A Peculiar Peace

By Lori Hart Beninger

Boston, 1856. Northern abolitionists demand an end to slavery, while the South vows to protect its "peculiar institution." Immigrants, especially the Irish, rage against the prejudices of established citizens. Demands for equal treatment of women grow ever stronger. As the rumblings of discord rage, two people find themselves embroiled in the chaos of a rapidly changing world.

Into this crucible of discontent sails Jack Moylan, the young director of a well-known and well-respected shipping company. Transferred to Boston to shore up the firm's flagging foundations, he also has designs on courting Guinevere Walker, the woman he has loved since his youth in California.

However, Guine Walker is focused on becoming a physician. The budding doctor joins the fight for emancipation of both women and slaves, as she struggles with the rigid social norms of her native Boston and longs for the independence she enjoyed as a young girl on the West Coast.

The third book in a four-part series, A Peculiar Peace continues the saga of Jack and Guine, begun with the California Gold Rush adventure Embracing the Elephant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734206906

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jack: February 23, 1856

With good reason, I agreed to the voyage. If I have any say, however, it’ll be my last. I’ve had my fill of pummeling from the winds of change and fortune.

San Francisco, California? The innkeeper squints at the yellowed pages of the register as I sign, the long arch of his nose poking among the entries like the bill of a sandpiper looking for a bit of supper. Peck, peck, peck. My goodness, you’ve come a long way. He sits back and gazes at me with curiosity. I’m to be a tasty morsel of evening gossip: A man from California checked in today … Is it true what they say about San Francisco?

Rain pelts the window behind me in a fury, the noise like fistfuls of gravel tossed against the panes. Droplets weep from my coat and boots onto the planking, settling into a muddy puddle. Although the innkeeper showed his displeasure at the mess with pursed lips, I suspect this lobby’s no stranger to the damp. It smells of mold.

I don’t know. What do they say about San Francisco? I’m delaying. I’ve heard most of the rumors.

Well, he stammers, they say gold is just pushing up through the earth everywhere. And everything costs so dear. And there’s no regard for law. A man can’t walk the streets without getting robbed … or worse.

The tales are always the same. Yes, I reply with my prepared answers. It’s expensive to live there. But the streets are plain old dirt – not even clean and covered in brick and stone like the streets I walked to get here today. With respect to gold, it can be found more in the pockets of the local merchants than in the hands of miners. Or anyone else, for all that. As for the law, I’ve not found San Francisco to be any better or worse than most cities.

The innkeeper knits his brow in disappointment.

Not for the first time, I wonder if people would be less meddlesome were I to claim somewhere other than San Francisco as my home. I could admit to being born in Sonora, California, but they’ve probably never heard of the place and might only ask more questions. Perhaps I should say I’m from the land where the North Wind lives: east of the sun and west of the moon (like that Irish folktale Guine loves). Such a claim is close to the truth. Having been rooted to one place for my first thirteen years, with nowhere to call home in the half dozen since, I’m no stranger to the North Wind. Still, I might be thought mad with such a claim.

Well, Mr. Moylan, what brings you all the way to Mobile? His curiosity isn’t yet squelched. Peck, peck, peck.

Business, I reply. You’ve a nice port here. I believe my company can do a brisk trade with the fine merchants of Mobile, Alabama.

The innkeeper’s busy brow lifts. Ah, and what business would that be? Peck, peck, peck.

Shipping. Somersworth and Walker is the East Coast’s premier shipping agent. We handle goods from all over the globe.

Skepticism darts across the man’s features. I wager he’s thinking: What can this whelp know about shipping or the world?

Well, Mobile does have a very fine port, he says. Yes, yes indeed. Far better than New Orleans, if you was to ask me. But most folks prefer New Orleans.

That’s certainly true. Even I prefer New Orleans, as I judged it better for the company’s business with its cheap labor, a robust train system, roads and that big river cutting the country in half, leading to other hardy waterways. But Mr. Somersworth chose Mobile, and I soon left off arguing with him. I can’t say I understand the full measure of it, but he’s the boss, and so I’m in Mobile.

