Chasing Freedom

by Gloria Ann Wesley

  Sarah held the water to her parched mouth only to watch her barely swallow it. She knelt on the floor beside the bunk. There was a dullness in the old woman that was unfamiliar. Sarah searched her eyes for signs of hope. What she saw was troubling.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What is troubling you? Is there something more I can do, some way to comfort you?” She wondered what was so heavy on the old woman’s mind that she could not speak it.

  Grandmother forced her head up on the thin pillow and sipped a tiny bit of water. Her scratchy voice came in weak spurts, “I got to make … my peace with God. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Sarah replied.

  Grandmother spoke again and her words formed a plea. “Where is Fortune? Can you get your Papa, please?” The old woman spoke with an unsettling urgency. “There is something I got to tell him.”

  “Papa is out at the woodpile. I’ll get him.”

  After Fortune took his place in the chair beside his mother’s bed, pulling off his cap and hanging it on his knee, he said simply, “I’m here, Mama.”

  The old woman turned to Fortune, squinting. She stretched upright on her elbows. “I’m so glad that you found us, Fortune.” She opened her eyes wider. Her words evened out. “I never told you this before, but you surely are a blessing and, oh Lord, I need you now, son. I got to make this journey to Glory with pride, without any regrets. I got to gather my children now. I got to try.”

  Grandmother’s eyes strayed from Fortune’s face. She looked towards the light streaming through the thin canvas draping. “It is true. I was keeping things from you, waiting on the right chance. Oh the guilt and shame I felt over the loss of my children. It seemed like some evil spell stole my life.” She slowed, taking deep breaths. “I did not want the burden on no one but myself. The time has come to speak the truth … all of it.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it now, Mama. Sometimes the past is best forgotten and things left alone.”

  “Fortune, you have to listen to me, now. I must get it all said. I have to stop waiting on time. Time is running out.”

  He brought the chair closer to the bed. The time had finally come for the telling, “the freeing of the soul,” the slaves called it. Fortune wished Reverend Ringwood was there, but he was not about to suggest that.

  And so, between catching her breath and the raspy coughing, Lydia unfolded her sad story. So many births, too many to count for a breeding slave. Most of the babies had died, leaving her with five children. Boll weevil and Cecil had guarded her newborns like soldiers, one of their jobs being to decide when the children would go to sale. They would cart the babies and children off like cattle to auction. Some remained to learn skills or work the fields. She recalled how Cecil took the three light babies, saying she had no right to them.

  She assured Fortune that she had kept her promise and spoken with Margaret Cunningham. It was all out in the open now, how Cecil had sold her back to Master Redmond to bring up as a Redmond. She told them too about Amelia and another son who had been taken. And when her head fell back on the pillow, with not an ounce of breath left, both Fortune and Sarah felt her sadness right to their core.

  Fortune showed no evidence of surprise. Looking at his mother, he said gently, “Well. Margaret Cunningham. The secret is out at last. It all makes sense. It wasn’t hard to figure out after thinking about it. I heard the fondness in your voice when you spoke of her. One time ol’ Tally, the wood carver, told me the slaves were marking their daughters with the rings he carved. It sure did raise my curiosity when I saw Margaret’s ring, just like yours. Well, mama, I’m happy for all of us. It’s what you have prayed for, to bring your family together.”

  “Here in Scotia we can put this family back together. We can know our real kin. There’s no shame in that.”

  “There is no shame in that,” Fortune repeated. He paused. She had kept the secret for so long. Pride and guilt, he thought, it stole her joy all these years. If only he had found the courage to say something when he first suspected, when he wondered where the babies went, when he saw the creamy tint in Margaret Cunningham’s skin and his mother’s attention to her. No matter, you can’t change the past, but you can enjoy the moment. He kissed his mother on the cheek and grinned, “It feels good to know she’s one of us.”

  “Son, I can’t rest until I know what happened to my other children, my boy and my girl.” She looked away, her bones telling her there was only a little time left to do anything.

