I have concluded that Fortune Redmond is guilty of … neither murder nor robbery. Fortune Redmond, you are free to go. This case is dismissed.
Justice Moody struck the bench with one thunderous blow of the gavel. He rose and turned to face Lydia, Sarah and Enos. He nodded and left the courtroom by the back door.
No one stirred for several seconds. The onlookers were numb and bewildered. It was Fortune who first rose to his feet. Within minutes, the sheriff had removed Fortune’s irons and chains, and he hobbled to his mother, lifting her from the chair and hugging her passionately. Sarah watched, thinking that at any moment her heart would stop.
The Negroes outside stood stock-still when the magistrate’s carriage flew past them in a cloud of dust. A group of them immediately burst into the courtroom and, upon learning that Fortune was innocent, raised him to their shoulders.
Outside, the whites wandered about, restless and impatient, perplexed by the sudden departure of the magistrate. Their anger rode high on a wave of smugness. Their confidence in a favourable verdict — one that found the Negro guilty and that would put Negroes in their old place — showed in their faces and slid from their tongues. “This will teach them,” a rough-looking man shouted. “He’ll hang by nightfall and we’ll drink to that.” All were ready for a celebration but for the few who stood together off to the side of the road praying for sanity and compassion. The remaining Negroes waited patiently, barely uttering a sound. Fear was their master, striking them hard with a vicious sting. They wept, not just for Fortune, but also for themselves. They waited quietly, drowning in wild emotions and watching the rowdy crowd carefully, knowing it was a dangerous animal that could lash out at any second.
When Fortune came through the courthouse doors carried on the throne of shoulders, the Negroes stood transfixed for several seconds. Could this mean he was free, an innocent man? It didn’t take them long to figure it out, and when they did, they let loose and filled the air with rejoicing. Their laughing, singing and dancing in gratitude brought many to the ground. It was a spectacle that the residents of Port Roseway would remember for a very long time. For the Negroes, it was a happy, unforeseen ending to a very bad dream and a wonderful taste of justice in their new country.
For their part, the Redmonds glowed. They walked with their heads elevated, not superior but proud. The hostile comments and flying debris could not shake their confidence. When Enos finally managed to gather them up, they sat in the back of his cart like heroes, smiles stretching from ear to ear. Fortune threw his hat to the wind and let out a lifetime of restraint in shouts. Enos sat tall and stiff on his seat like the grand master of a parade, leading the throng of revellers back to Birchtown to continue the celebration.
Twenty-three
THE RUN-IN WITH THE LAW HAD NOT SOURED FORTUNE, BUT he was disappointed that Boll weevil was still at large, with not a word surfacing about his whereabouts. At last, on April 3, 1785, the surveyors arrived and marked off but a handful of the remaining land grants for the squatters. The rest of the men in the Black Pioneers received their lots by rank, the same as the white folks, while the other squatters came last. The original land grant, now reduced in size because of the generous allotments to the white Loyalists, could not accommodate all the Negroes. Happily, Fortune got his.
Fortune scrutinized his rocky plot in Birchtown with disbelief. The one hundred acres promised had dwindled to fifty. In spite of that, he convinced the surveyor to measure off two ten-acre lots from his grant so that both Lydia and Sarah could share in his stake. Receiving any amount of land, he supposed, put them among the lucky. From squatters to landowners—their dreams were coming true.
Every day presented a face-off between endurance and defeat. Nothing made him angrier or destroyed his confidence more than feeling betrayed and desperate. He was not alone. All the poor settlers were without their needed provisions. Upon arrival, the Royal Bounty of Provisions had filled two storehouses on Commissary Island, close to the shores of Roseway. Thousands of pounds of flour, bread, pork, beef, rice, vinegar, oatmeal, butter and countless gallons of molasses and rum had been brought in and distributed as rations, but the demand soon outstripped the supply as greedy individuals, able to pay for supplies, took from those in need. The bounty of provisions, extended twice, was now restricted to a few and reduced to one-third rations to the people who settled on farmland and improved it—but it was too late. It had taken so long to receive the land that it could not be cultivated in time to feed anyone. Requests to the king asked for two more years of provisions.
