“Ah, you’ve come to the right place.”
It was a man with a large belly stuffed into a bright satin vest.
“Me? Are we acquainted, sir?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how do you know I’m at the right place?”
“Look at you!” He put his arms out dramatically, as though I was the prodigal son returning to him. “Wet to the bone. You shall have a chill and fall sick. Now, I have just the suit.” He rummaged behind his desk. “You have found the right place to trade your clothes.”
“You are mistaken. I have brought something for you.”
“Truly? I am not expecting it,” he said greedily.
I put the bag down on a chair and opened it, finding only a folded newspaper—a number of the Baltimore Sun. Drops of water blotted the page from my hair and brow.
He snatched it from me while his friendly face sharpened. “Blame me! I daresay I can purchase my own newspaper, young man. This isn’t even from this year. Do you come here to jest? What shall I do with this, I ask you?” He glared at me reprovingly. I had dropped from “sir” to “young man.” “If you have no business for me tonight…” He waved his hand.
At the word “business” he pointed to one of the signs on his wall to demonstrate his own. Fashionable Clothing and Outfitting Establishment. Shirts, Collars, Under-shirts and Drawers, Cravats, Socks, Hosiery—Warranted in every respect equal to the best custom work.
“Hold on a minute! Apologies, sir,” I said eagerly. “I should like very much to make that exchange of clothing, after all.”
He brightened. “Excellent, excellent, a wise choice. We shall put you in a suit of finest quality and fit.”
“That is what you do, sir? Trade clothing?”
“When there is the need, of course. It is a necessary service for stranded gentlemen like yourself, dear sir. So many forget umbrellas even in the fall and bring but one suit in their trunk. Especially strangers to Baltimore. You are a visitor, I suppose?”
I made a noncommittal gesture. I began to better understand the work of this man; and of Duponte…
The clothier brought me a handful of garments—what a costume it was! He repeated his assessment that they were of the finest quality, though they were quite shabby, and they did not fit in the least. The coat and its drab velvet collar almost matched one leg of the pants—the less faded one—and neither were intended to match the vest. All were several sizes too small for me, yet the clothier had an expression of deep pride as he declared me very “finefied” and held up a looking-glass so I might glory in the sight of myself.
“There, snug and dry! It is quite a fair shake for you, this trade,” he said. “Now this”—he picked up my cane—“this is as fair a specimen as I have seen. Heavy thing, though, for a pilgrim like yourself. A burden. Looking to part with it? I may pay well for this, and my prices are not cut under by anyone in the neighborhood.”
I almost forgot, before leaving his store, the newspaper Duponte had sent with me. I looked at the date at the top of the page. October 4, 1849. The day after Poe was discovered with ill-fitting clothes at Ryan’s. I scanned the pages, stopping at the reports of the previous day’s weather. The day, I mean, when Poe was found. “Cold, raw, and misty.” “Damp and rainy.” “A steady, heavy blow from the northeast.”
Just like today. When I’d entered the library, Duponte had been waiting at the window, looking not absently into the air, as it seemed, but into the sky and clouds. He was waiting for a day fitting the description of that fateful third of October to send me into.
“I’ll take that, sir,” I said politely, removing the Malacca cane from his grasp. “This I shall never part with.” Before leaving, I fished out some half-dimes and took an umbrella the clothier had sitting behind his table.
Outside, I found my steps were uneven, with my legs constrained by the irregular pants. I stood under the awning while testing the flimsy umbrella.
“The heavens are splitting tonight.”
I jumped, startled by the coarse voice. In the dark covering of rain I could hardly make out the figure of a man.
I screwed up my eyes as he turned and faced me. Another shape appeared near him.
“You would try to hide from us, would you, Monsieur Clark?”
The two French thugs.
“Clothes like this,” said the other one, bowing his head down at my scrubby dress, “will still not conceal you.”
“Gentlemen—monsieurs—I know not what to call you. I do not wear this to conceal myself from you. I know not why you should continue to bother me.”
