Douglass then launched into a ringing demand that all men of conscience disobey the Fugitive Slave Act. While Amanda had applauded during the earlier portions of the speech, here she held back. She wasn't certain the speaker was right. Congress had passed the law in the hope of mitigating sectional strife and preserving the Union. Douglass rejected such compromise. He said the law was immoral-and perhaps it was. He said it should be overturned-that might be true as well. But when he said that until the law was repealed, it should be ignored, Amanda found herself disagreeing.

"This being the state of things in America"-Douglass' quieter tone immediately hushed the hall again-"you cannot expect me to stand before you with eloquent outbursts of praise for my country. No, my friends, I must be honest with America- "Unmask her pretensions to republicanism!

"Unmask her hypocritical pretensions to Christianity!

"Denounce her pretensions to civilization!

"Proclaim in her ear the wrongs of those who cry day and night to heaven-'HOW LONG, HOW LONG, OH LORD GOD!'"

The Bowery Theatre literally shook from the hand-clapping and foot-stomping. Douglass bowed his head, breathing hard and clinging to the podium for support.

The ovation continued for one minute, two, three. Rose was clapping furiously. Even Amanda cast aside her reservations and joined in, caught up in the spell of the man's oratory.

Finally, when the tumult died, Douglass resumed.

"Let me say this to you in conclusion. Despite the dark picture I have presented-despite the iniquity of the present law which can only be an abomination in the eyes of all men who consider themselves believers in the principles upon which this nation was founded-no, despite all this, I do not despair of America.

"There are forces in operation which must inevitably work the downfall of the unjust law and the entire system of slavery. 'The arm of the Lord is not shortened.' The doom of slavery is certain!"

Once more, little by little, he had begun to build volume. Amanda's spine tingled. The stately figure held every eye in the theatre.

"While drawing encouragement from the Declaration of Independence-from the great principles it contains-and from the genius of American institutions, my spirit is also cheered by the obvious tendencies of the age in which we live.

"No nation can now shut itself up from the surrounding world and trot around in the same old path of its fathers. A change has come over the affairs of mankind!

"Walled cities and empires have become unfashionable. The arm of commerce has borne away the gates of the strong city. Intelligence is penetrating the darkest corners of the globe. It makes its pathway over and under the sea, as well as on the earth. Wind, steam, and lightning are its chartered agents. The fiat of the Almighty-'Let there be light!'-has not yet spent its force. No abuse, no outrage can now hide itself from the all-pervading and cleansing light of decency, democracy, and honor.

"Unjust laws shall perish. Unjust men shall die un-mourned and dishonored. There will be universal freedom if we dedicate our hearts, our minds and our mortal souls to its accomplishment-if we resist the tyranny of the law where it must be resisted-and if our prayer of fervent aspiration forever remains that of William Lloyd Garrison-"

Douglass flung his hands high over his head, roaring: " 'Godspeed the year of jubilee-the wide world o'er!' "

iii

It took Amanda and Rose nearly twenty minutes to work their way through the long line of people filing onto the stage to congratulate Douglass. He was particularly gracious with Amanda, recalling their meeting on the steamer to Boston, and thanking her warmly for the donation she'd sent. She promised to send another, then said, "But I must tell you honestly, Mr. Douglass, I can't agree with you on one point in your address."

"Which point is that, Mrs. de la Gura?"

"That the Fugitive Slave Act must be disobeyed. Overturned-perhaps. But as long as it is the law-"

"I can understand your attitude-even though I consider it wrong. The working of that particular law remains an abstraction for you. Something you read about, and consider intellectually. I think you'd change your mind if you were face to face with one of the law's victims. Or were a victim yourself."

"I'm not certain of that, Mr. Douglass."

He smiled. "But I am."

The press of the line behind them forced Amanda to break off the conversation. As she followed Rose up one of the aisles, she glanced at the box from which the hissing had come. If the box was still occupied, it was impossible to see by whom.

Presently the two women reached the packed lobby. Through the open outer doors, Amanda saw that snow had started falling in the February darkness. Forward movement was almost impossible.

