Good Man Friday by Barbara Hambly Page B

said again, ‘Thank you, sir. You didn’t have to do what you did.’
    Poe shook his head. ‘I’m no abolitionist, but I’ll not stand by and watch someone who’s legally gained his freedom have it taken away from him – certainly not by the likes of some of the scum one sees lollygagging about this town.’ They turned down one of those long, pointless avenues that stretched from nowhere to nowhere in Washington, surrounded on all sides by empty fields and thin woods. ‘And your playing has given me a great deal of pleasure.’
    â€˜I think that might be a case of “turnabout is fair play”.’ Poe glanced back at him, and January nodded toward the ink-stains on the man’s frayed cuff, where the lantern’s light showed them up. ‘You wouldn’t be Mr
Edgar
Poe, who writes for the
Richmond Intelligencer
, would you?’
    â€˜The same.’ He looked both a little shy and tremendously pleased.
    â€˜My wife and I both are great admirers of your reviews. And your poetry is some of the most astonishing I’ve read. And I’m not saying that,’ he added with a wry grin, ‘just because you rescued me back there. Whenever we can get the
Intelligencer
in New Orleans, we look for your work.’
    â€˜You’re most kind, sir. It’s always gratifying to hear that one’s work is appreciated – particularly that far afield. I had hoped – indeed, it has always been the aim of my life – to be the first American to make his living solely by his pen, as Pope and Johnson did, though of late it’s been borne upon me that this might not be possible. America is less than – kind – toward those from whose work money cannot be gleaned. Hence this evening’s quest for an introduction to the Right Honorable Representative Thumbtwiddle of Ohio, or whatever the man’s name is.’ A note of grimness edged his voice. ‘Still, one lives in hope.’
    They reached the Western Market, lanterns moving about its brick arches like fireflies where a final few vendors packed up their goods. To the south, among the larger houses, more lights glimmered, and carriages proliferated as the business of the government went forward at dinners, receptions, balls. The wealthy bankers, landowners, planters who dwelled in Washington spread feasts of Virginia ham and plum tarts for Senators wearied of boarding house fare, and ambassadors whose ancestors had ridden with Richard the Lionheart bowed respectfully to the dapper little son of a New York tavern-keeper in the White House. Men in shabby greatcoats and beaver hats a few years out of fashion attended gatherings put on by would-be political hostesses, in the hopes of insinuating introductions to someone who could recommend them for a paying job.
    Other men, dressed more shabbily still, drew rein in the alleys behind the slave pens down near the Capitol and unloaded mutely-struggling cargoes from beneath false wagon-beds, or half-carried stupefied men into brick cells by the light of shaded lanterns.
    â€˜And you, sir?’ asked Poe. ‘Are you also here in Washington on business?’
    January slipped his hand into his coat pocket and touched the worn binding of the notebook Ganymede Tyler had handed him. ‘In a manner of speaking, sir. In a manner of speaking.’

EIGHT
    B y Thursday afternoon – Henri’s note informed January – Chloë had inveigled an invitation to the reception and musicale being given that night by the Right Honorable Representative from Massachusetts, John Quincy Adams, at which January, under the aegis of Darius Trigg, was scheduled to play.
    From the dais at the end of the ballroom, January saw them enter the handsome house on F Street: Henri in silver-gray bore exactly the appearance of a whale escorting a mermaid. Mrs Adams – a delicate Englishwoman some ten years January’s senior – greeted them with great