Frowning, the Hunter took a deep breath. "I told y'all to shut up and stay out of this! It ain't your affair!"
In the market there came first one shot, shattering the air. By the time the second exploded, merchants and patrons were screaming, scattering from the waterfront like windblown leaves, tipping over tables that sent potatoes, cabbages, and melons rolling into the street. When the thunderous pistol reports subsided, leaving only a silence, and the susurration of wind off the water, the only figures left in the debris of broken displays and stands were the Hunter — he was sprawled dead beneath a rug he'd pulled to the ground as he fell — and the Hunted. There were also his new friends: The black fish woman. The balding man. Both were members of Boston's chapter of the Liberty Association, devoted to killing bounty hunters on sight. The balding man was Frank's minister. The fish woman was the minister's mother. They were the ones who'd taken him in. Helped him set up his stall in the market And they were much better shots than he was.
It was good, thought Frank, to have friends — hunters in their own right — like these.
A Lion at Pendleton
Am I sadly cast aside,
On misfortune's rugged tide?
Will the world my pains deride
Forever?
THE WHITE MOB in Pendleton, Indiana, had dragged him from the outdoor platform in the woods, where he was denouncing the evils of slavery, how it dehumanized Christian masters and bondsmen alike — this, after the townspeople had denied him use of the local Baptist church. His voice, a bronze basso profundo, filled the woods, rolling over a crowd that favored parishioners at a camp meeting. Delicate white women in the front seats fainted (as they often did when he spoke), partly because they had never heard a Negro whose oratorical skills outdistanced even those of a Cicero, and partly because of how this remarkable mulatto looked: tall, muscular from a life of field work, ship caulking, and handling coal, he stood before them broad-shouldered, with a striking mane of obsidian hair, appearing for all the world like a lion who'd decided one day to assume the shape of a man. This was the Frederick Douglass they'd read and heard so much about, of whom James Russell Lowell said, "The very look of Douglass was an irresistible logic against the oppression of his race." Oh yes, they fainted dead, these polite, white ladies in Pendleton, because he was Shakespearean in his bearing, more handsome than their husbands, with a voice that ran rill-like in their heads, and who could doubt the desire they felt for him, the fugitive slave who was the best thing that ever happened to the abolitionist movement, overshadowing even William Lloyd Garrison? lo be honest, it was better to faint than face the troubling fact that they felt themselves melting in their seats when he turned his penetrating gaze their way.
No doubt the gang of white men who entered the woods noticed how Douglass ensorcelled their women, and for a moment they were mesmerized themselves, staring up in a few unguarded seconds of awe at the lion-become-man, who not only challenged every idea they'd ever believed about Negroes, but called in question their manhood as well Could they have survived all he had? Wrestling with his master Thomas Auld's dogs (that were better fed than he was) over bones to feed himself? A whipping every week for six straight months from Mr. Covey, a well-known "negro-breaker" Auld had hired him out to when he was sixteen, and whom, once Douglass had had enough of this treatment, he had fought for two hours straight until the older man gave up, never raising a hand to him again or mentioning this shameful defeat to other white men? Could they have conceived his masterful plans for escaping bondage? Taught themselves (and other slaves) to read? No, they were not — and would never be — his equal. And so they fell upon him, there in the woods, tearing down the platform after hauling him from it (that took twelve grown men), with him trading two blows for each of theirs, shifting instantly from eloquent oratory to raining punches upon them that broke cartilage and bone until by the sheer weight of their numbers they pinned him down, kicked and pummeled him round his great head, and then at last left when he lost consciousness. They were bruised, bleeding from their noses, and limping, but they were sure the abolitionist nigger from New England was dead.
Must I dwell in Slavery's night,
And all pleasure take its flight,
Far beyond my feeble sight,
Forever?
He awoke, his head pounding, in the spare bedroom of Neal Hardy, one of his Quaker friends in Pendleton. Experimentally, he tried to sit up, felt a pain — prismatic in its complexity — pierce through his chest, and fell back with a moan onto his pillow, closing his eyes. Was he still alive? He wasn't sure at first. Did he still have all his teeth? Was it night or day? One of his hands, bandaged, was badly throbbing. Although it hurt to raise his arm, he did so, then poked the index finger of his unbandaged hand into his mouth, probing until he was satisfied that, yes, all his teeth were there. He took deep, long breaths just to see if he still could. If he didn't know better, he'd swear from the throbbing ache in his legs and arms that he was back on his pallet in the slave quarters of Edward Covey, who worked his bondsmen in all weather — indeed, worked beside them sometimes so he knew how much effort a chore demanded and if a slave was slacking off — and drove his field hands until they dropped. Or, if they endured his hellish regimen, they turned to drink to dull their minds when their master was not working them or watching them in secret.
Gradually, he opened his eyes again, peering from left to right, taking in a candlestand, a fireplace directly in front of him, and away to his right Neal Hardy, who sat in a ladder-backed chair, his long face full of sorrow.
Worst of all, must hope grow dim,
And withhold her cheering beam?
Rather let me sleep and dream
Forever!
"Fred," said Hardy, "you've been out a long time. We've been worried."
"Have I? What day is this?"
"Wednesday. It's almost midnight We brought you to my home straightaway after those hooligans beat you this afternoon."
"Beat me? I barely remember it I recall a fight, but I thought I was winning. Did I give as good as I got?"
Hardy smiled. "Better, given the odds. But for a little while there I was afraid we were going to lose you. We would have lost any other man, but thank God you've got the constitution of a horse."
"A tired horse, I daresay." He struggled to sit up. Hardy quickly moved to his side, helping him as he winced, biting down on his lower lip, his eyes squeezed shut from the pain of changing his posture. "Thank you, Neal. I guess I'd better rest for a few hours before we move on to the next engagement tomorrow. Where is it?"
"Noblesville, but you're not going. I won't allow it."
"What's this now?"
"You heard me. That hand of yours is broken. And I'm not a doctor, so I pray my wife and I set it correctly. Not only do I want you in bed for the rest of the week, I'd like to have a doctor drop by in the morning to examine you for anything I might have missed. For all I know, the blows you took could prove fatal. Here now, look at me. How many fingers am I holding up?"
Actually, he wasn't sure. He squinted, seeing two, but… there was a hazy, wavering digit between them that might have been a third.