The home that had turned into a prison.
Two hours later, she found herself stuffed into a cabin the size of a trunk, being thrashed about in a massive storm like a whip in the hands of an angry master. The only thing worse than her aching muscles and bruised skin was the constant heaving of her stomach. Ravenous waves fisted the hull. Thunder growled, shaking the timbers. And Althea began to wonder if she hadn’t indeed brought bad luck to this voyage.
The door slammed open, and Captain Faraday entered, ax in hand as if he was of the same opinion.
Althea shrank into the corner. Had she gone from one madman to another? No, Lord, not like this. The ship tilted. Faraday gripped the deckhead and made his way toward her. She couldn’t tell from his expression whether he was angry, frightened, or—Althea touched her face. She had forgotten that she had removed her veil! Could the captain tell who she was? What she was?
Water dripped from his loose hair and clothes onto the floor. He smiled. Not a malicious smile, but an amused one. “I’m here to take care o’ those.” He nodded toward her ankles. “Ye’ll balance better if you don’t have them on.”
Althea blinked. “You knew?”
“Hard not to.” Balancing over the teetering deck, he gestured for her to sit on the bed and place her feet on either side of a stool.
Gripping the mattress, she lifted her skirts as modestly as possible and complied, stunned at the man’s kindness.
The chain flattened across the wood.
Captain Faraday lifted the ax over his head. The brig canted to larboard. He stumbled and Althea squeezed her eyes shut. If he should miss …
Thunder split the sky.
The sharp clank! of metal rang, and her feet flew apart. Kneeling, the captain slipped the chains through the iron locks and tossed them into the corner. Althea stared at them as they tumbled over the canting deck, impotent without a victim. She’d worn them every night for the past seven years. Only her. None of the other slaves were locked up at night. Because she was his favorite.
“You are a kind man, Captain,” she shouted above the screaming wind.
He tossed her some rope. “Tie yerself to the bed. It’s goin’ to get rough tonight.” He headed for the door.
How could it get rougher than this? Her hands trembled as she grabbed the cord. “Will we sink?”
“Naw. It’s just a squall, miss. If God be on our side, we’ll make Charleston in a week.” He winked and closed the door behind him.
Althea rubbed her ankles, wincing at the pain. She would have to put some comfrey on the wounds later.
Charleston. What awaited her in Charleston? A new city. A new world. But still a world where slavery existed—where women had few rights. How long could she survive with only three pounds? More importantly, would the light color of her skin veil her true heritage, or would she find herself once again a slave, only in a much worse situation? Though she couldn’t fathom anything worse than what she’d endured.
She tied the rope to the bed as more questions assailed her. Would Sir Walter search for her? Was she really safe anywhere? So many unknowns. And with her survival teetering on the answer to each one, she felt no more secure than she did on this tiny brig being tossed about in the tempest. Oh Lord. Help me. Please. Yet after the Almighty had allowed so many tragedies to strike her, she wondered if He would.
Thunder blasted. The ship trembled, rattling Althea’s bones. The deck canted, and she held on to the bed to keep from tumbling to the floor. For now, she must survive this voyage. But even if she didn’t, even if she sank into the cold deep never to be seen again, at least she would die a free woman.
CHAPTER TWO
Charleston, South Carolina—one month later
Drawing the stool up beside the cot, Althea laid the back of her hand over the young boy’s cheek. Burning hot. As she suspected. She already had a pot of yarrow and nutmeg leaves simmering over the fire. As soon as he awoke, she’d make sure he drank some of the tea. The boy shivered.
Releasing a sigh, she drew his ragged coverlet beneath his chin and glanced over the crowded room. Rows of cots filled the makeshift hospital that sat behind the Negro orphanage. Both run by the generous charity of Father Mulligan from St. Mary’s Church. Without his help, these poor children would have nowhere to go. At least not until they were old enough to be sold as slaves. She took in all the young faces, some sleeping peacefully, others with droopy eyes and sallow skin, tossing in agitated slumber. They’d had ten new cases of this strange fever in the last week. And now the only doctor who would treat them was ill. Ill, indeed. If one could call inebriated ill.
A chilled breeze swirled about her. Drawing her shawl over her shoulders, she made her way to the window and eased it shut. Had the wintery air swept the sour stench of disease from the room, or was its absence only an indication she’d grown accustomed to the smell of sweat and vomit? An ache clawed at her stomach. She’d not eaten since yesterday when the last of her money had run out. Of course she still had her mother’s pearls, but she’d rather die than sell the last remnant of her family—a symbol of the love she’d known before slavery.
After spending days being tossed about like a rag doll on the brig, she’d finally arrived in Charleston a month ago—happy to be on land once again. Thrilled to find the charming city full of life and opportunities.
But it didn’t take long for her to realize those opportunities were not for her. At first, she had knocked on every doctor’s door, seeking a position as an assistant. After each one turned her down, she’d sought work as a house maid, chambermaid, cook, laundress, even stable hand.