The country’s on a perilous path, Jack, Mr. Somersworth explained. When men attack each other’s character and beliefs with impunity in the hallowed halls of Washington, you may be assured some kind of disaster is brewing. The company must be prepared for whatever befalls the nation and our industry. We must look to the future and weather the storm. I see the future in Mobile.

Well, I welcome you to our fair city, the innkeeper chirps. I have a fine room with a view of the park. How long will you be staying with us, sir? He stammers on the last word. I suppose I still appear a whelp in his eyes.

A week, I should think. I’ll be on my way as soon as the cargo holds are emptied and we stock up for the rest of the journey.

Where is your final destination?

Boston, I say. Where Guine lives, I don’t say.

Will it be only you staying with us, sir?

He may not think me old enough to know the trade business, but such judgment doesn’t extend to the business of desire. By this question, I know he’s prepared to make a discreet but necessary introduction if I wish the company of a local lady for the evening. It’s the same for every innkeeper I’ve met in my travels.

That’s my intention. Do I detect another pinch of dissatisfaction on his face?

Can I recommend a restaurant for you?

I’m sure the man has a lucrative arrangement with the ladies and the restaurants, but I’ve other plans. Not tonight, but thank you. Tomorrow, perhaps.

Very well. His friendliness flags, having gleaned naught about me to earn him an audience for tonight’s gossip. I trust you’ll find the room satisfactory after your long sea voyage. He snaps his fingers, summoning the grizzled negro who’d opened the door when I arrived, handing him the key to my room. Fetch Mr. Moylan’s bags to room seventeen, Jerome.

Thank you, Jerome. I hand the old man a few coins and point to the sorry leather bag at my feet. That’s all I have. Go ahead and leave that in the room. I’d like to walk around for a bit. Find my land legs.

But … but it’s raining.

I don’t mind. The pinging against the window is softer than before, so I have hope the worst is over. "I can’t say I’m yet on dry land, but I’m happy to be on any land at all."

W … well, have a good evening then. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay in Mobile more pleasant. The innkeeper turns away before finishing the sentence. I notice he has ceased calling me sir.

Tipping my hat to Jerome, I venture into the early evening gloom to explore the streets of Mobile.

***

Can I tempt you out of your leisure with a prime position in Boston? I need you Jack, and there it is. I will not be coy.

I had thought to quit the shipping business after my return from China. I wanted some acreage in California where fog was scarce and the earth fertile. I yearned to dig my fingers into soil again, to watch green sprouts rise, to savor sunsets in silence from a veranda – things I couldn’t find on sloping decks or in crowded ports. No more roiling seas and cutthroat opportunists. No more rebellious wars and heartbreaking inequities. I wanted the arms of my native California again.

Truth be told, I wanted the arms of Guine, too, although I suspected she was beyond me. Her father had spirited her away to Boston while I was in China – a greater distance than mere miles suggested.

The Grant’s Creek property, sheltered in the curve of the Santa Cruz Mountains, had been near perfect to my eye. Fruit trees covered its hummocks and a two-room adobe house, more than big enough for me, was nestled among the trees. There was a sunny plot for a garden, a tattered barn that, once repaired, would do for the cows, horses, and chickens I one day planned to put there. The town of San Jose was close enough for provisions, but far enough away to be out of mind most of the time. And seldom was it foggy. A hundred acres of near-bliss.

Then came Mr. Somersworth’s letter.

Dear Jack,

Can I tempt you out of your leisure with a prime position in Boston? I need you Jack, and there it is. I will not be coy. My man in Boston could use shoring up, and I can think of no one better for the task than you. Raymond Talbot is a good man, but his wife recently passed and he has been slow to recover. My daughter Rebecca writes that he has of late become forgetful to an alarming degree. He can still perform the social duties of his job – the lobbying and luncheons and soirees – but the day-to-day activities are neglected. Given your distaste for pandering (I believe that is the word you use to describe the more politic aspects of the trade), my thoughts are to leave those duties to Talbot and have you manage the operations – to once again render the company a strong presence on the East Coast.

