Lies of Omission, page 21
Barlow’s eyes narrowed and he turned toward the stairs. “There is a child up there.” It was not a question.
Neither woman answered. Hanneke’s heart thumped wildly. What would she do if John Barlow tried to take the little girl?
“Is it a Negro baby?”
She couldn’t find words. The baby wailed again.
Deputy Barlow’s shoulders slumped. After a pause, he looked at Hanneke. “I want to speak to you in the stable. Bring a lantern.”
Hanneke felt a new stab of unease. “Angela can hear anything you have to say.”
“In the stable!” Barlow barked. “Now!” He opened the door and stood waiting to usher her outside.
Whatever is coming, Hanneke thought, it is best to keep Angela out of it. She picked up the lantern hanging near the door, opened one of its glass panels, and lit the candle inside. When the flame was steady she gave her friend a tiny nod, trying to look reassuring. Then she followed the deputy outside.
He strode across the alley, tapped twice on the door, and eased it open. “It’s Barlow,” he muttered. “With the woman.” He looked at Hanneke and cocked his head: Go ahead.
Hanneke’s apprehension grew as she slipped inside. Barlow followed and shut the door behind them. The space smelled familiar—the faint lingering odor of long-gone animals, musty straw. There was one box stall where Adolf slept, and two stalls with stanchions on the opposite wall.
A man was sitting on an overturned water tub in the far corner. He was in shadows with head hung low, but he was too broad-shouldered to be Adolf. Hanneke raised the lantern and stepped closer to the seated man. He slowly raised his head.
Hanneke recoiled. The walls seemed to press in. The man waiting was Asa Hawkins.
Chapter Twenty
Hanneke whirled. “Let me pass,” she hissed at Barlow, who was blocking her exit. “This man assaulted me!”
Asa Hawkins muttered something in English. Barlow snapped back in the same language.
“He drugged me and locked me in a shed on his property!” Hanneke insisted. “He belongs in jail!”
Barlow rounded on her. “For the love of God, woman! I beg you, for once in your life, just listen.” He jerked off his hat and ran a hand over his hair. “Hawkins was worried about you. Somehow, amidst the bedlam in the street and in the ironworks yard tonight, he managed to find me.”
Hanneke stared from one glowering man to the other. This was absolutely nonsensical.
“He asked me to find you.” Barlow held up one palm to forestall further interruptions. “And the child. He wanted to make sure you were both all right.”
“That’s ludicrous.” Hanneke clenched the lantern handle so hard it hurt. “He attacked me! He locked me up with the baby, and he—”
Hawkins said something else in English. In the shadows, his face was as tight and sour as ever.
German words squeezed between Barlow’s gritted teeth. “I don’t like him any more than you do. But Hawkins says he’s been involved with the Underground Railroad—”
“The what?”
Barlow waved an impatient hand. “It’s what people call the routes and hiding places runaways use when trying to get north. Hawkins says he’s been helping the local leader for several years.”
“That’s—that’s preposterous.” The notion of Asa Hawkins helping anyone was beyond belief.
“He was the one trying to get a mother and her baby from one safe place to the next. When they realized that the slavers were almost upon them, the mother insisted that they leave the baby girl behind and try to draw the slavers away. They left the baby in Fridolin ’s barn.”
Hanneke felt dazed. That matched what Adam had told her.
“Hawkins decided to talk to the men, pretending to be in sympathy, all the while sending them in the wrong direction. The plan was for Hawkins and the woman to meet back at Fridolin’s barn. But she never came. Instead, you did.”
“But…if that’s so, why didn’t he just hide from me? Or explain the situation?”
Deputy Barlow repeated the questions in English. Hawkins snarled a response.
“He says he had no reason to trust you and that the best place to hide you and the baby was his own property,” Barlow translated. He asked another question of Hawkins, then turned back to her. “He’d given the child some chloroform on a lump of sugar, but she was making some noise and he didn’t want you to discover her. He had a wagon parked nearby with a false floor.”
“But why incarcerate me?” Hanneke demanded.
