The Halifax Connection (44 page)

Even a bullet in the streets.

For a long moment he studied Susie Malone’s drab form against the bars, remembering why he sometimes wished he had put a thousand miles between himself and his past.

Next to him, James Dougal Orton’s polished, arrogant voice reminded him why he had not.

“You twist my meaning, constable,” Orton was saying.

Your meaning? Ah, yes. God will bring his wisdom to the slaveholders.

“Sorry. Like I said, I ain’t much for religion. But I’ve never seen the Lord come lecture us with trumpets and poster signs. Maybe it’s different in the South, I’ve never been there. But looking around me here, it seems like whatever the Lord’s trying to do, he’s got people out doing it for him. Asking questions. Calling meetings. Considering how we live, and how we treat folks, and trying to change things if there’s need—”

“There’s nothing godly about trying to change men’s minds with a cannon.”

“Except it wasn’t a cannon at the outset. It was an election, remember? It was their own fellow citizens saying the time had come for change. The Rebels were the ones who broke up the country and fired off the cannon.”

“They were being invaded.”

“They were not. The Yankees were merely bringing food to the garrison at Sumter.”

“The South had declared its independence. The garrison should have been withdrawn.”

“Right. And if Yorkshire declared its independence, and fired on Her Majesty’s troops for the wanting of their dinner, what do you suppose Her Majesty’s government would do?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s nae the same thing at all.”

“Maybe not, but where do you draw the line? How do you decide this nation is a real nation, and not for carving up, and that one ain’t? How do you decide this election should stand, if a free vote means anything at all, and that one we can just walk out on? How do you decide, Orton?”

“Justice is how you decide, constable. Did that wee fact never occur to you?”

“Justice?”

“Aye. The right of every man on earth to be lord of his own destiny, and be treated fair, and have nae stranger riding into his yard, taking the bread from his mouth and telling him what to do. That’s how you decide.”

“So tell me, how does a slave get to be lord of his own destiny?”

Orton got to his feet, throwing out one hand in a gesture of frustration and disgust. “What is the point of talking with you, then? You nae listen to a thing a man says. They’ll deal with slavery when the time comes. It’s nae the business at hand—”

“No, of course not. States’ rights is the business at hand. That’s what they’re telling us, anyhow—”

“Aye, they are. And like you said, constable, you’ve nae been to the South. Do you really have the gall to say they’re lying?”

“Most everybody lies when they’re cornered. You did yourself, just five minutes ago. The Rebels need English help. We don’t approve of slavery, mostly, so they tell us it’s not what they’re fighting over. But it ain’t exactly what they tell themselves.”

“How the hell would you ken what they tell themselves?”

“Their constitution. That’s where folks write down what really matters to them, you know. They write it in stone. And the Confederate constitution says anyone’s got the right to keep slaves, anywhere in the country. You’re a lawyer, Orton, you know what that means. If a constitution gives you a right, no local government can take your right away. Which means nary a one of those states who’re all dying to be lords of their own destiny can abolish slavery inside their own borders, ever, short of changing the bloody constitution. Why do you suppose they’d agree to that, if states’ rights was really what they cared about most?”

Orton glared at him for a moment. Then he laughed. “So now the likes of you is an expert on the Southern constitution? How very impressive. Lord knows we’ll have an archbishop from the upper streets next.”

Matt bit back his rush of anger. After all, what else should he have expected?

He got to his feet. “Laws are public information, you know. Some lads here went to the trouble of finding out. Obviously, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t,” Orton said coldly. “I judge the South by her men, Calverley, men who are honest and brave, who want their freedom like all proud people do, who win battle after battle against the odds—”

The last of his words were drowned out by the cell door clanging shut. Matt locked it, rattled it to make sure it was fast, and then said quietly, “Orton, you’re an idiot. There’s no army ever marched that didn’t have good men in it. If you think that proves anything, you don’t have the sense to know your brain from a bunghole.”

All the time they had been talking, only traces of hostility had shown in Orton’s eyes. Now it flashed out, quick and savage. Had
Matt still been inside the cell, Orton might well have struck him to the floor.

“Oh, it’s a grand feeling, isn’t it? Being able to stand outside these bars and insult me? The Barrack Street bastard’s little hour of glory! You simply can nae bide it there’s men in this town who’ll stand up for things they believe in, when you’ve nae stood up for anything in your life!”

“You’re not standing up for shit, Orton; you’re about to stand down. You want to fight for that damn pack of slavers, go fight for them. Put on your grey uniform and go. I’ll God damn kiss you goodbye! But you’re not taking us with you. We’re going to make a country here, all for ourselves, and we’ll be damned if you’re going to blow it out from under our feet. And you can tell your Grey Tory friends the same. There’s more than one proud people in the world who ain’t about to be told what to do!”

Orton shouted a rude name at him as he walked away. He did not care, or answer. He was aware, but only vaguely, of voices in the other cells, Malone’s among them, laughing. Sometimes he regretted joining the constabulary; it required him to behave himself. Years back, he would have left James Dougal Orton lying in a heap on the floor—somewhat damaged, perhaps, but peaceful as a pile of rags.