There are other important matters on which I could use your help (such as expansion of our business interests in the South), but we can discuss those once you have accepted my offer.

New England’s a far cry from the Orient and a world away from California. But please do say you will consider my proposal. Come up to San Francisco next week so that we can discuss the particulars. I will make it worth your while.

Worth my while. Yes, Mr. Somersworth always made it worth my while to do his bidding. My time in China had been lucrative for both him and me. My time in China had enabled me to buy the Grant’s Creek farm.

Grant’s Creek, however, proved to be not enough. Mr. Somersworth’s offer of Boston was like a siren’s song. I suspect my feelings for his niece Guine had been used to his advantage, too. I agreed to do his bidding once again.

***

The offices I seek are scant blocks from the harbor and the inn, on the ground floor of a grand stone building with dark moss weeping from its ample sills. In the hastening darkness, light glows from the arched windows, cutting scallops of gold along the rain-slick walkway. It takes less than ten minutes for me to walk here from the inn. I’ll have no trouble finding this building again tomorrow when I’m to meet with the owner of Southern Sky Shipping. Once I’ve done that, no other stops are scheduled for Formidable between here and Boston. Between here and Guine.

Captain Boyle’s instructions were to first turn left from Southern Sky before venturing further into the city to find the restaurant where we’ll meet for dinner. Mobile is a regular stop for Formidable, so Boyle knows the city well. His directions are detailed.

I turn away from the moss-smudged building, consulting Boyle’s scribbles. This voyage marks my first time in this part of the world. Since I crossed the Isthmus of Panama, everything has been new – the cities, the accents, the food. Asia was exotic and dangerous, each port unique and intriguing. South America’s Pacific coast was exciting yet comfortable, probably because I knew the language, my mother having been Spanish. I’d warmed to the thought of seeing the Caribbean and the Atlantic, despite any desire to settle.

I suppose I shouldn’t walk in a strange city with my mind on other things, for I’ve gotten myself turned around. I don’t find the restaurant where I expect it. None of the landmarks Boyle described are to be seen. I may have to retrace my steps.

Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me the way to Cecelia’s? I stop beneath the wiry figure of a lamplighter, clinging to a post with torch in hand. The drizzle has resumed and he’s fighting to keep his footing and the fire lit.

Cecelia’s? The restaurant? Oh it ain’t far; only a couple of blocks. Just head straight up that way, then turn right. You must be a stranger to town, because everybody in Mobile knows Cecelia’s. You ain’t a Southern man, are you? I’m guessing by your accent you ain’t a Yankee either, though.

No. I’m from California.

California? Well I’ll be. I never met nobody from California before. He scampers down the ladder. You’re far from home. Been here long?

Just arrived today.

You a gold miner? I heard there’s gold on the streets in California.

I’m quick to assure him of the truth, much the same as I did for the innkeeper and the countless others who have the same imaginings.

Well I suspected all them stories were a load of twaddle. The man wipes droplets and disappointment from his face with a soiled handkerchief. I thank you for your honesty, stranger. You picked a right good spot in Cecelia’s. She serves the best food Alabama got to offer.

The man provides further description of the corner where I’m to turn and, once again, assures me I won’t find better grub east of the Mississippi. I doubt he’s ever been outside of Mobile, but the praise is promising and I head in the direction he points.

I’ve walked a few paces when, from the shadows beyond the streetlamp, a voice rises. Julius, ain’t this just our luck? These boys is out after dark without papers. Again.

Four figures are gathered, down a brief alley that ends in a tangle of stairs and broken-down buildings. Two white men on horseback have two coloreds pinned against a building in an unmistakable arrangement of confrontation.

We got papers, Mr. Tom. I got the pass Mr. Avery give me right here. The tallest negro pulls a crumpled paper from his coat pocket and thrusts it toward the white riders.

"You call me sir when you talk to me, boy."

