As Philip French unlocked the door to his shop early in the morning, he wondered if a train would make it through before the sun went down. Fewer people had bought books since the start of the secession crisis. Many more of them, however, were buying the daily and weekly publications. These sales did not make up the difference, but they certainly helped. French did not welcome the prospect of these falling off as well.
Lots of businesses had suffered in recent weeks. There had been a flurry of economic activity around the time of Lincoln’s inauguration, when the city swarmed with members of the new Republican Party celebrating their victory and trying to get jobs in the government. Each day since then, the city had seemed a little emptier. There were soldiers, but they were not customers. The departing long-time residents nevertheless provided a unique opportunity for French amp; Richstein because many of them decided to sell their book collections. French’s partner, Norman Richstein, had spent a good portion of the last several weeks appraising and purchasing the libraries of people leaving town. The sellers essentially bet against Washington, or at least Washington’s continued normal existence. French amp; Richstein gambled in its favor. This made Philip French nominally for the Union, though his feelings were not strong. He was perfectly willing to stock secessionist newspapers from Richmond in his shop as long as there were buyers for them. He just wanted to continue selling books, and he was for whatever made that possible.
As the day’s first customer walked through the front door, French hoped the morning would get off to a good start. The tall, sandy-haired man headed straight for the bookshelves and started to examine titles. French became hopeful. This was the best sort of customer for a business that relies on repeat visits: a new one.
French knew that book buyers were often shy people who would rather read a printed word than exchange a spoken one. Strangers made them feel especially uncomfortable. He wondered if his new customer was that sort of person. The man had made only the briefest eye contact when he entered the store. Still, the proprietor wanted to extend some kind of greeting. “Please let me know if I may be of service,” he said at last.
Mazorca looked up from an open volume. “I will,” he said, flipping through the rest of the pages of the book in his hand and putting it back on the shelf. He ran his finger along the spines beside it, settled on another thick tome, and slid it off the shelf. He tested its weight and studied it from several angles. He pulled back the cover and appeared to assess the texture and strength of the individual pages.
French watched Mazorca do this with several volumes. He thought it was one of the most unusual book examinations he had ever seen. It was not obvious to him that his customer had even read the titles of the books. He certainly wasn’t reading the words on the pages. He seemed to be judging the books by their material quality instead of their literary content, which, he thought, was rather like judging the taste of a wine by the shape of its bottle. Yet his customer accumulated a small stack of books under his arm. French was grateful for that.
After about twenty minutes, Mazorca approached the counter.
“Did you find everything?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Mazorca placed five oversize volumes in front of French. Four were in excellent condition. The last one was in dreadful shape, with a cracked binding and loose pages stuffed between its covers. French was a bit embarrassed to see that it had been sitting on one of his shelves. It was a copy of Schiller’s plays and criticism, in the original German.
“Sorry about the condition of this one,” he said as he totaled Mazorca’s bill. “I don’t believe we have another copy.”
“I’ve been looking for it,” came the reply. “I would have taken it in any condition.”
French was a bit surprised by Mazorca’s choices. In addition to Schiller, there were two Bibles, a lavishly illustrated guide to American birds, a novel called The Mysteries of Udolpho, and a copy of the new Dickens book. French liked to comment approvingly on his customers’ purchases, even to the silent types. When he added the Bibles to Mazorca’s tally, he settled on something to say.
“Ah, yes. The good word.”
Mazorca smiled, though French was not sure it was for his benefit. “The last word,” he muttered, looking at the book rather than its seller.
French totaled the bill and Mazorca paid it. “Thank you very much. I hope we will see you again,” said French, really meaning it.
“You may,” said Mazorca, walking to the door. Before stepping out, however, he turned back to French. “By the way, I thought I might try to have the Schiller book repaired by a bookbinder. Can you recommend one?”
“Of course,” said French. “Try Charles Calthrop. He’s just a few blocks away.”
French gave Mazorca the address and directions. A moment later, Mazorca was gone. French did not notice a man with a bushy mustache standing across the street. Neither did Mazorca.
Portia tumbled onto a hard surface-and nothing had ever felt quite so good. After spending the first leg of her journey upside down, she at last lay on her side. She had not planned on comfort while pressed into her small crate, but she had expected the porters at the railroad station in Charleston at least to have seen the words Leery marked on the outside of her box in big black letters: “This side up.” There were even arrows pointing in the right direction in case the loaders could not read. Whether they failed to see Leery’s instructions or simply ignored them hardly mattered now. It just felt good to be off her head.
She knew it was daytime because a thin ray of light streaked though a tiny hole in her box. But she had no idea whether it was morning or afternoon, or even where she was. Leery had told her that she probably would be loaded off and on trains a couple of times before reaching her destination-he had mentioned Wilmington and Richmond, but these names meant nothing to her.
Nelly had raised plenty of objections-starvation, suffocation, and so on-but Leery had an answer for each one. When Nelly finally consented, he packed Portia into a crate with a sack of water, a dozen biscuits, and a pillow. He also bored a few small holes around the box to ensure that she would have enough air to breathe. He even gave her a gimlet in case she needed to create more holes. He sealed the box so that she could open it from the inside.
For Portia, the decision to follow the example of Box Brown was easy. It represented her best chance of getting to Washington in a short amount of time. It carried obvious risks-discomfort, delay, discovery-but so did the alternatives. Portia had heard stories about slaves in places like Maryland and Kentucky running through the woods to freedom in the North, but they really did not have very far to travel. From South Carolina, an overland trek would be long and hard, and the odds of success incredibly slim. Not only would Portia risk getting caught, but she would also risk arriving in Washington too late. A refusal to take chances guaranteed failure. And so she had gone into the box.
Portia could not have been off the train for more than a few minutes when she felt herself moving again. Then her box was lifted and placed down somewhere else. It was not long before she heard a train whistle and felt that same sensation of momentum that she had experienced upon leaving Charleston. She was cramped and sore, and the light through her hole had disappeared. Yet she did not care-this time, at least, her handlers had paid attention to Leery’s instructions. Portia was right side up.
Charles Calthrop knew he was out of place in Washington. Most of the country’s high-quality artistic bookbinders were in New York, where they operated close to major publishing houses and the center of national wealth. For three decades Calthrop had labored among them, restoring frayed family Bibles and designing ornamental covers for the vanity books of socialites who mistook themselves for poets. Work was everything to him, and he was proud of what he did. He often signed his volumes in a discreet place when he was particularly satisfied with a result, as if he were a painter.