The Fallon Legacy, page 13
“You Mrs. Fallon, ma’am?” the boy asked.
“That’s right. You’d better step in out of that rain.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He dug a folded, dingy scrap of paper from under his coat. “I was told to bring this. And I gots to wait for a answer.” Water trickled down his face.
The once crumpled paper, folded carelessly, had no connection in her mind with the crisp, blue-sealed blackmail notes. She had no preparation for what she read.
MRS. FALLON. I AM IN JAIL. YOU MUST GET ME OUT UNLESS YOU WANT EVERYTHING KNOWN. I HAVE WRITTEN DOWN EVERYTHING, AND THE NAME OF ANOTHER WITNESS, AND GIVEN IT TO SOMEONE. IF I AM NOT RELEASED SOON HE WILL TAKE IT TO A MAJISTRATE. Do NOT THINK MY HANGING WILL SAVE YOU. HE WILL TAKE IT. THE WITNESS WILL TALK. GET ME OUT SOON, OR YOU ARE DONE FOR. BILLY CARPENTER.
She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Billy Carpenter? He was the blackmailer? How could he bring himself to do it? His brother was Robert’s friend. God, he deserved to die. Regretfully she put a clamp on her emotions. Whatever he deserved, she couldn’t risk his letter. Or his witness.
“Can you read?” she asked the boy suddenly. He shifted his feet and shook his head. “Are you sure? I’ll give you a dollar if you read something I give you.”
A pained expression crossed the boy’s face. “I surely would like that dollar, ma’am, but I just don’t know no reading.”
She peered at him intently. He seemed to be telling the truth. Lord, she was becoming suspicious of everyone. “That’s too bad. I’ll have a note for you to take back. Wait outside.”
She left him dripping on the steps and hurried to the drawing room. Quite abruptly she hadn’t wanted him in her house. Perhaps he was not more than a messenger, but perhaps he was Billy’s companion in blackmail. Perhaps he was the other witness. The ridiculousness of that—he would have been five or six at the time—brought her to a fit of giggles. She had to bite her fist to stop. There was no time for hysterics.
She took a sheet of paper from the writing desk and printed hastily. If he saw fit to disguise his hand in such a fashion, so would she.
I WILL HELP. BE PATIENT, BUT I WILL HELP.
She didn’t sign it.
When she pressed the note, along with two dollars, into the boy’s hand, she asked, “Where is he exactly? Which cell?”
He backed down two steps. “In the back,” he mumbled. “The second floor.” Abruptly he ran, slipping at the foot of the stairs but rolling to his feet in a mud puddle and darting down the street. The rain was coming heavier, and he was soon lost to sight.
She shut the door and leaned against it. How on God’s earth was she going to get him out of a jail guarded by half the militia in the city?
The rain had grown into a screaming storm by early evening, blacking the sky. The wind-hurled rain found its way past the upturned collar of Robert’s caped overcoat as he hurried into the City Guardhouse, next to the Arsenal on Meeting Street. Ben Miller and Matthew half-ran in his footsteps. Miller, like Robert, held his hat against the wind; Matthew, a lanky young man with a dark beard, clutched a cloth cap.
Inside, a blue-coated sentry started at the apparitions bursting out of the storm, and raised his musket to high port. “Yes, sir? Can I help you, sir?” Three more of the City Guard lounged at a table, playing cards.
“Let me speak to the officer in charge,” Robert said. “I want to bring a charge of murder. A man named Vesey.”
“Vesey? Vesey! Yes, sir. Halloran, get the captain! Tell him it’s about Vesey!”
“Vesey!” One of the men at the table dashed out of the room. The other two hastily buttoned their tunics and put away the cards.
In a moment Halloran was back, followed by a short whip of a man who stood so straight he at first seemed taller than he actually was. His tunic was buttoned up to his neck, gold buttons and braid at sleeve and collar gleaming. “I’m Captain Dove,” the rigidly braced man said. “Can I help you, sir?”
“My name is Robert Fallon. From what your men have said, Captain, I can help you. I’m bringing a charge of murder against Denmark Vesey. It seems you’re already interested in him.”
