James Grippando - Leapholes

Her mother and grandmother screamed with relief. The onlookers applauded. Dr. Coolidge continued to massage the child's chest, trying to make her breathe regularly. Just then the paramedics broke through the crowd. Ryan's mother helped them give the child oxygen from a tank. When she seemed satisfied that her young patient would be okay, she didn't stand up and take a bow. She didn't wave to the crowd of onlookers like some kind of hero. She simply whispered something into the mother's ear-something that wiped away much of the anxiety from the young mother's face.

And then Dr. Coolidge quietly slipped away, melting into the crowd of onlookers.

Ryan had never been so proud of anyone in his entire life. For that brief and wonderful moment, it felt like a badge of honor to have the last name "Coolidge."

Hey, what do you think you're doing over there?"

Ryan was only half awake, and he didn't recognize the voice. Somehow, however, he realized that the man was talking to him.

Ryan wiped the sleep from his eyes. Part of his brain expected to see the palm trees and sandy beaches along Biscayne Bay. Those images, however, were only in his memories. Instead, he saw the glisten of sunshine dance across the flowing waters of the Mississippi River. He saw Jarvis sound asleep on the grassy bank. And he saw a very large man on a very high horse.

Ryan rose to his feet and faced the stranger. "We're just resting, sir."

The man climbed down from his horse and stepped closer. A beard and thick sideburns covered most of his face. A bushy walrus-like mustache concealed his lips. Ryan hadn't noticed before, but the man was wearing a star-shaped badge on the' pocket of his blue shirt. It read METROPOLITAN POLICE. A gun was holstered on his right side, and he carried a nightstick in his left hand. Ryan braced himself for his first encounter with the law of the nineteenth century.

"You boys aren't from around here, are you?" said the police officer. He seemed intrigued by Ryan's clothes. The blue jeans and sweatshirt weren't totally out of place, but his sneakers were unlike any footwear for the time period.

"No, we're from-" Ryan stopped himself. The less said, the better. "We're from out of town."

"When did you get in?"

"This afternoon."

He spotted the remains of their crab-apple meal scattered across the grass. His gaze returned quickly, and his icy-blue eyes made Ryan shiver. "Where did you get those apfelsT'

"ApfelsT' said Ryan.

"I mean apples," the officer said, correcting himself. The lapse into German pegged him as one of the city's many immigrants.

"Oh, do you mean these apples?" said Ryan, stalling.

"We found them," said Jarvis, rising.

Ryan did a double take. He had thought Jarvis was still sleeping. It was a relief to let someone else do the explaining.

"Found them, huh? You didn't happen to find them on Mrs. Emerson's tree, did you?"

"I wouldn't know anything about a Mrs. Emerson," said Jarvis.

"Is that so? I'll have you know that those are winter crabs you're eating. We had ourselves a mild winter, but Mrs. Emerson's got the only trees in town with fruit hanging in March. So what have you to say about this, boy? You want to tell me whose tree you raided?"

"Ryan, don't say anything," said Jarvis, his voice barely above a whisper.

The sour taste of crab apples was rising in Ryan's throat. If he got into trouble now, he might never find Hezekiah. "I'm not going to lie. We were going to pay for them, as soon as we figured out how to get some money. We took them from-"

"Hey, Conradt!" another officer shouted. He was on horseback, stopped on a street that led down to the river.

The other officer-Conradt-shouted back at him. "What you want, Brooks?"

"Need your help on Main Street. The posse is back in town. They got six runaway slaves with them."

Officer Conradt pointed toward Ryan and said, "Can't you see I'm busy here?"

"Forget about them!" said Brooks. "We gotta get this crowd under control, or we'll have a riot on our hands. Every available officer, right now!"

Conradt shook his head, frustrated. He looked at Ryan and Jarvis and said, "Guess this is your lucky day, fellas." Then he jumped back on his horse and rode back into town.

The minute he was gone, Ryan said, "Let's get over to Main Street."

"What?" said Jarvis.

"Didn't you hear what that other cop said? A posse is bringing runaway slaves into town. People are up in arms. It's the slave owners versus the slavery opponents. This could be it!"

He started running. Jarvis gave chase, but he was nowhere near as fast.

"Could be what?" said Jarvis.

Ryan was at full speed, headed for Main Street. He glanced back and shouted, "That place Hezekiah was looking for. The place where the brood follows the dam!"

Night fell as the posse rode into town on horseback. An unruly crowd lined both sides of Main Street. Slave owners stood on one side, opponents on the other. Hand-held torches lit up the night, casting a yellow-orange glow on a sea of angry faces. People shouted back and forth, tempers flaring, words running on top of words. It was impossible to discern any single voice, any coherent sentence. There was just a noisy, collective rumble of discontent.

Ryan and Jarvis pushed their way through the crowd, but it was tough-going. The sidewalks were jammed, and people were spilling into the streets. Ryan noticed black faces and white faces on his side of the street. On the other side, he saw only white. He wanted to be closer to the action, but it was like trying to push his way to the front row of a sold-out concert. Hundreds of people had already staked out their position. Suddenly, two men gave up their spots and headed for the tavern. Ryan and Jarvis maneuvered forward and took the openings.

"Look!" said Jarvis.

A dozen men on horses approached from the east. All of them were white. Each was armed with a pistol and rifle. One was belting back a bottle of whiskey. People on the other side of the street shouted in celebration. Those on Ryan's side hissed and jeered.

"Sinners!" one woman shouted.

"Slavery is immoral!" cried another.

Tempers were on the verge of explosion, and the growing crowd swelled farther into the street. Ryan climbed atop a barrel near the hitching post for a better view. He had a clear line of sight, but he nearly lost his balance when he saw what the posse was bringing into town.

Six black men walked in single file, right down the center of the street. Their hands were bound at the wrists. A heavy chain connected their ankles, and it rattled with their movements. Two of the men were old and appeared to be on the verge of collapse. The rest were much younger, perhaps even teenagers. All of them were singing. Singing. Their tune was slow yet moving, a powerful old spiritual:

Go down, Moses, Way down in Egypt's land, Tell old Pharaoh, Let my people go!

It amazed Ryan that these men could be brought into town like animals, paraded down a crowded street, and still find the courage to sing. As they passed, Ryan noticed the long rope that tethered one man to the next. They were spaced evenly apart, each man a few feet behind the man in front of him. They sang loud and with feeling. Even though crowd noises drowned out most of the lyrics, Ryan could feel the power of their voices. As they trudged forward in their shackles, the rope slackened and drooped between them. It seemed to join them together like a string of sad smiles.

"I have to talk to them," said Ryan.

"Are you crazy?" said Jarvis.

"I need to know if we're in the right place."

"What are you talking about?"

Ryan pushed forward. He squeezed between people and crawled on hands and knees around others. Finally, he was standing on the street. He waited for the right moment. The men on horseback were waving to the pro-slavery side of the street, receiving a hero's welcome. When no one from the posse was looking in his direction, Ryan broke away from the crowd and approached one of the slaves.