The next day was cold for a fall day. Mrs. Cunningham had paid Lydia with a piece of jewellery, saying her funds were low and there was hardly a coin to be found in the colony. She had insisted that Sarah accompany Lydia home; one of her servants had disappeared the week before. Daylight was fading into darkness when Lydia swapped the valuable brooch for goods at Cecil’s store. Her bag was heavy with cornmeal, molasses, beans and a pickled beef tongue, enough to share with Beulah.
The air was damp. It felt like rain. “Best hurry,” Lydia advised. Behind them, the grind of approaching cartwheels filled the air with a jerky rhythm. When the cart nudged slowly past and came to a stop at the side of the road, a man leaped down with a cap hung low on a face that sported thin grey whiskers. A Birchtowner, Sarah thought. His breathing was burdened and his footsteps heavy. As he drew nearer, Lydia stopped and reached for Sarah’s arm. “It’s Boll weevil, Girlie. Boll weevil.”
Without warning, a brilliant flash of lightning streaked through the tall shadowy spruce. Heavy thunder rumbled. Lydia turned and her eyes fell on the willowy man with chalk-white skin in a worn brown jacket. He held a short rifle in his right hand. She knew the familiar stare, the piercing blue eyes. “Have mercy,” she groaned and her knees went weak.
His voice was scratchy. “Do you Negroes have papers?”
“Papers?” Lydia’s voice quivered.
“You heard me. Certificates. Certificates of Freedom.”
“Yes Sir, I do. Why are you asking?”
“There are Negroes in the province without proper papers,” he said. He eyed her sharply. “I aim to see they are returned to their rightful owners.”
“You’ve got no worries about us. We are staying right here in Scotia.” Her nervous turkey chuckle broke the tension, but only for a second.
“I was told about you and the girl.” His lips fell into a sneer. “Told you were here without papers. I want to see them.”
The words echoed through Lydia’s head. Who could have told him such a thing? She laid her goods on the ground and fished deep into the rag purse. She fumbled eagerly among a heap of head rags, pieces of lace, yellowed scraps of paper, string, nails and other odd bits.
Lydia stopped digging and looked up. “Oh Lord,” she said. “Save us, Lord.” In an instant, the old woman fell to the ground with a thud.
Letting out a cry, Sarah ran to her grandmother.
Boll weevil took several steps back.
After kneeling and lifting the old woman’s head, Sarah saw that Grandmother’s eyes were open and her mouth hung to the side of her face. She shook the lifeless mass of flesh. “Grandmother. Grandmother,” she cried. She cast a scowl at Boll weevil and swallowed hard. Her whole body trembled as she looked up and slowly announced, “She’s dead.”
Lingering thunder hovered over Birchtown. The storm did not produce a drop of rain. What was Boll weevil going to do next? The stillness was cruel and Sarah’s face flushed with frightful anticipation.
“Dead is she? Good. This saves me the time and effort.” Boll weevil’s voice deepened to scorching anger. “All my troubles and for what, a dead woman? I won’t be able to fatten my pockets with that.”
“We have papers, Sir,” she said. “I can look for the certificates.” Sarah reached for the purse.
After a short pause, Boll weevil scoffed. “Never mind. I’ve had enough of you lot.”
“What about my grandmother?”
Boll weevil turned to her and his eyes were biting, but he did not speak. He sauntered to the wagon and climbed in. He turned back then and shouted, “Let the crows eat her!”
Sarah watched until he was out of sight. She huddled over the limp body and from the old woman suddenly came tiny, feeble sounds. As they grew stronger, Sarah’s mouth widened to a smile. She stroked Grandmother’s face, shook her shoulders and rolled the body from side to side. Suddenly, the rigid form stirred. Grandmother jolted and sat upright as straight as an arrow. She wobbled to her feet and looked at Sarah.
“Boll weevil thinks he can outsmart ol’ Lydia. We will have to guard ourselves better. Be mindful at all times. We must get a good stick to defend ourselves.”
