We exit the alley onto a deserted Front Street. I look at Franklin. His face is pale and sweaty. He leans heavily on me and his stick.
“You okay?” I ask.
“It is the stone on my bladder. I will be fine. Just help me back to the house,” he says hoarsely.
“Guy’s sure got one big chip on his shoulder,” I mutter.
“‘Chip on his shoulder?’ What does that mean?”
“That he resents everything and everybody: you in particular!”
“He has some cause, I suppose. He once had a shop several times the size of what he has now. And employed a number of seamstresses and apprentices. All the finest gentlemen went to him, including my son. Then he chose the wrong side and lost everything.”
“If he hates you so much, why go to him?”
“Because he can deliver what we need more quickly and cheaply than anyone else. He has few other customers and works with alacrity, which means he can get the job done now. With any other tailor, we would have to wait for a week or more.”
“Oh, okay, I see. We went there so you could squeeze him. Get yourself a little pay-back?”
“Pay back? Squeeze? Whatever do you mean?”
“Come on, Doc. You just said it. He doesn’t have a lot of other customers. Which means he’s gotta do what you say for the price you want. He wanted two gold pieces. You made him settle for one. You took me there to squeeze him.”
“I most certainly did not! I took you there because I need a clerk properly dressed and quickly. You need clothes so you will not stand out. He needs money that may well keep him out of debtor’s prison. Everyone’s interests are served. And, if he does a good job, when people hear he has worked for me and I am pleased, they may give him their custom.”
“And that would make you feel good?”
“Well, it would not make me sad. I want very much to see us mend the fractures our War of Independence caused. We must be one nation, loyal to each other. Not Loyalist or Rebel, or Englishman or Pennsylvanian or Virginian or Massachusetts man, but Americans all. Maybe this forgiveness I am showing can, in a small way, help that along.”
“Didn’t look like he appreciated it much.”
“Also, we were friends in happier times. I hate seeing friends struggle, even if we’ve fallen out.”
I look at Franklin and am surprised by the sadness in his face.
As we come closer to Market, the street becomes more crowded.
“Marcus, you had better stop talking. You never know who sees what.”
Together, slowly, we walk up Market Street (called High Street, back then). How primitive everything seems! Not a single task is performed by machine. Horses and oxen draw carts and wagons, human feet operate knife-grinding, spinning, and pottery wheels; carpenters use axes, hand-saws, and chisels to fashion wood. Muscle, both human and animal, seems the only engine of accomplishment. And fire. There are so many open fires—for cooking food, dyeing material, forging metal, boiling soap, washing clothes—that an acrid, throat-biting haze fills the air.
We reach the low, arched carriageway leading to Franklin’s printing shop and home.
“Thank you, Marcus,” he says, breathing hard. “I am grateful for your strength.”
Which makes me feel pretty good—and grateful to Gus for introducing me to the gym. But seconds later, all those good feelings get blown away.
“Make way! Make way!” a man up Market Street cries over the ratcheting of a watchman’s noisemaker.
Swinbourne, the red-shirted black man, and the watchman have caught the slave. They’ve shackled his ankles and chained his manacled wrists to his waist and take turns shoving and kicking him down the street.
The slave doesn’t look terrified, now. He looks hopeless. Even when he’s pushed so hard he almost falls, his face stays dull and listless, like he’s incapable of caring anymore.
“Easy, Lucas,” ginger-haired Swinbourne says to the black man. “I paid a good price for this one. I don’t need you damaging my investment.”
“Damaging my investment?” My initial pity for the slave turns into a sudden, rising anger that balls my fists and makes my cheeks burn.
Just as I step forward to tell the men to stop, Franklin grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me into the arched carriageway, out of sight.
“Say nothing, Marcus,” he warns. “I know you want to. But you dare not interfere with another man’s property. Now, quickly, take me back to the house.”
***
As soon as we get back, Franklin has me and Elise fill his bath with water almost boiling, all of which has to be lugged from the kitchen hearth up the stairs. Then, wearing a long, white night-shirt “for modesty’s sake,” he has me help him in and motions me to a chair.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says. “But perhaps it is for the best.”
