A large scale hung above the counter. Grandmother moved about, stopping beside the vegetable bin. Her grumbling was deliberate. “The vegetables are past their time, Mr. MacLeod.” She looked over the shrivelled cabbages, turnips and soft potatoes with sprouts a foot long. Shaking her head, she laid her rag purse on the counter, and picked up a handful of crinkled carrots, then put them back. “How old are they?”
“They are from the storehouse.” Cecil had an eerie look to him—with one tooth sparkling on the edge of his lip, dirty hands and a crumpled shirt from weeks of wear.
Lydia snickered. “Well, Mr. MacLeod, I have fresh vegetables I got in exchange for a little house work at Missy Dawkins. Can we do a trade today?”
Cecil’s brow tightened and his approach changed. He smiled his arrogant smile. “That Mrs. Dawkins has good luck with this thin soil. Yes. Yes. Fresh vegetables will fetch a good price.”
Lydia ignored his chatter. She walked to the door and caught Sarah’s attention. “Bring those vegetables in now, Girlie.”
Sarah put her baskets on the counter.
“Help yourself to some sweetmeats,” Cecil said.
She reached into a glass jar and scooped up some nuts and dried fruit. Lydia replaced the vegetables in the basket with a small sack of corn meal and a pound of Navy beans.
Leaning forward over the counter, Cecil winked at Lydia. “A little something extra for your troubles.” He added a small sack of flour to the pile of goods. “Half the cost.”
“All right, I’ll take it. Is it okay to leave these things until I get back from Roseway?”
“No trouble, Lydia. No trouble.”
“Good. I’ll add a chuck of that salt pork when I return.”
Lydia focused now on a shelf lined with bolts of cotton. The sign under the bolts said two shillings a yard. “How much is the cotton, Mr. MacLeod?”
“For you, Lydia, three shillings a yard.” He grinned inwardly, knowing Lydia could not read. Never hurt to make a little extra off the Negroes, he thought.
“Could you add a yard to my parcel?”
“You are paying for the cloth, right? That’s not covered by the vegetables.”
“I will be paying for it,” she said bluntly.
Lydia quickly shoved her goods far back under the counter, as though she thought Cecil might change his mind and take them back.
Cecil, who had been watching Sarah, strolled over to her. “I’d like to speak to Lydia alone. Go outside now and wait.” He shooed her with his hands, then turned to Lydia, “I have been waiting for you for weeks.” His eyes sparkled like fool’s gold.
“Yes sir.” Lydia kept her head down, avoiding his eyes.
Sarah positioned herself beside a long window to the right of the door. She could see the back wall and Mr. MacLeod talking to Grandmother. His voice was low and she had to press her ear to the shutter to hear.
“You should come by more often, Lydia. You seem to make yourself scarce. I give you good deals, allow a little trade or credit if you need it. I treat you right. It seems you are forgetting how things were between us. Nothing has changed.”
“You have been good, Sir. But you know I have the child.”
“My soul, she’s a woman now. She can do for herself.”
“Not yet, Mr. MacLeod. We have some unfinished business. No disrespect, but there’s something I been meaning to ask.”
“What is it?”
She drew a deep breath and waited for her courage to come into full bloom.
“After Master Redmond bought me, you took it upon yourself to go behind his back and breed me, knowing he did not approve. You took the light-skinned children from me. There are two that I am anxious to find.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“The children, what did you do with my children, Mr. MacLeod?” She raised her head and looked him straight in the face, eye to eye. Her anger swelled her up like never before and she wrestled to get comfortable with it, yet at the same time, it was filling her with courage. It allowed her to say, “Master Redmond put you in charge of the buying and selling of slaves, not the breeding, but when you saw that the light-skinned slaves fetched more money, you bred me on the sly, then took my light babies to sell. I need to know what happened to my children. You took three of them. I know where one of my children is and I am not concerned about her. But what of the other girl, the one Master Redmond kept awhile then sold … do you know where she is?”
