“Judge Smithfield was extremely harsh. From what I hear, Ramsey’s gang cornered him in the back room. I believe that he gave in to their demands. I would wager that being a newly appointed judge, he felt pressured, but he’s paid to uphold the law, not bitterness.” Margaret spoke with a bitterness of her own.
Thomas looked at Sarah. “We have six days,” he said. “Perhaps we can get his decision overturned by another judge, one more respectful of the law. We need a plan.”
“You leave this to us, Sarah. Trust us,” Margaret said.
Sarah stared down at the little woman. She was a mighty force in Roseway, organizing events, helping the poor and now she was preparing to take on the arrogant stiff-necks of power. She was firm in her resolve, fearless and confident, but Sarah understood that she was up against a force mightier than the king’s army. She glanced away and said, “It’s of no use.”
“I will not let them do this to you, Sarah.” Her tone was rigid and her face fierce. “We will find Justice Moody. He is hearing cases at this end of the colony. The people will not influence him.”
Papa pressed his hands against his face. “If I could trade places with you, Babygirl, I would. How could they do this to you? How in God’s name can this be justice?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah said, “but Mama did not give in when she was punished and neither will I. I will not be afraid. They can hurt my body, but they cannot hurt my spirit.”
“They got no cause. No cause.”
“It is the poison, Papa. That is what makes it right in their eyes.”
Fortune turned to Margaret Cunningham. “Judge Moody was fair in my case, but do you really think he would help us?”
“We can try, Fortune. I will get Fibby to stay with mother and Prince. Fortune, you and I will go to Yarmouth, even up to Digby, if we have to. Thomas, since you have to work, you can organize a petition in Birchtown. Get as many as you can to sign it. If folks cannot write, you print their names and get them to put their ‘x’ beside it.”
“It’s not over yet, Sarah,” Thomas said, holding Sarah’s face in his hands. “We are going to be busy, working on getting you out of here. You must stay strong. Do not give up.”
When they were gone, Sarah sat on the long bench twisting her hair. The whipping would be a show, like when Big Cain juggled the seven gourds and everyone gathered with their mouths hung open, amused with wonder. If only this show could be so joyful. She was the seven gourds that would dazzle the crowd, only the awes and thrills would come from the worst of human instincts, the thirst for another’s blood. She inhaled deeply, then again and again.
Thirty-one
IT WAS EARLY MORNING, AUGUST 21, THE DAY OF THE whipping. The long days had dragged by for Sarah without a word from Margaret Cunningham or her papa. She awakened to an aching back and the sound of rain pounding heavily on the roof. Sleeping had been close to impossible in a room full of strangers on a hard, narrow bunk. She was exhausted. The remnants of her courage were fading fast. She realized that her destiny was in a race against time. What, in such a short time, could her papa and Margaret accomplish?
Praying became part of her daily routine to remain strong and hopeful. She wondered if fear had kept the Birchtowners away. There had been but three visitors. Thomas faithfully came by each day after work with updates on the petition. It was proving difficult to get signatures. Either the Birchtowners were scared of retaliation in the form of violence or loss of work, or they believed it would not do any good. To Sarah’s surprise, Reece came by twice. It was comforting to hear him say that he supported her right to defend herself. He wanted her to know that he had visited his mother several times and that, in Fibby’s care, she was holding on. The wait to hear from Amelia was keeping her strong. The third visitor was Priscilla Hayward. She came by, she said, to express sadness over such a crime against her friend. Though her sentiments felt genuine, she did not leave without letting it be known that she had finally caught Reece’s attention. Happiness to them both, Sarah thought. They deserve it.
Noon came quickly and still there was no news from Papa and Margaret. Her stomach was about to explode when the keeper arrived with a plate of stew and tea. The gravy was cold and thick with a nasty scum, the bread was hard, not cut but torn from a loaf, and the tea cold. More pig slop, she thought, as hunger forced her to approach the table. In the end, she could not eat. She sat on the bench staring at the wall, the butterflies in her stomach caught up in a hurricane.