Yessir, Mr. Tom. Mr. Avery wrote this pass for me and my brother. Just like he always done. Sir.

Mr. Tom leans forward and snatches the paper, dancing his horse closer to the trapped men.

"‘Let Piney …’ I can’t hardly read this. ‘ … fetch me tobacco and …’ I can’t read this word. What is this word?" He holds the note skyward, pretending that will help him read better. I believe the only outcome will be to make the paper sag with more rainwater.

It says whiskey, Mr. Tom. It says whiskey and my brother’s name is there …

You read it?

No … no, sir. You know I can’t read. But Mr. Avery told me what it said. Otherwise, how was I to know what to get?

Don’t get smart with me, Piney. I only make out your name. Mr. Tom thrusts the paper at his bored partner. Do you see anything but Piney’s name on this note, Julius?

Julius ignores the note, shaking his head.

"I think Mr. Avery was drinking a bit of that whiskey when he wrote this, ’cause it says wicksy. Don’t it say wicksy? Julius hums his agreement without glancing at the paper. Well, Piney, you know we can’t let you buy no wicksy or whiskey or anything else what’ll get you drunk. That would be against the law, you know."

But it won’t be for me, sir. It’ll be for Mr. Avery, just like he ask.

And how’ll Julius and me know that you won’t drink it all on your own without getting it home to Mr. Avery? Huh? If we let you buy whiskey, you might keep it for yourself.

I won’t drink nothing, Mr. Tom.

You a liar. I bet he’d drink it, too. Tom points to the smaller negro, a boy of twelve or thirteen who’s trying his best to melt into the wall, eyes lowered.

He don’t drink Mr. Tom.

You got money to buy this whiskey, Piney?

No sir, I don’t got no money. I’m to put it on Mr. Avery’s account. Like I always do. You knows that, Mr. Tom.

Tom dismounts in front of the boy. Where’s your pass?

It’s there, Mr. Tom, Piney cries, pulling closer to his brother’s side and jabbing at the paper in Mr. Tom’s hand. It says me and my brother is to get whiskey and tobacco for Mr. Avery.

I don’t think he’s your brother. He’s probably some nigger friend you met on the street.

Mr. Tom, you knows us. He’s my brother. He was my brother last week when you ask. He’s still my brother.

How come he ain’t got his own pass?

You know Mr. Avery don’t want to waste no paper. He always give us only one pass. Every time we come to town, we got one pass. You know that Mr. Tom. That ain’t changed in years.

And it ain’t changed that this pass ain’t got his name on it, and I don’t believe he’s your brother. Why, that skinny little thing don’t look at all like you, except that you’re both niggers. Tom steps closer to the boy, rain dripping from the brim of his hat onto the lad’s face. Me and Julius is on patrol tonight, keeping you niggers in line, making sure you ain’t drinking or gathering around making trouble. Hell of a night to be on patrol, ain’t it Julius? Not fit for a dog to be out in this weather.

I doubt the weather has much to do with Mr. Tom’s outlook. I’ll wager he’d stir up this rumpus on a clear spring afternoon. In China, Manchu soldiers flexed their might by stopping locals. Taiping rebels baited wealthy strangers to see how much they could push. Each group took a turn, the stronger bullying the weak – even if that strength was only a temporary reality.

Well, you know what this means, don’t you, Piney? This means Julius and me, we have to whip this boy here some, because he got no pass. Again. Mr. Tom erupts with an ugly laugh.

I’ve heard enough.

Excuse me. Despite the rain, I unbutton my coat and walk toward Mr. Tom, straightening my vest, brushing against the hilt of my pistol to assure myself of ready access and its visibility. I’m hoping one of you can help direct me to Cecelia’s. I’m to meet a friend there, but I’ve gotten myself turned around. And perhaps I can help read that letter you’ve got there.

This ain’t your business, stranger, Mr. Tom barks. Then he spots the butt of my gun. Julius sees it, too.

I thought I heard someone say they couldn’t read something. Can I suggest you bring that note over here to the streetlamp. I find better light sometimes helps when I can’t read something.

