An Acquaintance with Darkness - Ann Rinaldi [52]
"The people would have it no other way," Robert reminded him. "I heard they are lining the tracks, thousands of them, all the way to Baltimore. Singing."
Just then came the sound of a wagon coming in the gate. Uncle Valentine and Robert exchanged glances. "Too early," Uncle Valentine said. "The fool."
Robert got up and went to the window. "It's only the ice wagon," he said.
Another shipment of ice? I thought. Maude had ordered enough ice all week to make an igloo. Then Uncle Valentine started talking again. He said he'd heard that John Wilkes Booth had been seen on a train wearing women's clothing, with burnt cork on his face to make him appear as a Negro.
The ice wagon rumbled into the yard. I heard Maude go out the kitchen door to greet the driver. Uncle Valentine offered me some of Maude's fresh beaten biscuits. I did like beaten biscuits. And Maude's were lighter than any I'd ever eaten. But if Robert went outside to greet the iceman, I was going with him. I didn't know what excuse I'd give, but I'd find one.
As it turned out, I did not have to. Robert stayed at the table all through dinner. After Uncle Valentine left for the theater, we went out to the shed.
I watched as he lifted a stone out of the side wall of the shed, secured a key, and ingeniously replaced the stone. As he did so, another wagon appeared at the gate.
Robert set down the shaded lantern. It was still raining lightly, a fine rain that did not deter Marietta's nightflowers from blooming but seemed to make them glisten. From somewhere in the distance a clock in a church steeple chimed. Nine woeful bells.
"I'll take this shipment first, then show you inside," Robert promised.
I stepped aside. I was shivering. The horse-drawn wagon came in through the gate and stopped just short of the shed. The driver jumped down.
"Mr. Christian?" Robert asked.
"The same," the man said.
"How many casks did you bring?"
"Three." The man was well built, with black hair and beard. He was also well dressed, though a bit wet. "Who is this?" he asked, gesturing to me.
"Niece of the doctor."
"One of us?"
"She's still in school," Robert said. "Are the contents of merchantable quality?" He peered at the casks in the wagon. They said PICKLES.
"Yes."
"Not from out of state, I hope. The doctor wants no out-of-state pickles."
"Local," Christian said. "Fresh picked from a nearby farm."
"How much a cask?"
"Forty dollars. And seven dollars each for shipping."
"Seven? That's outrageous!" Robert sounded angry.
The man shrugged. "The contents are packed in the right solution."
"Rum, arsenic, and corrosive sublimate?"
"Yes."
Robert grunted. "The formula works wonders. Very well, but you've made a tidy profit. If the merchandise isn't fresh, you'll hear from us." He reached inside his coat, took out his wallet, and counted out the cash.
"I was chased by three roughs," the man complained. "Pickles are in short supply these days."
They struggled getting the casks out of the wagon. Awfully heavy for pickles, I thought. They rolled the casks on the ground. Robert opened the shed door and they went inside. I waited out in the fine misty rain. Then Mr. Christian came out. "Tell the doctor if he wants any more pickles, I can get them fresh. Always." He climbed into his wagon, clucked to the horses, and the wagon rumbled off.
I looked at Robert. "Pickles?" I asked.
He smiled. "You must know everything, mustn't you? It's the solution the pickles are packed in that we're after. It's used to preserve specimens and is in great demand."
"Why did he ask if I was one of you?"'
"He meant working for the doctor. Now, do you want to come in and see the shed or not?"
We went down four steps once inside the door. The first thing I noticed was the cold.
"Be careful," Robert said. "Sometimes