When the bailiff came, he stood with his face in a mocking grin. “Half an hour remaining,” he said. Sarah’s head felt heavy. She pictured herself tied to the whipping post before the jeering crowd. She thought of all the times Cecil had called the slaves from their work to witness some type of miserable act: the removal of a limb, a hanging or a whipping. She thought of her mother and that gave her courage. She would show them the willpower a slave could muster in the face of pain. She would not scream and she would not tremble! She closed her eyes and felt her brain do a dance of sorts. There was no way to track the time, but the hour was looming. What had become of Papa and Margaret? Where was Thomas? Had they been successful in finding Justice Moody or anyone who might believe her innocence and keep her from this punishment?
It was fifteen minutes before the hour when she heard the keys clang as the sheriff unlocked the door. He led her in chains down muddy King Street. Without her coat, she shivered as the biting cold of nerves nipped her courage. Her hope for salvation was retreating, but she walked queenly with her back straight to the rhythm of the clinking shackles around her ankles. She focused on the end of her ordeal now, rather than the beginning. He took her down Water Street to a spot the locals called Stanhope Hill. The whipping post stood like a crucifix. She saw Reece and Priscilla at the front of the crowd. Enos was there, too. The three were rigid, expressionless, and she turned away.
At the whipping post, the sheriff said, “Step up to the pole. Turn your back to the crowd.” He freed her hands.
She heard the loud jeers and slurs about Negroes, the name-calling and threats. Despite the apples and eggs that pelted her, she looked directly into the crowd before turning and retreating into herself. In these last minutes, she did not beg for compassion as she had seen slaves do, for she knew such wickedness did not know mercy. She stood erect and defiant.
A man wearing a black suit, black gloves and a three-cornered black hat greeted her with a quick nod. In his right hand, a whip curled like a serpent. His long white hair hung beneath the hat and framed his head like a fringe. Sarah turned her head and eyed him sharply. His eyes were barren. He was ready to perform his duty. He ordered her to remove her top garments. With her upper body exposed, her bare back facing outward, the sheriff tied her to the post with a rope.
She watched the whip unfold from his hand. The full length of it—six feet—fell to the ground. In a loud, ringing voice, the sheriff announced, “On the count of three … One,” he screamed.
Sarah murmured, “Do not scream.”
“Two.”
Sarah murmured, “Do not tremble.”
“Three.”
Sarah stiffened. The first blow came down with a whistle.
The onlookers gasped as their eyes followed the rise and fall of the long whip. It bit into her shoulder and opened her flesh. Bright red splatters of blood flew past her face. The blood running down her cold back felt like warm water. The pain was scorching hot.
After the first taste of blood, a spasm jarred the crowd, making them cringe and fall into an eerie silence. Sarah squeezed her eyes tight and held her breath. She stiffened and gritted her teeth as the sheriff skipped the countdown and yelled, “Two!”
Again, the whip danced, making a loud snap as it caught the air the second time. She waited in fear for the whip to strike and when it did, she sprang from the ground. Her blood sprayed in the air like water from a fountain.
The whip whis
tled again and circled around catching the wind for the third strike. “Three!” the sheriff screamed. The leather came down with a thud and she felt the burn of the rope on her wrists as she slid a few inches down the pole.
Thirty-seven to go, she thought. The rest of the lashes meant nothing now. She was already weak. Her mind was floating away. She was nearly unconscious, hearing, seeing and feeling little. The sound of the whip whirling high above her head was faint. The muted cries ringing out in the crowd came from a distance. They were blurry and she strained and forced herself to hear.
“Stop it. Stop the whipping.” And again, “Stop the whipping.” The voices were louder now, sharper, clearer. Was she dreaming? Was that Thomas’s voice?
Again the shouting came, “Stop this execution.” The crowd stirred and, to her ears, sounded like the hum of a world of bees.
Justice Moody screamed above the uproar. “Stop it, I say. My God, man, stop. It is by order of the magistrate. Stop this butchering.”