It was not the time for this, I know. But my eye, which somehow felt free of the concerns of my brain, was drawn inexplicably to a flyer on the lamppost, which was flapping from the pressure in the air. I could not read it, but I suppose by some instinct I knew it contained something of great interest.
“Look here when we speak!”
The man slapped me against my cheek. It was not particularly hard, but the extreme abruptness left me standing in shock.
“You cannot long protect a man marked for death. We have been handed our orders.”
His partner pulled a pistol from his coat. “You’re in for it now. You should select a friend more carefully.”
“My friend? It is untrue!”
“Then his wench assisted you for her mere pleasure at the Washington Monument?” he replied.
“I vow it! He is no friend!” I shouted, my voice trembling at the sight of the weapon.
“No…not any longer.”
23
“SIR! SIR! YOU FORGOT—”
The clothier had come out with the bag I had left inside. He stopped when he saw my company in their unfriendly postures. One of them had wrapped his arm around mine.
The clothier gesticulated angrily at my assailant. “What is this about?
Let that suit be!”
When the clothier took a step forward, the other assailant turned around and slapped the clothier across the face with more force than a punch. It sent him spinning down hard beyond the awning.
As the clothier met the ground, he let out a high-pitched, cat-like groan. Making use of the distraction, I pulled my arm free. I flung my new umbrella behind me and ran against a sheet of rain that felt like a brick wall against my body. The two assailants bolted after me.
I swerved onto the first street, hoping the darkness of the storm would cloak me. But the pair of men trimmed the distance almost at once. My head twisted around to watch them, and I tripped over some uneven ground. Though I caught myself, they were now dangerously close, one of them brushing my coat with his hand. I dared not look back again.
Ahead a party of pigs was devouring the evening’s garbage. Our chase disturbed them, sending them scattering. A flash of light hit the sky and illuminated all of us. I found myself panting and sucking at the air for breath. They were coming nearer to my heels, and I would certainly be tackled within a few rods. I noticed the street we were coming to and heard faint bells. This gave me an idea. I quickly turned around and ran toward my pursuers. The Frenchmen, running fast as they were, took a moment to halt themselves on the slippery ground.
In Europe, I knew, the railways began on the periphery of the city, and
I had met in my life many visitors from other countries surprised that our trains began right in the center of town—first drawn by a span of the strongest horses and then latched onto an engine. When the men started back toward me, I led them right past the sign: LOOK OUT FOR THE LOCOMOTIVE. The two Frenchmen, perplexed at it, did just that, looking everywhere they could think.
I ran like mad. Finally I slowed down, surveying the trail behind me. Not a soul. The rain was a bit lighter, too. I came to a stop. I was safe.
Then there came the pair of them, side by side, like devils appearing from the great Abyss.
Just when I fell into a terrible despair, another figure appeared in front of me. As he came closer, I was shocked to realize it was the older black man I
had previously seen with the Baron and eyeing me watchfully on the streets. Indeed, since the Baron’s young slave had insisted the Baron had no other blacks in his employment, I had come to consider that this man might be in collusion with the French rogues. And here he was running toward me!
I had nowhere to turn without making myself vulnerable either to the two men behind or the one in front of me. I decided my chances were better against one man and plunged myself toward him. As I attempted to pass, he grabbed my arm and pulled me.
“This way!” he said against my struggling.
I allowed myself to be led onto a darker, narrower avenue; we were now running side by side. He moved his hand to my back, helping me to keep up.
The men still followed us. My companion suddenly began crossing back and forth in front of me as we ran.
“Do the same!” he shouted.
Understanding his scheme, I followed his example. In the rain and darkness, the two rogues would not be able to see who was who.
He now darted away from me, and after a moment’s hesitation and confusion, one of the rogues followed him. The other stayed on my trail with renewed vigor. At least the number of hands that could strangle me at any moment had been cut by half. I hadn’t even time to think why that stranger whom I thought an adversary had assisted me against these killers.