Nothing.
If Father Mulligan had not allowed her to sleep on a cot in the storage room in exchange for her help with the sick orphans, she would have nowhere to lay her head at night. But, aside from a few scraps, the orphanage could not afford to feed her as well. Today was the first day in which she had no idea from whence her next meal would hail. God, I need a miracle. Tears filled her eyes, but she forced them back. She had no right to complain when some of these children would not survive this new outbreak.
“Adalia.”
Althea heard the name, but it floated through her mind like a visitor, unfamiliar, detached from anyone she knew.
“Adalia!” The voice was louder, startling Althea from her thoughts. She looked up to see Mrs. Charlotte standing across the room. The elderly woman who assisted with the orphans gave her a perplexed look.
“Oh my, forgive me. I don’t know where mind is.” Althea’s pulse raced. She must be more careful. She must remember her new name—even when deep in her thoughts. For she was no longer Althea Claymore. She could never be Althea Claymore. Not as long as Sir Walter was alive. She was now Adalia Winston. She must get used to it—the sound of it. She must think it. Speak the name until it sounded natural on her lips. Besides, it suited her perfectly, she thought, as she wove in between the cots to stand before Mrs. Charlotte.
“Febee’s stomach pains her something fierce, Miss Adalia.” The rotund woman stared down at the girl who hugged her own tummy, a look of agony on her face. “Ain’t there somethin’ you can do?”
“I’ll try.” Adalia smiled. “Would you go check on the tea?”
As the woman scurried away, Adalia knelt before the girl and reached into her pouch for some peppermint leaves. “Here, chew on these, sweetheart.” She placed them on the girl’s tongue. “They taste good, and they’ll ease your bellyache.”
The little girl nodded.
A man’s snort startled Adalia, and the little girl’s eyes widened.
Springing to her feet, Adalia spun around to find an elderly gentleman, perhaps in his sixties, staring at the sick child with disdain. His thumbs were stuffed within the pockets of a satin-embroidered waistcoat from which dangled the gold chain of a pocket watch. When his gaze shifted to Adalia, his disdain turned to delight.
“May I help you, sir?”
“I am Doctor Langston Willaby.”
&nb
sp; Adalia released a sigh of relief. Finally. They’d sent posts to nearly every doctor in town requesting assistance. “We are so happy to see you, Doctor. Thank you for coming.”
“I normally don’t attend to Negroes, but since your doctor is ill, I’ve made an exception.”
A sour taste filled Adalia’s mouth. “How kind of you, sir.” Regardless of the man’s attitude, she would accept any help that was offered. She motioned toward the children. “Twelve cases of this fever and stomachache in the past week. I fear it is cholera or scarlet fever.”
He studied her, not once glancing at the patients. “I will make my diagnosis shortly. However, I come on another matter as well. You are Miss Adalia Winston?”
Fear sliced Adalia’s heart. Had she been found out already? She took a step back, glancing at the door. “I am.”
“May I speak with you for a moment?” He lifted his brows, but there was no malice within his eyes. “Outside?”
Without waiting for her answer, he sauntered down the aisle and stepped out the door.
Despite his superior attitude and the fear etching down her spine, curiosity drove her to follow him. No one knew her full name in town save Father Mulligan and the staff at the orphanage. Besides, surely Sir Walter would have no idea where to start looking for her or under what name to make his inquiries.
She stepped into the courtyard between the orphanage and the sick house. The cold air stung her face, and she tightened her shawl around her neck. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves floated on a salty breeze from the bay.
“Miss Winston, I see you have, shall we say”—he hesitated, wrinkling his nose—“no objections in treating the Negro.”
“No, of course not.” She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know me, sir?”
“I have a business proposition.” He plucked out his watch, flipped it open, and gazed at the time. “I am in need of an assistant. I understand from Father Mulligan that you are looking for a position?”
Adalia nodded, barely able to contain her rising excitement.
Snapping the watch closed, he dropped it into his pocket. “He has informed me of your skill with healing herbs. Are you interested?”
Adalia swallowed. “Yes, I am.” Real employment! And just in time, Lord.
“Fifty cents a day. Room and board are included.” His brown eyes softened above a smile. “Are the terms agreeable?”
“Yes, quite agreeable.” She tried to curb the elation in her voice. A moan sounded from within the hospital. “Would I still be able to help at the orphanage?”
He looked perplexed. “Of course. Of course. On your own time, that is.” He gave her a quick nod. “Very well then. It’s settled. You are hired.”
Dare she believe such good fortune?
“I thank you, sir. I promise I shall work very hard.”
“Yes you shall, Miss Winston.” His gray brows raised. “In fact, you’ll begin now. I need you to travel to the Rutledge plantation. One of the slaves is ill, and apparently Mrs. Rutledge is unable to attend to the matter.”
The way he described a sick child as a matter settled like a brick in her stomach. “But what of these children?” Adalia glanced at the hospital behind her. “I cannot leave them in this condition.”