The man in black let the whip fall and asked, “Who be you to bring such an order?”
Justice Moody shouted, “I, Justice Moody, bring the order. It is an order from the Provincial Magistrate’s Office.”
The crowd swelled with noise and became unruly chaos. The sheriff raised his gun and fired twice. Justice Moody stepped forward and took the whip from the man’s hand. He then shouted at the top of his lungs, making a declaration to the crowd: “Due to an error, Justice Smithfield’s decision has been overturned. The accused, having undergone a wrongful conviction, will not undergo further punishment. Please go home now. Go about your business.”
The show was over and the onlookers made their way to the alehouses where both disappointment and relief manifested into a rowdy night of drunkenness and brawls.
The sheriff untied the rope and unchained Sarah’s feet. Her back and skirt were drenched in blood. After two steps, she keeled over and lay in a red puddle beside the whipping post. She could barely see Thomas when he took off his jacket and spread it around her shoulders. Fortune scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the wagon.
At first, the long, deep gashes would not stop weeping. Sarah lay quiet in her bed for three days suffering from the shock of her punishment. For weeks Margaret and Fibby took turns caring for the terrible lacerations, bathing them with wild herbs collected at the roadside and ointment from Mrs. MacLeod’s store. The lashes would leave scars, thick rides as tough as rolled leather, but by the third week, when she was feeling somewhat herself, she knew they would become reminders for when she needed strength and determination.
Thirty-two
“IT’S HERE! IT’S HERE!” FORTUNE WAVED THE LONG-AWAITED letter in the air. “I picked it up at the Pony Express office this morning. Go ahead,” he said, “read it.” Sarah eagerly ripped the letter open as Fortune pulled up a chair and listened intently.
September 8, 1785
My Dearest Fortune:
I wish to inform you that I received your letter. I am much relieved now that I know what has become of my mother. I plan to journey by boat from Yarmouth to Port Roseway on September 24, 1785. I should arrive mid-afternoon. I look forward to meeting my family members.
With affection,
Amelia Pinkham
“This is it.” Fortune said. “This is the last of her brood.”
“Should we share the news with her?” Sarah asked. “Or should we wait?”
“It might be too much excitement.” Fortune said, “Yet it amazes me how she remains so hopeful, even with death in search of her.”
“It’s her faith keeping her strong, Papa.”
“She has been like a shepherd gathering her flock. One last sheep to come to the fold. This blessing belongs to her and she will not be cheated out of it.”
It was just two days after receiving the letter that Fortune and Sarah, unable to keep the excitement to themselves, felt obligated to share the news. They stood at the old woman’s bedside announcing they had found Amelia and that she would be visiting soon. Grandmother lay still. She stared at Fortune a long time before she smiled and said, “All my children will know of their mama’s love.”
On the morning of September 24, the early sun unfolded through layers of pink and grey sky. It slowly released its warmth over Birchtown, promising a beautiful evening for a reunion. Fortune stood by his mother’s bed. “She’s going to be here today. Amelia’s on her way.” His deep voice slipped into a mellow sweetness. “I have to go to Port Roseway to meet her at the wharf.”
Grandmother struggled to raise her head. “Okay, I hear you.” She turned to Sarah. “Get my good nightdress, the one with the lace, and a pretty nightcap.” She bowed her head on her chest and murmured, “I’m counting on you, Lord.”
Sarah pulled the old woman’s hair back into a bun using the bone-handled brush. “You’re as pretty as a Carolina rose, Grandmother.”
“Come here, Sarah. Come sit a spell.” The old woman’s eyes were kind and they dazzled in shimmering amber. “I got something I need to say to you.” She paused and said, “I was blessed with a wonderful gift.”
“A gift?”
“Yes, Chile. You were the gift. You were mine as much as the rest, more like a dear daughter, a good friend. You and I and Fortune, we been through a lot together.”
“We have.”
“I want you to know that I heard about your troubles in Roseway.”
