The old woman picked up the bottom of her wide green dress. She carefully ripped a strip of cloth from the worn edge. Crawling to the bottom step, she tied the strip from one railing over to the other. One way or another, Cecil had to be stopped. They had a gun, a trick and a prayer.
Sixteen
UNDER THE COVER OF DARKNESS, THE RICKETY WAGON clamoured along the snow-covered road, turning at the fork that led to Birchtown. The wind and damp cold gnawed through the man’s heavy coat and gripped his thin body. Stabs of pain shot through his hands and feet. The slow haul from Roseway was taking longer than expected. There was just too much snow.
True to his word, if a rogue can be honourable, Boll weevil had made his way back to Cecil’s store. He jumped from the wagon, a string of pointless banter flowing from his cracked lips. He was out of joint, still agitated from Cecil’s heavy-handedness. Eyeing the premises, he approached carefully, stopping first to peer through the window. Inside, a lamp burned brightly. He saw Cecil with his head down on the counter having a snooze. He pounded heavily on the locked door.
Down in the cellar, the captives nestled together for protection from the bitter cold. The hard thumps awakened Lydia. In the startled darkness, she rubbed her hands to soothe her aching joints and pushed against her empty stomach to stop the loud rumbling. Beside her Fortune slept, making noises that reminded her of a snorting horse. She shook his arm. “I hear someone overhead. Cecil has company. It must be Boll weevil,” she whispered, “What are we going to do?”
“All we can do is sit tight,” Fortune said, rousing Sarah who lay sleeping on his shoulder.
“He has come for us.”
“Maybe so, but don’t be scared. I am ready.” Fortune patted his leg for his gun. He realized that the weather could mess everything up — his cold pistol might not fire. He pulled out the gun and stuck it down inside his jacket to warm it. The cold had stiffened his fingers. He wondered if he could even pull the trigger.
Sarah rocked back and forth. Her insides surged like incoming waves. How could anyone have thought of such a place as the Land of Milk and Honey, she wondered. Where would they end up? And would Reece look for her? She listened as the biting cold caused Grandmother’s breathing to come in quick, short puffs matched by steady pleas to her Lord. Were they going to die here, unbeknownst to anyone? Maybe it was better to die now, here in this stinking cellar, and be through with it.
Upstairs, Cecil finally bolted upright at the pounding. He stood up groggily, stretched and shook his head. “Who is there?”
“It’s me, Boll weevil. Unlatch the door, man.”
“You brought the wagon?” Cecil asked.
“Yes and a costly one it is. You can add that expense to my bill.”
Cecil cut Boll weevil a nasty look as he brushed past. It was a strange night. The wind had been unrelenting, slamming the window shutters hard against the logs. There was a strange howl in the wind, a nor’easter with an eerie pitch. The lamp had gone out twice. Strangely, Cecil was glad to see Boll weevil. It meant the end was now in sight. Though the Redmonds were secure with no means of escape, he anguished over having them in the root cellar. Once Boll weevil placed them on the ship to Boston, his worries would be over. He had considered alternatives, such as burning them out, but this way was best. No one could connect him to the plot and his problem would be sailing south with no chance of ever returning. “The Lord does work in mysterious ways,” he laughed.
He glanced around the store. Yes sir, he was doing well. He owned this store. He had a good wife and two grown lads in the British army. After tonight, he could focus on getting back to business as usual. In the faded light, he sized Boll weevil up as he dashed about the store, helping himself to food. He hated the look of the man’s chops and his brash attitude. His behaviour was growing insane, but then he was always a little unhinged, always seeking some crazy adventure. No matter, it would all end soon.
Boll weevil sat on a barrel chewing strips of dark beef jerky and crunching hardtack with his rotten teeth. “I ain’t had a bite to eat in two days,” he said. “I can’t work on an empty stomach. You could have cooked up a scoff on that fancy stove and had it waiting.”
“I don’t recall saying that the job came with meals. I didn’t indenture you.” Cecil laughed as he let out this last retort.