After Sarah found two sturdy sticks by the roadside, Lydia steadied herself on hers and said, “Grab that bag. We best get along now before he decides to come back.”
Lydia’s thoughts gave way to suspicions. This night was all because of Cecil. Yes, it was he who had stolen her papers and set Boll weevil on them. It would take all she had to outsmart two such scheming men. They were the devil’s hands.
Eleven
CECIL MACLEOD TOOK THE BLACK PIPE FROM HIS mouth and gave a long sigh. Sweat oozed from his ghostly brow as the yellow flames danced in the wood stove and poured out heat. It was two weeks now since his plan had misfired and he was still beside himself with anger. Lydia was still a free woman and still very much alive. He flung the Certificates of Freedom on the counter and cursed them. On the plantation, there had been an acceptable order: the master, the foreman, the overseer and then slave. That he understood. Slaves were property, like horses. You could do with them as you pleased. They had no choice but to follow orders.
Here Negroes were petitioning the court for rights and some were finding justice. He didn’t agree with the judge for awarding payments to a slave for lost wages or that the Harding woman should be able to have her master jailed for beating her. Yes, times were changing. And Lydia—she was changing, too, going from being a submissive slave to a demanding fool, a woman of confidence now, bold and thinking herself smart.
Cecil plunked himself on a stool, inhaling hard on his pipe several times. Money was scarce in Port Roseway. Another long winter lay ahead. His missus was unhappy, wanting to return home. The supply ships were late again and he was struggling to get the necessary goods and supplies for the store. There was little to count on in a new colony. There was no guarantee of making money—people were resorting to all kinds of tricks to save their cash, such as lying about their incomes to claim rations from the King’s Bounty. He jumped from the stool and stretched his short legs. The pile of belongings people had traded for goods lay in heaps on the floor. Amid the fancy shoes, patterned dishes and books, he grabbed up a sword belt, an Indian basket, a dictionary, a violin, only to throw them back into the heap. Who needed such things when food was scarce? Who could pay for any of it?
These were desperate times and so Cecil had turned to slave trading on the side. He had a keen sense of who the runaways were—they had a different walk, a scared look, always slinking down inside oversized clothes. Ridding the colony of intruders and troublemakers would be a profitable service. The meeting with Boll weevil had been brief. Cecil presented him with the names of several Birchtowners he suspected of not holding certificates, adding Lydia and Sarah Redmond to the list. The plan they devised was simple. Boll weevil was to round them all up, book their passage on a local schooner owned by his friend, Harold Lambston, and take them down to Boston where an agent would pay handsomely for the cargo, selling them in turn to former masters or at auction. Cecil and Boll weevil would split the profit fifty-fifty when Boll weevil returned.
“Such a supply of goods at hand,” they had joked. But Cecil was not laughing now. He shook his head at the man’s ability to botch such an easy job. He would try one more time. Without their certificates, Lydia and Sarah were vulnerable. It was inconceivable that a simple-minded woman like Lydia could outsmart Boll weevil. No, he could not let that happen again. He would give the man a second chance, but if that fool could not get it right this time, he would take matters into his own hands. Lydia might outsmart Boll weevil, but she would not dupe him.
He scratched his head and thumped the counter. Could he trust Boll weevil to return with his share of the profits? He figured it was worth the risk and besides, they were old friends. Two men cut from the same cloth. He sat back in his chair and thought about wha
t it would mean if the old woman did not keep her mouth shut. He spit in a bucket near the counter. The devil would surely dance when disgrace fell upon him. He’d be the laughingstock of Port Roseway. They would call him “the father of Negroes,” and to be called that would make him an outcast. He twisted his fingers deep inside his grey whiskers. There were others in the same boat, but they would hide behind their fine names. And stick together in condemning him. He had to shelter his missus from disgrace and protect himself from the hateful hornet’s nest Lydia could stir.