Dove looked at the sentry. The man pulled his shoulders back another half-inch. Dove sighed. “Yes, sir, we’re looking for Vesey. For three days now. Several of the men arrested have named him the leader in the uprising plans.”
“It doesn’t matter to me what charge you arrest Vesey on. I intend to see him hang.”
“If he’s the ringleader they say he is, he’ll hang, Mr. Fallon. But first we have to arrest him.”
“Then I suggest you and some of your men come with me.”
Dove’s composure cracked. “You mean … you know … God damn it, Halloran, get Sergeant Tillotson. Tell him I want a dozen men ready to go get Denmark Vesey in ten, no, in five minutes. Move, man!” The same man disappeared from the room again. Dove rubbed his hands together briskly. “Now, if you’ll just tell me where Vesey is, Mr. Fallon.”
“Matthew here will lead us. He knows the house.”
“No need for you to go along, sir, in all this wet.”
“No,” Robert said sharply. “I’ll be there when he’s arrested.”
The sergeant arrived with his squad, muskets tipped with bayonets, rain cloaks pulled grumpily around them. None liked the prospect of going out, even for Vesey. There’d been enough arrests the past week to blunt any feelings of breaking the conspiracy open.
The bearded man took the lead, with Robert, Dove, and Miller on his heels. The guardsmen brought up the rear, a straggling line, trying to keep their musket locks dry beneath their cloaks.
The wind moaned through shuddering treetops, and driven rain hit the skin like needles. White waves of spray were driven down slick streets, shiny in the light of the street lamps that hadn’t been blown out. Then they were in streets lit only by the glow from windows. They turned down Wentworth Street. After two blocks Henry stopped, pointing to a squat house, its lights dimmed by drawn curtains.
“He’d better be right, Mr. Fallon,” Dove muttered.
Matthew put fingers to his lips and whistled, low and mournful. Another man appeared from the shadows across from the house, shoulders hunched, rain dripping from the brim of his hat.
“Sam,” Matthew said, “it’s all right. Is he still here?”
Sam nodded. “Least, he ain’t come out by the front door.”
“But by the back?” Dove growled. “All right then. You two men around back. You two and you two, to the sides. And keep your eyes open for anything suspicious at the windows. If he manages to slip out, he could walk right past you in this.” The six men designated melted into the storm. “Well, Mr. Fallon, you ready to go in?”
For an answer Robert walked up the steps and used the knocker. With an oath Dove rushed to join him. The door was opened by a plump brown woman who peered at them with worried eyes. “We’re here to see Denmark Vesey,” Robert said.
“He ain’t here,” she gasped, and tried to swing the door shut.
Dove threw his shoulder into the door, bursting it open and sending the plump woman staggering across the plain hall. There was a scraping from a door to the left. Robert ran to it and threw it open. Denmark Vesey sat crouched in the open window beyond, one leg already out in the rain. Dove brushed past Robert with a cocked pistol in his hand.
“Denmark Vesey, I arrest you in the name of the sovereign state of South Carolina and the city of Charleston therein, on charges of conspiracy to cause an uprising among slaves.”
At a muffled shout from outside, Vesey looked out of the window, then carefully climbed back in. He smoothed the front of his coat with both hands. Rain poured in, puddling on the floor. “There’s been some mistake. I admit trying to run may look bad, but after the last few weeks I’m afraid when I saw armed men breaking into the house I panicked. This is my wife’s house, you see, and—”
“You’re talking too much,” Robert said. “The shadow of the gallows is on you, Vesey, and it’s cracking you wide open.”
Vesey’s eyes were calm, but he continued stroking the front of his coat. “I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Fallon. It is Robert Fallon, isn’t it? Perhaps I shouldn’t be. Jeremiah always thought you were something special, but you aren’t so different after all.”
“You mention his name again, Vesey,” Robert said, “and I’ll kill you with my bare hands.” He saw something die in Vesey’s face and knew he had been right.
“None of that, Mr. Fallon,” Dove said. “He’s in my custody, and if one single thing happens to him it’ll be because a judge says so. You understand?”
“I gave him to you,” Robert said.