Boll weevil did not reply. He was too busy eyeing a huge block of yellow cheese. He pulled out his knife, leaned across the counter and cut a big chunk. Piercing the chunk with his knife, he held it up and took several bites, and then pointed the knife towards Cecil. “At least a servant has a contract. That’s more than I have,” he sputtered.
“Come on, man. You are wasting time. There’s work to be done,” Cecil snapped.
Boll weevil took a long look at the man rushing him. “Hold on,” he snorted. He went to the back and got a small keg of rum, and after gulping several mouthfuls, he drawled confidently: “Now tell me, Cecil, we had a deal, didn’t we? I don’t plan on moving this lot until we settle our business and you have met my terms.”
“When I have proof that you have done the job, then we will talk.”
Boll weevil’s face darkened to a deep blue hue. “That is not what we agreed on. What now, another lie, Cecil? You keep changing the terms, going in circles, backtracking to cheat me. Remember the old days when we were like brothers. Is this how you treat a friend? The deal was to settle the account before I took this bunch to Roseway.”
“I had to rethink the offer. I’m just making sure everything goes as planned.”
“For a desperate man, anxious to rid himself of a bunch of meddling Negroes, you have forgotten one thing. There is a dignified fee for such a miserable job. That’s all I ask.”
Cecil laughed. “A dignified fee for a dignified man.” His laugh ceased when Boll weevil waved the knife in his face. “Of course,” he said, stepping back, “I will pay you. But first, you must show me proof that you have done my bidding, that everything went as planned. I cannot afford to throw my money to the wind. No, Boll weevil, money is too scarce to be foolish. Bring back a statement from the captain in Roseway if you want your pay. It will be a couple of days before he sails.”
Boll weevil did not answer. He stood for a moment, staring at Cecil. In an instant, he drove the knife blade deep into the counter. “That does not set well with me. No sir.” The vein on the side of his neck throbbed, sticking out like a long snake. His eyes bulged. “You are a fool if you think I’ll be running back and forth out here in this weather!” he screamed. “What if I come back from Roseway and you have changed up on me again? What then?” His voice resonated throughout the store. “Will it be papers from Boston I’ll need? I treated you fair and square. I came back and I told you what happened. I agreed to take on this lousy job again, despite the weather. Do you think I am a fool? Pay up now or there’s no deal. You can figure out how to get rid of that bunch yourself.”
Cecil moved closer to Boll weevil and raised his clenched fist. His voice was loud. “The likes of a man like you to question my integrity.” He grabbed Boll weevil by his coat lapels. “You are no more than filthy scum, Boll weevil. I know your past and there’s not an honest bone in your body. You do not scare me with your wretched chaff nor will you twist a coin from my hand.” Boll weevil slid from his grip while he panted hard, like a dog returning from a long chase.
With a hard tug at the knife, Boll weevil freed it from the counter. He grabbed Cecil, and put an arm around his throat and the knife to his temple. “I mean business,” he yelled. “Show me where you keep the money.”
Cecil yelped, his face pressed into a nasty scowl. He stumbled as Boll weevil dragged him across the store by the neck. “There, by the back wall.” He pointed to the floor.
Boll weevil was insistent and screaming now, “Lift the boards up!”
“You can’t do this. How can you rob a friend?” Cecil protested.
Boll weevil hauled back and gave Cecil a hard slap to the side of his head. Cecil whined like a kicked pup while he slowly lifted the boards. He retrieved a large tin box, heavy with his cherished spoils, and placed it on a bench by the back wall.
Boll weevil swallowed when he saw the box. He pushed Cecil to one side with such a hostile thrust that the man staggered and fell hard. Working the edges of the box with his knife, he forced it open. He reached in and started pocketing handfuls of coins, then, inspired, stopped, shut the lid and made his way towards the door with all the plunder.
“What about the Negroes?” Cecil moaned. His left arm and leg ached from the fall. He gripped a barrel and pulled himself up. The thought of losing the money heated his blood. “Come back you filthy brute. You will not get away with this. I will hunt you down, Boll weevil. Oh yes and I’ll see that you suffer like the dog you are.” He made a mad dash after Boll weevil. “I’ll be damned if I will let you leave with my hard-earned cash.”
