Lies of Omission, page 20
Chapter Nineteen
Hanneke walked quickly back in the direction she’d come, trying to outpace her apprehension. Adam’s terse reminder—It could have been you—had iced her marrow. What had she gotten herself and Angela into? If Asa Hawkins hadn’t already discovered that she’d escaped from the shed with the baby, he could any time. She remembered the fury in his eyes when he’d surprised her in the barn. Once he realized that she’d fled, he would want to silence her before she could report his assault.
Fridolin Bauer, she snapped silently, do you know what you have done?
No response.
Hanneke rubbed her temples. As if hiding from slavers wasn’t enough, she still had no idea what trouble Adolf was in.
At the edge of the bridge, she paused. Dusk was descending, and buzzing chimney swifts circled overhead. None of the nearby pedestrians looked threatening. Just down First Street, the clustered buildings of the Vulcan Iron Works appeared quiet and still.
Hanneke bit her lip. Was the baby girl’s mother huddled so close by? Were other runaways hiding there? Hanneke remembered another line in the letter written to Fridolin by M. in Milwaukee. I will also take advantage of transport to send a parcel to Mr. Rutherford. I hope you will be so kind as to deliver it at the ironworks. Was that code telling Fridolin that his help was needed to pass some desperate soul on to Mr. Rutherford? She imagined frightened parents trying to comfort children. She pictured old people with aching bones and bleeding feet, women in threadbare dresses shivering in the cold, hungry men praying to escape the hounds.
It was maddening not to know. But members of The German Star might be gathering in Watertown right this minute, ready to burst onto the street. She’d promised to search for Adolf.
Hanneke decided to start with taverns German men might frequent, especially those with meeting rooms, so she headed away from the Rock River. German immigrants had made homes throughout Watertown, but the neighborhood surrounding Angela’s tavern, in the north central part of the city, was particularly Germanic. The lots in this part of town were small; the houses built close together. She stopped at boarding houses and drinking establishments to ask about Adolf. “He said he had a club meeting, but I’m not sure where the group was gathering,” she explained over and over with a polite smile, “and he’s needed at work.” No one offered any clear information. Some people merely shrugged. A few seemed evasive.
That may be nothing but my imagination, Hanneke thought wearily sometime later as she emerged from an establishment advertising Wurst und Bier. She sighed, dabbing at beads of sweat on her forehead. She had skipped the Buena Vista Hotel on Fourth Street, the most obvious possible gathering place. Some of the Latin farmers and philosophy professors and divinity scholars who regularly gathered there might be leaders of The German Star. It was easy to imagine them lecturing and proclaiming and postulating, all the while recruiting idealistic, uneducated young men like Adolf.
Setting her shoulders, she turned toward the hotel. Before trudging half a block, however, she heard distant shouting—and then a drum’s militant rattle. She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. It has begun, she thought. The trouble Adolf had predicted had begun.
Two young boys raced by with a shaggy dog eagerly keeping pace. Hanneke followed them back to First Street. A crowd was already gathering. Her heart tightened when she saw the procession marching from the north. Once more, men wearing top hats and frock coats led the column. Some carried torches that flickered wildly against the evening’s gray-blue sky.
The Know-Nothings were parading once more.
Hanneke wanted to see what was happening, but not again would she stand near the street where someone could shove her into traffic. She stepped onto a low porch so she could watch with her back pressed safely against the solid brick wall.
Perhaps fifty men marched behind the leaders. Some of them carried signs. Hanneke remembered Angela’s bleak translations: We will not yield to a foreign hand. Beware the foreign influence. America, our native land. One sign portrayed a crudely drawn German immigrant with an oversized beer stein in each hand. That one was labeled for all to read: Deutscher Säufer—German Drunkard.
Then she saw that some of the men carried guns.
Abruptly, a fit of welcome anger boiled away her fatigue and fear. She’d seen too much hatred and cruelty today. All any of us want, she fumed, is a hearth of our own. An opportunity to work hard and contribute to this country. That was not too much to ask!
