The Davenports(71)

“Much like this,” he said. “Smaller group, though. We stood outside a county jail until the sun went down.” He smiled. “I was so scared. I was fourteen then, and some of the older guys told me stories about being locked up.” He dipped his chin. “There are worse things in life than to be imprisoned for standing up for ourselves and others.”

Olivia nodded. Her eyes scanned the street.

“Chicago is a new place for most of us,” he said, “still untouched by what I’ve seen. Part of the reason we’re here, in daylight, under a short time frame, is to avoid some of the dangers of rallies.” He placed a hand on her back. She allowed him to tuck her against his side, his lips a breath’s distance away, when a scream ripped the air.

As one, the crowd turned. Bodies pressed into Olivia. Her sign fell from her hand. Mr. DeWight pushed through. He gently removed people from his path as he made his way to the epicenter of the commotion. Olivia followed.

“Stay off our streets.” A man in a dark suit spit at the feet of one of the protesters. He replaced his hat on a shock of white-blond hair and looked up. Olivia ducked behind Washington’s shoulder. She didn’t know his name, but she recognized his face. Chicago was as small as it was large, and she didn’t want to risk him seeing her. When she looked up, the young boy stood in front her. Don’t look at me like that, she thought.

The boy’s eyes widened into two brown saucers as his father scooped him up with one arm and ran. Everything after that happened in a blur. A whistle pierced the air and the shoulders that brushed hers moments ago slammed into her with a force that knocked her down. The palms of her hands burned as they skid over the sidewalk. A knee struck her head. When a hand closed around her upper arm she swung blindly.

“Ow!” Mr. DeWight rubbed his jaw, but held on. Around her was turmoil. The police had arrived. They blocked both ends of the sidewalk, pushing the activists against the building behind them. Olivia searched for the father and child, hoping they’d made it out safely.

“Are you hurt?” Washington quickly scanned her face.

“No,” she breathed. Luckily, her hat had absorbed most of the blow to the top of her head, but her palms stung and her wrists throbbed from the impact. The others had warned her. The last thing she wanted to do was complain. Olivia blinked back surprised tears and swiftly returned his determined smile. Around them, the activists linked their arms. Their signs were a discarded heap on the ground. And their songs began anew. She watched Mr. DeWight, uneasy, hesitate to join them. But she was here for a purpose. She twined her fingers with his. “Don’t you want to rejoin?”

“Run!” shouted Mr. DeWight. He released her hand and guided her behind him.

High against the setting sun, a baton came down on a man in the line. With his hands linked in peaceful defiance, he could do nothing to protect himself from the blow. Olivia flinched in horror as he fell to the ground. The crowd tried to leave then. But it was too late. They had waited too long and now were penned in.

Her toes pinched when Mr. DeWight stepped back. “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder. He had pulled her behind him, effectively blocking her vision. The chants had turned into shouts and screams. The press of bodies made panic rise in her throat. She felt him flinch.

“What’s going on?” she asked. Her hands were sweating and stinging. Her breath came fast. She could feel the pounding of her heart over the cries from every direction. “Washington?”

He turned and said, “We need to get out of here.” His eyes darted up and down the street. How can he be so calm? “There’s George,” he said, nodding to a man behind them. Olivia recognized him among the regulars at Samson House. He was the tall gentleman who stood at the top of the stairs at the first meeting she attended.

“This way,” said George. He picked up a sign and led Olivia and Mr. DeWight through the crowd. “Washington, when I charge, you and your lady better run.” Before either of them could stop him, he charged the nearest officer, creating an opening. Olivia and Mr. DeWight surged through, along with a few demonstrators with shots and cries chasing them.

Olivia ran. She ran with Washington DeWight pulling her arm with an urgency she knew would leave bruises in the morning.

Darkness descended around them with a quickness that chilled her bones. The sun was set now. The air was considerably cooler than before. As shouts bled into the night, Mr. DeWight again grabbed her stinging hand and led her away. Over the uneven ground, she followed him. Their harried breathing became the loudest sound in the night. His warm, rough hand kept her focused on their escape. Still, her thoughts returned to the boy and his father. Did he see the violence? Were they able to flee?

He led her farther. They were blocks away from the community center now. He insisted on taking a winding route back. Every sound was amplified by her fear. Fresh sweat stung her palms. Her feet burned. And with every minute that passed, she wondered what excuse she or Tommy could give for her returning in this state.

Mr. DeWight stopped. Held her back. There was a sound of hooves striking the pavement. The mounted officer turned, his light shining across the street. “In here,” Mr. DeWight said. Olivia followed him into the adjacent alley. She stared at his shoulders, hunched as he took them from shadow to shadow, stopping in an alcove no wider than the servants’ passage at Freeport Manor. There they waited, a few blocks from where her carriage should be. She didn’t protest his arms around her.