“You did that,” Dove conceded. “But he’s in the custody of the law now. We don’t have lynch justice in this city.”
“I can talk to him,” Robert said. “I can talk. I want you to know, Vesey, that whatever they hang you for, it was killing Jeremiah Carpenter that put you on the gallows. And if they should somehow let you off with a jail term, I’ll be waiting when you get out.”
“Damn it, Fallon,” Dove broke in.
“I didn’t kill Jeremiah!” Vesey cried. “He was my friend!”
“Your friend,” Robert sneered. “If your hand didn’t kill him, it was your friends. Did you say, I’ll shed a tear for an old friend, but this man has to die? Was it your henchmen who murdered him?”
“I didn’t touch him,” Vesey said. “I never touched him.”
Robert thought if he didn’t get away from the man he’d throw up. “You can have him, Dove. I don’t want to touch him.”
As he strode out he could hear Vesey importuning the captain. “This is all a dreadful mistake. I’m a respectable citizen, with property and a business. Why would I risk …”
17
On the twenty-ninth of June the city’s four daily papers broke the news of Denmark Vesey’s death sentence, and the next morning, Sunday, Moira received another note from Billy. She sat for hours in the drawing room, stuffy with its windows tightly shut to keep out the bad summer humors, reading and rereading it.
MRS. FALLON. YOU BETTER GET ME OUT. VESEY IS TO HANG NEXT TUESDAY. IT WILL BE MY TURN SOON. IF I AM STILL HERE WHEN VESEY HANGS, I WILL TELL THE MAN WHO HAS MY LETTER TO TAKE IT TO A MAJISTRATE NOW. GET ME OUT IF YOU KNOW WHAT IS GOOD FOR YOU.
This time he hadn’t signed it.
She’d thought of and discarded plan after plan since the first demand came. She had no political pressure to bring to bear, no favors to call in from men in high places. A plea to the governor would be met with sympathy for her kind heart, a pat on the head, and an admonition to let her husband explain why what she asked was impossible.
Fantastical plans had come in the small hours of the morning. Disguising herself as a man, a guard, and sneaking into the jail. Blacking her face and pretending to be a sweeper so she could get to the proper cell. The rest had been worse, and all impossible. She was one woman by herself. The thought of asking for Robert’s aid had been sternly dismissed the instant it occurred. Not after Lucille Gautier.
Suddenly she sat up straight. One woman alone. Perhaps she didn’t have to be. She rang for Albert. When he came she said, “Albert, you once said you’d do anything in your power to help me. Did you mean it? Think before you answer, because what I must ask may be more than you’re willing to do.”
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “short of murder, I’ll help you any way I can.”
“It might not be too far short of murder,” she murmured. Now was the time to leap in or back away. She took a deep breath and told him of Justin Fourrier’s death and Billy Carpenter’s blackmail.
“So that’s what was troubling you,” he said when she finished. “I’ll do whatever I can, ma’am. But am I correct in thinking you haven’t told Mr. Fallon?”
“No, and you’re not to breathe a word to him.”
“Ma’am, I really think—”
“No!” She realized she was shaking, and clasped her hands to still them. “Please, Albert.”
“I promise. But what are we going to do then?”
“Break him out,” she said. When he nodded, she almost fainted from relief. “Who else can you get to help us? I have a plan.” She had several, all previously discarded because she needed men to carry them out. It all depended on who he named, and how many.
“Frank Hill, ma’am,” he said promptly. “He’s the only man I can think of we can trust in this.”
“Hill? The name is familiar, but—”
“The fishmonger, ma’am. You gave him two hundred-odd dollars.”
“That seems an age ago. But would he become involved in something like this? It was only a few hundred dollars.”
Albert smiled. “Not much to you, ma’am, but the world to him. I see him often. We haven’t paid for a fish in this house since. There were nights he and his wife went to bed hungry, ma’am, so they could feed their children. Now he has three boats, because of you, and he’s prospering. If you asked him to feed Billy Carpenter to the sharks, he wouldn’t hesitate a minute.”
“There must be nothing like that. If he dies, whatever the cause … Take me to Frank Hill, Albert. And hurry. There isn’t much time.”
