“Bastard!” The tanner moved in fast, trying to kick Nathaniel, but the young man saw the kick coming and stepped to one side. He slapped a fist at the bald man, clipping an ear, then drove his other hand at the man’s ribs. It was like hitting a hog carcass for all the good it did. Then a dozen hands were mauling and hitting Nathaniel; a fist smacked into his eye and another bloodied his nose to hurl him back hard against the hotel’s wall. His carpetbag was stolen, his books were finally gone, and now a man tore open his coat and ripped his pocket book free. Nathaniel tried to stop that theft, but he was overwhelmed and helpless. His nose was bleeding and his eye swelling. The Negro teamster watched expressionless and did not even betray any reaction when a dozen men commandeered his wagon and insisted he jump down from the box. The men clambered aboard the vehicle and shouted they were going to Franklin Street where a gang was mending the road. The crowd parted to let the wagon turn while the carter, unregarded, edged his way to the crowd’s fringe before running free.

Nathaniel had been thrust against the window bars. His hands were jerked down hard across the bar’s spiked tops and tied with rope to the iron cage. He watched as one of his books was kicked into the gutter, its spine broken and its pages fluttering free. The crowd tore apart his carpetbag, but found little of value except a razor and two more books.

“Where are you from?” The middle-aged man who was Nathaniel’s fellow prisoner must have been a very dignified figure before the jeering crowd had dragged him to the railings. He was a portly man, balding, and wearing an expensive broadcloth coat.

“I come from Boston.” Nathaniel tried to ignore a drunken woman who pranced mockingly in front of him, brandishing her bottle. “And you, sir?”

“Philadelphia. I only planned to be here for a few hours. I left my traps at the railroad depot and thought I’d look around the city. I have an interest in church architecture, you see, and wanted to see St. Paul’s Episcopal.” The man shook his head sorrowfully, then flinched as he looked at Nathaniel again. “Is your nose broken?”

“I don’t think so.” The blood from his nostrils was salty on Nathaniel’s lips.

“You’ll have a rare black eye, son. But I enjoyed seeing you fight. Might I ask your profession?”

“I’m a student, sir. At Yale College. Or I was.”

“My name is Doctor Morley Burroughs. I’m a dentist.”

“Starbuck, Nathaniel Starbuck.” Nathaniel Starbuck saw no need to hide his name from his fellow captive.

“Starbuck!” The dentist repeated the name in a tone that implied recognition. “Are you related?”

“Yes.”

“Then I pray they don’t discover it,” the dentist said grimly.