She paused to catch her breath. She stared at Cecil for a long time and tried to read his thoughts. His face was blank. “And the fair-skinned boy, you took him as well. I see a man here who might be my child.” She was studying Cecil hard now, her eyes swollen and red. The release made her feel strong and her voice grew louder, “Do you know if he is here, Mr. MacLeod?”
Cecil leaned in close to her. He was puffed up and his eyes were empty and cold. His voice was stern. “Never raise your voice to me again. Remember that.” Then his tone changed. “There’s no need to stir up trouble, Lydia. No need to be digging up yesterdays.”
“They are our children, Mr. MacLeod,” Lydia continued. “Master Redmond loved one like his own, and treated the other well until he sold her, but you …” She kept pushing. “Are you so heartless … not to care about them, to keep a child from its mother?”
“Don’t be a fool. They were not born out of caring. The slave children were all bastards. Never mention this damn mess again. Let it go. If this gets out, it will bring disgrace to both of us.” He touched her arm. “Well then, that’s enough of that. You are not on a plantation now, so you just remember to keep your place.” He moved from behind the counter and glanced around the store, then pressed himself in against the old woman. His thin hand went inside the big brown coat.
Lydia jumped back. “No sir. I am not an animal,” she stammered. “It’s time you done right by me.”
“You have been my girl since our days in the south. I do not expect that to change.” His arrogance inflated and his face tensed. “Let it be, Lydia. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir. I understand.” She caught his eyes and held them. “I understand how it was back then. Yes sir, I do. Breeding slaves to get free workers or for your pleasure was common. You could take a slave and do what you liked and the law protected you. You treated me like an animal because I did not have any rights. That is all behind me. I got my papers now.” Her anger blasted through her words. “You can take your hands off me. The law might still protect you from your evil ways, but I will spread the word about you. Oh, Lord, I’ll let the people know all about Cecil MacLeod.”
“What’s gotten into you, Lydia?” Little beads of sweat clustered on Cecil’s forehead. “You were just a slave. You better stop and think before you do something foolish. This is just between me and you. We must protect ourselves. No one needs to know about our past.”
“I need to know what happened to my children.”
Sarah stepped back from the window, numb. There was no doubt about the past always stirring up the present. To her surprise, the old woman was speaking her truth, standing firm against Cecil. Papa was right. All that hatred and pain was just waiting to spill out. Sarah steadied herself against the wall. Had Grandmother forgotten her own words about speaking with caution? Had she forgotten who Cecil was, a fearless and vicious killer? Without warning, her mother’s words came to her: “After the red tide comes, you let the men have their way with you. You are their property, their girl. You have no choice in the matter.”
Sarah inhaled deeply. Here was the truth at last. There were other children, Cecil and Grandmother’s children. She was not shocked. She was terrified. Cecil was a bully. If he could not whip the skin off your hide, he would torment your soul. He would keep the whereabouts of the children to himself. And Grandmother could count on him striking back. After another breath, she eased
along the wall away from the window, mumbling as she went, her heart racing like a raging river. She could not bring herself to listen further.
Inside, the old woman turned her back to Cecil and with her eyes squashed together tried hard to quell the jitters that were making her hands shake. Cecil worked to regain his composure as well. When he spied Lydia’s rag purse on the counter, he thought about the papers … former slaves were never without their papers. He reached for the purse while her back was turned and quickly rooted inside. So much trash. He felt a small pouch. In seconds, he unfolded one of the certificates. “Yes, yes,” he snorted and stuffed the pouch inside a large pot on a shelf behind the counter.
Lydia turned. Her words came fast. “I will pick up my things when I get back.” She snatched her purse from the counter.
“No problem, Lydia. They will be waiting for you.”
Cecil swelled with anticipated victory. Things were not as bad as they appeared. Lydia would pay for her brazenness. She would soon learn her place.