Hawkins interrupted with another angry torrent of English words.
Barlow waved a hand, damming the flow. “He went looking for the baby’s mother. He hadn’t expected you to wake before he returned, much less escape.”
Hanneke wasn’t convinced. “What about this evening? I was terrified that the mother or other runaways were trapped inside one of the ironworks buildings—”
“Why did you think that?” Barlow asked sharply.
She had no intention of betraying Adam’s confidence. “The point is, I was running to check the building near the river when Hawkins struck me so hard I hit my head and lost my senses.”
“Well, Hawkins had the same idea. Evidently one of the supervisors at the ironworks sometimes hides runaways.”
Rutherford, Hanneke thought. Hawkins must have revealed that dangerous information to Deputy Barlow.
“When you appeared,” Barlow continued, “Hawkins was afraid that you’d scream for help and draw attention just when he might be helping runaways escape.”
Which might have been disastrous, Hanneke admitted grudgingly. “Was the mother there?”
Asa Hawkins seemed to understand her question. He unleashed another low, angry torrent of words, jabbing one finger toward her.
“He says you slowed him down,” Barlow said. “After dragging you a safe distance away, he ran back to the shop building and kicked the door in, but the fire was already so bad that he didn’t get far. He saw no one. We don’t know if the mother—or anyone else—was inside.”
That was not what Hanneke had wanted to hear. “How do we know this isn’t some story he concocted to save himself from my accusation?”
Deputy Barlow rubbed his chin wearily. “You are, of course, free to make a formal charge against him. Just be aware that doing so would bring everything out in the open.”
Hanneke crossed her arms, thinking that through, trying to find a way to get Hawkins his due without endangering baby Leah.
“He took an enormous risk when he confided in me,” Barlow added.
She snorted. “He wouldn’t have done so out of concern for me. He must have some other motive.”
“Perhaps. But it looks like he did try to get inside the building. He’s got a bad burn on his hand.”
Hanneke noticed for the first time that Hawkins’s right hand was wrapped in a cloth and dangling at his side. And he’d never gotten to his feet—odd for a man who routinely used his bulk to intimidate others. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Why did you bring him here instead of taking him to a doctor?”
“He insisted that—”
“Get him inside at once. I’ll tend to the burn in the kitchen.” Hanneke marched from the stable. The men followed more slowly.
In the kitchen, Angela was waiting anxiously. Hanneke said, “You need to know that Deputy Barlow brought Asa Hawkins here.”
“Hawkins?” Angela pressed one hand against her throat.
“He claims he’s been helping runaway slaves, not catching them.” Hanneke put another log into the firebox and poured water into a kettle. “I’m not convinced. But—he’s injured, and I need to tend him. I suggest you wait upstairs with Leah.”
Angela nodded silently and disappeared just as Deputy Barlow helped Asa Hawkins into the room.
“Sit.” Hanneke pointed Hawkins toward a chair.
Hawkins clearly wanted to do no such thing. But when Barlow snapped a command, Hawkins grudgingly acquiesced. “Tell him to put his hand on the table,” Hanneke added. When Hawkins did, she moved a lamp closer—and caught her breath. The kerchief Hawkins had wrapped around his hand was bright yellow with thin black stripes. The man killed on the Main Street bridge had been wearing an identical kerchief.
For the first time she allowed herself to admit that Asa Hawkins might be telling the truth. “Deputy Barlow, did you see…?”
Barlow leaned close. His eyebrows rose.
“Yah,” Hawkins said savagely, and continued in English.
Barlow listened, then translated. “He says this particular kerchief pattern is a sign to runaways. The man killed on the bridge—his name was Loomis—was also helping runaway slaves escape. Loomis and Hawkins were friends. Hawkins believes Loomis was killed by the slavers.”
“But how did Mr. Loomis know my name?” Hanneke demanded. “He called me ‘Frau Bauer!’ Why was he trying to talk to me the day he was knifed?”