We don’t need your help, Yankee.

Oh, I’m not a Yankee. I’m from California. I’ve reached Mr. Tom’s side, snatching the dripping pass from his hand before he can react. Well. No wonder you had such trouble reading this. The writing’s getting smudged with the rain and the light’s terrible. Follow me.

I turn my back to the quartet, listening for any movement of aggression behind me, one hand on the butt of my gun. My wager is, neither of these fools will agitate against an armed stranger with a confident stride. It’s a gamble, but one familiar to me.

Under the streetlamp, I straighten the paper, using my body to shelter it from any more rain damage. Tom joins me with reluctance, gripping the reins of his mount until his knuckles glow white in the feeble light.

Mr. Avery’s scrawl is child-like. But even with a thorough soaking, the words are still legible. "‘Let Piney and his brother Steven …’ Is that your name?" I glance toward the young colored boy pressed to the wall.

Yessir. Steven, he mumbles.

Turning the paper Tom’s way, but not near enough for him to grab, I point to the word. I’m tempted to add idiot to my question. I read that as ‘Steven,’ don’t you?

I think Mr. Tom would rather send his fist through my face than look at that note. But I also think Mr. Tom may be just smart enough to figure that a well-dressed white man standing on a well-lighted street corner with a pistol at the ready is not someone to cross.

I suppose it is.

"‘Let Piney and his brother Steven pass tonight to fetch me tobacco and wicksy.’ Well, it certainly does say wicksy … but I think we both know what he means. I gesture for Piney to join us, handing him the note as he does. I don’t trust giving it back to Mr. Tom. By my reckoning, these boys have a pass. Both of them. Just needed a little light to be shed, that’s all."

The streetlamp sputters, Mr. Tom scowls, and I hope Piney and his brother have a place to go while Mr. Tom burns off his anger and loses interest in them. For my own sake, I hope Cecelia’s isn’t too far away.

Well, Piney, Mr. Tom splutters. You’re lucky this gentleman came along when he did and cleared up this matter. His upper lip twitches. I’ll give you an hour to do your business and get back home, you hear? Don’t let me and Julius catch you or your brother on the streets again tonight. He mounts his horse. Next time, you tell Mr. Avery he’s to write two passes: one for you and one for that sad sight of a brother you got. I don’t ever want to see you niggers without a pass of your own ever again.

He spurs the horse into the wider avenue, followed by a sullen Julius.

Thank you, mister, Piney whispers as soon as the two turn the corner.

He’ll do as he threatens. You better get on about your business and get home.

Piney nods, but hesitates. You’re from California?

There’s hope in the question. I nod.

California’s a free state, ain’t it?

I nod again.

Me and Steven’d sure love to go to California.

The slave bill works there just like everyplace else. We find slaves, we’ve got to send them back.

But maybe we won’t be found in a big place like California.

Maybe it’s the startled look that flickers across Piney’s face or the sharp intake of breath from Steven or the faint shuffle behind me. Maybe it’s my familiarity with the dark alleys and ports of the Pacific. Maybe the encounter with Mr. Tom has left me edgier than I expected. I step away from the two blacks, draw my pistol, and turn.

Three negroes emerge from the gloomy tangle of stairs at the end of the street.

The new arrivals raise their hands at the sight of my gun.

No. No. They’re my friends, mister, Piney cries, raising his hands as well. They’re my friends. Randall, this here gentleman saved Steven from a beating. Please, mister, they mean no harm.

I think Piney is lying, for judging by the look on the biggest negro’s face, Randall would not shy from harm. He shows little fear of my pistol as he assesses our surroundings.

I hold the gun and my gaze steady. Friends? What kind of friends would stand by as those patrollers beat your brother? That’s what you were going to do, wasn’t it, Randall?

Randall shrugs and lowers his hands. He ain’t no sport for them.

You’re a big man, then, Randall. Letting a child take an undeserved punishment. I do not lower the gun.

