Dactyl Hill Squad Page 2

  Amaya didn’t answer, but her eyes looked wider than Magdalys had ever seen them.

  Von Marsh sighed. “Very well then.” She glanced at the last envelope, scowled. “Margaret Rocheford.”

  Now it was Magdalys’s turn to sit perfectly still and gaze off into the distance. But still … a letter! Who could it be from?

  “Margaret Rocheford,” Von Marsh said again, this time with that shrill snarl she used to make a point.

  Magdalys didn’t remember much about her sisters. All four Roca kids been dropped off at the Colored Orphan Asylum when Magdalys was just a baby. Julissa and Celia spoke Spanish to her and combed her hair and said her name like a song, and Magdalys recognized her eyes in theirs. And then one day when Magdalys was four, a mustached man who reeked of tobacco appeared and took Julissa and Celia back to Cuba with no explanation, leaving just Magdalys and Montez. Magdalys had cried and cried and Montez, then only a kid himself, had tried to comfort her, but she could tell he was barely holding it together, so they ended up sobbing themselves to sleep on the common room sofa, where Mr. Calloway had put a blanket on them and convinced everyone to just leave them be instead of hustling them off to the bunks.

  And six weeks ago, Montez had announced that he was leaving. “I have to do my part,” he said, looking about as terrified and distraught as Magdalys felt inside. “Even though we weren’t born here, this war will determine what happens to me, to you — to all of us. I have to do my part. I can’t just sit here while it all happens hundreds of miles away.”

  So, not just leaving: Montez was joining the Union Army. Montez who was skinny and wore big glasses and hated fighting and loved reading, Montez who still cried sometimes when he talked about Julissa and Celia, and always helped out the younger kids, Montez was off to war, and Magdalys was alone. Well, as alone as one could be in the midst of almost two hundred orphans and semiorphans between the ages of one and seventeen.

  If the letter was from Montez, that changed everything, and Henrietta Von Marsh knew it. Magdalys finally exhaled in defeat and turned to face her. “Who … who’s it from?”

  “Oh,” the matron declared, the slightest hint of a gloating smile curving her thin lips, “you’re Margaret now?”

  Magdalys narrowed her eyes. “What’s the name on the envelope?”

  Von Marsh looked perturbed for a moment, then simply shook her head. “I’m not going over this with you again, young lady.”

  Magdalys tried to contain the wrath burning through her. “Who … is … my gram … from?”

  “If you had really wanted to know,” Von Marsh chortled, “you would’ve answered when I called you the first time.” She patted her purse once and then turned away. “Now you’ll just have to wait till after the little play to find out, I suppose.”

  Magdalys launched across the cart. Her hands reached out toward Von Marsh; she would tackle her and she would get her stinking letter. The other orphans were standing, eyebrows raised, mouths opening, and then a strange grunting sound erupted in Magdalys’s head: Ree rooh arroooh it went, and it sounded frantic, terrified. Magdalys froze. She looked around. Everyone was staring at her; no one seemed to notice the increasingly shrill squeals.

  “Uh … Magdalys?” Two Step said.

  “Didn’t anyone else hear that?” Magdalys said.

  Sabeen looked scared. “Hear wha —” she started to say, but then a sharp voice called out, “Stop there, you!” and the squeal in Magdalys’s head became a shriek: AREEEE-OOOHH!! Magdalys ducked just as Varney reared up, jolting the cart to a sudden halt.

  HAD MAGDALYS SOMEHOW heard the dino get spooked? Inside her head? It certainly seemed like it … No one else had seemed to notice at all, and now, she realized, they were all staring at something just above her.

  A knuckleskull loomed its ugly face over the wagon. Uneven bony growths made the dino’s head look like a clenched fist with a snout poking out. It was reared all the way up on its huge hind legs, shorter forelimbs pawing idly against the wood planks.

  Dr. Barlow Sloan spent a whole chapter of the Dinoguide trashing knuckleskulls. Ugly, irrelevant, useless, lazy, good-for-nothing, abrupt, flatulent, and petulant were some of the choice adjectives he’d selected for them. Magdalys had no idea how a dino could be relevant, let alone irrelevant, or whether one species would really be more prone to dinofarts than another, but either way, it seemed like Dr. Sloan was having a bad day when he wrote that entry.