All was quiet. In the root cellar, the three waited and listened. Their bodies trembled from the tension and ached from the savage cold. They heard the men tussle for several minutes. Then, without let up, there came a rush of lively blows followed by a loud scream, a heavy thud on the floor and a scurrying of feet towards the door.
Seventeen
BEFORE BOLL WEEVIL HAD COVERED A MILE, HE GAVE A fierce yank on the old mare’s reins to steer the cart around and head back to Cecil’s store. He was in a pickle and he knew it. He had only planned to get what Cecil owed him, not to kill him. Was there any fault in that?
He pressed his lips together. As his witching stirred, a grin spread across his face. It would be obvious to all of Roseway who the murderer was: Fortune. Yes, that brazen lot was out looting after dark when he stumbled upon them. He would turn them over to Sheriff Beauford. His spurts of laughter steamed the air and demons danced in his wild eyes. It was almost too easy. The Redmonds, still tied up, could offer no resistance. It would compensate for all his troubles.
Lydia and Sarah snuggled together as Fortune stumbled about in the darkness looking for a means of escape. “I’ll have to try the trap door,” he said, extending his arms and pushing with all his strength on the sealed cover. Then came the unmistakable creaks of the wagon. He eased back from the stairs and sat quietly, feeling anxious … waiting.
Above the trio, the lamp flickered with an orange and eerie glow. Boll weevil quickly helped himself to barrels of flour, kegs of rum, salt fish, tobacco and rope. He made several trips to the wagon, nearly forgetting to leave space for his passengers. He took two muskets from a wooden barrel and loaded each with a small ball and black gunpowder. He threw one behind the wagon seat and kept the other with him. “These items should fetch a good price. The coin will add up. Who knows, maybe I’ll own this store one day.”
Cecil’s body lay sprawled near the door. Boll weevil pulled his knife from the man’s chest. He gave it a quick wipe on Cecil’s blood-soaked shirt and shoved it into the leather pouch tied to his belt. Before moving away, he looked at Cecil and raised his foot, kicking him several times in the head to release his hateful venom. “A little send-off,” he chuckled. “A dignified pay for a dignified man.”
Boll weevil grabbed a small crow bar from the bunch of tools lining the back wall. He worked it around the edges of the trap door, puffing and rushing wildly with enthusiasm, like a lunatic. He was eager to end this forsaken day, eager to get away from the colony. He drew a long breath and finally lifted the cellar door. The curfew in Port Roseway was a blessing—no one would be out at this hour. It would be clear sailing once the captives were in the wagon and secured. With the lamp in one hand and his gun in the other, he commenced the short climb down into the cellar.
The three Redmonds sat quietly. Fortune was ready, his dragoon loaded and pointed at the top of the steps. He stared, wondering which man was approaching. A foot hit the first step, then the second. Fortune was biding his time, hesitating to fire until he at least knew who he was dealing with. The stranger stepped slowly, cautiously, off the third step, the fourth and fifth.
With the lamp he carried casting a dim light, the man peered into the blackness below. He strained to make out the forms, listened for breathing. He kept descending, carefully planting his right foot on the sixth step. As his left foot came slowly down on the last step, the strip of cotton caught his ankle and he tumbled and hit the frozen ground. The air was heavy with the smell of whale oil from the lamp, but the flame held. He let out a loud, lengthy groan and then, losing consciousness, lay in a silent heap.
Fortune’s hand shook. Strange whimpers emerged from his lips as his anguish withdrew.
Lydia picked up the lamp and held it to the man’s face. “It be Boll weevil,” she gasped.
Fortune scooped up the rope from the floor and tied Boll weevil’s hands and feet. He untied the rag from the stairs and stuffed it in his pocket.
Upstairs, Lydia and Sarah warmed themselves beside the stove while Fortune secured the trap door. They stood in stunned silence as though the whole world had fallen into the shadowy Atlantic deeps.
