The Scribe Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Who do you think was the boy out front of the Markham?”
    Canby felt the skin of his neck tightening.
    â€œAtlanta ain’t that small of a town, Thomas,” Vernon said.
    T HE D ECATUR I NN was aglow with light as the hansom pulled up to it, the horses’ shoes ringing on the cobblestones of the drive as Maddox guided them under the inn’s porte cochere. Vernon stepped out of the cab quickly and held a hand out to Canby.
    â€œDo we have an understanding? Can I tell the men inside that you’re on the case?” Vernon smiled.
    Canby thought he could sense another shift in the temperature of the night air, but he quickly dismissed it as the sensation of his own blood rising, perhaps his old ambition stirring again. “I suppose you can,” he said. “Anything to help an old friend.”
    â€œOh, I don’t suppose I’m much of a friend, Thomas,” he said as he dusted off the shoulders of Canby’s coat, his smile fading, “or I wouldn’t have brought you into this vile business.” He put an arm around Canby and guided him toward the door.
    Vernon made his way deftly through the crowd of cooks and waiters in the kitchen, propelling Canby through the white uniforms and black faces, past steaming pots and blazing cookstoves, toward the sound of dozens of men’s voices in the dining room.
    â€œWho’s in there, Vernon?”
    â€œAtlanta’s first citizens. Prominent businessmen, mostly. A few others.”
    â€œWhat kind of others?”
    â€œFirst we enjoy a fine dinner with these good men of the city, then an after-dinner drink with the Ring.”
    Canby stopped short. “You told me no politics.”
    â€œYou have to navigate a city like Atlanta, Thomas. And that means politicians.”
    Canby looked out one of the kitchen windows toward the portico. Maddox was gone. He could just make out his own mare, trailing the hansom on its tether, moving out of the light of the drive.
    â€œShall we?” Vernon said.
    The inn’s banquet hall was packed with bearded and flushfaced men bent close to one another to be heard over the din. Vernon pointed out two senators—John B. Gordon and Joseph Brown—both of them stern-looking and huddled cabalistic in one corner of the room, their beards nearly touching. Canby saw that the governor, Alfred Colquitt, was here, too, holding a glass of champagne and talking with a man Canby recognized after a moment as Samuel Inman, the cotton broker. The men had hardly aged since Canby had last seen them on the streets of the city. If anything, they looked more vigorous, Brown’s white beard excepted, and more prosperous than before, as if time stood still for men of such means and allowed them to gather more power to themselves.
    A Negro waiter offered Canby a flute of champagne on a silver tray, but he declined and requested whiskey instead.
    â€œWhiskeys to be served after supper, sir, with coffee and liqueurs.”
    â€œFine, then. Nothing, thanks.”
    â€œYou are on the job, after all,” Vernon said, taking a flute from the tray and raising it to his mouth.
    Canby did not reply. His attention was fixed on a man standing nearby, just the profile of his roundish, clean-shaven face visible. The man was holding forth theatrically, moving his arms as he told a story Canby could just hear over the babble of voices.
    â€œSo there I was, down in Tallahassee, waiting for the results of the recount. Everyone thought the election would go to Tilden, of course, but we were waiting for the announcementfrom the Florida canvassing board to be sure. Well, by the time they’d announced Hayes as the winner I was already in my buggy hightailing it to the telegraph office. We were there first and the Constitution had the news as soon as the New York Herald , by gracious.”
    â€œGo on, Henry. Tell them the best part.”
    Henry Grady smiled. “Well, we’d scooped the others,