Chasing Freedom

by Gloria Ann Wesley

  “There is no need for that.” She extended her gaze to Sarah and then back to Lydia. “I must get to the point. I have an offer to make. Sarah is grown now. It is time to send her to work. Poor Fanny has such pain in her joints and back, she says she will not be able to work much longer. Perhaps I could indenture Sarah. I will speak to William about this when he returns and get him to draw up an agreement. Fanny works for her room and board. However, Sarah might be happy to work for wages. Two years sounds reasonable. Times are hard, but we will do what we can for her.”

  “The girl is a good worker.”

  “Yes she is. I was always fond of her.”

  Grandmother excused herself from the table and nodded to Sarah to do the same.

  “There’s another bag of laundry waiting to be done by the porch door, Lydia,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “By the way, I hear Mr. Carter is here in Nova Scotia working as a slave hunter. You must always have your certificates with you. Please be careful.”

  “Yes Ma’am.” Grandmother patted the rag purse. “I aim to be safe.”

  They took their time going back to Birchtown. Sarah poked along, understanding that work was scarce and positions hard to come by, but somehow becoming indentured was not what she had imagined for herself. While the thought made her sad, her mouth produced a smile — she had to admit she liked this little woman, though the way she treated them was so peculiar.

  Nine

  SARAH WORE HER FAVOURITE CREATION, A BUTTERY-YELLOW gown with frilled sleeves over a white petticoat, a brown wool cloak and a green bonnet. She held her head high and strutted down the path carrying a small basket of apples. It felt good to be on her way to the Methodist camp meeting in the clearing. Throughout the colony, worship services were being held in every corner. There were plenty of ministers coming to Birchtown to preach to the desperate souls. Together, they agreed to build a meeting house, but until it was completed, they met in a valley between the hills in a place they called the clearing.

  This was a day of blessings. Sarah felt it in her heart. In no other place could you feel more free or more at home than in the clearing. Steal away, Steal away to Jesus; Steal away, Steal away home; I ain’t got long to stay here. How sweet the words were! She hummed them repeatedly. It saddened her that Grandmother refused to attend the meeting. She said all the jumping and shouting wouldn’t bring her closer to the Lord, but Sarah loved the merriment. She would ask for much needed blessings for her family, especially for her Aunt Beulah, for it was three days since the visit and still the baby was holding back.

  Sarah had agonized over the need to look after her aunt. Beulah was family, and hadn’t her father insisted she look after the family, keep it strong? In Birchtown, you could easily perish without their love and support. The importance of strong ties was leading folks to marriage—one of the prizes of freedom. Sarah could not help but smile. Like many men, Uncle Prince had married as soon as they arrived. “I can’t wait to get myself a wife,” they would say, as if they were earning a medal or some kind of reward, as if getting a woman compared to bringing home a deer. She thought about Reece. There would be lots of time and besides, Beulah’s needs would have to come first.

  Sarah left the main trail. She could hear the commotion before she reached Big Mama Hagar’s shack. Sunday morning didn’t make a spot of difference to Big Mama. The cursing and screaming were flying out the windows and the open door. It wasn’t long before ol’ man Hagar came running out and sped past Sarah, with Big Mama in pursuit, cast iron skillet waving in the air. Her tongue feasted in a trough of vulgar names. Sarah wondered what the old fella had done this time. Sneaking around with the widow Jane again? Sarah chuckled and kept walking.

  A large crowd milled about in the clearing. It was the one place where Negroes could legally gather, a place where they were free to let themselves laugh, sing and dance. It seemed all of Birchtown was in this place of healing. The air was full of the sweet scent of hemlock and the clearing dazzled with cheerful colours and laughter.

  She found Reece among a group of Black Pioneers. They chatted while Reverend Ringwood delivered the greetings. Old plantation songs, “Bringin’ in de Sheaves” and “Hear de Angels Callin,’” brought the crowd alive. Reverend Ringwood stood atop a wooden box. “Lay your burdens on the Lord,” he screamed. “Lay your sins down, you Lambs of God and repent. You are the children of the Lord and He will give you what you need. Put your trust in Him to heal you, trust in Him to feed you, trust in Him to take away all your sorrow. Rejoice in Him.”