“Boll weevil … he … he … killed Cecil,” Grandmother finally stammered.
“Will Boll weevil be all right?” Sarah asked.
“He is dazed from the fall. He should come around,” Fortune said. “We best make our way home while it’s still dark and no one is about.”
“We can’t leave yet,” Lydia said. “I got one more piece of business. Cecil had my Certificates of Freedom, Fortune.” Their eyes connected and held. “I ain’t leaving till I find my papers. They are in a small brown pouch.”
“We got to hurry,” Fortune ordered.
They searched every container, drawer, nook and cranny. When after half an hour the papers did not surface, Lydia turned to Cecil’s body. She searched all of his pockets, but in vain. She staggered about and found an old rag behind the counter, wiped her blood-soaked hands and put the rag in the stove. She reached for the lamp and climbed the stairs to the loft. When she finally descended, there was a smile across her tired face. “We are done here,” she said. “We can go home.”
Eighteen
PORT ROSEWAY SHIVERED. THE NEWS OF CECIL’S DEATH engulfed the settlement in fear. Fuzzy details became solid facts as the gossip spread. Who could do such a terrible deed, the settlers wondered. How quickly they had dismissed the death of Isaac Haywood when his body was found in the Birchtown clearing, but the murder of one of their own, a prominent business man, had them all steaming like a pot of boiling soup.
Fortune paced back and forth. He could not rid himself of the fact that they left Boll weevil in the cellar. Nor could he forget the image of Cecil’s body lying on the cold wood floor. The man had stolen his mother’s certificates and had hired Boll weevil to kidnap them and take them to Boston. That much he understood. But why? Was it for the money and pride, as his mother insisted? She was guarding an important piece of information, another secret, and he wanted to know what it was and who she was protecting. She had not been herself this morning. He had never seen her so distraught. Getting to the truth would take more than one round of questioning with her.
When Lydia returned from her visit with Beulah, Fortune waited until she had swept the floor, put on some soup and made a pretence of ignoring him. He could tell that she was wound up, but this pressing mess could not wait. First he asked about Beulah—and found she was well—then about Prince, who by the sounds of it was getting stronger by the day. Then Fortune poured two tankards of tea and said, “Come and sit here at the table, Mama. We need to talk. There are things we must take care of and things that need saying.”
“Do you want to talk about Cecil?” she asked. “Everyone knows now. I hear the sheriff was at the store early this morning.”
“It’s not about him. We didn’t finish our talk last night. I don’t like secrets. I’d like to know who y
our child is in Roseway.”
“It’s not my right to spread her business.”
“If I have a sister, shouldn’t I know?” He reached over and held his mother’s hands.
“It’s not our place to get into her business.”
“Our place?” he asked. “Is that the problem? Staying in our place?”
The two stared at each other. In Fortune’s mind, all this worry about who was who and where you fit was pointless. He had seen and heard enough about race in the war. The fuss over skin was just foolishness to keep the races apart, to put one above the other. “Place,” he shouted. “Can this colony afford to worry about place when death waits to claim any one of us?”
“It’s the way folks think. I wish it didn’t have to be that way.”
Fortune laughed. “It didn’t matter about the skin when it came to breeding. No worries about the Negro’s blood then. No sir. Not then.” His eyes strayed to the fire. “How many drops do you think she has?” he snarled. “Reverend Ringwood says all the races come out of Africa so everyone has at least one drop of Negro blood.”
The old woman stared at Fortune. “He said that? Oh my Lord, ain’t that a yarn. Well, as far as I can see, Christians do not pay any attention to that. They make up their own rules. There is no loving the neighbour if the neighbour has a drop. Love is a poor person’s dream.”
“People believe such nonsense about race, and Cecil, well, he just hated most everyone. I saw the way he treated you. Oh, Mama, I am not blaming you. You had to obey him or lose your life. I could see that you were afraid of him. We all were. I understood how slavery worked.”
“There’s no need for you to fret over this, son. This is not your concern.”
“We are free now, Mama. Cecil is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
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