Good Man Friday by Barbara Hambly

found an
institution for the diffusion of scientific knowledge for the benefit of all mankind
. And of course the Congress turned around and used it to fund state banks—’
    â€˜Which lent it out and then closed their doors and defaulted,’ added Springer.
    â€˜And Adams,’ finished Trigg, ‘stood up in Congress – this was a couple of years ago – and said, no, Congress had to put the money back to the original terms of the bequest.’ They paused in the darkness opposite the fire station, the dim lights of the scattered houses blurred by the river’s rising mist. ‘You a scientist, Ben?’
    The team split into twos and threes, Trigg, January, the Reverend and Seth Berger the cab driver proceeding along K Street.
    â€˜My wife is,’ he replied. ‘But the man I’m looking for – Mr Singletary – is a mathematician, and it sounds to me like he’d have an interest in this Mr Smithson’s Institute. I’d be willing to bet he’s written to Congressman Adams about it – maybe even called on him here in Washington.’
    Staggered at the temerity of the idea, Berger said, ‘You’re gonna call on
John Quincy Adams
?’
    â€˜He’s a public official.’
    â€˜He used to be President of the United States! He’s not gonna give you the time of day!’
    â€˜He’s been fighting for years to get that gag rule about slavery rescinded in Congress,’ said Trigg thoughtfully. ‘I bet he would, too, give you the time of day, quicker than some other used-to-be Presidents I could name. He’s also trying to get the slave trade banned here in Washington—’
    The Reverend Perkins’ hand clamped suddenly on January’s shoulder. Hooves clopped in the thickening mists. Berger whispered, ‘Speak of the Devil …’
    The men halted in their tracks. ‘It’s the Devil, all right,’ breathed Trigg.
    They stood in silence, hidden – January hoped – in fog and darkness as the wagon creaked by. Lanterns on its high front caught the white-furred hooves of the team, outlined the round, motherly face of Elsie Fowler on the box. Glinted on the cudgels of the men sitting in the wagon behind.
    In his years in New Orleans, January had several times gone to voodoo dances: seen the gods take the bodies of the celebrants, speak in their voices, handle fire in their bare hands or summon the dead …
    And nothing he had seen raised the hair on the back of his neck, as did the sight of that half-glimpsed wagon in the fog, the sound of the creaking harness.
There could be a man in the hollow beneath the wagon bed
, thought January.
A free man, drugged, beaten, tied, gagged and maybe awake enough to know what’s happening to him
.
    At the back of the wagon sat Davy Quent, pock-marked face pale in the lantern-glow, a rifle across his knees.
    Or there might not
.
    And if I ran to the wagon, leaped on it, tried to free that man … What? I’d be shot and Rose would spend the rest of her life struggling to keep a roof over her head
.
    And the wagon might be empty
.
    Mists swallowed the wagon. Like the Devil’s eyes, the lanterns mocked him in the wet darkness, then slowly faded away.
    Back on Eighteenth Street, dinner was on the table. Afterwards, Trigg got out his flute, and an impromptu dance ensued as he and January familiarized themselves with each others’ tricks of rhythm and timing. Not a gentleman passed up the chance to dance with Dominique, with Thèrése, with Musette and fat little Mrs Perkins and the four giggling little girls; even Octavia Trigg got tugged into a waltz by the Reverend. When January and Trigg played ‘The Moon’, Minou and Octavia sang a duet, voices mingling in the low topaz radiance of the lamps. Glancing through the open door, January saw in the doorway of the opposite parlor, solitary and rather lonely-looking, the white gentleman