Tempted as she was to march into the street and confront their hatred, she forced herself to think calmly. Watching these nativists applaud themselves for their supposed superiority would accomplish nothing helpful. Instead, she rose on tiptoes, considering the men marching, the onlookers. She heard mutters and grumbles around her but so far, no sign of anything worse. If The German Star had somehow known about this parade, and if those German men truly planned to confront the Know-Nothings, then Adolf and his comrades had most likely gathered somewhere south of here.
Hanneke stepped from the porch and slipped through the crowd. “Entschuldigung,” she murmured over and over as she jostled people aside. She managed to reach Main Street and trotted a block away from the river before turning south again. If she could get ahead of the Know-Nothings, she might be able to find the German men before a brawl erupted.
She’d trotted several more blocks before turning again toward the Rock River. Back on First Street, she paused, chest heaving, looking again at the Vulcan Iron Works. The spacious factory yard might actually be a safer place to observe whatever was about to happen. Hanneke scurried across the street and found a secure spot backed against the big two-horse treadmill on display.
The Know-Nothings were just a block away now. She looked south just as another parade appeared from around a bend. In the shadows, she estimated a group of two dozen men, maybe more. This group had no drummer. They carried no signs. But some carried their own blazing torches and as they drew closer, Hanneke saw firelight glinting on metal. Some of these men also carried pistols or rifles. Others walked with pitchforks or spades over their shoulders.
I have found The German Star, she thought grimly, and they are ready for a fight.
Things are going to explode this evening.
Hanneke hugged her arms over her chest as the German men came closer, ever closer. Where was Adolf? In the twilight, it was impossible to identify any of the marchers. The drumbeats winched Hanneke’s nerves tighter and tighter. The space between the two groups had dwindled to half a block.
Men and some women crowded the walkway across the street. A few joined Hanneke in the factory yard too. The people were quiet, though. Expectant. When several tin whistles suddenly shrilled in the hush, Hanneke almost jumped from her skin.
Four—no, five—mounted men trotted from a side street and turned onto First in the gap between Know-Nothings and The German Star. Lawmen, she thought, but they were so sorely outnumbered she felt no relief. Their horses pranced skittishly as if sensing the tension. Two of the riders eased north to face the Know-Nothings, and two turned toward the Germans. Hanneke held her breath, terrified that one group or the other would shove past. But the first line of German men stopped, and the Know-Nothings halted as well.
The mounted man alone in the center stood in his stirrups. “I am Sheriff Giles!” He pulled his mount in a tight circle so he could address both groups. “I order you to disperse!” The nearest horsemen repeated Giles’s command in fluent but accented German. It was John Barlow, Hanneke was sure of it.
“We have grievances!” one of the Germans yelled. Some of his comrades hollered their agreement. Others shifted their weight uneasily, adjusted their grips on their hoes or pickaxes or rifles.
“This is not the way to address them!” Barlow insisted.
Listen to him! Hanneke silently urged Adolf and his comrades. Go home before someone gets hurt!
Know-Nothing voices rose as well. Hanneke didn’t know if they were taunting the Germans, admonishing the lawmen, or repeating their political views, but a palpable anger almost crackled in the air.
“Disperse at once!” the sheriff bellowed.
For a long moment, no one moved, as if each side was daring the other to stand their ground. Then Deputy Barlow’s horse abruptly reared with a high-pitched whinny. As Barlow struggled to control his mount Hanneke saw several of the German men throwing stones toward the lawmen. A flying glass bottle shattered against a mounting block. Some of the marchers brought rifles to their shoulders.
“Adolf!” Hanneke cried, although she knew it was useless. Growling Know-Nothing men surged toward the police. Barlow’s horse reared again, throwing the deputy from the saddle. He landed in the street but Hanneke lost sight of him as the German men shoved forward, flowing around the closest mounted man. That deputy raised a truncheon, brought it down in a brutal blow.
The middle ground gave way to chaos. “Adolf!” Hanneke was trying desperately to pick him out of the crowd. Men were grappling, throwing punches, grunting, and cursing. One German man swung a heavy grub hoe and a Know-Nothing crumpled, clutching one arm as his top hat fell into the street. Somewhere a woman screamed.