They go easy on him. Always do. They’d just beat us if we try to stop them. Ain’t nothing one nigger can do for another against a white man.

Perhaps I shouldn’t fault Randall for his indifferent brand of cowardice. But I do. I’ve known even the most helpless of people to come to the aid of others.

Still, I keep my mouth shut. And I take it Mr. Avery hasn’t caught on to you, Piney. Fetching whiskey for the boys here. Putting it on account. Is Mr. Avery too drunk to remember how often he sends you to town?

The negroes exchange anxious glances. Being caught drinking will earn all of them a beating.

It ain’t often, mister. Once a month, at most. We just trying to have a little fun.

How about you, Steven? You think it’s fun?

The boy doesn’t speak, but I take the thrust of his chin as a clue.

We can’t do nothing about it, Randall shrugs. Some of the fight seems to have left the man.

Easing the gun’s hammer down, I tuck it away before reaching into my vest pocket for a notebook. I tear out any pages covered in my scribbles and thrust the book at Piney.

Next time, write your own note and one for Steven. You just copy what Mr. Avery says, and sign his name to them both.

I can’t …

Don’t tell me you can’t, because I know different. Your face said otherwise when Mr. Tom accused you of having read the note. I know it’s illegal here for coloreds to know their letters, but that doesn’t matter to me. I’m not from around here, so I don’t care.

But I can’t …

I can. Steven lunges toward me, grasping at the notebook. I can do it.

His small face is stony with determination and intelligence. With a few more years and a few more pounds on that skinny frame, he’ll be comfortable standing up to the likes of his brother and Randall. It won’t be long in coming.

I release the notebook to the boy and adjust my hat to better take the weather as I turn up the street, heading for the meal that awaits at Cecelia’s. For a time, I keep my coat unbuttoned and the gun at hand.

***

The coffee is strong.

Mr. Augustus likes his coffee strong, Ada Sue said, offering cream before I assured her that I liked it strong, too. With quiet efficiency, she has ensured our cups are full and our plates piled with sweet biscuits and butter. Only the rustle of her petticoats betrayed her presence (which was quite a feat, since Ada Sue is a big woman).

The offices of Southern Sky Shipping are more like someone’s parlor than a place of business. Elegant leather chairs, ornate rugs, and plush sofas crowd the room. The wooden floors are polished to a high gloss, reflecting the firelight dancing from a huge stone hearth. The fire crackles and hisses whenever a stray raindrop happens to escape the flue. Outside, wind whips the trees, their branches scratching against the windows like rats on a tin roof. Steel-colored clouds hide the early afternoon sky. But all is warm and comfortable at Southern Sky.

The man I was scheduled to meet, Mr. Augustus Wilhoite, has been jawing about his family for the better part of an hour already, people dead and gone, revived for my entertainment. His yarns are lush with details, studied politeness, and humor. Each word is savored, caressed in a soothing drawl. I’m glad for the strong coffee, otherwise I’d be asleep.

Great Granddaddy lost that battle. I doubt he expected the victor to be wearing quite so much lace and whalebone. Mr. Wilhoite chuckles at his own story, his eldest son and daughter-in-law sitting across from us, laughing along. He is as personable as Mr. Somersworth’s detective had written in his report: a stout man in his early sixties with dark graying hair, friendly demeanor, and a ready smile for most.

I’m anxious to get to the point of my visit, but I’ve been warned. You can’t rush Southerners, Jack. Manners and patience are valued even more than expertise, Mr. Somersworth had cautioned. A Southern man wants to know he can trust you before he commits. Be patient, it’ll come.

So I stifle another yawn and remind myself it would be impolite to look at my pocket-watch.

These comfortable and genteel surroundings might trick some into believing the Wilhoite finances are solid. But the investigator’s full report indicates the man and his company are about to buckle. Although once a thriving business, founded in the days of good ole Great Granddaddy, everything changed when Wilhoite’s business partner disappeared last year with the company’s fortune. So much for Wilhoite’s sense of who to trust.

