“Yes, Ma’am,” I said. “The very same. Mr. Robins was saying that Mr. Edward was studying science, and Mr. Edward say — said — that he was going to work with Professor Lowe.”
“Theodore,” she said, making me think she was about to tell me something, but she was just pronouncing my name. She looked me up and down, before staring at some of the white flowers, hovering like stars, beside her. “Mmm. This is so very odd. Do you have a message from the Academy for my brother? Anatole said something about a message.”
“Well, Ma’am,” I said, “Mr. Edward Linde give me his carte de visite and told me if I want to work for him when he was working for Professor Lowe, I should contact him. I ain’t — didn’t — know how to do that except come here so here I am.” I passed the card through the gate to her, dropping it onto the opened fan. She stared at the face on it, scrutinizing it as if to make sure that it was her brother’s visage peering back at her, and then at me, then passed it back. “Mmm. Truly irregular. But then these days the whole world is upside down, and then there is my brother. So Neddy gave you that card?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I say. “At the Academy, most exactly.” I felt sweat rilling down my brow and neck again so I patted myself down. I realized I could use some water.
The white woman stood, cooling herself with the fan, saying, “It’s scorching today, isn’t it?” then “We can’t blame the rebels for that.” She turned away and I wondered if she was going to head back into the house without saying anything else, but she stopped and told me over her shoulder, “Well, Theodore, I will give my brother and Mr. Peter Robins your message that you came to the house and are ‘eager to work.’ Where do you stay, should they conceivably supply a response?”
“Thanks, Ma’am.” I started smiling but restrained myself. “I live on Lombard Street, Ma’am, Number 723, second floor. 723 Lombard Street, in this city, with my mother Mrs. Emma Riley King and my brother Jonathan, who is employed at Kahnweiler’s General Store and the Academy. I sincerely would like to work for Mr. Edward Linde if he need me.”
The white woman continued looking back toward me just enough that I could read her brief half-smile as she proceeded toward the house. At the stairs the man I took to be Anatole materialized in front of her. He said quite loudly, “Everything all right, Miss Katharine?”
“Yes,” she answered, and with her fan gestured toward me. “I’ll pass on his message to Neddy and should he have a response, someone will have to relay the message to him.” She disappeared past Anatole into the house. Soon as she was inside Anatole scampered toward me, still behind the gate, and, nearly spitting, said, “Listen here, boy, don’t you never come rolling up at the front door of this house, never again, y’unnerstand? Never. And get your little black ass away from this back gate too, before I count to ten? If the police don’t knock all the teeth out that smiling mouth I sure in the hell will.”
I didn’t answer him but left, almost whistling, and thought about calling out, “Anatole,” but instead I headed back east to Washington Square to find a place to sit and, despite the heat, read the handbills and any discarded newspapers, and listen to speeches about the war.
A week passed, then two, no word from Mr. Edward Linde or anyone else. Then came the first days of September, though still no substantial cooking or catering positions. I put in at the House of Refuge, where I heard there was an open slot, and because they were always taking in orphans and bad children the work would be steady, but when I went back to inquire they apologized that they didn’t yet have anything available. An honest job is an honest job, my Mama kept saying, so you best just keep hitting those streets, and I once again thought of seeking something at Kahnweiler’s, or, come to worst, even casting my lot with Dandy.
That first Saturday of the month it was so late when I got home it was already dark out and I couldn’t believe I had walked what felt like half of Philadelphia, all the way down Passyunk to the County Prison then over to the Schuylkill then all the way up to Girard College, where I practically begged to join their kitchens, then hobbled all the way back down Broad, not a single street car stopping for me, my legs and feet hurting so badly I was ready to cut them off. I came upon Mama, framed by the lamplight’s glow, sitting in front room with the Misses Allen from upstairs. Soon as I greeted them all she said, “Theodore, somebody brung a letter for you,” and I immediately worried it might be a summons from the police for what happened with Dandy, or maybe for Dameron’s clothes that I completely ruined and still had yet to pay for. I said, “Yes, Ma’am, where is it?” and she said, “Right there on your bed,” and there it was, a long tan envelope, addressed to “THEODORE KING.” I ripped it open and read:
Friday, August 23, 1861
To Theodore,
This missive is even by the usual standards of my Correspondence a most eccentric Exchange, but I just received a note from my dear sister, Katharine, stating that she had forgotten to tell that you had come to my Father’s house enquiring of me. I initially was unaware of whom she was speaking, until she made mention of the Academy, Professor T. S. C. Lowe’s lecture, and my near-brother Peter Robins, and thus I recalled your peculiar yet delightful display of Memory, and my comments to you that Saturday afternoon.
As things stand in our continuing contributions to Science in the Defense of our UNION this corps fortunately does need Hands, though I cannot but certify my Good-Will and a miniscule Purse as guarantee. Peter kindly enquired of your arts and talents, and wrote that in addition to your memorial Skill you are also a Cook, which any corps must need, though we also have need of Elbows to undertake related tasks, of which I know you will not suffer undue abuse.
You will have to make your Journey to military headquarters in the Capital, and there interrogate where to find me. Peter has said that you may use his name alongside mine, should this matter still bear your interest. Please carry this Letter, and the Warrant it represents, along with my Carte de Visite, on your person in any case, and as I have gone on too long, Sapientiae Scientiaeque,
Edward Harrison Bartram (von) Linde, A.M., A.M.
Technical Assistant to Professor T. S. C. Lowe
United States Army Balloon Corps
I had to read the letter several times to understand it fully, but once I did I decided that I was headed down there. I waited till after service on Sunday to mention the offer to Mama, who told me I was ten times more of a fool than she ever thought she could raise, because what sane colored person would ever risk his life to go down into the bosom of the slavers? She wept as she admonished me think before acting so rashly, then wept again when I said I would not change my mind. Jonathan, who had witnessed the exchange, responded that he didn’t think I was a fool but instead probably trying to fool him and everyone with my claim. The next day in the park after he got off I shared it with Horatio, who began bawling like I had never seen him do before and assured me he was going to pray I never ended up in the traitor’s arms, before narrating to me how when they captured me they would bind me and whip me before having their way with me as punishment. I replied that I was planning to leave for the capital soon as I could figure out a way there. I had saved up some money but I doubted I could afford the railroad or was even allowed to ride on it, and also did not think I could afford a horse or coach ride.
That evening and for several afterwards I read the Bible, which I seldom did, to find a divine answer to my quandary, feeling reassured when I came across passages such as when John says in 14:31, “Rise, let us go from here,” and the 91st Psalm, verse 11, with its clear affirmation: “For he will command his angels concerning to guard you in all ways.” I tried respectfully to ignore Mama complaining about my foolishness to Misses Janie and Lucie Allen, or to my aunt, her younger sister Dorothea, who dropped by at the beginning of every week to relate what sounded to me like the same stories about the rich people she worked for and the poor people she worked with. Instead my mind kept turning on the axles of Mr. Linde’s letter and Professor Lowe’s lecture and the aerostats and Washington, the war, and how more than once over the years I had seen people drive the abolitionists out of Independence Square but now they often stood and listened, sometimes politely, a few even cheering, as the men and women, black and white, assured listeners that we would all soon be free.