Eight
ONE OF THE FIRST LOYALIST HOMES BUILT IN PORT Roseway belonged to Captain William and Margaret Cunningham. It stood one and a half stories with a gabled roof and two brick chimneys. Outside it was framed in timber with white clapboard siding and blue trim. Inside, it had paneled walls of plane boards with a chair rail and wainscoting. At the rear was a barn for cattle, sheep and two horses. Beside the barn, smaller buildings housed chickens and pigs. Along the walled walk, flowers drooped from the heavy frost. There were several black men in the fields behind the house. Simon, a middle-aged black man, was tilling the remains of the meagre garden to the left of the house, which had produced oats, barley, flax, gooseberries, raspberries and strawberries. Two tortoiseshell cats wandered about like miniature guard dogs.
Exhausted from the long walk, Lydia and Sarah proceeded to the back, the usual entrance for servants, and rapped on the porch door. A stout Negro woman opened the door saying, “Oh Lord, it’s you. Good to see you,” her head bobbing from side to side. “I’ll take that laundry. You sure can do a bright wash. Missy Cunningham will see you in the parlour. She’s got something to speak on. She said to bring the girl along as well.”
The pair followed her down a long hallway. “The streets are quiet today, Fanny,” Lydia said.
“Yes, yes. This place had been in a roar for a week, it being the king’s birthday and Governor Parr arriving in his sloop to appoint the new justices. Oh, the noise with all the gun salutes booming from his ship and the cannons goin’ off every half hour down by the shore.”
“I suppose there were fancy suppers and balls. This lot knows how to entertain, but work, that’s another rag.”
Fanny let out a hoot. “You speakin’ the truth on that,” she snorted. “There has been no work here for days, just the drinking. Oh my, the drinking. Shameful! And every night the bonfires, dancing and fighting.”
“They do love a good time to act the fool.”
“Have you heard? The governor has renamed this hell-hole, calling it Shelburne. Well, Mr. Cunningham, oh Lord, that man, he’s bitter for namin’ the place after the prime minister of Britain, the man who signed away their rights to their country and their property to the Patriots. I heard him say he wasn’t calling this place anything but Port Roseway.”
“And right he is.”
Off from the hall to their right was a small library and a tiny room with a spinning wheel and piles of fleece and yarn on the floor. To their left was the dining area and a large kitchen. Ahead, at the end of the hall, lay the parlour. When they reached it, Fanny said, “Ma’am, the Redmonds are here to see you.”
Mrs. Cunningham was a wisp of a woman with long black hair pinned under a white cap. Her smile was broad and her face so golden it looked like fresh butter. From her chair by the window, she called, “Come and sit, Lydia. We have time to talk since no one is hurrying about today.”
The splendour of the parlour reminded Sarah of the Big House. There were long velvet drapes, red velvet chairs, a rug, candle stands and a small table with graceful legs holding a glass decanter with six gold-rimmed glasses. Along the back wall was a china cabinet with glass doors filled with the heavy porcelain dishes she had washed so many times before. It was all so lovely, except that the size of the rooms and the low ceilings paled in comparison to the Big House. Of course it made the little hut in Birchtown feel even more like a shack. Sarah stood by the doorway, her thoughts drifting as she amused herself by thinking that one day she might have a few nice things to call her own.
Sarah’s absence of mind prompted Mrs. Cunningham to ask, “Is Sarah feeling alright?”
“She’s just taken with your place, that’s all. Please excuse her, Ma’am.”
“Excused,” she laughed, then said, “Lydia, I wish you would call me Margaret. The time when you couldn’t call us by our names has passed.” She went to Lydia and placed her arm around the woman’s shoulder.
“I know you don’t see harm in it, but, oh Lord, it could lead to being careless with someone else. I could find myself locked up or whipped. Some things never change. No, Ma’am. I can’t start bad habits, for your sake as well as my own.”