  “Do you have any idea of what became of them?”

  “The girl stayed with the Redmonds for awhile, a playmate for Margaret, and then she was sold to Mr. Pinkham. I let him do that, Fortune! Let him sell my child without a word. Oh, Lord, please forgive ol’ Lydia.”

  Fortune reached for her hands and rubbed them gently. “You could not stop it. Cecil would have beaten you … or worse.”

  “One day she came back to Master Redmond’s, grown, almost a woman. I wanted to mark her like I did Margaret, but there was no time for ol’ Tally to make a ring. Oh, Fortune, I pray that I will see her again!”

  “I wish there was something I could do.”

  Grandmother let out a long sigh. Her bedclothes were soaked and her lips dry.

  According to Chance, the local healing woman, Lydia had pneumonia. How long she had to live was anyone’s guess. Each day an endless parade of well-wishers descended upon the little cabin. Margaret came to sing a round of hymns, bathe her mother and help change her gowns. She said it was strange how the tables had turned. It was her turn now to look after dear Lydia, just as the old woman had looked after her. Having dragged on for over two weeks, the sickness finally cleared, but Lydia remained weak and bedridden.

  When finally she regained enough strength, Lydia called Fortune to her bedside once again. “I believe that Amelia is in Scotia. Margaret has told me she found the Pinkham name in one of the books listing the military men who came here. The Pinkhams headed to Yarmouth shortly after they arrived. Her name is likely Amelia Pinkham. This is the only lead Margaret has. I have to try to find a way to contact her and tell her this ol’ woman needs to see her one more time.”

  “Don’t fret, Mama. If she is in Nova Scotia, I’ll find her. I will do my best. What about the boy? Do you know where he is?”

  “I kept the boy but a short time. He looked so much like Margaret when he was born. That Cecil, I believe he knew where he was, but he would not tell me. I have searched every mulatto face in Birchtown, but I can’t say for sure that he is here.”

  Fortune said, “Asking questions is trouble, but I’ll stir the pot to see what I find.”

  Fortune’s eyes clouded. He stood out in the fresh air, taking a break from chopping wood, and scanned the land, thinking of how far they had come since Carolina. He was grateful. They were finally landowners. Sarah could read and write. Prince Jr. was doing fine. Mama had realized part of her dream with the reconciliation with Margaret.

  For some reason, the idea of going back into the past made him anxious. Fortune picked up the axe, brought it down hard and buried it in a thick block of hardwood. His worry now was how Amelia would react to being found. Oddly, it was not just light-skinned ones who were afraid to acknowledge their mixed heritage; many Negroes were running away from their past and their families. The colony was wading in a flood of shame and frightening memories that made talking about slavery difficult. Neither did the white folks acknowledge their role in the horrible practice, though it was ingrained on their tongues and minds, like a permanent scar. They were all acting like a little time could wipe the slate clean with no side effects. It made not an ounce of sense to Fortune. It was to him like holding onto another secret of which no good or peace could come. He prayed Amelia’s reaction would not be one of the remaining barbs in his mother’s crown. Misgivings aside, Fortune vowed to honour his mother’s wish. That was all he could do — give
an old woman a promise to help her make peace with herself and God.

  After supper, Fortune lit a candle and placed it on the table. He looked at Sarah and said, “Can you write a letter for me?”

  Sarah went to the trunk and got some paper, a quill and black ink.

  “Okay, Babygirl. This letter is to go to my old friend, Fred, down in Yarmouth. We served together in the Pioneers. He worked on the Pinkham plantation, so address it to Fred Pinkham. Tell him I need a favour. Ask if he can find an Amelia Pinkham.” He scratched his head, wondering what to say next. “Write out a special message for Amelia and put it in the letter to Fred. Tell her that we have need of her … tell her that she has a very sick mama.” His words were thick and burdened with soreness. “Tell her to come to Birchtown as soon as possible. Remember to put it separate with her name on it.” He finished by saying, “I would sent it by pony express, but it might take too long. I will see if I can find a boat heading to Yarmouth in the morning and someone willing to take it.”