  Enthusiasm grew into frenzy as he encouraged the outpouring of hardship and grief. Bodies trembled. Words flowed from the depth of their hearts. Reverend Ringwood held each one with outstretched arms, offered them hope, told them to keep praying, to have faith and look to the Lord for salvation. Slaves who could not read rhymed out scripture word for word. Their moans and hallelujahs rose up to heaven. Then how they danced and sang. This festive rejoicing in the spirit was the one true testimony to gaining freedom.

  At last a break came. Sarah took her apples to a large canvas sheet on the ground. It was time for lunch and everyone dove into the abundance of food spread out in the clearing, for all hoarded during the week to bring something and all indulged in the offerings. She ate quickly. “I wish I could stay longer,” Sarah said, “but I promised to meet Grandmother at Aunt Beulah’s place. Did you enjoy the service?”

  “It sure got me going,” Reese laughed, “and I’m not much on religion. All it does is keep a man down, encouraging him to rely on something other than himself. We have the tools to direct ourselves and a conscience to guide us. Fools have no conscience. That is what accounts for sin. What a man needs to get ahead is not prayers, but a good fight.”

  “A fight?” Sarah raised her eyebrows. He was sounding like her Aunt Beulah.

  “The slaves believed God helped Moses free the Hebrew slaves. They figured that God would set them free, too. But it took action, a good old rebellion to free us.”

  “Well, I never heard it put that way before. I believe that their faith gave them courage.”

  “I don’t know about that, Sarah. I do not plan to sit still and pray for change. I figure you should fight for it, like the Patriots. That’s what a good man does.” He winked at Sarah. “I’m not hanging around waiting for rations and a blessing.” He blew warm breath into his hands. “Can I walk you to the crossroads? Beulah’s is just across the field, isn’t that right?”

  “It is.” Sarah concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. “What do you mean you won’t sit still?”

  “Miss Sarah, if a man does not work, he will surely die. There is not enough work to go around. It’s time for me to move on.” He reached over and slid his fingers along her cheek. “It sure would be nice if I had me a pretty miss to take along. It would be nice to think about more than a job.”

  A soft gasp fell from Sarah’s mouth.

  “Sarah Redmond,” Reece chirped liked a sparrow. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Have you thought about marriage? We can marry here. It’s not like before, you know.”

  Lord. Lord. The thought of running off with Reece put Sarah’s head in a spin and she could not stop grinning. Her mind stirred like a hornet’s nest, scattering her thoughts in all directions. He was ready, but that was not the thing. She needed time—time to know him better, to know the kind of man he truly was. She didn’t know much, but she knew some men could be kind one minute and brutal the next. “Reece Johnson,” she said, “Such thoughts.”

  “It’s lonely here without any relatives to count on. I grew up feeling like an orphan. It is hard to explain how a man yearns to connect to his blood. The need and the wondering never go away.”

  “I was lucky to have a family, but even mine is broken. I know how that can hurt.”

  “A family is your foundation. I used to see free Negro men in Charles Town when Steppin’ John took me
along to buy supplies. They would walk through the streets with their wives and children, heads held high. The children always looked happy. I want that happiness, too. A slave named Rose cared for me until I was five. Then Mr. MacLeod put me to work with Steppin’ John to learn a trade. He was good to me, but he didn’t treat me like family.”

  “I don’t know if you can ever find your true roots when you come from slaves. That part is sometimes a mystery. No telling who or even where you came from most of the time.”

  “So true, Miss Sarah. Right now I am thinking of putting down roots with you.”

  “Are you?” Sarah gave a wide smile. “That makes me happy, Reece.”

  “I can’t make any real plans just yet, because a call may come any day to go whaling. Colonel Black has gotten assurances of jobs for several of us. The ship may leave any day, but I want you to know that I care a lot about you. Will you wait for my return?”

  Sarah nodded and slipped her hand in his. He raised it to his cheek and kissed it gently. When they reached the crossroads, she said, “No need to worry. I am not going anywhere.”

