The steady rhythm of the press had gone quiet, replaced by the faint rustle of freshly printed campaign handbills stacked neatly onto the desk. James Simms moved purposefully, wiping his hands on an ink-stained rag, his eyes scanning the room with a mixture of satisfaction and urgency. Jonas hovered nearby, his nervous energy contrasting with James’s deliberate calm.
The young man shifted from foot to foot, his hands twitching as he fidgeted with the corner of a handbill. The jittery energy in his movements gave him the air of a bird startled from its perch, and the soft rustle and crackle of the papers he handled filled the silence between them.
“Now,” James said, his voice firm but even, “Let’s get these up.”
Jonas glanced at the stack of handbills, then at the darkening window. “Right now? It’s gettin’ late.”
“Better to go now than in broad daylight,” James replied, already pulling on his coat. “We don’t want no trouble.”
Jonas hesitated but nodded, grabbing a small hammer from the workbench. “Right... Guess you’re right.”
The streets were quiet, cloaked in the soft shadows of gaslight as James and Jonas moved through the city, their arms laden with handbills and hammers in hand. The cool night air carried the faint scent of salt from the nearby docks, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp cobblestones.
From a distance came the rhythmic creak of a wagon wheel and the occasional cry of a gull, piercing the otherwise hushed atmosphere. The faint clink of metal from an unseen source seemed to echo louder than it should have, like a warning cloaked in the night.
Jonas glanced nervously over his shoulder as they approached a street corner, the faint echo of their footsteps amplified by the stillness around them. “Feels like someone’s watching us,” he muttered.
James didn’t respond immediately, his focus on positioning the next handbill. “Keep working,” he said finally, his voice calm but firm. “We’re almost done.”
As Jonas hammered the handbill into place, two figures emerged from the shadows. White men, their expressions twisted with malice, strode toward them with heavy steps.
The first man, broad-shouldered and heavyset, wore a threadbare coat that failed to conceal his bulk. His ruddy complexion glowed faintly under the gaslight; anger etched into the creases of his face. The second, wiry and sharp-featured, held his hands loose at his sides, his gait uneven as if he were coiling to strike. Their presence was a jarring intrusion, a predator’s snarl in a world of whispered fears.
“Hey!” one of them barked, his voice sharp and slurred. “What are you negroes doing?”
James turned slowly, his posture straightening. “Stay behind me,” he murmured to Jonas, his voice low but commanding.
“We seen you hanging them filthy handbills!” the second man snarled, his voice rising angrily. He lunged forward and ripped one of the handbills from the wall, tearing it with aggressive disdain.
“We don’t want any trouble,” James said evenly, his hands raised slightly in a calm gesture.
Jonas’s grip on the hammer tightened involuntarily, the tool’s weight shifting in his hand from something practical to something that could defend—or escalate—the situation. His chest heaved as his breath quickened, the instinct to run at war with the knowledge that there was nowhere to go.
“Too late for that,” the first man growled, shoving James roughly. The sudden motion sent Jonas stumbling back as the two men advanced.
The fight erupted in an instant. The second man lunged at Jonas, grabbing for the hammer as the two wrestled for control. Meanwhile, the first man swung wildly at James, who ducked and blocked, his movements deliberate but strained. The sounds of scuffling boots and shouted curses filled the narrow street.
“Jonas!” James shouted, his voice cutting through the fray as he struggled to break free and help his companion.
Every muscle in James’s body strained as he dodged another swing, his thoughts racing. This wasn’t his first brawl, but the stakes tonight felt heavier. Each blow landed or avoided carried the weight of lives and futures—not just his own.
The fight reached a brutal crescendo as the second man wrenched the hammer from Jonas’s grip and brought it down against his temple. Jonas crumpled to the ground, his body limp and motionless.
“Jonas!” James’s scream was raw, filled with both fury and desperation. He pushed past his assailant, only to be dragged back into the fray.
A sharp crack rang out before the attackers could strike again, silencing the chaos. The men froze, turning toward the source of the sound. A dark figure holding a smoking pistol stood under the dim glow of a gas lamp.
The smell of gunpowder mingled with the salt air, hanging heavy in the sudden stillness. Even the shadows seemed to retreat as the man stepped forward, his weapon raised with a steady hand.
“None of you move,” the figure commanded, his voice calm but deadly. The men hesitated, their confidence wavering as two more figures emerged from the shadows, each armed and ready.
“You ain’t gonna shoot me,” the first man sneered, though his voice quivered.
“You might be right,” the dark figure replied, cocking the pistol with a deliberate click. “But what about them?” He nodded toward three previously unseen companions, each raising their weapons in silent agreement.
The first man’s bravado crumbled visibly, his jaw tightening as sweat beaded on his forehead. The wiry man took a shaky step back, his eyes darting to the fallen Jonas before shifting to the unwavering barrels pointed at him.
The standoff lingered for a moment longer before the attackers turned and fled, their footsteps echoing down the narrow alleyway.
The dark figure stepped forward, his features sharpening under the dim glow of the gas lamps. He was tall and lean, his dark skin framed by a thick beard that shadowed eyes unflinching in the face of chaos. He glanced down at Jonas sprawled on the ground, then met James’s gaze with a grim certainty.
“Get your boy up,” he said, his voice cutting through the night’s static like a blade. “And get off these streets.”
James dropped to his knees beside Jonas, hands shaking as he pressed them against his friend’s chest, desperate for some sign of life. A faint groan broke the silence, and James let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Relief hit like a punch to the gut, momentary but staggering.
The armed men lingered for a beat, their presence as steady as it was unsettling, before slipping back into the night. Shadows consumed them, their work done.
James adjusted his grip, sliding Jonas onto his shoulder. The weight was oppressive, grinding into muscles that screamed for a reprieve, but he couldn’t stop. “Come on, Jonas. Don’t make me carry you into the next world,” he muttered, half plea, half warning.
As James pushed forward, the streets closed in around them, his legs moving on instinct. The earlier mission, the chaos, the purpose of the night—all dissolved into the background hum of survival. Above, the gas lamps flickered like dying embers, their light swallowed by a darkness that seemed sentient, hungry.
The Standard office finally came into view, its squat silhouette an oasis against the creeping night. James shouldered the door open and staggered inside, the familiar tang of ink and paper a strange comfort. He eased Jonas down onto the cot tucked in the corner, the tiny apartment space, an afterthought attached to the press room.
Jonas stirred, his eyelids fluttering open just enough to catch James’s silhouette in the haze. “You’re safe,” James said, his voice low but steady. “Just rest.”
James checked his watch. He needed to get home, knowing Margaret would be waiting. As Jonas slipped into an uneasy sleep, James leaned against the desk, staring out the grimy window at the faintest hint of dawn breaking through the city’s veil. The night had taken something from them both, but for now, they were still standing.