Sarah stared at Grandmother and sighed. “How did you know?”
“I could tell you were not yourself. You never came in to see me or sleep in the room. I tricked Fibby into telling me all the news. You know that Fibby. She could never keep a thing. I wished I could have been at the trial. I am proud of you, Sarah. You’ve got fire and you did good.”
“I tried to be strong, Grandmother.”
She took Sarah’s hand. “Do you see this black skin?” She ran her fingers up and down Sarah’s chestnut arm. “You love this skin because no one can love it the way you can.” She held Sarah’s eye for a long time. “Sometimes our voices, our hair, our features, they are not pleasing to others, but you love them. You love your wondrous self.” She was wheezing now, but she kept going. “I’m not long in this world. You and Thomas have a good life. I give my blessing.” She took only a sip from the water glass Sarah raised to her lips and fell back on the bed. “I got one last chile to claim, my Amelia.”
“You rest now. Amelia will be here soon.” Sarah stroked the old woman’s hair and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I love you, Grandmother. Thank you for all you have done.”
Sarah sat idly on the cabin step. Her back was sore and the bandages so thick that she could barely fasten her gown. She watched the wind breeze the maple leaves and listened to the birds flitting about in the tall trees. The day was calm, just still and peaceful. She thought of Amelia. Another member to add to the family, more gold.
Suddenly she heard strange moans that took her rushing back inside.
“Grandmother,” she called. “What’s wrong?”
The old woman’s face was a clump of flesh and the bedclothes twisted about her. “Did I scare you? I was just thinking out loud. I was thinking on what I was going to say to Amelia.”
“You will know when the time comes,” Sarah said. “Lie back and rest.”
Sarah was busy with needlepoint when Fortune returned with Amelia. It was still light outside. A short bronze woman in a green dress and black jacket came through the door. Sarah expected to see a fair-skinned woman, creamy-coloured, like Reece and Margaret, but Amelia was dark-skinned with a round face and thick, short hair. How strange it was to mix black with white and produce such a range of colours.
“You must be Sarah,” Amelia said. She reached over and squeezed Sarah’s face. “My, if you ain’t a picture to behold.” Amelia’s voice was loud and robust and the joy in it tickled Sarah. “Well, we
ll,” she said. “I’m happy to know that I have a family in Birchtown. I never thought I would ever see such a day. Your father has told me all about you.”
“Welcome to the family,” Sarah stammered.
Amelia looked at Sarah and said, “Well, thank you. I’m anxious to see my mother. Is she feeling better?”
Sarah nodded. She pointed to the back room. “She is waiting for you.”
Amelia followed Fortune. As they entered the room, Lydia mumbled, “Tell Sarah to put tea on and set the table for my daughter.”
Amelia approached cautiously and sat at the foot of her bed looking at the woman who came to the Big House every morning when the roosters first crowed. She remembered her with long, black braids wrapped around her head and a round face that rarely smiled. This was the woman, always with a big belly, keeping the fires, cleaning the house, making the meals and washing the clothes. She moved closer.
“Is that you Amelia?” Lydia smiled up at her.
“Yes Ma’am. It is Amelia.”
“You are a godsend, Chile.” With trembling hands, she reached over and gently patted Amelia’s arm. “Your coming here makes me happy.”
Amelia gazed at the tired face. She could read the years, like reading a book, not in words, but in wrinkles, scars and bleached white hair. Time, she thought, had left its mark, and yet there was joy in her eyes and a glow in her skin that magically erased the strain and worry of her long life. As she gazed down at her mother’s face, there arose in Amelia a burning pain that came from abandonment. All this time, she had known when she was carried off by the Pinkham foreman that she was being taken away to a new family, and she went in silence, fear sealing her lips. How she had missed Lydia’s kindness and Margaret’s friendship. Those she would never forget. It was not until the letter came that she realized her mother’s need to connect to family was the same as her own. Although time was snatching away the love she had regained, it was not too late to save some of it.
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