In the factory yard, a man ran past Hanneke, toward the street. “Fire!” he roared in German. “Fire!” She whirled, ready to scold him for encouraging the armed rioters.
The rebuke died. Flames were shooting through the roof of the closest building. The Vulcan Iron Works was burning.
Adam’s voice echoed in her mind: Mr. Rutherford has a hidden room at the ironworks that can hide half a dozen. It’s in the smallest building, near the river. The hiding place is above a joiner’s shop on the second floor.
Horrified, Hanneke imagined humans locked in a windowless room as the first tendrils of smoke crept through the cracks. All of the buildings in the compound were made of wood, all dry as tinder after a week with no rain. The blaze was likely to spread fast.
A few men were sprinting toward the burning building. Hanneke ran around it, swerving to avoid falling sparks and aiming for the last shop. Sounds from the street brawl faded beneath the fire’s growing roar and crackle.
The shop’s door was secured with a padlock. She jerked on it frantically, then banged on the door. “Fire! You have to get out!” A glance over her shoulder confirmed that flames had already leapt from the first building to the second, snaking across the shingles.
This building, the smallest, was still unscathed. Perhaps there was another door around back, deepest in the shadows, closest to the Rock River. Perhaps Mr. Rutherford had left that door unlocked so a “package” might slip in or out.
She ran along the front of the shop, down the side, around the corner—and jolted to a stop. Asa Hawkins was trotting toward the back door from the building’s far side. Even in the twilight, she recognized the bulk of him, the silhouette of his hat with its ridiculous plume. He’s come for the slaves, she thought. He didn’t want ‘valuable property’ to burn.
A new flare of fury and contempt swept her forward again. “No!” she screamed. No to the evil of slavery, no to the xenophobia, no to this man’s casual contempt and cruelty.
Hawkins had reached the door, but he whirled as she approached. The first flames appeared on the roof above. In the wavering light, his eyes went wide.
He raised a hand and pain exploded in Hanneke’s cheek and jaw. In the next instant, the back of her head cracked against the wall.
Then—for the second time that day—everything went black.
* * *
Sounds penetrated the dark stillness first. Something soft and fluid, something monstrously harsh, the faint clang of church bells. Hanneke became aware of pain in her face, her head, her hip. Smoke stung her nostrils…
Smoke. Memories returned in a rush: The street brawl between Know-Nothings and immigrant Germans, the ironworks fire, her futile attempt to help anyone who might be trapped in the smallest factory building, an enraged Asa Hawkins.
With a groan, Hanneke opened her eyes. In her desperate desire to free any runaways trapped inside the factory building, she’d acted like a madwoman. What had she expected Hawkins to do? At least he hadn’t drugged her this time, hadn’t locked her away. Instead, he’d apparently dragged her to the riverbank and left her among the weeds. Nearby, flames raged against the night sky. All of the ironworks buildings were burning now. Vulcan, god of fire, had won the night.
She lurched to her feet and stumbled unsteadily toward the street. The yard was full of men with buckets and brooms now, dark shadows against the glare. But it is too late, she thought. Too late to extinguish the fire. Too late to help anyone who might have been trapped inside. Waves of heat shimmered through the yard. The fire crackled and roared like an angry beast. Flames were consuming the roof and walls of the smallest building. The roof of the building closest to the road had already collapsed.
Hanneke skirted the conflagration. A bucket brigade had formed near the road. Silhouetted in the wavering light, men in work shirts labored with men in top hats, splashing neighboring shops in hopes of keeping the fire from spreading. Evidently, Watertown had no fire department, leaving immigrants and nativists with a common goal.
The street itself was almost empty. Hanneke had no idea if anyone had been hurt or arrested. Perhaps the fire had forestalled the brewing riot.
It felt irresponsible to simply walk away. But there’s nothing I can do here, she thought. She had not glimpsed Adolf. And Asa Hawkins might be watching her, waiting for a chance to finish what he’d begun.
