Henson rearranged his grip around the older man, who was sagging. But Henson spun him around, the old man thrusting his leg out, striking the knife man. Onlookers gaped.
The man was removing the knife from his pocket when Henson latched onto him. He had a hand on the other man’s forearm, jamming the hand in the pocket. With his free arm, Henson threw an elbow into the man’s Adam’s apple.
The knife man hacked and coughed as he sought to get air down his throat again. Henson punched him in the stomach and doubling over, he socked him in the jaw. He staggered back, wobbly on his feet.
“Somebody help that man,” a woman declared. “he’s being attacked.”
Henson’s suddenly healthy older associate held up both his hands and in a decisive voice said, “Be assured, my dear citizens, Matthew Henson is doing yeoman’s work in the service of us here in Harlem.”
The one with the knife recovered, and running, grabbed a hold of the woman and her stroller. He had the knife to her throat. The woman began to cry. Henson and the old man came forward.
“Please don’t hurt my baby.”
“All right Amos n’ Andy, back the hell off or the frail gets it, got me?”
“Okay, take it easy,” Henson said, a hand up.
His blade pressed against the woman’s breastbone, he backed up with her, his other hand pulling her stroller. He kept backing up, Henson, the old man and a few others following at several paces. They reached the sidewalk, a streetcar clanging as it approached along the adjacent thoroughfare. The roughneck shoved the woman hard to the pavement. The baby carriage rolled lopsided on two wheels and crashed over on its side. The baby tumbled out, wailing, and at the same time the knife flew at Henson, who dived out of the way. In three bounds the hood had leapt onto the back of the streetcar and rolled away.
“It’s okay, it’s all right,” the old man said, cradling the frightened baby. He gently squeezed the child’s pudgy arms and legs, checking of any broken bones. He handed the baby to his equally frightened mother.
“I believe other than a little shook up, he’s fine,” he said.
Tears on her cheeks, she stared lovingly at her child.
“When you need a cop, there’s never one around,” she said, earning nervous laughter from passerby.
As the people returned to their normal day, Henson and the old man talked, walking toward another park bench.
“What was that all about, Matthew?” The older man, Lionel “Slip” Latimore asked.
“Roundaboutly, I think it has to do with what I was coming to see you about.”
Latimore had done some freelance work for Queenie St. Clair, obtaining hard-to-get information on a few of her adversaries. He was a master pickpocket, a known consort of underworld types, a safecracker of some adeptness, and had the curious ability to appear deathly ill. This latter oddity added to his other skills had earned him his nickname long ago. He’d even escaped a lynching once, or so he proclaimed.
“Well let’s feed a few pigeons and hear what you have to say.” He produced more bread from a pocket and the two sat and talked and threw pieces of bread the birds pecked at as they did so.
Meanwhile, another friend of Matthew Henson was putting an experimental airplane through its paces over the Central Valley wetlands near Newark, New Jersey. Aviatrix Bessie Coleman had just come out of a barrel roll when the silver-plated plane’s engines stalled and the craft, the “Skahti”, started freefalling out of the clear sky.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Bessie, Bessie, are you in trouble?” The man’s worried voice crackled through the radio’s mesh grill in the cockpit. “Bail out, bail out!” he pleaded.
Eyes on her controls, she said, “Don’t get your blood pressure elevated, Hugo. I expected this.”
“Expected? You expected to crash the plane?”
“I expected there was a problem with the induction vents adjusting properly should you have to make an evasive maneuver.” Coleman’s gauges informed her the aircraft’s systems were functioning as they should, so she pressed the ignition button. The propellers cranked, but the engines didn’t catch. Still, she pulled back on the stick, trying to get the nose of the craft. The Skathi, named for one of the moons of Saturn, shook and rattled, but Coleman kept cool as the plane swopped through a cloud bank and as it exited, began to assume a more normal flight profile.
“What?’ Hugo Renwick said from the control tower below. “Bessie, please, for God’s sake, get out of that death trap.”
“I thought you were a Buddhist.”
“Bessie, please. It’s not worth it.”
“Hold on, I’m not done yet.”
Due to the advanced aero design of the Skathi, including innovations in its aluminum hull that made it lightweight yet resilient, Coleman had righted the plane. But even in glide mode, she was still losing altitude too fast. Taking her hands off the controls, Coleman reached under the control panel and grasped the wires leading to the ignition. She pulled these free as Renwick yelled over the radio.
“Bessie, you’re getting awfully close to the ground.”
“Thank you, Hugo, my altimeter is working perfectly.”
Getting enough of the wiring exposed beyond its casing, Coleman wrapped the two exposed wires together, a spark singeing her fingers. The propellers turned again, coughing and belching black oil-soaked smoke from the exhausts. There was also a propeller mounted on the rear of the fuselage, but that was for stability and only operated at specific times.
“Come on…” she urged. Air whooshed past the cabin. Yet because it was an advanced aircraft and soundproofed accordingly, she barely heard this as she continued dropping.
“Bessie, what’s happening?” came Renwick over the radio.
“Come on…” she took the controls again, and calculated how badly the plane—and her— would crack