The real condition of the company has yet to be common knowledge, however. As far as Mobile and its business community are concerned, Southern Sky remains strong and stable. A desire to pursue other opportunities was the public reason for the partner’s disappearance. Given the reality detailed in the report, however, Mr. Wilhoite’s determination and nimble tongue won’t keep the company afloat for much longer, and the no hard feelings myth about the partner will be exposed soon enough.

As Mr. Wilhoite’s stories continue, I sip my coffee, and nod. His son, Ambrose, nods too. No obvious contribution to the company’s stability were the words of the detective. Ambrose is given over to girth and several chins, which he conceals with a well-crafted suit and cravat. He isn’t yet thirty, but has the look and energy of an older man with a child’s bluster.

Arabella, Ambrose’s wife, is graceful and soft spoken, dressed in the latest fashion, with hair nicely styled. She is a fitting complement to these surroundings. But her dark brown eyes turn downward at the corners, even as her smile tries to push them up. Had I not known better from the report, I’d have guessed her several years older than her husband. But as care can add years to a face, I wager she’s borne her share of care for this family. Mr. Somersworth’s detective credits Miss Arabella as much as her father-in-law with having kept Southern Sky Shipping from the brink.

Father Wilhoite, we haven’t let our guest say a word. Miss Arabella folds her hands and turns to me. Mr. Moylan, have you had the opportunity to enjoy any of Mobile, despite this horrible weather?

I describe where I’m staying and where I dined last night. Without saying anything negative, she provides hotel recommendations for my next visit. About my having dined at Cecelia’s, all three of the Wilhoites are ready with high praise.

Without a doubt, Cecelia’s has the best cook in Alabama in Ida Sue. Mr. Wilhoite warms to another story. "And we would know better than most! When Ida Sue was ours, my wife and I gave dinner parties every week, featuring her wonderful dishes. That woman could make an old rooster succulent. Truth be told, I even liked her slave food. I’ve never had okra so tasty as hers.

Well, Jefferson and Cecelia Pratt were frequent guests at our little soirees – Jefferson’s been my closest friend since childhood. When the lovely Cecelia got the notion that Ida Sue’s good Alabama cooking should be shared with all of Mobile … well, Miss Cecelia can be very persuasive. So, of course, the Pratts had to have Ida Sue.

And now, Miss Arabella chirps, anyone visiting Mobile can enjoy the best authentic Alabama meal they will ever have. Everyone sings Ida Sue’s praises.

She was your slave?

She was, Mr. Wilhoite nods with pride. Likely the most valuable slave I ever had. Got more for her than any buck I ever sold. We still see her from time to time, when she comes by to see her baby girl. He nods towards the hefty black woman serving coffee. But we only get her good cooking at the restaurant. Although our Ada Sue sets a fine table, too. She’s learned well from her mamma, haven’t you, girl?

Ada Sue nods, her eyes on the floor, her ample body rigid. The set of her jaw reminds me of the slave Steven from last night.

Do you know a Mr. Avery? I hope the Wilhoites don’t ask about my abrupt change of subject, for I have no excuse except the memory of the drenched black boy in the alleyway.

Lawrence Avery?

I don’t know his full name, but he owns two coloreds named Piney and Steven.

Ah yes. That would be Lawrence Avery. But we have only a passing acquaintance with him. He’s not really our kind. How did you come to hear his name?

I explain about the encounter last night, choosing to end the tale before Randall and his friends made their appearance, so as not to muddle the story.

I’m sorry you witnessed that on your first night in Mobile, Mr. Moylan, Mr. Wilhoite says, pulling his shoulders back as if in preparation for battle. "Reckless men like Lawrence Avery have created a world where the patrols are an unfortunate necessity. I have always believed that benevolent treatment ensures the loyalty of slaves. Patrols wouldn’t be necessary if it weren’t for the likes of Mr. Avery.