“I’m so sorry, Lydia. Of course, you are right.” She removed her arm. “The world is a shameless place for the way you are treated.”
Sarah was looking about the parlour now and enjoying the warmth from the long yellow flames in the fireplace. A large blue and white jar, delicately crowned with a black wooden lid, caught her eye. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I’m sure I saw one like it at the Big House.”
“It’s a Double Happiness Jar, a favourite. It’s the same jar, a gift from William when we were courting. He found it in a little market off the Thames River in England. I’m so grateful Father had most of our possessions taken away in time.”
“It would have been terrible to have such beautiful things destroyed,” Sarah said.
Grandmother was beside herself. “Mind your manners, Girlie. You have no right to be asking questions and going around Missy’s things.”
Sarah, so distracted, did not respond, forgetting about the rules for servants.
“She’s all right, Lydia. Let her look.”
Ignoring the old woman, Sarah bent to look at the jar. “I’d give anything to have such a thing.” She wanted to hold the delicate object, study the detailing up close. Without thinking, she reached for the jar.
Grandmother swallowed and her anger erupted with a shout, “Leave that, Girlie! That is not your concern. Come back and stand here beside me.”
In an instant, Sarah straightened. In turning to face Grandmother, her hand dusted the jar with a soft sweep, knocking it from the table. Abominable silence. All eyes focused on the jar, forever falling down, down, down. Sarah’s heart pumped fast as she watched the jar land … in one piece … on the thick rug where it rested. The old woman’s eyes rejoined their sockets.
Sarah, ever so gently, returned the jar to its coveted place. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, for being so careless.” She hung her head and waited for Mrs. Cunningham to haul off and slap her, or say that she would have her charged with some offence.
A composed Mrs. Cunningham leaned forward and embraced Sarah, saying, “There, there. You meant no harm, Sarah. It was an accident. It’s a reminder to move the jar to a safer place.” Turning to Lydia, she said, “Do not be afraid, Lydia, the jar is fine.”
Fanny, who had been standing inside the doorway to announce the meal, slowly came to herself and sputtered, “Your lunch is ready, Ma’am.”
“Come along,” Mrs. Cunningham said in a kind voice, extending her hand to the kitchen.
Sarah was silent. Her eyes twitched with confusion. Why such unusual kindness towards Grandmother, inviting them to her table when the custom was for servants to eat separately? And such mercy and understanding when she nearly broke a precious object as the vase? T
here were Negroes serving time in jail for the careless handling of property.
In the kitchen, fresh bread and large bowls of corn chowder made with new potatoes, fresh onions, corn and bits of bacon awaited. Blueberry-gooseberry pie and tea followed. After the meal, Mrs. Cunningham reached into a green jar on the window ledge and placed two shillings in Sarah’s hand, then handed two crowns to Lydia. “You both are a godsend. I’ve never forgotten the promise I made to mother to look after you, Lydia.”
“We are grateful for your kindness, Ma’am.”
“I never dreamed our lives would come to this, that we would have to leave our southern homes and start over in a foreign place. The war was a wicked display of hatred and unjust for those of us who wanted nothing more than to support the king.”
“Oh, Lord, I worried for you when the soldiers came. I saw you looking back from the carriage. It was a terrible time.”
“We tried to be brave, but with William away at sea and Father’s death, we were defenceless. Then Mother passed away during the trip here … The strain was too much for her.” She reached out with both arms and hugged the old woman. “I was so happy to see old friends after I arrived. It’s a challenging place, this Roseway. These settlers are a quarrelsome lot. Tempers are hot. Everyone is worrying about class and privilege, not fully understanding the hard work and grit needed in a place like this. Now with the laws in the colonies forgiving us and returning Loyalist property, many are giving up and leaving. I believe things will improve.”
“All of our lives have changed, Ma’am. Nothing will ever be the same no matter what anyone decides. I appreciate all you and the mister do for us. I sure do.”
Chasing Freedom Page 5