The two men had a brief conversation. John Barlow finally nodded, but he stared at the floor for a moment before addressing Hanneke again. “Because Loomis was also a friend of Fridolin’s,” he said slowly. “They worked together on the Underground Railroad. And Fridolin asked Loomis to look out for you in the event that something happened to him. To Fridolin, I mean.” The deputy looked away, sucked in a long breath, exhaled slowly. Still, he was man enough to meet her gaze before finishing the tale. “According to Hawkins, Fridolin told Loomis that he had married you.”
* * *
Hanneke didn’t know whether to hug Asa Hawkins or strike him. She settled for providing what aid she could to his blistered hand. The fact that he submitted to her care suggested that he was in pain. She settled his hand in a basin of cool water before searching Angela’s pantry for medicinals. Angela didn’t have an aloe plant, but Hanneke did find a pot of honey. That would do.
Back in the kitchen she patted Hawkins’s hand dry and applied a thin coat of honey to minimize swelling and fight infection. Then she ripped a clean dish towel into a bandage and tied it in place. “Deputy Barlow? Tell him that he must leave the blisters alone or risk complications.”
The deputy complied. Hawkins jerked his hand away, but nodded.
For the first time since Hawkins had entered the kitchen, Hanneke looked into the man’s eyes. Conflicting emotions flickered across his face—a sullen gratitude for her ministrations, embarrassment for the need…and the deep, abiding contempt he’d always shown her. She thought he might manage to thank her, but instead, Hawkins gave a noncommittal grunt and headed for the door.
“Wait!” Hanneke commanded. There was something she still didn’t understand. “Helping runaway slaves is a noble thing…I have to ask, are you truly a Know-Nothing?” It seemed impossible that a man like Hawkins would risk his life to help runaway slaves reach freedom, but march with men who loathed immigrants.
Barlow repeated the question in English. Hawkins stared at Hanneke as he responded.
“He said,” Barlow began, “‘of course I am. I despise the institution of slavery. That doesn’t mean I want hordes of filthy foreigners telling the rest of us how to live our lives.’”
“And were your ancestors ‘filthy foreigners’ when they came to this country?” Hanneke demanded. “Your parents? Your grandparents?”
Hawkins left without waiting for the translation. He slammed the door behind him.
The kitchen was quiet for a long moment as Hanneke and Deputy Barlow wrestled with their thoughts. She felt her anger seep away, replaced by a bone-deep weariness of body and soul. I will never understand this country, she thought. Never.
The deputy finally broke the awkward silence. “It seems, Frau Bauer, that I owe you an apology.”
Frau Bauer. The title was an admission, a gift. “You do,” Hanneke agreed. How she had ached to hear that acknowledgment! But she was too tired for malice.
Deputy Barlow removed his hat and shuffled it in his hands. “Might I ask…is your offer of tea still good?”
“Of course.” She waved him to the chair Hawkins had vacated. Soon she had two cups and saucers on the table and tea steeping in the pot.
Deputy Barlow stared out the window for a moment, then turned to meet her gaze. “This has been an evening of revelations. I never guessed that Fridolin was involved with the Underground Railroad. Never suspected.”
“I did.” She poured them each a cup of tea.
Barlow actually smiled. “I’m not surprised.” Then he sobered again. “But sharing the news of your marriage when he returned from Pomerania wouldn’t have compromised his anti-slavery work in any way. I still cannot begin to understand why Fridolin kept that a secret.”
“I can’t either.” Hanneke sighed. Asa Hawkins had accomplished what she had not—convince John Barlow that his friend and neighbor had indeed married her while traveling in Pomerania the year before. And…had he solved one of the mysteries as well? “According to Hawkins, Mr. Loomis was killed by slave-catchers.” Just as Adam had said.
“Hawkins thinks so,” Barlow said carefully. “It takes a hard man to do that kind of work. If slavers somehow figured out that Loomis was helping runaways, they might have killed him in spite. But we have no proof.”
“No,” Hanneke conceded reluctantly. “Still, if Hawkins is right, then perhaps the slavers also killed Fridolin.”
Although Barlow must have asked himself the same question, he chewed that over for a long moment. “It’s certainly possible, but—again, we have no proof.”