The promise of prosperity was now a joke. Birchtown was thinning as the crushing weight of poverty drove folks away. Some of the residents fled to other parts of Canada or back to the American colonies. Some talked of finding a way back to Africa. Fortune’s resolve was strong. He refused to leave. What he had was just enough. After all, what had he known but a hard day’s work, one pair of shoes, raggedy overalls and two squares a day? He had as much here and more. The Birchtowners who stayed sank to scrounging, begging, re-making items or putting up with what they had. Every day the number of deserted shacks added to the increasing despair. Some folks roamed from place to place looking for work or liquor, whichever came first.
Fortune knew that his soil was poor, and without proper tools and good seeds, his crops would be undersized and the hay sparse. He had one old ox, a horse, four cows and a few chickens. It was not much, but as Lydia said, “It keeps the wolf from the door.” He often walked the surveyor’s lines. He delighted in knowing his property stretched beyond the horizon. It felt vast. He found joy in being able to work the land, in shaping it, nurturing it and claiming it. To him, it was not just land, it was his land. All of it was his: the trees, the fields, the swamps and the rocks.
He thought of Beulah often. Prince had been the lucky one, assigned to breed her right off. Though he longed for her himself, Fortune made sure the other men kept away from her. That was before Dahlia came along. But now there was a chance and he might try testing the waters. He was ready to move forward and a partner would make life sweeter.
For her part, Beulah was getting better with each passing day, finding her will to step away from the past. And so on this sunny April day, he set out to Beulah’s with a wide grin on his face. He found her sweeping the floor. She greeted him shyly, pulling the rag from around her head and smoothing the front of her ragged dress.
Fortune handed her a bag. “I brought you a beef heart. It’s not much.”
“Thank you, Fortune. Care to sit for a spell?”
“I don’t mind if I do.” He lifted Prince from the floor and tickled his chin.
“I got a pot on. Just beans. Stay for supper?”
Fortune looked at the small black pot hanging over the fire. “I’m thankful for whatever you have. We are lucky to have a pot.”
“That we are.”
“It must be hard, you being on your own with a son to raise. Are you lonely, Beulah?”
“Is that pity I hear in your voice?”
“No, no. It’s just that I care about you.” There, he thought, something simple, a start. But his next words had no time to form. The door to Beulah’s shack flew open with a heavy kick. Both sets of eyes went to the plump white man standing on the wobbly step, a rifle pointed inside at them.
“I’m looking for the Negro, William Hampton, a runaway servant from Roseway.”
Beulah snatched Prince from Fortune and held him tight. “There’s no runaway here!” she screamed.
“Step to the side while I look about this hole.”
Fortune jumped to his feet. He thought of the dragoon in his boot, but quickly changed his mind, saying, “We have nothing to hide. Go ahead and look and then leave us in peace.”
The man stepped inside the one-room shack and glanced about. Satisfied with finding no one, he walked to the door saying, “You people have no regard for the law. Harbour
ing a runaway will mean a hanging. Just letting you know.”
“Wicked, wicked,” Fortune said, after the man left. “They hunt us like foxes. They want every ounce of blood in us if we do wrong.”
Beulah brought tea to the table and sat down across from Fortune. He looked at her and felt what he thought was affection. “As I was saying before we were stormed, I care about you Beulah. I am thinking of taking a wife, if you would have me.”
“Good Lord. I cannot think about being a wife or having more babies. I am done with that kind of aching. I had my share. It would take a deep love to change my mind.”