But I’m certain the rest of the world has a different view of our peculiar institution. I assure you, Mr. Moylan, we here in the South are not the ogres the abolitionists paint us to be. With a few exceptions, like Mr. Avery, we are quite kind to our negroes. We treat them like our children. They require our care because they could not make it on their own in this world. When your northern factories fall on hard times, their workers are put out onto the streets. Slaveholders do nothing of the sort; morally, we cannot. These people are our responsibility. Mr. Wilhoite walks to Ada Sue’s side, reaching to gently stroke her hair. We don’t tell Northerners how to build ships – they shouldn’t tell us how to pick cotton.

This strange scene makes me uneasy. I’ve no doubt the patrollers would have been brutal with Piney and Steven, but watching Mr. Wilhoite pet Ada Sue isn’t much comfort, either. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked about Mr. Avery in the first place. Sweet Jesus.

But you didn’t come all the way from California to hear about me and my family and our ways, I don’t suppose, Mr. Moylan. I’m startled by the statement, as if Mr. Wilhoite had read my mind. Please forgive me for carrying on so. I seldom seem to have time these days to simply visit. What is it Southern Sky Shipping can do for Mr. Somersworth? His letter piqued my interest, to be sure, but did little to satisfy my curiosity. What is this ‘beneficial business’ about which he writes?

I glance at Ambrose and Miss Arabella.

You can speak in the presence of my son and daughter-in-law, Mr. Wilhoite continues. They have been a great help to me since my partner left.

I clear my throat. As I’m sure you know, Somersworth and Walker could choose any number of shipping agents with whom to form an affiliation. The roundabout storytelling of the morning may have cast a spell, for I find myself reluctant to blurt out my purpose without introduction. "However, Mr. Somersworth hopes for more than a mere business arrangement with Southern Sky Shipping, Mr. Wilhoite. Your company’s reputation, well-established trade routes, and stable contracts convinced us that you are the right choice for our business – as a partner.

I have been sent here to offer full payment of all existing debts of Southern Sky Shipping … if any … together with a significant sum of money, as evidenced by this letter, I hand Mr. Wilhoite a bulging envelope addressed in Mr. Somersworth’s generous scrawl, in exchange for 60% ownership of the company.

Sixty percent? Ambrose stammers. Why that’s preposterous. That’s not an affiliation, Mr. Moylan. That’s an acquisition. Father, surely you can’t …

Mr. Wilhoite holds up a hand to silence his son. Not taking his eyes from my face, he retrieves a knife from the top drawer of his rich mahogany desk, slices the flap of the envelope with a studied stroke, and unfurls the proposal. Only then does he lower his head to read.

Father, I must protest. Mr. Moylan is taking advantage of our hospitality, and …

Ambrose, I believe you and I should leave Mr. Moylan and Father Wilhoite to talk. Miss Arabella stands, smiling, and takes her husband firmly by the arm to lead him from the office. Sinew beneath petticoats, I think. Come, come, my dear. Father will let us know if our help is needed. She motions to Ada Sue to follow.

Ambrose persists with his objections as the door closes behind them. Mr. Wilhoite continues to read, his face flushing.

Your employer possesses a great many details about my … situation; certainly more than I expected. For the first time, Mr. Wilhoite’s tone is steely. "Including an accurate account of those existing debts, if any, he mocks. How is that, Mr. Moylan? I have gone to great lengths to see that most of the world is not privy to the soiled undergarments of Southern Sky – to little effect, I see. How is it that Mr. James Somersworth seems to know what I eat for breakfast, sir?"

He likes to know the people he’s dealing with.

As do I. And believe me when I say that I was thorough in my investigation into Somersworth and Walker following receipt of your employer’s first letter.

I trust you found everything to your liking.

You may trust that to be true, since I agreed to meet with you. However, the contents of this letter lead me to believe I may have been mistaken.

Mr. Wilhoite, the contents of that letter are in no way meant to threaten you. We believe the terms we’re offering are fair, in keeping with your current situation. Despite what we know, you are a desirable partner. That’s all. If you don’t accept the offer, you can destroy that letter. There’s no copy. I’m to do naught that changes what the world knows about Southern Sky Shipping.

Mr.