Cecil added more water and coffee to grounds in the pot that had been brewing for several days on the stove. After it boiled hard, he filled a giant mug scarred with pasty stains, sat back in the wide chair by the heat and gulped the black brew like it was his last. This whole business—the threat of old secrets and his wickedness exposed—had brought him sleepless nights and great agony of mind. The audacity of Lydia to refer to the off-breeds as “their children” incited him more and he heaved the empty mug against the far wall, watching as several dishes fell to the dusty floor and shattered.
Her boy was in Birchtown alright. He had seen him several times, knew him from watching him grow up on the plantation. There was not a chance Lydia could pick him out of the crowd, there were so many mulattos. Maybe he did care for that one the Redmonds raised. She had the backing of old money and her husband’s good naval name. As far as he knew, no one ever mentioned her background. Such a disclosure would ruin not just him, but also one of Port Roseway’s most prominent families.
Twelve
A FRIGID COLD SWALLOWED UP THE COOL AUTUMN weather. The lakes froze as hard as iron. Snow was in the air. Everywhere the hustle and bustle in Birchtown heightened as the settlers prepared for the long winter. They were hoarding everything they could get, from heavy clothing, especially coats that could substitute for warm blankets, to food: flour, corn, molasses, potatoes and salt meat or fish, as well as ammunition and firewood.
It was early evening, the second Friday in November. The cold crept into the cabin through cracks and openings forcing the lumping on of heavy sweaters. The canvas window coverings fluttered from the draft. Sarah sat bundled in a blanket sewing the ties on an apron she made from scraps. The cabin filled with stinging smoke as Grandmother stoked the slow fire and added two blocks of dry wood to get it blazing. She checked the partridges bubbling in the kettle over the fire pit and set about preparing potatoes and carrots for the pot. She was thinking about the long winter ahead and with such scarcity how they would make it through. The heavy rapping on the door startled her.
Grandmother opened the door to a brisk wind and a tall man in a Pioneer jacket with a stuffed black satchel spread across his chest. She examined the stranger from head to toe. She was taken aback at first, cautious, and then she rolled out a loud turkey chuckle followed by a deafening squeal. “Sweet chariots. Is that you Fortune?” she shrieked. “Can it really be you, Fortune Isaiah Redmond? Come in. Come in.” She grabbed the man and pulled him into her chest with a hard thrust, holding him so close he could barely breathe. Then the tears came, rolling, rolling down her cheeks and into his coat.
Sarah dropped the apron and turned to the door. Every memorable detail floated back—the earthy-brown skin, the tight curl of black hair, the moon-shaped scar on his left cheek. He was lean and drawn, but there was no mistaking his crooked smile. She ran and threw her arms around him.
The three entangled in a ball of confusion, Lydia with her arms wrapped around Fortune from the front and Sarah from behind. All were delirious and talking at once. They wept with no let-up until Fortune pulled them away and wiped their eyes with his hands. He was lost for words at first. When he came to himself, he said, “This is a day of miracles. Yes it is.”
“Oh, my, I can’t believe my eyes. I never dreamed this day would come. I never dared dream. The Lord is good.” Lydia sat at the table now, holding her head in her hands. “There can’t be anything better than seeing you, Fortune, except maybe seeing the Lord.” Grandmother wiped her dress sleeve across her face several times. “We got a little place to lay our heads. I prayed every day for you to join us.”
“You did good, Mama. It took courage for you and Sarah to leave Carolina. You make me happy and proud.” Fortune turned and looked at Sarah for a full minute.
“You have grown, Babygirl. You are a woman now and as pretty as a magnolia.” He looked closely at Sarah. “My, that’s a pretty dress you have on.”
“Thank you, Papa. I made it myself. Sewing helps to pass the time. I like turning something old into something new.”
“I suspect you’ll be looking to get out soon.”
Grandmother jumped in. “Hush now, Fortune. There is no need for her to get out yet. Missy Cunningham is looking to indenture her. There’s little else for a young girl here.”
Sarah ignored the old woman’s barb. She began singing one of the songs from the camp meeting: “Glory, glory, hallelujah. I feel better. So much better, since I laid my burden down. Feel like shouting, ‘Hallelujah,’ since I laid my burden down.”