  Fortune watched as Sarah wrote the letter. Her writing amused him. “Babygirl,” he said, “Grandma’s life has been a long journey burdened with the kind of misery we can’t even imagine, though we seen a lot. We got to send her off happy. We got to pray.” Sarah bowed her head. Fortune turned his face upward. “Sweet Lord.” he said. “The one who the pastor said delivered Moses out of Egypt, the one who delivered us up to Birchtown, I am asking for a little time to see this through, before Mama is delivered up to Glory. We put our faith in you. Amen.”

  Twenty-seven

  IT WAS MONDAY, JULY 19, 1785, WHEN REECE JOHNSON stepped off the schooner Julie Anne, in Port Roseway. The port was hectic with several schooners tied up and men unloading fish, molasses, dry goods and rum from the West Indies for the King’s Bounty and shops. The air smelled of mud flats and fish and rang with loud chatter and laughter. By luck Reece came across Enos loading his cart with fresh cod.

  “Are you going to Birchtown?” Reece asked.

  “That is where I’m headed, lad.”

  “A lift would be much appreciated.”

  “Hop aboard. Just one more barrel to fill. You come from afar, did you?”

  “All the way from Carolina.”

  “I believe I’ve seen you before.”

  “No doubt. I have a little place in Birchtown.”

  “Yes, yes.” What is your name again?”

  “Reece Johnson.”

  “Well, well. Carolina you say. It sure must have changed since the war.”

  “The name has changed from Charles Town to Charleston. They are rebuilding parts of the city and plantations. It is a far busier place, for sure, than when we left.”

  “Folks can’t leave anything alone, always changing everything,” Enos said. “Port Roseway is called Shelburne now, but most of the people refuse to call it that. Stuck on the old name, I guess.” He climbed up on his make-shift bench in the wagon. “I’m through here. Giddy-up, Doris,” he shouted, then continued, “Did the war change anything in those parts?”

  “Not much, Sir. The land still sweats its tobacco, rice, indigo and cotton. The port was busy with the hustle and bustle of merchants, planters and slaves, all making it a wealthy place. There’s nothing but a sea of black with so many Negro slaves. They say they are equal to the population of the white folks or greater. There’s a growing concern over the slaves.”

  “I knew that was coming. What are they fired up about now?”

  “There’s a lot of talk about creating new laws, the Slave Codes of South Carolina. That much has not changed as far as I could tell—how to control the Negro, keep him as chattel with no rights, keep him from mixing with them and now fearing them as rivals for jobs.”

  “Oh yes. Fear is the rich man’s tool all right. The war set many of the slaves free. Surely those who are free have it easier.”

  “It’s dangerous for free Negroes and worse for the slaves. There is no real freedom yet, though the air was thick with talk. You know the war got everyone talking about slavery. The newcomers from Europe need to work. The abolitionists do not see the jobs as just slave’s work. Nor do they approve of selling the Negro against his will. Their ideas are met with hatred.”

  “Oh, slavery will die in time. Birchtowners talk about having their freedom, but a Negro still has to fear the laws and the hateful conduct and attitudes. Be careful, lad. Free is a double-edged sword. The slave catchers followed us here to reclaim lost property. You could be going back before you know it.”

  “Ah, Enos, a Negro spends his life trying to avoid the quicksand.”

  “And bad women,” Enos laughed.

  The cart slowly jogged along the road and headed out to Birchtown. “Which end of Birchtown are you be headed to, lad?”

  “Out the road to Lydia Redmond’s place.”

  “Lydia’s place, ah?” He snapped a short whip. “Giddy-up, Doris.”

  “I suppose not much has happened since I left in January,” Reece said.

  “Well, let me see now. Folks are leaving faster than they are coming in now. It is thinning out. And then there was Fortune Redmond’s trial a while back.”

  “Trial? What happened?”