Hanneke closed her eyes. Finding that proof seemed desperately important. As furious as she was with Fridolin Bauer, she wanted his death to have been the result of a high ideal, not a foolish accident.
But there was something more urgent to discuss. “Deputy, about the baby… Please don’t take her with you tonight. I know someone, someone who might be able to help.”
“Rutherford?”
“No. Someone else.” She raised one palm, forestalling his question. “I won’t tell you who. That person hopes to learn something about the mother’s whereabouts. Although,” she conceded unhappily, “that was before the fire.”
Barlow regarded her, one eyebrow cocked.
“That individual asked me to visit tomorrow morning. If the mother is alive, she can be reunited with the child and, I trust, spirited on to Canada. I promised to keep the baby safe at least that long.”
“You do realize that by law, that baby is—”
“Do not tell me that innocent child is ‘property!’” Hanneke felt tears scald her eyes. “I won’t stand for it.”
“Nor will I,” John Barlow said quietly. He rubbed both palms over his face. “I have sworn an oath to uphold the law, but I also do my best to honor God’s law. When the two are in conflict, well…God is the higher power. For the time being, I will say nothing, and do nothing, about the baby.”
Hanneke’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Danke schön.”
“I trust that you will say nothing more about Hawkins.”
“Yes.” She drained her cup and poured more tea, relishing the warmth. “Deputy Barlow, did you know that the Underground Railroad operated in this area?”
“I suspected as much, but I didn’t go looking for evidence.” He rolled his shoulders as if easing an ache. “It doesn’t surprise me that someone created a hiding place at one of the factories along the Rock. Runaways often travel along rivers when they can. Water confuses the dogs.”
“Hawkins’s property is on the riverbank as well,” Hanneke mused. She rubbed her temples. Despite his story, despite even the yellow and black kerchief, it was still difficult to reconcile the ill-tempered Know-Nothing with heroism of any kind. “Do you truly believe Hawkins helps runaways?”
“I do. He described how his work as an auctioneer and freighter makes it possible. No one questions seeing wagons coming every day, loaded with crates and barrels. It’s probably been easier for him to help transport runaways than almost anyone else in the area. His tales ring true.” Barlow leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I’ve been looking for cause to arrest him for some time. Now he tells me he’s been breaking the law, and I will do nothing.”
“Why did he confess all this to you? Why not talk to one of the Yankee lawmen?”
“Since he wanted my help with you, he may have decided that a deputy who speaks German was essential.”
“But I’ve seen you two snarling at each other like angry dogs! Surely he would have been more comfortable confiding in someone else.”
“You must understand, many abolitionists believe the only way to destroy the institution is to change the law. They don’t condone assisting runaways. That may be why Hawkins didn’t trust another lawman with his secret. And if the Watertown constables are Know-Nothings, he wouldn’t have wanted to complicate those relationships. Ironic, isn’t it?” He snorted without humor.
“Indeed,” Hanneke said slowly as she turned the tangle over in her mind.
“Or…” Barlow lifted one palm and let it drop. “Hawkins may have known that I have no confidants, and therefore am the man most likely to hold my tongue.”
His voice was even, but Hanneke sensed the buried pain. By virtue of John Barlow’s marriage to a foreign-born woman, he was obviously a moderating influence—a go-between among Germans and Yankees. But that double connection could also be a liability, giving both groups cause for mistrust.
She turned the conversation back to safer ground. “Might Hawkins’s public face all be a sham? The anger, the scorn, the nativism? Is it all calculated to keep people from suspecting that he’s involved in something brave and kind?”
“I have no idea.” The weariness was back in Barlow’s voice, reminding Hanneke that his day had been as long and difficult as hers. “My God, what a night. The Vulcan Iron Works fire was a tragedy. Still, it probably prevented a different tragedy. God knows what violence the men marching tonight—on both sides—would have unleashed.”
“Did you discover who stole the weapons?”
“It appears the Know-Nothings did. That group was much better armed than most of the German men.” He drained his tea, stood, and carried the cup and saucer to the counter.