“Where’s Albert?” Robert asked the maid who took his hat and walking stick. The butler never allowed maids to answer the door.
“He gone out, sir. With Mrs. Fallon.”
“Bring coffee to my study.” Before he reached the study door, though, Hannah appeared at the back of the entry hall, her wooden spoon held rigidly as if to make up for her nervousness at being out of her realm.
“Mr. Fallon, that Sarah Carpenter here to see you, and she worry something fierce. She in the pantry.”
He didn’t relish another meeting with Jeremiah’s widow. Telling her Jeremiah had been killed by Vesey had been more than enough. She had collapsed in tears so deep there’d been nothing left for him but to go.
She was seated at the big table in the pantry. Someone, Hannah probably, had given her a cup of tea that she hadn’t touched. She scraped her chair back when Robert entered, rising with a much older woman’s hesitations and stiffness.
“Sit down, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “Drink your tea. Are you all right?”
“She’s gone, Mr. Fallon. Leonie’s gone, too.” Her voice quivered, and he realized she was way past the end of her resources.
“Gone where, Mrs. Carpenter? Do you mean she’s left home?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know, Mr. Fallon. It was yesterday, when the news of Vesey’s sentence was in the papers. She started in about him being murdered by …” her voice faltered “ … by you folks. She was weeping and shouting. I couldn’t take it. I slapped her face and asked her why she wasn’t singing that her father’s murderer was hanging. She slapped me back. She said I didn’t know anything about Vesey, that he wasn’t that kind of man, and she knew it for a fact. When I asked her how she knew, she started crying again and ran out of the house. I thought she’d come home in an hour or two, but I haven’t seen her since. Mr. Fallon, she’s all I have now. I don’t want her to get hurt.” She began to shake with sobs, collapsing back into the chair.
“She probably just spent the night with friends,” Robert said. “Perhaps with some family you know.”
“I went to all of them. Nobody’s seen her. Mr. Fallon, there’s a curse on us. Jeremiah dead. His brother’s going to hang. Now Leonie’s gone. I don’t know what to do any more.”
“His brother! Billy? Why would Billy hang?”
“This same Vesey thing,” she sniffled. “They arrested him the first day.” He handed her his handkerchief, and she dried her face.
“I had no idea. Billy’s always been more interested in gambling than anything else.”
She nodded vigorously. “He never even went to church except to please Jeremiah. Maybe the court will find him innocent. I don’t think I could stand it if they said he was in with the men who killed Jeremiah.”
“I didn’t think he was a political man. But he might have done that to please his brother, too, mightn’t he? Mrs. Carpenter, was Jeremiah involved with Vesey’s scheme? Could he have been killed because he was going to turn them in? I can’t see him going along with what’s coming out of the trials, not with murder and rape.”
Two hundred years of black servitude snapped her face shut. It might have been polished brown wood. “My Jeremiah was a good man.”
He wondered if she meant too good to be involved with Vesey, or too good to turn him in. “I guess it doesn’t matter, now.”
“No, sir.” She watched from behind that wooden face.
“I’ll do what I can about finding Leonie, Mrs. Carpenter. And perhaps I can do something for Billy, too.”
The wooden face cracked into flesh, and for a moment tears flowed silently. Then she was blank-faced again, only the dampness of her cheeks testifying to a loss of composure. “You destroy us with your kindnesses.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll wager you don’t, Mr. Fallon. You call me Mrs. Carpenter, and you called Jeremiah your friend, but you owned us as much as if you had papers on us. Your family, your father and you, made Jeremiah more than just another black man in the gutter. A word from you and we’d all be nothing again. We might have been on a long leash, but you held the end of it.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“When Jeremiah had troubles, he never had to work them out himself. You were always there to lift him out of it. And me, too. I ran to you when Jeremiah disappeared, and now for Leonie. You’re the man who solves all our problems.” Abruptly she stood. “I have to go now.”
“I still want to help.” He thought his words made her pause for a second at the door, but she kept moving, down the brick steps and around the corner of the house. He turned to find Hannah watching him, her face as blank as Sarah Carpenter’s had been.