“I will tend to them, Miss Winston.”
She nodded, not about to question his orders. “How will I get to the plantation, Doctor?” Surely he knew she had no means of conveyance.
“My man, Mr. Gant, will drive you.” He gestured toward a phaeton and horse waiting by the street. “My home and office are on the corner of Calhoun and Anson Streets. After you’re done at the plantation, he will bring you there.”
Adalia dared to gaze directly into the doctor’s eyes. Whenever she’d been so bold with Sir Walter, she’d been slapped. But she had to know if she could entrust these precious children to his care.
The kind look in his eyes set her fears at ease. “I will tend to the wee ones,” he huffed, as if reading her thoughts. “Never fear.”
“Please allow me gather my things.” Adalia entered the hospital, her feet and heart dragging. She should be happy to have found employment. She should be thanking God. Yet, she hated to leave the children. But what choice did she have?
After gathering her medical satchel and valise, and explaining the situation to Mrs. Charlotte, she climbed into the buggy and waved good-bye to Dr. Willaby, saying a prayer for the children as she moved out of sight of the hospital.
What she should also have prayed for was courage to enter the grounds of a plantation. Though she was nowhere near Barbados or Sir Walter Miles, and though no one knew her true identity, her heart clenched as the phaeton passed through the massive iron gates of Rutledge Hall. With each turn of the carriage wheels, her ankles burned as if phantom shackles clamped around them once again. Even the Spanish moss swaying in the breeze from the massive oaks lining the drive did nothing to becalm her rising angst. By the time the phaeton stopped before the big house and she had leapt from her seat—much to the dismay of Mr. Gant, who had jumped down to assist her—her legs nearly collapsed. Gripping the railing, she ascended the steps and knocked on the ornate door, gulping for air and half expecting to see Sir Walter standing on the other side. What she saw instead was a plump Negro woman with eyes as big as saucers, wearing a tattered scarf over her head.
The slave’s gaze immediately dropped to the ground, causing Adalia’s fear to turn to anger. She longed to tell her that she had every right to look Adalia in the eye—that she was no less a human being than Adalia was—but instead, she introduced herself in her kindest tone and inquired as to the whereabouts of the sick slave. The woman gave her the information and quickly closed the door.
Adalia found the slave quarters easily enough. They were the only ramshackle buildings on the plantation—nothing but flimsy shacks clustered together on the far end of the property, shoved out of the way like dust swept into a corner. On the way there, she passed manicured flower gardens that were no doubt beautiful in the summer, marble fountains, horse stables, massive storehouses, barns, a kitchen house, and a dairy. The scent of bread baking reminded her that she was famished. And everywhere slaves hurried to and fro, loaded down with baskets, bricks, wood, or tools, attending to their master’s duties. In the distance, empty cotton fields lay fallow until early spring when the planting would begin.
A whip cracked the air. Adalia froze. It was a sound that haunted her nightmares and stalked her waking hours. A sound that tightened every nerve while at the same time urging her to flee. To flee anywhere outside the path of that leathery blade, as sharp as any knife’s. Whether she was the object of its anger or not, she hated it and its predatory howl. Snap! Snap! Like the crack of lightning across a black sky. She unfurled her fists and dared a glance at the overseer standing over a poor slave at the edge of the fields. He raised the whip to strike the cowering man again. The slave winced and curled into a ball, offering the least amount of skin to his master, a subconscious posture the body took when threatened. One she knew all too well.
Tears misted Adalia’s eyes. Why, Lord, did You allow me to come here? To see this? When there was nothing she could do. Nothing to save these people—her people—from their torturous existence. The overseer shouted obscenities then booted the slave and dismissed him. Feeling as though her own body had been whipped, Adalia watched as the man stumbled away. She wiped a tear from her cheek then started again toward the slaves’ quarters. At least she could help one of them.
Her boots shuffled over the dirt floor of the tiny home as the smell of mold and sickness enveloped her. A rickety table guarded the glassless window on her right. A set of shelves perched beside the other one. A fireplace stood against the back wall surrounded by bundles of hay covered with tattered blankets. The sick lad lay on the one closest to the fire. Kneeling beside him, Adalia felt his skin, asked his mother a few questions, and finally determined the boy had eaten something that disagreed with him.
“The missu
s usually checks on us.” His mother wrung her hands together. “But she sick today, I hears. Poor thing.”
Adalia gazed up at the woman. “So, the missus is kind to you?”
The woman looked down and backed away. “Yes’m.”
Rising to her feet, Adalia touched her arm. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“Yes’m.” She dared a glance at Adalia. “Missus Rutledge is kind. Not the master, though. Or his oldes’ son.” She flattened her lips and gazed at her own son. “Thank you for tendin’ my boy, miss. I’s got to get back to the creek now to he’p wit’ the washin’.”
“You’re welcome.” Adalia handed the woman a pouch of nettle. “Make tea with these leaves, and have him drink it for two days. He’ll be feeling better soon.”
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