The crowd filled the lobby and spilled outside. Lines of hacks and carriages waited three deep. As each vehicle maneuvered for a place at the curb and loaded its passengers, she and Rose were able to take another step or two. But progress was infernally slow.

As she supped her hands deeper into her muff, Amanda felt Rose tap her shoulder. She turned and saw Mr. Greeley of the Tribune.

Amanda had met the Whig publisher at a Christmas fete at Rose's mansion in Gramercy Park. She'd been struck by his aura of age. Though Greeley couldn't have been much more than forty, his mutton-chop whiskers were already whitening. His piercing eyes seemed those of an old man who viewed the world with simmering discontent.

Greeley had been intrigued when Rose mentioned that her friend had survived the Alamo massacre. He had also been openly skeptical, reminding the women that there were no American survivors save a lady named Dickinson.

Amanda pointed out that the list of Mexican survivors was much less precise. She expected she'd be shown on the record not under her maiden name but under her husband's, which was Spanish, if the record carried any mention of her at all.

A few details of the massacre soon convinced Greeley that Amanda was telling the truth. He suggested an interview with one of his reporters. She declined, saying that the idea of personal publicity struck her as ostentatious, and she didn't care to be painted as any sort of heroine; she'd merely survived as best she could. Actually, her real reason for turning him down was a wish to avoid any chance of the Kent name appearing in print. Mr. Greeley had been testy with her the rest of the evening.

Now, though, the incident was forgotten. He tipped his hat in a cordial way. "Mrs. de la Gura-Rose-good evening."

"Happy to see you awake again, Horace," Rose said.

Greeley ignored the jibe. "Douglass gave a splendid talk, didn't he?"

"Splendid," Amanda agreed.

"Marred only by those disgusting interruptions from the box behind me."

"Did you see who was doing it?" Amanda asked.

"Of course. A certain gentleman who enjoys making his obnoxious opinions known in public. A member of the exalted Order of the Star Spangled Banner. I prefer not to discuss the subject any further. His performance made me sick."

"But Horace, who was it?"

Greeley paid no attention to Rose's query. He was staring at two men in the crowd. With a sour expression, he said, "And I'm experiencing the same feeling right now."

Amanda recognized handsome, blue-eyed Fernando Wood, a wealthy politician with ambitions for the mayor's office. With him was his brother Ben. Both were Democrats, and hence Greeley's foes.

Fernando Wood and his brother were arm in arm with a pair of gaudily dressed young ladies who might have come straight from a Paradise Square brothel-but then, the Woods made no secret of having the poor, and even most of the city's criminal element, in their political camp.

The Woods had grown rich in real estate, and also by operating as licensed gamblers, under a dubious "charter" granted them in Louisiana. They were close friends of the Tammany politician Isaiah Rynders, who bossed the Sixth Ward, owned several slum saloons-and could always rally a street gang to harry an opposition candidate. Rynders was notorious for his hatred of blacks and foreigners-his Irish constituents excepted. He had been in the crowd that had started the Astor Place riot. The ringleader, some said.

But none of this seemed to rub off on the Wood brothers tonight. They waved and chatted with friends as they worked their way out of the lobby. They saw Greeley; Fernando Wood said something that was obviously contemptuous. His brother and the young girls laughed. Greeley's jaw showed a tinge of scarlet as he turned back to the women.

"By the way-have either of you read Mrs. Stowe's novel?"

"It's not due out until next month, is it?" Rose asked.

"No. But Jewett's of Boston is distributing advance copies."

The conversation touched off Amanda's anger. If only the secret campaign she and Joshua Rothman were waging had proceeded a little further-if only she'd been in control of Kent and Son-the firm might have had a chance to publish what everyone predicted would be the literary sensation of the year. Perhaps of the decade. She forced herself to speak calmly.

"I'm afraid Rose and I aren't important enough to be on Jewett's list. How did you like the novel, Mr. Greeley?"

"Oh, not very well. I read several episodes when it was serialized in the National Era. The complete version's more of the same-too sentimental for my taste. The book's purpose is worthwhile, though."