Fortune was confused. He wanted to get on with living and could make no sense of her reaction. This courting business, could he ever get used to it? In slavery, breeding was the reason for mating. Was she saying that love was now the purpose? To his way of thinking, it was simple: A good man and a good woman got together. Love was a luxury in a place desperate for the basics of life. Did love matter when you were destitute, wanting just the warmth of a body to share your bed, a good woman to share the load? It wasn’t that she hadn’t caught his eye and it wasn’t that he didn’t want her company, but refusing him based on love alone when she was having it so hard … He scratched his head, trying hard to understand Beulah’s hesitation. He said softly, “I wish I knew how to make this right. You mean the world to me. I have a job on the new road to Annapolis and soon I’ll have enough to start a small farm. It is not much, but you and my nephew are welcome to it. I will be good to you. That I guarantee.”
Beulah was anxious and trembling. She could not explain why she felt the way she did, other than her heart was empty. She faced Fortune now and looked at him intently. Her mind was drifting back to Prince. That had been a good match. They had found happiness. Neither she nor he had known much about marriage, but it came easy in their short time together. Sometimes, late at night, she would think of all the things they were going to do to make their dreams ripen sweet—and then he was gone. “You have been so kind these past months. I could not have survived without your help. I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”
The tears welled up in Fortune’s eyes. His throat was tight.
Outside the wind was blowing, howling like the pain in his heart. He longed to tell her that he ached for her, that life could be sweet if she wanted it to be.
A FEW WEEKS AFTER FORTUNE’S VISIT WITH BEULAH, HE came to realize how true it was that life could come at you hard. Lydia had turned in early after a busy day. Fortune was watching Sarah hem a dress when Fibby opened the door after two faint taps. She was grim-faced and puffing. She held Prince Junior in her arms and a large sack on her back. They looked at her in alarm.
Sarah went to the door, taking the child and handing him to Fortune, then taking the sack and placing it on the cot. Fortune looked at the woman and immediately he sensed the grief in her eyes. It was unlike her to venture out by herself in the darkness.
After she joined them at the table, Fortune said, “What brought you here with Prince at this hour?” He was already assuming there would be bad news.
“I brought the boy to you because I didn’t know what else to do,” she mumbled.
“What do you mean, Fibby? What on earth has happened?” Sarah asked quietly.
“Beulah got sick.” Fibby said. “I tried to save her. I tried. I thought she would get better, but the cholera took her. You know it is raging through the colony, taking us down fast, showing no mercy. She was sick only for a few hours. Went into shock … she couldn’t move or speak and then … just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers, “she was gone. I would have come sooner, but I could not leave her in that state. She passed but a few hours ago.”
“It’s all right,” Fortune said, wiping his eyes on a rag he pulled from his pocket. “You were her friend. We thank you for caring for her and brother Prince and the babies.”
“What’s all the chatter out here?” Lydia asked, appearing from behind the canvas sheeting and bundled in several heavy sleeping gowns and a nightcap. “What’s happened?” she asked.
“Beulah passed this evening,” Fibby said. “Cholera.”
Grandmother fell back against Sarah’s chair. She looked from one to the other and shook her head. “It doesn’t seem right. Prince and Destiny, now Beulah … gone. One by one, the hunger, filth and strange diseases are taking us. What is this juju that shows no mercy? What’s to become of the rest of us?”
Sarah held onto Grandmother’s arm and let the tears flow down her cheeks.
After some time, Lydia said goodnight to Fortune, Fibby and Sarah, kissed little Prince, and made her way to the back room. Her sobs were loud and without let-up.
“Don’t worry, she will be alright,” Fortune said.
Fibby turned and made her way to the door. “I wrapped her up as best I could … Beulah. She is at the hut waitin’ on burial. I’ll stay there overnight. Tomorrow, you come by and do the rest.”
“We will be there in the morning,” Fortune said, pushing back the lump in his throat.
“I hated to bring bad news. You tell Prince that his mama loved him and his papa, too. Tell him every day. And now ol’ Fibby has to get going.”
Twenty-four
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL AND JOYFUL JUNE SATURDAY. WILD cherry and apple blossoms sweetened the air with a dream-like potion. Sarah and Fortune were out in the yard slicing the eyes off sprouted potatoes, getting ready for the spring planting. Prince, now nine months, babbled away, watching from a small seat made from black ash by a local Mi’kmaq.
