Through the grapevine of slave gossip, Nelly heard a story about Leery buying a one-way boat ticket to Boston for a light-skinned runaway who was able to pass as a white person. She did not know whether to believe any of it. She wondered whether Leery really worked in cooperation with local slave catchers with the aim of spreading rumors among the slaves and drawing out the fugitives. Yet such a trick would work only once or twice before Leery was exposed as a fraud. So far, that had not happened.
Then something incredible took place. One day, Leery was standing at the doorway to his studio as she walked by with Benjamin. The photographer called her over and struck up a conversation. Nelly was shocked because outside the immediate circle of people she served, no white person had ever done this before. Leery brought her in his shop and showed her his equipment and samples of his work. She was suspicious but interested-and then astonished when he asked her whether Benjamin might be purchased for the purpose of setting him free. Would she inquire with Mr. Jenkins and let him know?
That would have been about three weeks ago-and Mr. Jenkins was still out of town, probably not returning except for a brief visit in May or June. In the meantime, her view of Leery clarified. There must be something to the stories about him, she realized. Nelly had known that there really were white people who opposed slavery. Abraham Lincoln was one of them. She had heard that some white Southerners wanted to see the slaves let go-mainly small farmers who resented the power of the large plantation owners. She had even heard how a handful of white people actually helped slaves escape to the North through something called the Underground Railroad. But she had never actually met any of these people-or at least, did not think she had met any. Until she met Leery, that is.
And so she took Portia to Leery. They arrived in the afternoon. Leery was busiest in the autumn and winter, when Charleston’s social season was in full swing. He had a few jobs now, but not many. Much of his current income came from selling small reproductions of South Carolina’s secessionist heroes, such as P. G. T. Beauregard, the man who had opened fire on Fort Sumter earlier in the month. Images of Jefferson Davis were popular as well.
When Nelly and Portia arrived, Leery rose from behind a desk where he had been cleaning lenses.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Benjamin mentioned a package, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. Have you had a chance to speak with Mr. Jenkins?”
“No, and I don’t expect to see him for a few weeks.”
“If you prefer, Nelly, just let me know when he’s back and I’ll approach him myself.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Leery. Thank you very much.”
“So what brings you here?” he asked, looking at Portia.
“This is my friend, Portia,” said Nelly. “She’s in a bit of trouble.”
Leery glanced out his storefront window. Nobody was there. “What kind of trouble?”
“I’ve run away,” said Portia.
“I see,” said Leery, rubbing his chin. Nelly could see he was trying to decide how much he could reveal about himself.
Portia spoke up. “I can’t stay here in Charleston. I gotta get to Washington, and I gotta get there fast.”
Leery raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was an extraordinary request.
“Something like that takes time and planning-and it’s a long way to go and very hard to get from here to there without being caught. Washington isn’t the best destination either. They allow slavery there, you know. It would make more sense to get you on a boat to New York or Boston. You could try to settle in one of those cities or even go to Canada.”
“No, Mr. Leery, Washington is where I gotta go. I have a message to deliver to somebody there, and getting it there quickly will help all the slaves.”
“Well, this is a first,” said Leery. “I’ve done a few small things to help slaves here and there. I know there are a few stories about me going around. Many of them are nothing more than fairy tales, though a few of them approach the truth. I’m sure Nelly has told you what I’m about. They are modest measures, Portia, and they’re the only things that help me tolerate the sale of these obnoxious little mementos.” He pointed at a display holding the pictures of Beauregard, Davis, and the others. “There is a kind of poetic justice in thinking that the sale of these images will help me free people kept in bondage.”
Leery snickered at the thought of this. “But you are not asking me to purchase your freedom,” he continued. “You present a different type of problem. I wish I could just give you a horse and tell you to be on your way. The boats are fast, but I wouldn’t recommend stowing away right now-certainly not a woman on a ship full of men. But even if that were a risk worth taking, I don’t think it would work. With all this talk of a naval blockade, the ships heading out of port are crammed full of goods-there probably isn’t a nook or cranny anywhere in their holds for a person like you.”
“Ain’t there somethin’ we can do?” asked Nelly.
“I’m thinking,” said Leery, staring at Portia. “You’re not very big, are you?”
“What do you mean?” said Portia.
“You’re not a big person. Have you ever heard the story of Box Brown?”
“Who?”
“Henry ‘Box’ Brown, a slave who lived in Richmond, Virginia, about ten or twelve years ago.”
“No.”
Leery looked at Nelly. “I haven’t either,” she said.
“His story hasn’t been told very much down here. That’s because the white people don’t want word of it leaking out. Box Brown is pretty well known in the North, though. He lived with a cruel master who sold Brown’s wife and children to another owner far away-Brown had to watch them march off in chains with the knowledge that he would never see them again. That experience convinced him to escape. He didn’t think he could evade the slave hunters, so he came up with an ingenious plan. He met with a carpenter that he knew he could trust and they manufactured a special box, two feet by two and a half feet by three feet. They lined the inside with a thick cloth, punched a few small holes in the sides, and loaded some provisions. Then ‘Box’ climbed into his box. The carpenter nailed it shut, wrapped it with a few hickory hoops, and shipped his human cargo to Philadelphia. One day later, Brown emerged from his container in the offices of an antislavery society.”
“He was alive?”
“He was worn out and sore-but definitely alive. I think he lives in England now.”
“You tryin’ to say somethin’, James?” asked Nelly.
“A package leaving here by train this evening probably would need until Wednesday morning to make it to Washington. You can never tell for sure how long it will take. This is only worth doing, Portia, if you’re absolutely certain that you want to go through with it. I would estimate that the risks are quite high and failure a very real possibility. But I’ve actually got a box in the back room here that might do the trick…”
Portia watched him go through a doorway on the back wall, chattering without stop. For the first time in days, she smiled. She knew her blisters were not going to get any worse.
FOURTEEN
TUESDAY, APRIL 23, 1861
The bookshop of French amp; Richstein sat on Pennsylvania Avenue, just off Twelfth Street and in the heart of the downtown business district. In addition to books, it sold stationery, pens, ink, and just about anything having to do with the written word. Periodicals were an important part of the business too, especially newspapers from New York. These were generally regarded as better than the ones produced in the capital. They arrived by train each day and went on sale by late afternoon, in time for people to buy them on their way home from work. Yet no papers from New York had passed through Baltimore since the weekend, putting a nasty dent in French amp; Richstein’s revenue flow.