"Rose introduced me to Mrs. Stowe's brother last week," Amanda told him. "We drove over to Plymouth Church in Brooklyn to hear Reverend Beecher preach."

Greeley whipped a small pad from his coat and jotted on it with a pencil. "Must remind Dana to send a reporter over there to see whether Henry's still planning that mock slave auction. Last time I saw him, he was trying to find a good-looking young Negress who wouldn't object to being paraded before a crowd, and sold from his pulpit-"

As Greeley put the pad away, Amanda said, "The Reverend told us they're working up a dramatization of Uncle Tom's Cabin for Purdy's Theater in the fall."

"Meanwhile," Rose said, "I'll have Kent's send you another review copy of The White Indian. It's obvious you misplaced the first one."

"I doubt that," Greeley retorted.

"Really, Horace! You should pay attention to the book. We've gone to a fourth printing already."

"Rose," Greeley said, "I'm very fond of your hospitality. But not of your characters."

"Not so loud!" she cautioned. "You're one of the few people in New York who knows Mrs. Penn's identity."

"Well, I wish Mrs. Perm would change her style. Characters who make four-page declarations about virtue or courage put me in a torpor."

"I can certainly say the same for those incomprehensible foreign features you're publishing!"

"Mr. Marx and Mr. Engels are astute observers of the European social and political scene."

"I fall asleep after the second paragraph. Many more essays of that sort and I'll start reading Gordon Bennett's paper. Or the Times."

"The Times!" Greeley sputtered. "Upstart rag! I'm astonished it's survived this long. It certainly won't last till the end of the year. As to your fable of the fur business-"

"The story may be fictional, but Amanda here provided me with the background. It's absolutely authentic."

Greeley still looked put upon. "All right, send another copy to my editor, Mr. Dana. At your own risk!"

The stout woman pulled a face. "Horace, you can be positively vicious."

"The function of the free press is to provoke, not pacify, dear lady."

"But I thought you fancied the west."

"The real west." He nodded, with a clear implication that he still believed Rose had written about something else. "It's astonishing how the public prefers fancy to fact. I'm already enthroned for having urged some anonymous young man to go west, when it was Mr. Soule, who edits the Express out in Terre Haute, Indiana, who actually turned the phrase last year. I merely repeated it in a letter to a friend-which he promptly made public."

Rose teased him. "The price of fame, Horace."

With another sarcastic expression, Greeley tipped his hat. "There's my carriage." He began to elbow his way outside.

Rose stood on tiptoe, trying to find her own driver in the confusion of vehicles and stamping horses in front of the theatre. A few gusts of snow began to blow into the lobby. Suddenly the heavy woman exclaimed, "I've had enough of being pushed and shoved-let's do a little of our own. Follow me, Amanda-"

She turned sideways.

"I wonder if you'd excuse us-we're trying to get through-damn it, get off my skirt!"

The man turned abruptly. Inside her muff, Amanda dug her fingers into the palms of her hands.

She'd been in New York City for over a year. And although she'd driven by the immense house just off Washington Square a number of times, she'd never set eyes on its owner-though she'd kept track of his activities through items in the press.

And now, unexpectedly, he was directly in front of her, slender and erect despite his age-fifty-eight or thereabouts. If Rose's outburst had angered him, he didn't show it. His shoulder cape displayed its crimson lining as he raised a glove to the brim of his black top hat. In his other hand he held a gold-headed cane.

A white silk scarf was tied around his head. It cut obliquely from the left side of his forehead, across the bridge of his nose to the right side of his chin. The scarf fluttered in the wind. Amanda glimpsed a bit of ugly, discolored scar tissue. The man's left eye, brown and amused, seemed to glow like a dark gem.

Amanda held herself rigid, somehow afraid to speak or even be noticed.

"My sincere apologies, Mrs. Ludwig," Hamilton Stovall said.

Chapter IV.

Suspicion

i

"MR. STOVALL! I DIDN'T SEE you in the audience-"

"I don't sit with the audience," he said. "I always take a private box."

Rose's eyebrows shot up. "Behind Mr. Greeley?"

"Quite right."

"So it was you interrupting Douglass!"