  The dino blinked twice, then wheezed and snorted, eyeing the orphans. Its rider, a helmeted police officer with an unpleasant frown, growled at Marietta: “What business have you with these colored children in the city tonight?”

  “Why, I don’t see how our business is any business of yours,” Marietta snapped. She was the youngest matron and the only one that seemed to actually talk to the orphans instead of at them.

  “Ah, Officer,” Von Marsh tittered, hurrying to the front of the cart. “Pay no mind to Marietta. She’s quite fiery, you know. We’re simply taking them to the theater, young sir …”

  Magdalys saw Sabeen wrap her small hand around Amaya’s and squeeze. Mapper and Two Step stood perfectly still, hands at their sides.

  “Well, this isn’t a good night to be out” — the officer shifted his mouth around like he was chewing on the words some before he spat them out — “with their likes.” He nodded at Magdalys, Two Step, Mapper, Amaya, and Sabeen. Magdalys felt her stomach sink. Whatever the cop’s talking about must be why the city’s so creepy quiet, she thought. And then: No theater … It felt ridiculous to care about missing out on a play when the whole night seemed so full of danger, but the menacing city only made Magdalys even hungrier to disappear into some fantasy world.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying, young man,” Von Marsh said. “I am Henrietta Von Marsh of the Ladies’ Manumission Society, and these children are wards of the Colored Orphan Asylum. Now if you don’t mind, we’ll be on our way …”

  Magdalys wasn’t sure if that little speech was supposed to settle the matter somehow, but the officer was clearly unmoved. “Lady, haven’t you been paying attention? This whole city’s about to —”

  “That’s enough, Officer,” a voice snapped. The knuckleskull and the cop both startled and then hopped to attention. Varney let out a concerned wheeze and stomped his feet. All five orphans leaned up against the far rail of the wagon to see who had spoken.

  A middle-aged white man with a clipped, sallow face stood looking up at them. Tufts of white hair sprouted from either side of his otherwise bald head like some distraught nebulous fungi. A shiny medallion punctuated his long black magistrate robes: a roaring tyrannosaurus inside a circle with some writing around it that Magdalys couldn’t make out.

  “Magistrate Riker, sir,” the officer said. “I didn’t know you were out and about tonight. I was just warning these matrons abou —”

  “That’s enough, I said.” Riker’s voice was quiet but razor-sharp. The officer shut up accordingly.

  Magdalys took a step back as Riker walked a slow, deliberate strut toward the back of the wagon. “Now, Miss Henrietta Von Marsh — of the Ladies’ Manumission Society, is it?”

  Henrietta Von Marsh just stared at him for a few moments. Riker mounted the wagon in a single, smooth movement, almost like he was more liquid than man. Magdalys felt herself recoil inside but tried not to let it show on her face. “Is it?” he said again.

  “Ah, quite,” Von Marsh sputtered. “Indeed. Yes.”

  “And Miss Von Marsh of the Ladies’ Manumission Society, I believe I overheard you say you’re going to the theater.” The magistrate drawled the word out with a soft lilt. “How charming. And I presume you have paperwork for all these” — he scrunched up his face like he’d just swallowed a slightly turned piece of fruit — “children.”

  Von Marsh cocked her head. “Paperwork?”

  “To prove that they’re not fugitive slaves, of course. You know we’ve had terrible trouble with t
hat these days: contraband. It’s illegal to harbor fugitives, particularly in a time of war.”

  “Why, Magistrate!” Von Marsh scoffed. “That’s not true! But I assure you, these are free children and not fugitive slaves in the least! I give you my word as a member of one of the noblest families of New York City.”

  “Alas,” Magistrate Riker sighed, “without proper papers, I’m afraid we’ll have to take the children into the custody of the city.”

  “Custody of the city?” Marietta gasped. “You mean prison?”

  Panic seized Magdalys. Prison? And then what? She’d heard stories of black New Yorkers vanishing off the streets, never to be seen again. Folks said they’d been snatched up and sent down south into slavery. Would she survive plantation life? Up front, Varney whinnied and snorted, sending tremors through the wagon. Magdalys didn’t know if it was her terror seeping into the dino or his own, but either way she wanted out of there.

  Riker smiled. “Prison is such an ugly word, don’t you think?”