“For the best? How can you say that? How can you even think it? You saw how that man was treated. I can’t believe you didn’t do anything!”
“I could not. As you must learn, in this time and place, it is perfectly legal to own slaves. What is not legal is interfering between a man and his property. Had you tried to aid that slave in his attempt to escape—especially in front of the watchman—you almost certainly would have been arrested and imprisoned or fined. Which means that I could have been fined, and certainly embarrassed, since I’m responsible for you—”
“You mean, since you own me.”
“Well … yes … I suppose that is one way to look at it, if you like—
“I don’t like! Not one bit! You never told me that was going to be part of this whole indenture deal: that I’d have to watch everything I do and say so you won’t get in trouble.”
“No, I did not. I did not think of it. And I am sorry for it.”
“Can’t wait to find out what else you haven’t thought about,” I say under my breath. “So, if slavery’s legal, what am I supposed to do? Just stand by and do nothing?”
“I’m afraid that is all you can do.”
“But that goes against everything I’ve ever been taught—everything we’re supposed to stand for where I come from.”
“I know.”
“You know? How do you know?”
“Because we have had this conversation previously. That is all I will say—all I can say. Except that I understand your feeling and that I am doing all I can to try and abolish slavery. But until it is abolished, you must not interfere in any matter involving a slave. Do you understand? No matter how cruel and unjust, you must not interfere. Say you understand.”
“I understand,” I say, thinking to myself: But I don’t agree. And my “understanding” doesn’t mean I have to do, or not do, a single thing.
“Good,” Franklin says with a nod, like the subject is closed. “I must say, our small sojourn revealed to me more perils than I had anticipated. I really am not sure I can let you out of my sight, at least until you are better acquainted with our world. But do you know? That may just afford us an opportunity.
“I felt very secure walking with you today. My balance is not what it was. I have grown increasingly concerned about falling, especially after injuring my wrist. But with you, I felt no trepidation.
“I wonder if you might be willing to stay by my side. Not all the time. But when I am out in public and when I may be compelled to walk or stand for a long while and may need someone to support me. We could keep an eye on each other, so to speak. You would keep me from falling. And I would keep you from getting into trouble.”
“You gonna crush my toes again with that stick?”
“Possibly, if I see you about to err and I need to.”
“How about you just tap my foot instead of putting all your weight on me?”
“We might try that.”
“Well then, I’m willing to try hanging out … um … accompanying you.”
“Excellent! Now, I believe we’ve begun to build you a good story. Let us add to it, put flesh on its bones, so to speak.
He thinks for a minute, and then outlines my new identity.
“Originally from Philadelphia, you accompanied your parents to Paris, where your father opened a merchant house to import American goods. He sent you to serve as one of my clerks in Passy until my departure in 1785. Your parents subsequently succumbed to small pox. That will gain you sympathy and discourage people from asking further about them. You wrote and asked for my assistance to return to Philadelphia. I advanced the funds for your passage and you have agreed to repay me by way of the indenture. On board ship, during rough seas, you fell and struck your throat, bruising it severely, which is why you cannot talk. Yes, I think that will do nicely. What do you think?”
“How long am I going to have to keep my mouth shut?”
“That depends on you. The sooner you learn how to sound like one of us, the sooner you can talk. Now, what say we begin our new venture this evening, when the men from the Union Fire Company come for their meeting?”
“What’s this Union Fire Company you keep talking about?” I ask.
“It’s something I and several other fellows organized years ago to put out house fires. The members come. We call the roll and ascertain our inventory, discuss necessary business, and then enjoy refreshment and fellowship together. There are many who will want to talk with me and I probably will have to stand for quite some time. And there will be persons I don’t want to talk with, whom I need help avoiding, such as that odious Swinbourne.”
“Why would you let him in?”
“I have no choice. He is a member of the company. He lives nearby. Membership depends on geography, not popularity. When fire comes, we need every available hand to fight it and prevent its spread from house to house to house. But just because he is a member does not mean I must speak to him. So, keep a sharp eye peeled and if he approaches, move us quickly away.”