  “Can I see you again, maybe here tomorrow evening? The Birchtowners come here to gamble, to wager away their few belongings and their hard-earned money. The folks in Roseway are so upset by the Negroes gambling they have banned it and sentenced those they catch to the House of Corrections, but out here in the clearing, folks feel safe. I have heard they have dice games like craps, cards and even cock-fighting. I don’t play, but we can watch. Will you come?”

  Sarah laughed. “I am sure I will see you again before you leave.”

  THOUGH IT WAS ANOTHER COLD AND FROSTY MORNING, Fibby held the door open. “I was expecting you,” she said. “Lydia told me to keep a look-out.” She did not display her usual indifference. Instead, she was bubbly and welcoming. Sarah hoped for good news.

  Beulah sat upright on the cot. She turned slowly to face Sarah. Her “good morning” was a long, drawn-out affair. Sarah noticed the change in Beulah’s belly and knew the ordeal was over, but where was the baby? Her eyes darted about the room from corner to corner in search of a small bundle. Suddenly, she filled with a familiar pain. The pain that came from losing her mama, from seeing chopped-off limbs, from having loved ones die. It all came in one big ball. It stuck in her throat and she could not speak. She walked to the window and stood, holding back the tears, preparing for the bad news yet hoping she was wrong.

  At first, the cry was soft. Then it grew until tiny wails filled the room. Beulah pulled back the grey and blue quilt to reveal not one, but two beautiful, bronze faces. Identical faces, each crowned with thick black curls.

  In her excitement Sarah screamed loud enough for all of Birchtown to hear. “Twins! Oh my Lord, twins!”

  Beulah said, “A boy and a girl, Sarah.”

  “Have you named them yet?”

  “I surely have. My girl is Destiny and my boy is Prince the Second. His name means ‘first place’ and that’s what this place is to us, the first place where we are free after slavery.” She turned to Grandmother and nodded her head.

  “The names are beautiful and fitting,” Sarah said.

  Grandmother leaned in and stretched out her arms.

  Beulah placed a tiny baby on each of Grandmother’s palms. The old woman held both babies up, high up into the air.

  “Bless this child, Destiny, and this child, Prince. They are born out of slavery. Born here to become a free man and a free woman in Nova Scotia. That is the gift to these children. For this blessing, we give thanks. Amen.” Grandmother put the babies down beside their mama. With a scattering of water from a mug, she sprinkled their foreheads. She grinned proudly and her skin glistened as though the Rapture had caught her up. Sarah wondered what else she would say. She wondered if the old woman would dance—delight in the highest expression of joy.

  “We are rich, Beulah. So rich. We got gold, Sarah.” Grandmother sounded almost delirious.

  Sarah grabbed the old woman and swung her around gently. “This day has brought wonderful blessings!”

  “Will you stay for a bite to eat?” Fibby asked. She brought out the small mugs and filled them with pale yellow tea. “Bread and moose meat,” she said, “The meat is from the Mi’kmaq, Joseph Joe, who camps down by the river. I helped deliver his son awhile back. We sure could use some fixings to go with it, but we will make do.”

  After eating, Grandmother snuggled the bundles against her breasts as though she had given birth to the twins herself. Her joy was real, but so were the tiny tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes and the soft moans that surfaced from a place buried deep. But Lydia being Lydia, she veiled her feelings and did what she always did to ease her despair—she belted out another hymn.

  Ten

  IT WAS A GOOD END TO A LONG WORKDAY. AS THE SUN set, it spread bright ribbons of orange, gold and red along the horizon. In Birchtown, the trails and paths were deserted. All was quiet, but for the uproar coming through the walls of the partly constructed meeting house.

  The indentured Negroes from Roseway, who regularly fled their cruel and cheating employers to seek the safety of Birchtown, had gathered to voice their concerns. With much shouting and fist waving, they were letting Colonel Black know they were tired of the continued hostility and unfairness of the white settlers. It was a rowdy gathering. Lydia and Sarah stood at the back observing the ruckus.

  Harris Clark, a carpenter, said that when some tresses fell on him and injured his back, he received only half of the pay he deserved for the time he worked. Priscilla Hayward complained that her employer turned her out with no pay or provisions from the King’s Bounty and refused to pay what he owed her. Thomas Wheaton alleged that he had to use his wages to pay for the rations his employer received for him and for tools to do his work. Hagar Primus found herself hired out to other citizens without her permission.