A window of advantage had opened, but I had to act quickly. I looked back and saw the rogue stop in mid-run and raise his pistol. The discharge broke like thunder. The bullet went right through my hat, which flew off. The rage in his eyes and his loud, seething grunts frightened me more than the pistol. My Malacca cane repeatedly slipped in my hand from its coat of water and almost fell, but I would not let it drop.
The rain lessening, all the earth turned muddy. I slipped and slid through the streets while the solitary pursuer followed. I tried to cry for help, but my power of speech died in the back of my throat, and although both of us had been hobbled by our rough paths, if I stopped I would be at great risk. Besides, in my wet and disheveled clothes, with my head bare, I looked like a wild vagrant—the very fear of the city residents. Nobody would come to aid me this time. Searching for sanctuary in the business part of the city, I spied the door to a large warehouse that had been blown open by the wind. I rushed inside and located a stairwell.
Bursting onto the upper floor, I bumped into a single wheel, freshly painted, that stood nearly up to my neck. I realized where I was.
Wheels, chaises, straps, and axles were all around me: I had come upon Curlett’s carriage factory on Holliday. On the first floor, there was a room where the latest carriages were shown and sold. Along with the piano works a few blocks away, the building represented a new idea: to manufacture, warehouse, and sell all in the same location.
“Your flint is fixed, brave fellow,” said a voice, now speaking in French. The rogue appeared at the door. A smirk emerged through a wheezing pant, and he peered over at me savagely. “There is nowhere else to run. Unless you want to jump out the window.”
“I want no such thing. I wish to speak like civilized men. I care nothing of preventing you from collecting your debts from the Baron.”
He stepped closer and I backed away. He looked at me inquisitively. “Is that what you believe, monsieur?” He snickered very unpleasantly. “Do you think we’re here to dun some dead-head for a few thousand francs?” he asked with offense. “There is far more. There is the very future peace of France at stake.”
The Baron Dupin? A disgraced lawyer? Affecting the future of France?
My face betrayed my utter bafflement, and he looked over at me with angry impatience.
With an abrupt swipe, I grabbed the gigantic wheel next to me and pushed it with all my remaining strength. He put out his hand and boot to stop it, and it toppled on its side, limp and harmless.
I dashed farther into the room but knew he had been right—there was nowhere to go. Even if I had not been dead tired and soaking wet, the warehouse was just one gigantic space littered with carriage parts. I tried to leap over the half-completed chaise of a carriage, but it snagged my boot and I went tumbling down, to the echoing of brutal laughter.
I had not, in tumbling, fallen to the floor—it was much worse than that. I’d become tangled in a rope around the back of the carriage tying together certain components that were not yet fixed to the vehicle. As I pulled and kicked through the rope, I found my neck entangled inside a narrow loop. I held my cane in one hand, using its tip to cling to the back of the carriage, and tried desperately to loosen the snarled confusion of knots around the area of the rope pressing my neck. Still, it pulled tighter with my every movement.
The man’s unhurried steps came closer. He entered the coach, which as yet had no roof. Standing above me smiling, with a sudden and bold motion he kicked my cane away from the coach. Though I still had a grip on one end, the other end, which I’d been using to cling to the carriage, was displaced, and now I found myself dangling. Each time I tried to grasp the back of the carriage, with cane or hand, my pursuer joyfully kicked harder. Feeling the knots of this horrid lasso tighten fatally around my throat, I propped the hook of the cane into the widest spot between the rope and my neck. Meanwhile, I flailed with my feet; but the few inches between the bottom extremity of my body and the floor simply could not be reduced.
To be hanged to death, by a carriage! I could almost share my murderer’s ghastly smile at my fate.
As I hung suspended there, I gripped my cane tightly with both hands in a sort of hapless, hopeless prayer. I held it so tightly that the pores in the wood would later leave a white trail on my moist palms. Squeezing my eyes shut, I was surprised to suddenly feel the cane giving way, as though in my hands were the strength of four men. The middle section had jerked out of its place. The cane, as I quickly appraised, was actually made as two separate parts, joined together in the middle. In the gap I could see the gleam of shiny steel.