  “Well, I imagine you knew Cecil MacLeod, the one who owned the store. Murdered. Fortune was a suspect. The judge let him go because they found Boll weevil Carter, the slave catcher, with the knife that killed Cecil. Boll weevil, well, the sheriff had let him go because he seemed a little crazy, and the man skipped town. Folks are still talking ’bout how lucky it was for a Negro to receive that kind of justice. They still cannot believe it. I was there in the courtroom when the case was dis … dis …”

  “Dismissed?”

  “Yes, that be it. Folks had poor Fortune hanging, but it wasn’t to be.”

  The cart jogged down a side path lined with thick bushes and trees. The smell of sweet pine and smoke from the shacks blotted away the strong fish odour from the barrels in the wagon. Enos made five stops before saying, “We’ll head over to Lydia’s now.”

  When Enos pulled up beside Lydia’s step, he said with sadness, “Lydia’s off her feet. She is doing poorly. I hear she ain’t got long! I am going to miss the dear ol’ soul. There is no one here like Lydia. I’ll have to drop by soon.”

  Reece took a deep breath, jumped down from the cart and said, “Thanks for the lift, Enos. I’ll do you a turn one day.”

  “We had a long yarn, didn’t we? Give Lydia my best wishes.”

  IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON WHEN SARAH PULLED OUT A box from under her bed with the intention of sorting through the thread, buttons, ribbons and odd bits of cloth she and Grandmother had been collecting for their quilt. A gentle tapping on the door startled her and thoughts came rushing back of the night her father returned. The tapping came again just as she was making her way around Prince, who was happily rocking on a horse her father had made from wood. “Oh, Lord, my hair,” she drawled and flung a small white bonnet on her head before answering the door.

  She cracked the door and stepped back in amazement. He looked much the same, only thinner. She waited before speaking in hopes that her emotions would take hold— force her to cry out his name, fling herself at him, something. She was surprisingly empty and there were no emotions to guide her next words. When they did come, they were not at all with the fervour she had imagined. “Reece. It’s good to see you. Come in. It has been a long time,” she said with the excitement of receiving an old friend. Guilt kept her from looking Reece in the face, forced her to deny it was Thomas Cooper she longed to see come through the door.

  She had not changed much, perhaps in height and in some places a little weight. Reece noticed more than anything her discomfort, but the cool welcome did not bother him. He expected to find her a little distant—as he was, what with the news he was about to deliver, news that would alter everything. To avoid telling her, he had even th
ought about staying away for good, but returning was the honourable thing to do. A man kept his word! Besides, his news needed telling to make things right.

  The awkward silence was difficult to bear. He watched her scurry about, fussing with Prince and setting the table with a confidence and maturity he had not seen before. He waited until Sarah had bread, scanty vegetable soup and tea in front of him before he said, “Enos told me that Lydia is not well.”

  “She has not been herself for awhile. When did you get back?” she asked.

  “Today. Enos was at the wharf and gave me a lift. I came straight here.”

  “He must have greased the wheels on the cart! There was no squawking today. I’m surprised he and Doris are not deaf from the noise.”

  They laughed. The air felt thinner now.

  Sarah asked, “Did you find Rose?”

  “Yes, eventually. It took a long time to trace through records of slave sales. She was on a large farm in Kentucky.” He looked at Sarah kindly, knowing that his news would come slowly now, piece by piece.

  “Did she know you?”

  “No, she did not. I was a child when she last saw me. She is old and worn out. The poor old soul had too many babies, one every year and several at a time to suckle. Her memory is not what it used to be. She hobbles along with her stomach, back and feet giving her torment and she still must earn her keep. The one blessing is that there are fewer chores expected of her.”

  “Were you able to find out anything about your childhood from her?”

  “It took awhile. I had to paint a picture to jog her memory, take her mind back to the Redmond plantation. Take her back to the night she received a baby from Cecil MacLeod to tend. She never forgot the Redmond overseer. That ‘son-of-a-one-toothed demon,’ she called him. At first she couldn’t remember where the child came from, but then she recalled he mentioned a slave by name.”