Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

We had arrived at the Trezavant residence, and I was more than happy for it. I had hoped for a casual parting and was quite unprepared for this. I’d no idea what to say to her. It seemed, however, that I need say nothing, for she had not stopped talking.

“Thank you for the coffee and cakes. It was a nice place you took me, though I doubt I shall ever return there. I’m sorry if I gave you some embarrassment when we left.”

With that, she thrust her hand out at me with such speed and force that I thought at first she meant to hit me. But no, she wished me to shake it; that I did, rather limply, I fear. It was a gesture, on her part, of finality. She turned and marched up the few stairs to the door. She beat upon it with her fist, rather than use the knocker. I turned and left her there.

In my confusion I turned toward St. James Street, which took me a bit out of my way. It was not until I reached it that I turned and looked back the way I had come. I saw that she was no longer there before the door and assumed that she had been let in. Turning down St. James, I walked, head down, my thought fixed upon where and how I had done wrong. Indeed, it was certain that I had done wrong — I had no need to be told by Sir John nor any other.

So completely was my mind fixed upon what had transpired during the past hour and a half that I failed to hear the racket behind me until the crowd was quite close. When I did, I turned, looked, and saw them moving swiftly toward me. Running they were, a dozen or more men and a few women trailing well behind. All were in pursuit of one poor individual who was hard-pressed to keep ahead of them. They shouted after him, waved sticks, their fists, a horsewhip, whatever they might have handy. Why would they be after him? What could he have done?

Then, as the victim of this wild pursuit came closer, I saw he was a black man, and in another instant I recognized him. It was Frank Barber, Samuel Johnson s young fellow, whom I had met but days before. I must act, I told myself — and do what I could to help him.

“Frank,” I shouted. “Frank! Frank! Frank!”

He turned. He saw me, and in a moment more he recognized me, beckoning to him. But what could he do? If he were to slow down to discover what I could do to help, the mob would catch him up and perhaps tear him apart. And so, I decided, I would come to him. I ran out into the street to head him off; and while I failed to do that, I was able to run alongside, matching him stride for stride — in spite of the heavy weight I carried in each pocket. Only then, as I ran beside Frank, did I realize what it was I was carrying in the capacious pockets of my bottle green coat. What indeed, but the two pistols entrusted to me by Mr. Baker the evening before. I had returned too late from my night at St. Bart’s to return them to him this morning, and I had been loath to leave loaded pistols in my attic room, so I had simply shoved them in my pockets, where they now bounced dangerously. I shoved my hands down into my pockets to steady them, and as I did I took a look to the rear and noticed that our pursuers had fallen somewhat behind us — yet they came on steadily, and I was not sure that Frank would last much longer at the pace he had set for himself.

I pulled out the pistol from my right pocket and pointed the way with it to one side of the street. Perhaps Frank thought I was threatening him, for his eyes widened at the sight of the pistol. In any case, he did as I wished him to, running to one side of the street with me and taking a place on the walkway before one of the grand houses. We took our place before a sturdy, iron-barred fence. My original plan had been to seek shelter at Mr. Bilbo’s, but Frank was already past it when I joined him running from the mob; I had a sort of plan, and it would work as well here as anyplace else in St. James Street.

The leaders of the mob (if, indeed, there were any leaders) were disturbed by this development — so unexpected was it — that they slowed of a sudden and stopped. They saw the pistol in my hand and liked it not.

“Frank Barber, get behind me. Put your back to the fence, and remain there, no matter what.”

He did as I told him. His breathing was tortured. Could he speak with me?

“How long have they been chasing you?” I asked him.

“From … St. James’s Square … all the way.” His words were punctuated by panting gasps for air.

“But why? What did you do?”

“I did … nothing … nothing! … I delivered … a letter … to a … house in the … square.”

Though I was not then satisfied with Frank’s answer, I soon found that he told naught but the truth.

His pursuers moved forward stealthily as if they hoped that by gradual encroachment they might overwhelm us without our having noticed.

“That’s far enough.”

I yelled at two of them who were shuffling ahead of the rest as a kind of advance guard; they were slender, wiry chaps, not much older than I, and each carried sticks thick enough to be called clubs, which they attempted to conceal behind them. They were no more than twelve or fifteen feet away.

“I said, that’s far enough.”

And to convince them forcefully, I leveled the pistol and aimed at a point above — though not too far above — their heads. I pulled back the hammer and then the trigger and thanked God and Mr. Baker for the answering report — something between a crack and a boom.

The effect was immediate and was just as I had expected: The two scrambled back to the shelter of the mob behind them; in his haste, one fell to the cobblestones, losing his stick as he fell, but he made it back before his partner. The entire mob, men and a few women, shifted back a good five feet. Through it all there was shouting and yelling, warnings and recriminations. Yet they did not scatter as I’d hoped they might.

The two I had sent into a wild retreat turned round and began haranguing those behind them.

“Here, now,” shouted one, “he hadn’t got but one ball in that pistol, and now he’s fired it off.”

“Come, let’s grab that black boy!”

Each took a step — no more — toward us. I let them come no closer. Pulling out the second pistol somewhat ostentatiously, I aimed it without cocking it at the nearest of them.

“I’ll kill the first of you who comes close.” I said it loudly and most confidently; I half-believed it myself.

Again they fell back. Yet still the mob showed no signs of dispersing. Somewhat to the contrary, a crowd of onlookers had gathered on the other side of the street. They seemed neutral in their sympathies, but rather amused and entertained by what had happened thus far. Laughing and pointing they were, altogether indifferent as to whether I, or Frank Barber, or one of the mob were killed, so long as it were done in a sufficiently diverting manner.

Then was I surprised when one of those well behind the first row of Frank’s pursuers came forward, a man of near forty he was, stout of figure and dignified in his bearing; he seemed not to belong with the rest of them at all. He waved his hand at me, as one might at school, to get the teacher’s attention.

“May I speak?”

I aimed the pistol at him.

“You may.”

“I believe you misjudge our intentions,” said he. “We are here to see justice done. That blackie you are protecting is one of that gang of thieves that’s been robbing the homes of the gentry and the nobles hereabouts. We who are here are in service to houses in St. James Square. We saw this black fellow who stands behind you now lurking about the houses there, and he was recognized as one of the thieves.”

“Recognized by whom?”

“That matters little. He is the right color, and we all agreed that he is one of them. Our intention is to bring him to justice.”