Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  “Or you’ll slip into unconsciousness and never wake up,” the doctor said.

  Tom blinked rapidly, but the blurry vision wouldn’t clear. “I’m not leaving this world.” His voice sounded thick and mumbled.

  Rander and Rourke lifted him, and somehow they dragged him across the deck and off the ship. Every step made his head pound. And the wagon was none too comfortable either.

  “To my house,” Rourke commanded whoever was driving, “and take it slow. We don’t want more jostling than necessary.”

  Tom didn’t hear anything else the men said. They were taking him to Rourke’s house, where Catherine was staying. He closed his eyes and stopped resisting.

  Catherine met the group of men at the front door. Elizabeth directed them up the steps and down the hall. Her husband and another sailor carried Tom into the house. The patient did not cry out in spite of the jostling. To all appearances, he had lost consciousness.

  They placed Tom on the bed in the back bedroom, and then the doctor reexamined him. Catherine waited in the parlor with everyone but the captain, who remained with Tom and the doctor. No word came during long minutes of waiting. Each person held his or her breath and occasionally glanced toward the hall. Quiet prayers were said.

  After the clock struck the hour, Catherine hopped up and paced to the windows, open to let in the cooling breezes. Dusk had begun to settle over the town.

  She gripped the frame. “He would never have been on that ship if I hadn’t refused to let him escort me to New Orleans.”

  “Nonsense.” Elizabeth joined her at the window. “Tom is a wrecker. They salvage ships and know the risks they take.” She placed her hand over Catherine’s. “There is no good to be gained by claiming fault for what was clearly an accident.”

  Yet she could not shake the guilt. “He must survive, and when he does, I will accept his offer.”

  “I gather you are not speaking of a marriage proposal.”

  “No!” Catherine realized how her words must have sounded as heat flooded her cheeks. “I meant his offer to escort me to my destination.”

  Elizabeth patted Catherine’s hand as Dr. Goodenow entered the parlor. All turned their attention to him.

  The physician donned his top hat. “His heart is steady and his color good, but with the head injury we cannot know the extent of the damage until he awakens.”

  “He is still in danger, then?” Catherine asked.

  “Fluids might yet accumulate on the brain. That would be very serious. Call for me at once if there is any indication of swelling about the head, and I will let more blood.”

  She felt ill. “Is there nothing we can do for him?”

  The doctor spoke instead to Elizabeth. “Your husband is with him now. Mr. Worthington must be watched at all times. Keep his head cool. Use compresses soaked in a mixture of half vinegar and half water. His feet must be kept warm. When he awakens, he may have a light diet. Most of all, the house must be kept quiet.”

  “The children,” Elizabeth said. “They are rather exuberant.”

  Mrs. Latham offered to take them with her.

  “Nonsense. You have three of your own. Jamie and Sarah would be more comfortable with their aunt Anabelle.”

  Catherine had yet to meet Elizabeth’s sister.

  “I can fetch her,” Mrs. Latham said.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ll send Florie with the children.” She glanced outside. “It’s still early enough.”

  The doctor had donned his black coat. “I would be glad to accompany them.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but it is out of your way. Rourke can go with them.”

  Catherine at last saw where she could help. “I will sit with Tom, then.”

  Elizabeth nodded her gratitude before seeing the doctor out. Catherine walked down the hallway, now longer than it had ever seemed before. The children were quieter than usual, perhaps sensing the struggle that Tom faced. Would he recover?

  Catherine’s hands shook as she pushed open the door to the bedroom.

  Captain O’Malley rose to his feet. “The doctor left?”

  She nodded. “Elizabeth needs you. I will sit with Tom.”

  He readily agreed. Once he left the room, silence descended. Tom looked normal in the low light of dusk, except that his eyes were closed. She settled into the chair at his bedside, still warm from the captain’s presence.

  Only a sheet covered Tom, who was still fully clothed except for his shoes. His hair stuck out at odd angles. She reached to smooth it and discovered it was caked with salt. His clothing had the greasy feel of saltwater-soaked cloth. Once the captain returned, Tom ought to be changed into clean clothes. Then again, he had no clothing here. Perhaps Captain O’Malley might lend him a nightshirt.

  Every bit of that was trivial compared to Tom’s well-being. Catherine gently touched the bandage on his head. Swelling could prove fatal. The doctor had not said so, but it was understood.

  “Get well, Tom,” she whispered. “You must get well.”

  In a storybook ending, his eyes would have fluttered open just then. This evening they did not move at all. Tom had gone deep into himself. She prayed he would return.

