The Fallon Pride by Reagan O'Neal

Author:Reagan O'Neal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2012-01-17T00:00:00+00:00

25

In Charleston the heavy rain came to an end, but it had already made the April night as cool as February. Jeremiah, sitting at the back of the church, was relieved. At least he wouldn’t get wet walking home. The meeting was almost over. He wasn’t certain if the white minister had said anything yet that was worthwhile. But he was a southerner, and that was a thing in itself. There seemed to be more southern abolitionists, of late.

The minister raised his arms to the hundred blacks who sat before him. Despite the coolness of the night air sweat ran down his long, pale face. “Brothers,” he said in a soft Virginia drawl. “My brothers and sisters, I know that you suffer. I know that you know pain. But your pain and your suffering are stored up in heaven.”

“White men never say much when they talk, do they?”

Jeremiah looked up at the stocky black man who had slipped into the pew next to him. It was Peter Poyas, a ship’s carpenter, a friend from Vesey’s shop.

“What you doing here?” Poyas asked. “I never heard of you going to meeting before.”

“I wanted to hear him. His society has been trying to get laws passed for black people. Ease the curfews. Make manumission easier. Maybe …”

“Maybe … freedom?” Poyas sneered.

Jeremiah looked at him sharply. “I’ve never heard of you going to meeting, either.”

“Sarah told me where to find you. The constables going to be here any minute. The sheriff, he raiding this meeting.”

Jeremiah nodded. “Let’s go,” he said.

The air outside had been freshened by the rain.

“That Sarah,” Poyas said suddenly, “she a good wife. And that Leonie is one fine baby girl.”

“What are they calling it this time, Peter? Disturbing the peace again?”

Poyas laughed harshly. “Can’t expect them white folks to take kindly to men talking abolition. Especially no white man.”

“And that’s good enough for you? You don’t mind being chivied out of church like a pig out of a pen, as long as it only happens once in a while?”

“If you can’t make the way things is,” Poyas answered sharply, “you takes what you get like a man.” He took a deep breath, and his next words were softer. “Hell, you know what I believes. It was you read me that first bit.”

“I know, Peter,” Jeremiah said wearily. “Sometimes I feel so tired.”

“Then you get on home to your wife. And that sound like good advice for me, too.” He snorted. “Old Master James, he expect his nigger to be at the shipyard bright and early. You get on home, Jeremiah. I see you tomorrow.”

Poyas didn’t understand, Jeremiah thought as the other man turned down an alley. It wasn’t physical tiredness. He was weary of nothing ever changing.

As he started across King Street, a galloping horseman rounded the corner almost on top of him. The horse reared and whinnied, the rider struggled for control.

“Damn it!” the rider brawled. “Watch where the hell you’re going!”

Jeremiah started on down the street. A northerner, by the accent.

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