“No, I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Fleming,” Morgan said as he moved away. “I comprehend your meaning only too well.”
“Quite right. Quite right,” Mr. Fleming replied in a subdued tone. He paused as he rubbed his nose, and then snipped at Morgan with a sarcastic rejoinder. “I guess ye blooming Yankees are the last stronghold for liberty and equality then, aren’t ye?”
Morgan saved himself from making an intemperate response by ignoring this openly hostile remark. He left the Old Jerusalem biting his lip in repressed anger. Like many New Englanders he had no love of slavery, but he had no solution either. He knew the southern states would never willingly give up the institution. They were too dependent on cotton and tobacco. Many northerners, particularly recent immigrants, didn’t even want the slaves to be freed for fear that their own jobs would be at risk.
As a New Englander, it hurt for him to admit it, but he had to acknowledge that this vile Englishman was right. America was as hooked and dependent on slavery as a Chinaman was on puffing the magic dragon from his opium pipe. Even the packets played a part in preserving this hateful institution. Much of the cargo going eastward to New York and then on to Europe was the steady flow of cotton from Charleston, Savannah, Mobile, and New Orleans. Cotton filled much of the Liverpool liners’ cargo holds, but at least the Philadelphia and the other London packets carried other freight like flaxseed, flour, apples, and turpentine.
Later that same afternoon at the far end of Change Alley, Morgan posted another promotional handbill in a particularly dingy coffeehouse that smelled of rotten fish and spoiled mutton. He sat down to eat a hearty lunch of smoked sausage with several slices of headcheese. He was just lifting a mug of swipes ale to his lips when he thought he saw someone he recognized. It was the red parasol and the glimpse of her hair that caught his attention and caused a tingle of excitement to run down his spine.
He bolted out of the coffeehouse, pushing people aside and knocking pewter plates onto the floor. He ran through the crowd, all the time keeping his eyes on the woman with the parasol. She and a man in a black top hat turned the corner from Castle Court onto St. Michael’s Alley and were walking quickly away from him. She was smiling and laughing just like she had always done with him. That’s when he shouted out her name.
The woman turned quickly like a startled wild animal. As soon as he saw the green eyes he knew it was her. She’d spotted him as well. That much he knew by her hurried reactions. She’d jumped like she’d seen a ghost. She said something to her well-dressed consort, pulled in her parasol, and then the two of them ducked behind a building on the corner. Morgan knew the area well enough to anticipate where they were going. He ran through a courtyard adjacent to the Jamaica Coffee House, then found a small alleyway that cut diagonally over to the street where they were headed. He found them trying to hail a hackney cab.
He called out her name again, but this time she wheeled around and confronted him just as he grabbed her arm.
“Go away!” she cried. “I’m a respectable lady. Don’t ye meddle with me.”
Morgan seemed paralyzed at seeing her again.
“I need to talk to you, Laura.”
“I have nothing to say to ye. Go away. Ye ought to be arrested, ye ought.”
As if on cue, the man in the top hat next to her raised his walking cane.
“Back away, you scoundrel. You have offended the lady!” The man struck Morgan on the shoulders with his cane.
As he felt the sharp sting of the blows, he acted without thinking in a sudden rage filled with confusing emotions. He punched the man first on his jaw and then his stomach. As the man doubled over in pain, crumbling to the street, he stood there transfixed by what he had done. He regretted it. He was about to stoop down and help the man when he noticed that Laura was bolting down the street. He took off in pursuit, catching up with her after she ran onto Lombard Avenue. He pulled her over into a dark alleyway, holding both of her arms.
“Tell me it isn’t true, Laura! Tell me it wasn’t you!”
She gave him a long steady look, her face defiant.
“Truth is, Ely, I never promised ye anything more than what I gave ye.”
“You let me walk into that trap. How could you?”
“I did what I was told.”
“You know they nabbed my old shipmate. What did they do with him?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Laura replied as she turned her head to look away. “I wasn’t even there.”
“You must know,” Morgan said, speaking more forcefully now. “Where is Blackwood? Where is he?”