No one accosted her as she walked the few blocks back to the tavern. She approached the Red Cockerel from the back alley. The curtain was drawn but a soft light glowed a welcome from within.
Hanneke tapped on the kitchen door. “Angela? It’s me.” Almost immediately the door opened. Hanneke slipped inside.
“Did you find Adolf?” Angela demanded as she quickly locked the door behind them.
“I did not.” Hanneke sank into a chair. “The Know-Nothings paraded again tonight, down First Street this time, and a group of German men marched to meet them. Both sides were armed, and there was a brawl, but…it was twilight. I couldn’t see Adolf.” She met Angela’s worried gaze with a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry.”
“But what happened to you?” Angela was considering her with dismay.
Hanneke realized she must look as bedraggled as she felt. She untied the ribbons beneath her chin and removed the borrowed bonnet. The satin was dirty and torn beyond repair. “Oh, Angela. I’m so sorry. I’ll…” Her voice trailed away. What could she do? She had no money to replace the bonnet.
“I don’t care about the hat!” Angela sat across from her and leaned over the table. “Tell me what happened.”
Hanneke told Angela everything that had transpired since she left the tavern earlier that evening. “So there’s no way to know,” she concluded, “but I’m terribly afraid that the baby’s mother might have been hiding in one of the buildings.” She looked around. “Where is the baby?”
“Leah is upstairs, sound asleep.” Angela met Hanneke’s startled look with a defensive little shrug. “I needed to call her something. She did have a crying spell after you left. I managed to feed her a little milk and she settled down.”
That was a sliver of good news, at least.
“But…” Angela leaned back in her chair. “It terrifies me to know that Asa Hawkins attacked you again. That man must be arrested.”
“How can I report his behavior without endangering Leah?” Hanneke couldn’t bear the thought of watching that innocent little girl returned to the people who, according to the law, owned her.
Angela pressed a hand against the bulge beneath her apron, perhaps trying to reassure her own unborn child.
Hanneke struggled to find some reassurance to offer her friend. But there was none, really. If Asa Hawkins didn’t already know that Hanneke was staying at the Red Cockerel, a few simple questions would reveal that quickly enough. And since Leah had disappeared from his chicken shed with her, surely he’d make an appearance at the tavern soon.
Hanneke planted her elbows on the table and buried her face in her palms. As long as the baby is here, she thought, we are all in danger.
For a long moment neither spoke. Then Angela said, “I’m going to make some hot tea.”
Hanneke straightened, trying to rouse herself. “Hot tea would be delightful, but please, stay where you are. I’ll—”
Thump-thump-thump!
“Oh!” Angela gasped as the kitchen door rattled beneath the force of a pounding fist. Hanneke’s skin prickled.
Their unseen visitor banged again.
“What should we do?” Angela whispered. “What if that’s Hawkins?”
Hanneke swallowed hard, considering the kitchen. She stepped to the dry sink and grabbed a carving knife, clenching her fingers around the handle. Then she crept closer to the door. “Who’s there?”
“Deputy Sheriff Barlow! Open the damn door!”
The women exchanged glances. Angela hitched her shoulders up and down.
Hanneke opened the door and had to step back as the deputy shoved into the room. He looked dreadful—exhausted, dusty, his face drawn with tension and fatigue. The right sleeve of his coat was torn and he walked with a slight limp.
“Please, sit,” she urged. “I was about to make tea—”
“I do not want tea,” Barlow growled. “I came to make sure you are all right.”
Bewildered, Hanneke exchanged another wary glance with Angela. “I am.”
“And put that down.” He glared at the knife until she complied. “Is anyone else here with you two?”
Hanneke held his gaze. “No.”
Barlow rubbed one hand over his face.
“Please,” Angela dared, “have you seen Adolf, the boy who works here? Did you arrest anyone at the fight? Did anyone get hurt?”
“I have not seen Adolf,” Barlow told her. “But—”
A baby’s cry, thin but unmistakable, drifted from the second story. Oh, liebchen, Hanneke moaned silently, not now.
