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Authors: Barbara Hambly
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been given. January hardly needed to see the masthead,
The Liberator,
to know what it was. “You know what I have to say to you, Quince, and to all Abolitionists like you?”
Quince, with an indignant gasp, tried to snatch the burning tract from Gleet's hands. The slave-dealer whooped harder and held it away from him, like a man teasing a child, which, despite his square-chinned handsomeness, the abolitionist Quince somehow resembled. “Let it be,” said the thin gentleman in the oddly rangeless voice that January identified at once as one symptom of chronic palsy.
“What's the matter?” Kevin Molloy appeared in the doorway, crossed the room to the bar. “You're never an Abolitionist, too, Lundy? A bit of the water of life, Nick,” he added to the barkeep. And to the emaciated, faintly-trembling Lundy, “I guess you've got to have
something
to keep your mind occupied, now that you're not up to runnin' a boat anymore.”
“When I was piloting, Mr. Molloy,” responded Lundy, “it wasn't my custom to spend my time in the Saloon.”
“What, on this stretch of the river?” Molloy hooted. “'Tis twenty feet of bottom we've got and not a bar in sight till we get to Red Church. I could take a wee nap and nothing would come of it! You're an old woman, Lundy,” he added. “'Tis a damn shame. You used to be good.”
And he swaggered from the room, even as Mr. Quince took the glass from Hannibal's hand and replaced it with another tract, entitled “The Devil's Brew.”
“I'm afraid my manservant is not for sale, Mr. Gleet,” said Hannibal as Quince poured the contents of the glass into the spittoon near the table. “Although I do appreciate your offer.”
“A thousand, then.” Gleet waved to January, signaling him over. “A thousand, and that leaves me with barely any profit. What the hell you need a big buck like that for a valet for, anyway? He's got field-hand written all over him.”
“He has suffering written all over him,” thundered young Quince, stepping between Gleet and January without so much as a glance at January, all his attention on Gleet. “Suffering, and the crying injustices of the system!”
“Get him out of here,” sighed Gleet, “'fore I swat him like a fly.”
And as the former pilot Lundy, moving with painful and shaky step, urged the fulminating young Abolitionist toward the door, Gleet looked around at the other men in the Saloon. “What's the matter, Weems?” he demanded. “You an Abolitionist, too? A man's got a right to make a living. You can't tell me a boy like that”—he waved in January's direction—“would have the slightest idea what to do with freedom if he had it.”
“Good Heavens, no!” spoke up the stout Northerner in the nasal English of Massachusetts. “Until such time as the government is able to re-settle the Negroes in Africa, where they are best suited to live, it would be an act of cruelty to turn them loose—not to speak of the effect it would have on honest white workingmen in the East.” He belched, and bit with great satisfaction into the oyster sandwich in his other hand. Butter glistened as it ran down his chin.
“Gleet spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get me sufficiently foxed to agree to sell.” Hannibal sank unsteadily onto the bunk of his stateroom a few hours later and closed his eyes. “Thank God there was a spittoon under the table. It broke my heart to dump that much good whiskey—I must have poured off a pint of it, besides all I drank—but enough is enough. I beg you, if you love me, get me a cup of coffee . . .
quietly
.”
“Yes, sir.” January threw his humblest accents into his voice as he rose from the chair in the stateroom, where he'd taken refuge. He'd dozed a little, and listened to the voices of the cabin passengers and their servants as they passed on the promenade, in between perusal of the assorted vegetarian, Abolitionist, temperance, Thompsonian, women's suffrage, and
The Liberator,
to know what it was. “You know what I have to say to you, Quince, and to all Abolitionists like you?”
Quince, with an indignant gasp, tried to snatch the burning tract from Gleet's hands. The slave-dealer whooped harder and held it away from him, like a man teasing a child, which, despite his square-chinned handsomeness, the abolitionist Quince somehow resembled. “Let it be,” said the thin gentleman in the oddly rangeless voice that January identified at once as one symptom of chronic palsy.
“What's the matter?” Kevin Molloy appeared in the doorway, crossed the room to the bar. “You're never an Abolitionist, too, Lundy? A bit of the water of life, Nick,” he added to the barkeep. And to the emaciated, faintly-trembling Lundy, “I guess you've got to have
something
to keep your mind occupied, now that you're not up to runnin' a boat anymore.”
“When I was piloting, Mr. Molloy,” responded Lundy, “it wasn't my custom to spend my time in the Saloon.”
“What, on this stretch of the river?” Molloy hooted. “'Tis twenty feet of bottom we've got and not a bar in sight till we get to Red Church. I could take a wee nap and nothing would come of it! You're an old woman, Lundy,” he added. “'Tis a damn shame. You used to be good.”
And he swaggered from the room, even as Mr. Quince took the glass from Hannibal's hand and replaced it with another tract, entitled “The Devil's Brew.”
“I'm afraid my manservant is not for sale, Mr. Gleet,” said Hannibal as Quince poured the contents of the glass into the spittoon near the table. “Although I do appreciate your offer.”
“A thousand, then.” Gleet waved to January, signaling him over. “A thousand, and that leaves me with barely any profit. What the hell you need a big buck like that for a valet for, anyway? He's got field-hand written all over him.”
“He has suffering written all over him,” thundered young Quince, stepping between Gleet and January without so much as a glance at January, all his attention on Gleet. “Suffering, and the crying injustices of the system!”
“Get him out of here,” sighed Gleet, “'fore I swat him like a fly.”
And as the former pilot Lundy, moving with painful and shaky step, urged the fulminating young Abolitionist toward the door, Gleet looked around at the other men in the Saloon. “What's the matter, Weems?” he demanded. “You an Abolitionist, too? A man's got a right to make a living. You can't tell me a boy like that”—he waved in January's direction—“would have the slightest idea what to do with freedom if he had it.”
“Good Heavens, no!” spoke up the stout Northerner in the nasal English of Massachusetts. “Until such time as the government is able to re-settle the Negroes in Africa, where they are best suited to live, it would be an act of cruelty to turn them loose—not to speak of the effect it would have on honest white workingmen in the East.” He belched, and bit with great satisfaction into the oyster sandwich in his other hand. Butter glistened as it ran down his chin.
“Gleet spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get me sufficiently foxed to agree to sell.” Hannibal sank unsteadily onto the bunk of his stateroom a few hours later and closed his eyes. “Thank God there was a spittoon under the table. It broke my heart to dump that much good whiskey—I must have poured off a pint of it, besides all I drank—but enough is enough. I beg you, if you love me, get me a cup of coffee . . .
quietly
.”
“Yes, sir.” January threw his humblest accents into his voice as he rose from the chair in the stateroom, where he'd taken refuge. He'd dozed a little, and listened to the voices of the cabin passengers and their servants as they passed on the promenade, in between perusal of the assorted vegetarian, Abolitionist, temperance, Thompsonian, women's suffrage, and
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