S
YLVIE HAD NEVER
thought of Aggie Breault as a person with secrets. So it surprised her when, on a quiet January afternoon, she slipped upstairs to change a badly soiled apron and found Aggie in their small attic room, bent close to the lamp, with a letter. The room was icy cold, and the lamp no better than a candle. No one, she thought, would read here instead of in the kitchen, unless they were reading something very private. As if to make the point, Aggie immediately tucked the letter into her pocket before Sylvie had even closed the door.

“Oh, hello,” Sylvie said. “I didn’t think anyone were up here.”

“Just wanted a breath of time to myself,” Aggie said. “I get so tired of young Dobbs going on. He’s barely twenty and already he knows everything. Are you all finished?”

“Almost. I got one room left.”

“Sit for a spell, then. But open the door, would you, so we can hear the bell?”

Strictly speaking, they were not supposed to rest or visit until all their tasks were done. But it was Sunday, and unusually quiet. Miss Susan had gone calling, and most of the guests were out. Gratefully, Sylvie settled onto the edge of her bed.

“So what’s Dobbs going on about?” she asked.

“You recall they caught some of the
Chesapeake
pirates in New Brunswick? Well, he’s saying how unthinkable it would be to send them off to the States to stand trial—as if being British gives them some kind of immunity to other people’s laws.”

“I thought what they did were against our laws too,” Sylvie said.

“Sure. But all an English court can charge them with is violating the Foreign Enlistment Act. If they’re going to be charged with anything serious, like piracy or murder, it has to be in the States, because they did it on one of our ships. Leastways, that’s how I understand it.”

“You think it’ll happen? A trial in the States?”

“Sure. When pigs fly and mice go hunting cats.”

The women shared a small, cynical smile.

“You must despair of us sometimes,” Sylvie said.

Aggie shrugged. “Actually, I don’t. The Union has a lot of friends here. They aren’t sitting in the highest places, but I think if we counted heads, we’d be surprised at the numbers.”

A door opened and closed somewhere below. Aggie paused, listening for a summons, but all went still again.

“So,” she went on lightly, “what about your beau? What does he think about the war?”

“My beau?”

“Your young man, or follower, as you call them here. You do have one, don’t you? You’ve certainly been showing all the signs.”

A woman of nearly thirty, Sylvie thought, should not blush as foolishly as a girl. Perhaps in the poor light Aggie would not notice.

“What do you mean, showing signs?”

“Really, Sylvie. You rush off on your half day as though the world were ending, and you stay out as late as Miss Susan allows. You’ve been looking right happy, too, these last few weeks, like a girl with something nice on her mind. Just because you aren’t talking about it doesn’t mean I wasn’t going to notice.”

Sylvie was at a loss for what to say. In the weeks since Erryn’s return she had not mentioned him to anyone. She did not believe, consciously, that everything would melt into smoke if she spoke of it. And yet her world seemed so far from his, and his friendship so improbable and so precious, she could not imagine explaining it, even to Aggie. Besides, she knew what people were likely to think.

“There’s a chap I met a couple of times,” she admitted, “but he isn’t my … we aren’t … We’re just friends, Aggie.”

“Oh, I’d say he fancies you some, judging by his presents. They are presents, aren’t they? Your pretty cloak, and the sweets and all? Charlie was like that too, always bringing me something. Said he wanted to thank me just for being there. Don’t worry, Sylvie, I don’t have a big mouth. Sanders already asked me where you got the fancy cloak, and I said last time I looked it was winter out, and I reckoned you bought it.”

Sylvie smiled. “Thanks.”

“So,” Aggie went on teasingly, “do you fancy him, too? Lie awake at night, scratch his name on tree trunks, that sort of thing?”

“I fancy him a bit,” she said. “He’s a real nice man. If he wants to offer me a bit of company, course I’m going to take it. But it’s just … it’s like ships passing in the night, see? Nothing to make a fuss about.”

“Well, you’re a cautious one,” Aggie said. “Seems my whole life long, all the girls I knew were bragging about their beaux. It made me right jealous, sometimes. Till I met Charlie.”

She looked down suddenly, staring at a spot beside her feet. Sylvie wondered how she bore it, having been so lonely for so long, and then, against all the odds, finding the love of her life …
and having someone come to her one day, a day like any other, to tell her he was dead.

“You miss him a lot,” Sylvie said, very softly.

“All the time. But I’m kind of used to it now. Anyway, you never told me what your young man thinks about the war. He ever say?”

“He said he doesn’t think on it at all—doesn’t really have an opinion, I guess. A lot of folks in England were like that too. I remember one sod at the mill asking me, if some big scrap were on between a couple of warlords in Timbuktu, which one would I speak for? I told him America weren’t Timbuktu. And he said damned if he’d noticed.” Sylvie noted the housemaid’s expression and added hastily, “Oh, my friend’s not like that—not snotty about it, I mean, not at all. But I guess he sees it as something happening far away that ain’t his business.”

“Well,” Aggie said, “it’s an honest perspective, I suppose. But you support the Union, don’t you? I mean really, deep down? You think we’re right, and it matters whether or not we win?”

“Course I do. You know that.”

“Then I want to ask you about something. But first I need you to promise you’ll never tell anyone I mentioned it.”