  She had no idea if she could actually get the dino to do what she wanted, but even if she did, then what? A tired old trike couldn’t outrun a knuckleskull. And cops had guns. Not to mention whatever untold horrors lay in wait deeper in the city tonight.

  Still — if she couldn’t get Varney to make a run for it, at least she could cause a distraction. Up, Varney, Magdalys thought. Rear up!

  Varney immediately squealed and raised his front legs into the air, lifting the cart and sending the knuckleskull stumbling backward. Everyone grabbed the rails to steady themselves.

  “Oh dear!” Old Brimworth cried, just waking up from what must’ve been a very pleasant nap. “What in heavens is going on?”

  “You, girl,” the cop snapped at Marietta. “Control this trike.”

  “I’m trying,” Marietta said.

  So am I, Magdalys thought.

  Riker’s glare landed on Magdalys. His eyes narrowed, like he was shooting beams of light out of them directly into her soul. Could he tell what she was trying to do? Magdalys stared back at him. Easy, Varney, she thought. Shhhhh. And Varney settled with a snort and a grumble.

  “I see,” Riker said softly, a smile creasing his lips. “I see.”

  “What’s that?” Von Marsh asked.

  Riker whirled around, suddenly magnanimous. “Nothing at all, dear lady. Which theater was it you said you were attending?”

  Magdalys shuddered. Everything in her wanted to be away from this horrible man.

  “Why, the Zanzibar Savannah, of course,” Von Marsh said, blinking.

  “Ah, of course, of course, excellent.” Riker slid his icy gaze along each of their faces, stopping once again on Magdalys. “And what is this unfortunate creature’s name?”

  “That is Miss Margaret Rocheford, twelve years old, Magistrate, but I fail to see —”

  “That’ll be all,” Riker snapped, still glaring at Magdalys. She stared right back at him, for once grateful that Von Marsh insisted on calling her the wrong name.

  Riker finally turned away. “You may continue on your journey. Enjoy the theater.” He slid off the wagon with that same fluid grace and signaled the still-spooked knuckleskull to fall back. And then Marietta gave the reins a tug and yelled “Heeyah!” and they were on their way. Magdalys glanced at the frightened faces of her friends, then looked up to the back of the wagon, where the magistrate stood staring at her with his searchlight eyes.

  HENRIETTA VON MARSH still had the gram. She had the gram and she was holding it hostage in her ridiculous little purse.

  Magdalys seethed. Around her, the theater crowd guffawed and cackled as three microraptors that had been adorned with flowers and fruits cavorted in ridiculous circles across the stage. In their midst, Halsey Crunk stood with his arms outstretched, makeup glistening with sweat, face scrunched into a mask of despair. He wore fake fangs, and two cardboard horns poked out of slicked-down hair. Just twenty years old, the young thespian had already made a worldwide name for himself. The black newspapers said he was the next James Hewlett or Ira Aldridge; white newspapers mocked him for doing Shakespeare “in a Negro styling,” but that just made him more infamous and in demand.

  “Prospero does nap in the afternoon time, and then ye can brain him!”

  “Ay, brain him!” someone shouted from the crowd. The room erupted with laughter again.

  Halsey continued undaunted. “After stealing his magic books! Or perhaps you may drag your dagger across his throat.”

  Henrietta Von Marsh stood a few people over and back from Magdalys, looking very pale and uncomfortable in the sweaty crowd. She clutched her purse tightly against her chest and seemed to be holding her breath.

  “Remember first to possess his books, for without them he’s but a sot!” Halsey Crunk declared from the stage.

  Magdalys had spent the first twenty minutes of the play trying to get rid of the creepy sensation that Magistrate Riker was still glaring at her from somewhere in the shadows. The only thing that distracted her was the rising frustration that someone had tried to reach her via gram and she had no idea what the message was. If she could get that purse away from Von Marsh, there was no way the matron would be able to follow her through the masses of people. Magdalys inched closer, trying not to look too obvious.

  Cymbeline Crunk spun on stage in a swirly dress with butterfly wings strapped to her back; the colorful microraptors squawked and darted out of her way. “Ahh!” Cymbeline announced. “This plot I will tell my master, Prospero.” The audience hissed at her character, Ariel’s, treachery. Cymbeline was two years younger than her brother, and Magdalys thought she was the most beautiful person in the whole world. Her dark skin always seemed to glow in the stage lights like it was streaked with stardust, and she wore her thick hair in two magnificent globes on either side of her head.