Fortune scanned the ploughed field. It was far from a perfect job with the crooked rows and clumps of hard sods. Breaking the ground had been a backbreaking task with a horse and a dull, homemade plough made from scraps of metal. The rocks were unforgiving under the thin soil and there was no knowing if the weather would cooperate during the short growing season.
Sarah was in good spirits. Two jobs kept her busy — one during weekdays at the school and the other on Saturdays at Mrs. Cunningham’s home. She thought of Reece less frequently. He had been gone since February and time had slowly eroded the earlier feverish feelings. Like a smouldering fire, she was confident the desire would flame again when he returned.
“Hello, Fortune. Hello, Sarah. It’s a great day for sorting seed!” Mr. Cunningham roared as he flicked his whip and sped by in the carriage.
Fortune gave a shout back, “Aye, it is,” and waved.
It was not long before Grandmother came to the door and let out a holler. “Come in! Mr. Cunningham left us a trunk.”
“A trunk. I cannot believe it. Come on, Papa. Let’s go see,” Sarah yelled.
“Likely it’s all women’s things. No need for me to go. I’ll finish up here.”
Sarah hurried, skipping like a child wild with excitement.
“The Cunninghams always think of us,” said Grandmother. “I heard the supply ships were on their way. Oh Lord, everyone wants a trunk from the British missionaries. I bet everyone flocked to the wharf in Roseway. I never thought we would ever see one.”
Grandmother threw back the lid. Such beautiful things: bedding, dishes, shoes, skirts, blouses, men’s breeches and shirts. That was not all. Sarah reached into the black trunk and pulled out a red wad of chintz. Her jaw fell. With fine detailing, puffed sleeves and a flared skirt that spread out like an inverted bowl in perfectly even gathers around the waist, it was no ordinary dress. The seams were practically invisible and the stitches regular and delicate. She held the dress to her shoulders and looked down the full length. In an instant, it came to her. Dresses such as this were difficult for the women of Roseway to get. She thought about ol’ Briggs, the man who made the clothing at the Redmonds. How she had helped cut the fabric and sew the pieces. She loved watching yards of cloth become wonderful garments. It came to her that she could create lovely dresses to wear to the weddings, embroidery parties, coff
ee houses and literary meetings. A Port Roseway tailor.
Grandmother was less enthusiastic after hearing the plan. When Sarah held the dress up and proclaimed it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, the old woman looked at it as though it was blasphemous. “That’s not a dress for us to wear,” she scowled.
Sarah squared her shoulder and gritted her teeth. “We have just as much right to feel grand. We are worthy.”
So harsh was Sarah’s tone that Grandmother stood silent for a moment. “I know how the dress makes you feel, Chile.” She chomped down hard on the end of her pipe. She was not about to let Sarah off easy. “But red brings trouble.”
Sarah’s eyes flashed. The idea of red bringing trouble was no more than a superstition. She remembered how the slaves wore clothing of the brightest colours to defy such notions. She smiled. How good it felt to forget so many old beliefs and wondered why Grandmother held on to them.
“Trouble finds us no matter what colour we wear. We may as well save it the time and the effort.”
“You could be right about that.” Grandmother let out a soft turkey chuckle.
Sarah snatched up the dress and whisked it away to tuck safely into a trunk at the foot of her bed, leaving the lid ajar. She sat on her bunk staring at the red roll. She hoped Birchtowners were ready because she intended to go out in the dress, attend a dance or two, maybe turn some heads.
Grandmother approached and stood beside the bed until Sarah looked at her. “One of these days, you will understand why all of the things I say can put your life in danger. You got to watch every step. There’s always someone ready to strike. I know there are times when you think I don’t want you to enjoy yourself, but that’s not why I say these things.”
“Then why, Grandmother?”
“Because I want to protect you, Sarah, to keep you safe from all the hardship I’ve seen. You and Fortune mean the world to me. I guess I worry too much.”
Chasing Freedom Page 14