  And so it went. The list of injustices continued: beaten for disobedience, forced to serve extended time through false contracts, sentenced to hard labour or shackled in leg irons for neglecting assigned work and even starved for displeasing behaviour. Public whippings and hangings were issued for theft of the smallest items like shoes or butter, indentures were being passed on in wills illegally and children stolen.

  At the front of the room, Colonel Black listened graciously, letting them speak their minds well into the night, promising that he would take the matter before the local justices of the peace. But this enraged the crowd further. Many had already appealed to the General Sessions Court and local magistrates for justice, only to be ignored. Taking matters into their own hands, the angry gathering settled on a course of action: A march through Roseway, as the white labourers had done, to show their unity and discontent. They demanded Colonel Black lead them.

  Sarah listened with great interest. Colonel Black grew weary as he argued that an illegal gathering to show their frustration would only serve to stir up violence, not bring sympathy or justice. His refusal to support them or even to offer a solution angered the crowd. And when Harris Clark stood up and screamed that such a leader deserved a tar and feathering, Sarah saw Colonel Black slowly sneak along a wall and disappear into the night.

  On the way home, Sarah said, “It’s Colonel Black’s responsibility to seek justice for all the wrongs we face. It seems he’s still bound to the master with his loyalty.”

  Grandmother said, “Master Redmond once said that for the sake of a little privilege and money, most would sell themselves to the devil.” She let out a long turkey chuckle.

  “Why are you laughing, Ma’am?” Sarah asked.

  “If you had an angry crowd ready to tar your behind, you would run too.”

  Sarah shook her head. She could not bring herself to smile. “The man in him is weak,” she said with disgust. “Our people have lost all respect for him now.”

  Grandmother walked along, changing the w
ords of her favourite hymn to a newer version, her version: Come back Moses, way down in this free land, Tell old pharaoh it’s time, oh Lord, time to let my people go.

  When she finished several rounds, she said, “This place needs prayers. Everyone in this colony has forgotten why we came. Lord, Lord, will we ever learn to work together?”

  THE WORRY, ANGER AND SORROW THAT WERE OVERWHELMING the Birchtowners also nibbled at Lydia. On an early October evening, she sat soaking in the washtub. She looked at her feet, all lumped up with corns and bunions, swollen and rough. She remembered a time when her feet danced to tribal rhythms and ran along the banks of the Niger. She also recalled the long march to the West African coast to board a slave ship. Her slave’s feet had travelled thousands of miles in all her years, sometimes covered, sometimes bare.

  She gently touched her face, felt the hollows in her cheeks, the winkled brow, the sagging pockets of fat along the jaw. How many times had her mouth endured the slaps and spit of overseers? She looked at her sore hands, all puffed up, chapped and rough like tree bark from chores and lye. They were work hands. She rubbed them kindly with a little pig grease from the pot at the side of the tub. She rubbed her shoulders, marvelling at the softness of a slave woman. She pressed her fingers through the tight wad of crimped grey hair and massaged her scalp. It felt good.

  A slave woman, she thought, never fully realizes the joy of her heart nor the sweetness of her body. All these years, her body has served others. It has known the work of a man and a woman, the cut of the lash and the forced bearing of children, but never the tenderness of love. She stared at the back wall and mouthed the name given to her by her mother: Abena. The name was in a place beyond her memory. “I have lost the way to go home,” she whispered.

  “Just a slave,” Cecil had said that day in the store. The hateful words stirred a pain in Lydia that gnawed and ate, but could not find its fill. There it was—three cruel words to sum up a lifetime of bondage. In the pain, she found her voice and it was loud and sharp. “Just a slave. Is that what he thinks? I am just Lydia, an empty soul, something to claim and abuse. No, Cecil, never again.” The days of being afraid of Cecil MacLeod had passed. But having secrets was dangerous. She must be on her guard, forever watchful. She sat in deep thought, looking back at her past until the water was icy cold. She wiggled her toes in the water and prayed, then dried herself with an old blue rag.