  Magdalys peeled her eyes away from the stage and squeezed through the crowd toward Von Marsh. Amaya stood in front of her beside Little Sabeen, both of them enraptured by the ruckus on stage. Mapper was nearby, hunched over some scrap of paper and fiddling with his glasses, ignoring the play entirely.

  But where was Two Step?

  Magdalys squinted around the dim theater. The room was full of black and brown folks from all over New York. Men and women and kids crowded up against each other, gazing through the smoky auditorium, their faces full of wonder and laughter. Something moved in the darkness of the rafters above. Magdalys squinted, then growled.

  Two Step.

  He clung to a wooden support beam, his legs dangling, looking down at the stage, smiling like a goofy madman. Magdalys shook her head. Marietta was busy taking care of Old Brimworth, who sat nodding her ancient wrinkly head as if she had a clue what was going on.

  With a snarl, Halsey swung at Cymbeline, who dodged daintily out of the way as the audience erupted into cheers and laughter. Now! Magdalys thought, reaching up and snatching Von Marsh’s purse out of her hands and then shoving into the crowd.

  Someone was going to have to be the adult in the situation, since the matrons were all too busy worrying about each other. Magdalys would stash her letter and go get Two Step down from the rafters, and then —

  “MARGARET ROCHEFORD!” Henrietta Von Marsh’s bark cut through Cymbeline Crunk’s lovetorn speech. A hush swept across the whole auditorium as all eyes turned to the tall, elderly white woman in the middle of the room. Magdalys felt her face get hot. Von Marsh stood with her arms crossed over her chest. “Come back here this instant, young lady.”

  “Ay, stow your wid, lady!” someone yelled. The crowd jeered and jostled as the matron launched into it after Magdalys.

  “You are three men of sin, whom destiny has belched up ’pon this island,” Cymbeline crowed, rolling her eyes at the disturbance.

  Seething, Magdalys ducked down and ran. Up above, Two Step let out a snicker.

  Back by the entranceway, a little shaft of light cut through the shadowy theater. Magdalys made her way toward it, pulling the envelo
pe from Von Marsh’s purse and cradling it like a newborn baby against her chest.

  “’Scuse me, pardon me, ’scuse me,” she said, shoving her way through the crowd. Folks were too caught up in the play to really mind.

  “My high charms work,” Halsey, now playing Prospero and wearing a long white beard, declared on the stage. “And these, mine enemies, are all knit up in their distractions.” One of the flower-adorned microraptors took that moment to let out an elongated fart, which sent the crowd into an explosion of laughter.

  Magdalys positioned herself in front of the light shaft and pulled out the letter, willing her shaking hands to be still.

  Dear Miss Magdalys Roca,

  You don’t know me, but my name is Pvt. Tennessee Summers. I am dictating this letter to Doc Billings, as I myself am illiterate, but I trust he will convey my words to you adequately. I serve alongside your brother in the African Brigade of the 9th Louisiana Regiment, Mounted Ceratops Division.

  Mounted Ceratops Division? Montez didn’t care much for dinos, and he’d definitely never ridden a trike. But … had he been killed? Her eyes welled up with tears at the thought, but she read on.

  Your brother and I were defending a Union supply area at Milliken’s Bend as part of General Grant’s siege of the nearby city of Vicksburg. A regiment of Reb raptor riders assaulted our post and your brother was struck in the head by a rifle butt.

  A rifle butt? That meant the fighting must’ve been fierce — hand-to-hand combat.

  Magdalys tried to blink the tears away but they kept coming. Around her, the crowd and their laughter seemed suddenly very far away.

  He’s still alive, but he was wounded badly, and when I last left him in the medical tent, he was still unconscious.

  She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. At least he was alive. Or had been when the letter was written — she checked the date — three weeks earlier.

  I am sorry to deliver such difficult news, as I know you are far away and still very young yourself, and so can do little. Your brother fought with incredible bravery. I myself was injured as well, though not as gravely, and we are going to be transported to New Orleans where we will be treated. I will do my very best to update whenever I possibly can, and pray this letter finds you safely.