I pulled harder and found that the entire top half of the cane was a sheaf, slipping right off. There, hidden underneath, was a sword. A sword two, no, a full two and a half feet long when unsheathed!
“Poe,” I whispered, with what might have been my last breath.
At once I sliced the bond off my neck, swinging as I was freed onto the back of the carriage, which I grabbed with my free hand.
The first thing I saw when I looked up was the Frenchman perched on the top of the carriage chaise, peering curiously. In his confusion at the sight of my weapon, he had let his pistol dangle at his side. With a powerful yell, I swung the sword above me. It caught the side of his arm. Then, my eyes closed, I pulled the sword back and plunged the weapon forward again. He released a shrill scream.
I fell to the ground, landing on my back. My boots were propped against the back of the chaise. The rogue, wild and pale, hollering terribly from his wound, widened his eyes as I pushed hard with both legs. The half carriage went rolling across the room and, one of its loose wheels slipping off its axle, spilled over on top of him like a giant tomb. A piece of the carriage severed one of the nearby pipes, sending a burst of steam sizzling into the chaos.
I pushed myself to my feet and returned the sword into its sheath. But the violent thrill of the triumph could not lift me home or sustain me; my exhaustion and my aching leg combined to inhibit me from moving hardly ten feet from the building before falling down. I leaned heavily on the cane that had saved my life, worried that one of the rogues I had escaped would find me in this weakened condition.
There was a rattling at the door of the warehouse, which I had just closed a few moments before, and a frightful moan.
“Clark!” I heard my name shouted from within my daze. It sounded like it was coming from a great distance, but I knew it was near.
Perhaps it was terrible fear, or the throbbing in my body, or the utter fatigue coming over me; perhaps it was from a combination of everything. As a hand reached me, I surrendered almost peacefully, feeling a heavy blow strike the side of my h
ead.
24
NOISES OF INFORMAL conversation merged into one faraway hum. The scene grew clearer in my vision. Men drank wine and beer, and the smell of chewed tobacco filled my nostrils with an unpleasant sting. Trying to sit straight, I felt myself restrained around the neck. The room seemed identical to the tavern in Ryan’s hotel, as it might have looked the afternoon Poe had arrived there. I thought about the unfriendly stares of the Whigs of the Fourth Ward across the street from Ryan’s, and sat straight up despite a wave of dizziness.
As a small group of men walked past some candles, I saw they were all colored—indeed, the groggery was populated with black men and a few brightly clothed young women, and I now could see that the windows were in a different arrangement than at Ryan’s. The easy intermingling of the sexes called to my mind Paris more than it did Baltimore. Around my shoulders, which had felt as though they were in some sort of immovable straitjacket, was actually a stack of heavy, warm blankets.
“Mr. Clark. You look better.”
I turned and saw the black man who had diverted one of the rogues during the chase.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Edwin Hawkins.”
My temples throbbed. “Was it one of them who hit me?” I asked, stroking the side of my head.
“No, you weren’t hit just now, but it probably felt like you were. As you ran from the carriage warehouse, you keeled right over before you made it more than a few yards. You hit the side of your head on the pavement before I could catch you. I brought you here so they wouldn’t find you. The one chasing me had given up after we passed under a streetlamp and he could see he was after the wrong man, but I’d wager he could still be searching.”
“Did I kill that man in the warehouse?” I asked, remembering the events with chilling horror.
“He came out looking for you, and he fell down too. He looked cut pretty bad. I sent word for a doctor to treat him—you don’t want murder on your head.”
I looked around the room guardedly. The grogshop was in the rear of a black grocery. It was the sort of place, in Old Town localities like Liberty Alley, that the press often complained should be prohibited for its evil influences on the poorer classes and its instigation of riotous conduct. Two light-skinned black men were conferring confidentially in the corner, one occasionally throwing a glance in my direction. I looked on my other side. I did not wonder when I saw more suspicious gazes. I was not the only white man here, as there were several whites of the poorer classes sharing tables with black laborers. But it was quite obvious I was in some sort of trouble.