Let the brothers battle it out. If anyone can get rid of the threat of this Alvin Smith, it's his own brother, who can get close to him– not me, with all my armies, with all my skill. Let them fight.
But not until my leg is healed.
“My dear Leon, you mustn't drift off with the covers down like that.”
It was La Fayette, checking on him before sleep. Napoleon let the fellow pull his blanket up. It was a coolish night; it was good to have such tender concern from a loving man of great responsibility, dependability, creativity. I have in my hands the best of men, and under my thumb the worst of them. My record is much better than God's. Clearly the old fellow chose the wrong son to make his only begotten. If I'd been in Jerusalem in the place of that dullard Jesus, I'd never have been crucified. I would have had Rome under my control in no time, and the whole world converted to my doctrine.
Maybe that's what this Alvin was– God's second try! Well, Napoleon would help with, the script. Napoleon would send Alvin Smith his Judas.
“You need your sleep, Leon,” said La Fayette.
“My mind is so full,” said Napoleon.
“Of happy things, I pray.”
“Happy indeed.”
“No pain in your leg? It's good to have that American boy here, if he keeps you from that dreadful suffering.”
“I know that when I'm in pain I'm so difficult to live with,” said Napoleon.
“Not at all, never. Don't even think it. It's a joy to be with you.”
“Do you ever miss it, my Marquis? The armies, the power? Government, politics, intrigues?”
“Oh, Leon! How could I miss it? I have it all through you. I watch what you do and I marvel. I never could have done so well. I'm at school with you every day; you are the superb master.”
“Am I?”
“The master. The master of all is my dear Leon. How truly they named your house in Corsica, my dear. Buona Parte. Good parts. You are truly the lion of good parts.”
“How sweet of you to say so, my Marquis. Good night.”
“God bless you.”
The candle retreated from the room, and moonlight returned its dim light through the curtains.
I know you're studying me, Calvin. Sending your doodling bug, as you so quaintly call it, into my legs, to find the cause of the gout. Figure it out. Be as smart as your brother about this one thing, so I can finally get rid of you and the pain both.
Verily had known debased men in his life; he had been offered large sums of money to defend one now and then, but his conscience was not for sale. He remembered one of them who, thinking that his minions had not been clear about just how much money he was offering, came to see Verily in person. When he finally realized that Verily was not simply holding out for a higher price, he looked quite hurt. “Really, Mr. Cooper, why isn't my money as good as anyone else's?”
“It isn't your money, sir,” said Verily.
“What, then? What is your objection?”
“I keep imagining: What if, through some gross miscarriage of justice, I won?”
Livid, the man hurled vile threats at him and left. Verily never knew whether it was this man or another who sent an assassin after him– a pathetic attempt, knifework in the dark. Verily saw the blade and the assassin's vicious smile– obviously the fellow had chosen a profession that allowed him to satisfy his own predilections– and caused the blade to drop off the knife and shatter at the man's feet. The man couldn't have looked more crestfallen if Verily had made a eunuch of him.
Debased men, but they all had something in common: they showed a keen regard for virtue, and tried to dress themselves in that costume. Hypocrisy, for all its bad reputation, at least showed a decent respect for goodness.
These Slave Finders, however, were not noble enough to be hypocrites. Not having risen above the level of reptiles and sharks, they showed no awareness of their own despicableness, and thus made no attempt to hide what they were. One was almost tempted to admire their brazenness, until one remembered what callous disregard for decency they must have in order to spend their lives, in exchange for mere money, chasing down the most helpless of their fellow-beings and returning them to lives of bondage, punishment, and despair.
Verily was pleased that Daniel Webster seemed to be almost as repulsed by these men as he was. Fastidiously the New England lawyer disdained to shake their hands, managing to be busy with his papers as each one arrived. Nor did he even bother to learn their names; having once ascertained that the entire group contracted for was properly assembled, he then addressed them only as a group, and without quite looking any of them in the eye. If they noticed his aloofness, they made no remark and showed no resentment. Perhaps this is how they were always treated. Perhaps those who hired them always did so with distaste, washing their hands after passing them the cachet of the slave they were to hunt down, washing again after giving them their Finder's fee. Didn't they understand that it is the murderer who is filthy, and not the knife?
It was ten-thirty in the morning before the Finders, seated at a single long table before the judge's bench, were satisfied that they had got the information they needed from the cachet belonging to a certain Cavil Planter of Oily Spring, Kenituck. The judge had the deposition, carefully taken by Mr. Webster at Mr. Planter's home in Carthage City, Wobbish. Planter had attempted to assert that the cachet was a collection of nail and hair clippings and a bit of dried skin taken from one Arthur Stuart of Hatrack River; but Webster insisted that he state the exact legal situation, which was that the items in the cachet were taken from an unnamed baby born on his farm in Appalachee to a slave woman belonging to Mr. Planter at the time, who had shortly afterward escaped– with, as Planter insisted on adding, the help of the devil, who gave her the power to fly, or so it was rumored among the ignorant and superstitious slaves.
The Finders were ready; the boys were led in, one at a time, and lined up in a row in front of them. All the boys were dressed in ordinary clothing, and all were more or less of a size. Their hands were covered, not with gloves, but with burlap bags tied above their elbows; a finer sacking material also covered their heads with loose-fitting hoods. No scrap of skin was visible; care had even been taken to make sure there was no gap between the buttons of their shirts. And just in case, a large placard with a number on it hung from each boy's neck, completely covering his shirtfront.
Verily watched carefully. Was there some difference between the Black sons of Mock Berry and the White boys? Something about their walk, their stance? Indeed, there were differences among the boys– this one's pose of insouciance, that one's nervous fidgeting– but Verily could not tell which were White and which were Black. Certainly he could not tell which one was Arthur Stuart, the boy who was not fully of either race. This did not mean, however, that the Finders did not know or could not guess.
Alvin assured him, though, that their knack would be useless to them, since Arthur Stuart was no longer a fair match for the cachet.
And Alvin was right. The Finders looked puzzled when the last boy was brought in and the judge said, “Well, which of them matches the cachet?” Clearly they had expected to know instantly which of them was their prey. Instead, they began to murmur.