James referring to me as his master would set an unnecessary target on our backs. If Willow hadn’t insisted I bring James to meet his grandchild, I would have made the journey alone.

  “I’ll meet you outside at six. We will have our dinner amongst friends tonight.”

  “Dat we will, sah.” A broad smile expanded on his weathered face.

  Later, after scanning the lobby for James, I approached the doors to exit the hotel and the doorman stood with his back to me, neglecting to open the door. Stepping outside, I soon became aware of laughter and taunting voices. I noticed the amused look on the doorman’s face as he stood, engrossed by a pair of men some feet down the boardwalk.

  “Sahs, please. I ain’t meant no harm.”

  I recognized James’s voice. My heart leaped. I took a second gander at the men and spotted him in the shadows, cornered by them as they prowled around him. I dodged folks to get to him. Ruby and Willow would never forgive me if he was harmed in any way.

  “What’s that you say, cotton picker? I can’t hear ya,” one man said in an exaggerated Southern drawl while jabbing James in the chest. He reached up and swiped his hat off his head.

  “Sah, I say…” James watched the man grind his hat into the boardwalk with his foot.

  “We done heard what you said, you damn nigger.” The other man shoved him from behind.

  I lunged forward and grabbed the thicker of the pair by the collar and heaved him backward.

  “Hey, what the—” he sputtered.

  “Leave him be,” I said.

  “Aw, here we go. Look, darkie, we found your masa,” the other man said, grinning wickedly through an unruly ginger beard. “You can’t function without him, can ya? Don’t have any smarts at all.” His eyes flashed. “Spent all your life in his field with your arse in the air.”

  “James, come,” I said.

  James took up a position beside me, his keen eyes trained on the men, his hands ready at his sides. I’d come to appreciate the character of the blacksmith. His love and loyalty toward Willow were unwavering, and to me, as her husband, he’d shown respect that went beyond slave to master. I sensed he’d risk striking a white man to get us out of the tight situation.

  I released the man I still held and gave him a shove toward his friend. “We don’t want any trouble. Let us be on our way.”

  The man spun back around and shouted at the onlookers. “I think my friend, Hank, and I should show this cotton picker and his nigger what we think of the trash from the South.” He circled me a couple times before he swooped in to attack. But I was ready. Raising an arm to block his blow, I landed a hook on his face. He fell back with a growl, and I ducked the swing from Hank.

  The hotel manager rushed up, with the doorman on his heels. Winded, he glared at the pair. “You men had better take your leave before you find yourselves in a jail cell for the night.”

  The men halted their advance and shared a look. “Very well.” The burly fellow flicked a finger at the blood dripping from a gash over his left eyelid. His eye was starting to swell. “We will go, but be warned, cotton picker.” His other eye glinted coldly at me. “Men like John Brown will put an end to Southern breeders, and no kept niggers will stop them.” He spat at our feet.

  I gritted my teeth to hold back the remark on the tip of my tongue. Despite the stand the high and mighty Northerners took, their dependence on the South’s cotton to supply their factories remained.

  After the men left, I straightened my cravat and jacket. James retrieved our hats from the boardwalk.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Armstrong,” the hotel manager said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I thank you for intervening.” I held out a hand.

  He grasped it and signaled a hansom cab with the other. “You be on your way, and for the inconvenience, and the bad mood you may have after the poor behavior of those men, your fare is on us.”

  I offered my thanks and walked toward the cab.

  “I’ll have your job for this,” the manager said to the doorman. “Dislike them or not, our So
uthern acquaintances keep you in a job.”

  I gestured for James to climb in and followed.

  As we rode down the street, I regarded him as he sat stiffly on the seat beside me. “There is nothing to worry about,” I said.

  “Et a hard thing to stand back, unable to lift a hand to help dose you care ’bout or dose in need, jus’ ’cause you black.” He brushed the dirt from his trousers with vigorous strokes.

  “I understand your frustration. You did well under the circumstances.”

  “I warn’t ’bout to take et much longer. Ef I seed dose men were gonna git de upper hand, I would’ve stepped in. I ain’t ’bout to let Missus Willie lose another one she loves. No, sah. Dat gal bin through ’nuf.”

  “Your love for my wife is admirable and deeply appreciated,” I said. “Now, how about we focus on persons more deserving of our thoughts, like Ruby and that new grandbaby of yours.”

  Teeth gleamed in the darkness. “Yes, sah. I think dat be a right smart thing to do.”

  Oliver Evans

  THE PREY DELIVERS ITSELF INTO your hands. The time is now. End him, the clamoring voices shrieked.

  I held back the velvet curtain, observing the brawl occurring outside of the Astor House from inside the hired carriage. I clutched the cigar tighter between my teeth.

  It had been years, but the resentment for Bowden Armstrong and his wife had never diminished. The cocky bastard revealed his stupidity by bringing a nigger with him. He had defied death at my hands and married the woman whose fortune I’d sought to acquire.

  “What is it, darling?”

  The silky, seductive voice pulled me from the scene unfurling outside. Her perfume tantalized my senses, and I set my jaw at the influence Madame Amelie Laclaire had over me. From the moment I walked into her cathouse and she peered at me across the bar, she had captured my attention. A fiery-haired seductress cloaked in silks, with creamy flesh spilling from her bodice. It hadn’t been her beauty that fascinated me, but her ability to govern people with a smile or a flick of her hand. Men and women alike unraveled under her spell, and a woman like her in one’s pocket was an asset I had sought to obtain.