Leapholes

Chapter 25

Night fell as the posse rode into town on horseback. An unruly crowd lined both sides of Main Street. Slave owners stood on one side, opponents on the other. Hand-held torches lit up the night, casting a yellow-orange glow on a sea of angry faces. People shouted back and forth, tempers flaring, words running on top of words. It was impossible to discern any single voice, any coherent sentence. There was just a noisy, collective rumble of discontent.

Ryan and Jarvis pushed their way through the crowd, but it was tough-going. The sidewalks were jammed, and people were spilling into the streets. Ryan noticed black faces and white faces on his side of the street. On the other side, he saw only white. He wanted to be closer to the action, but it was like trying to push his way to the front row of a sold-out concert. Hundreds of people had already staked out their position. Suddenly, two men gave up their spots and headed for the tavern. Ryan and Jarvis maneuvered forward and took the openings.

"Look!" said Jarvis.

A dozen men on horses approached from the east. All of them were white. Each was armed with a pistol and rifle. One was belting back a bottle of whiskey. People on the other side of the street shouted in celebration. Those on Ryan's side hissed and jeered.

"Sinners!" one woman shouted.

"Slavery is immoral!" cried another.

Tempers were on the verge of explosion, and the growing crowd swelled farther into the street. Ryan climbed atop a barrel near the hitching post for a better view. He had a clear line of sight, but he nearly lost his balance when he saw what the posse was bringing into town.

Six black men walked in single file, right down the center of the street. Their hands were bound at the wrists. A heavy chain connected their ankles, and it rattled with their movements. Two of the men were old and appeared to be on the verge of collapse. The rest were much younger, perhaps even teenagers. All of them were singing. Singing. Their tune was slow yet moving, a powerful old spiritual:

Go down, Moses, Way down in Egypt's land, Tell old Pharaoh, Let my people go!

It amazed Ryan that these men could be brought into town like animals, paraded down a crowded street, and still find the courage to sing. As they passed, Ryan noticed the long rope that tethered one man to the next. They were spaced evenly apart, each man a few feet behind the man in front of him. They sang loud and with feeling. Even though crowd noises drowned out most of the lyrics, Ryan could feel the power of their voices. As they trudged forward in their shackles, the rope slackened and drooped between them. It seemed to join them together like a string of sad smiles.

"I have to talk to them," said Ryan.

"Are you crazy?" said Jarvis.

"I need to know if we're in the right place."

"What are you talking about?"

Ryan pushed forward. He squeezed between people and crawled on hands and knees around others. Finally, he was standing on the street. He waited for the right moment. The men on horseback were waving to the pro-slavery side of the street, receiving a hero's welcome. When no one from the posse was looking in his direction, Ryan broke away from the crowd and approached one of the slaves.

"Do you know a man named Hezekiah?" he asked, his voice racing.

"No," the man answered. "Not one of us by dat name."

"But do you know him?" said Ryan. "Have you ever met anyone named Hezekiah?"

"Uh-uh," he said. Then he started singing again.

Ryan dropped back to the second in line. "How about you? Do you know Hezekiah?"

The man shook his head. Ryan moved to the next one, and then to the next, asking the same question. Do you know Hezekiah? Have you ever met him?

No one could help him. Then another thought came to him. He ran ahead to the front of the line and caught up with the first slave.

"Sir, do you know where Legal Evil lives?"

The man didn't answer. His eyes were nearly closed, and he was singing in a loud voice.

"Please, can you help me?" said Ryan. "Do you know a place where the brood follows the dam?"

No answer. The slaves kept walking and singing. Ryan stopped, frustrated. "Does anybody know-"

Ryan was suddenly on the ground. One of the posse members had shoved him aside with the butt of his shotgun. "Back away there, boy! This ain't your property."

Property? Ryan thought. It was the first time he'd ever heard people referred to as "property."

The posse moved on. The slaves went with them. Their singing faded as the march continued down Main Street. Many of the onlookers moved alongside them. Others dispersed, disappearing into the tavern or walking home.

Ryan stood silently in the street, not quite believing what he'd just seen. He looked around for Jarvis, but he didn't see him. He hoped they hadn't gotten separated in all the confusion.

"You all right, son?" a woman asked him.

Ryan turned to see a gentle but unfamiliar face. She appeared to be his mother's age, though it was difficult to tell. She was wearing a hooded cape. The torchbearers had moved on with the posse. The only light was from the moon, the flickering gaslight on the street corner, and a few oil lamps hanging in the windows behind them.

Ryan said, "I'm all right. Thank you."

"What's your name?"

"Ryan." Even in the nineteenth century, he left off the surname.

"I'm Abigail. Abigail Fitzsimons."

As they shook hands she said, "Are you looking for someone?"

Ryan glanced toward the sidewalk, the spot where he'd last seen Jarvis. "Yes, I'm looking for-"

"Hezekiah?"

Ryan froze. "Yes. How did you know that?"

"I heard you asking the other slaves if they knew a man named Hezekiah."

"Oh." He shrugged and said, "None of them could help."

"Maybe I can," she said.

"Do you know Hezekiah?"

"It's not the kind of name you hear every day. But I just saw a man named Hezekiah two days ago."

"Where?"

"Right here in this street."

"Are you serious? Where was he? I mean exactly."

"He came in behind the posse. Just like tonight's slaves."

Ryan's heart skipped a beat. "Are you saying that the posse brought him in as a runaway slave?"

"Him and three others. Yes."

"But that's not possible. Hezekiah is not a runaway slave."

"Well, none of these are runaways, technically. This all has to do with the Dred Scott decision."

"The what?"

She looked at him curiously. "The whole country's been talking about it since the Supreme Court released its opinion on the sixth of March. Where have you been, boy?"

"I guess I've been… traveling. But I don't understand. What does a Supreme Court decision have to do with posses bringing slaves into town?"

"Dred Scott was a slave here in Missouri. His master took him to Wisconsin and Illinois for twelve whole years. Slavery is illegal there. So Dred Scott sued his master and asked the court to say he was a free man. It took another twelve years in the court system. The case went all the way to the United States Supreme Court in Washington, D.