“Keep singing, chile. I got one less burden: one child has come home to roost.”
The table filled with biscuits, tea and the watery stew. Grandmother told Fortune about the events that brought them to Port Roseway, of her resolve to make the best out of being in Nova Scotia. She told him about Beulah having not one but two babies who were fighting bravely to stay in the world. And the sad news also of the fever that had taken his brother, Prince.
“I wish I had gotten here sooner.” Then, after a long silence, “Twins. Well, well. How is Beulah doing? It’s been years since I laid eyes on her.”
“She’s holding up. There’s not much to the poor soul. We try to help her as much as we can. We keep praying for her and the babies. I fear for them in the cold and the lack of rations makes life hard.” Grandmother looked away to the fire. “I better warn you that Boll weevil Carter from Carolina is on the prowl, on the lookout for runaway slaves, always looking to make money off us. It seems it doesn’t matter to him whether or not you have your freedom papers.” She stopped talking and rested her chins in her hands.
Fortune shook his head. “That man will always be a crook. I guess you have all been tested. I suppose the good Lord only wants strong people up in Glory.” He laughed, looked at his mother and winked, “I guess there’s no one stronger than you.” He turned to Sarah and asked, “Do you have plans, young Miss?”
“Yes, Papa, I do. I plan to make my mark in this colony, to be my own person. I will not spend my life being a servant.”
“Slow down, Sarah. Those are big dreams for a Negro woman.”
“A Negro woman has never had an easy life. She never had a man to depend on. Her life is what she makes it. Freedom lets us have dreams.”
Fortune’s face tightened. It would not do any good to try to change her runaway ideas, not with her being young and not with her being Dahlia’s child. “And marriage?” he asked. “What of that?”
Sarah retreated for a minute to think about Reece and the idea of marriage. Girls as young as twelve or thirteen married in order to have earnings, inheritance and property. By the age of eighteen or twenty, an unmarried woman was called a spinster. But that was white folks. Those girls had something to gain. Marriage brought few benefits to a young Negro girl.
She smiled. “Everyone’s anxious to jump the broom and they are mating like flies. There’s been lots of weddings in the clearing. Marriage,” she finally said, “perhaps in time.”
Sarah cleared the table and refilled the mugs with weak tea. Fortune began telling tales of his adventures. “War is insanity,” he said in his loud tenor. “The first thing the British did was to assign me to the Black Pioneers. We were not treated like the white soldiers.” He looked down at the floor. “They used us to clear lines, tend to the wounded, cook and act as spies. We built bridges and made roads for the equ
ipment and white soldiers, but not a rifle did we get.”
Sarah sat back in her chair, unnerved by her father’s unfamiliar tone. She fastened her eyes on him as she clung to his every word.
Fortune’s mood grew heavy as his tone mellowed. “The Pioneers were falling everywhere, some got shot, others died from infection or disease.” After a deep breath, he continued, “I heard a white lieutenant say us Negroes were no more than second-class citizens. Well, it was just as much our war,” he drawled. “The cry was all about loyalty, liberty and money. We wanted the same and proved ourselves capable soldiers, but they drew the line at race, keeping the praise and rewards for themselves.”
“Yes, yes. That they did,” Lydia said.
Sarah sat still. She understood his anger. She pitied him. War could change a man’s nature.
Fortune took a chew of tobacco. “Oh no, I did not intend to be a lame duck. I got myself a sweet pistol. Oh yes, and I killed me a few Patriot soldiers.” His fist struck the table. The table bounced. “Lord, Mama, I didn’t want to kill nobody.” Tears rolled down his face and his words stalled. Fortune pulled a rag from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his face. “All I got was the uniform on my back, passage to this colony and a head full of promises. We will see how they honour their word.” He pushed his cup forward and his chair back from the table. “I want my land, my rations and supplies. Is it too much to ask after risking my life? Where are the rewards?”
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