  8

  Catherine woke with a start. Had she heard something?

  The nearly full moon lit the room with a silvery glow. Tom’s features looked pale as marble. Unmoving. Frozen.

  She leaned over him to listen for a breath. At first she heard nothing, then slow, shallow breaths greeted her ear.

  Thank goodness!

  The compress had vanished, likely onto the floor. Catherine didn’t dare light a lamp, lest it disturb Tom, so she tiptoed to the washstand and located another cloth. This she dipped in the basin of water and vinegar mixture and squeezed. Before applying it, she touched a fingertip to his forehead. Warm but not hot. She applied the compress.

  She did not know the hour, but the house was quiet. Captain O’Malley and Elizabeth must be asleep by now. So too Florie, who insisted on sleeping in the cookhouse, though Elizabeth had made a room for her in what was once the butler’s pantry. “Weren’t no air,” the maid had complained. She’d used it only once, when a torrential downpour would have soaked her even under the cookhouse roof.

  At this hour, Catherine could do nothing but watch and pray. Yet her thoughts kept drifting to all that had happened in the last three months. Key West was far from Deerford, yet a long journey still awaited her before she reached Louisiana. On such a night she wondered if she would ever see Maman’s plantation.

  Tom tossed his head to the side.

  She reapplied the compress. “I should have let you escort me to New Orleans on the Baltimore.” It would have cost more than she could afford, but she would be there now, and Tom would not have been injured.

  Raindrops sounded outdoors. She went to the window to close the shutters only to once again discover she’d been fooled by the rustling of palm fronds. A trick of the ear.

  “What do I do, Papa?”

  In the stillness of night, she did not know.

  Tom tossed and turned, drawing her attention from unsolvable problems. She returned to his bedside and refreshed the compress. He sank back into deep sleep.

  She liked the rhythms of Key West and the friends she had made here. Elizabeth O’Malley and Prosperity Latham exuded grace and hospitality. They were truer friends than any she had known at home. She could envision living among the palms and cocoplums, but restlessness still tugged at her soul. She must see Maman’s family and find out, if she could, what her Papa’s last words had meant.

  Louisiana. The very name whispered with exotic intrigue. It was not like France. Maman had made that very clear, saying that New Orleans and the great river were entirely unique. For years Catherine had dreamed of seeing this fantastical place of Maman’s stories. Now she would, and there she would make a new life with family. Family. With Maman and Papa gone, she needed that more than anything else.

  Again the palms rustled in the bre
eze that swept into the room and caressed her cheek. Soon. Very soon.

  She gazed at the sleeping patient. “I will let you escort me to Louisiana when you recover.”

  His eyelids did not so much as flicker.

  Though Tom regained consciousness the following day, he could not walk without dizziness and remained bedridden. Catherine busied herself with the day-to-day business of the household. Jamie and Sarah always needed something, often simple attention. Elizabeth had many a caller, most of whom Catherine avoided.

  She could not avoid the person who knocked on the door a week after Tom’s accident. Florie was out to market and Elizabeth busy, so Catherine answered the door.

  “Good morn—” Her greeting cut off at the sight of a tall, elegant Negress standing at the door. “Morning.” Catherine felt her face flush. “That is, welcome.”

  The stunningly beautiful woman’s expression did not waver. “I’m paying a call on my sister.”

  “Florie is at market.”

  The woman’s eyes were direct and clear as she said carefully, “My sister Elizabeth.”

  Catherine managed to stifle a gasp. Once again she had leapt to the wrong conclusion, but who would think otherwise? Still . . . if they were sisters, then they shared a parent. This woman’s mother was likely a slave in the household, meaning Elizabeth’s father . . . The thought made her nauseous.

  “Please inform her that Anabelle is here.”

  “You’re Anabelle?”

  The woman smirked. “You expected a white woman.”

  Oh, how her cheeks burned. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. It is a fact. My father admits I’m his daughter. Now I only lack my mother.”

  Catherine led Anabelle to the parlor while her mind sifted through these details. “Where is your mother?”

  “Louisiana.” The bitterness oozed from her voice like black mud. “She was sold to a planter there.”

  Elizabeth’s former nurse must be Anabelle’s mother.

  Catherine managed a shaky breath. “How horrible.”

  “No one considers that a slave has feelings.”

  This was the cruelty of slavery preached in British churches even now, when every enslaved person in the empire had been set free. Until now, Catherine had not come face-to-face with anyone affected by it. Cousin Roger had torn the tenants from their homes, but to rip mother from child was unbearable.

  “I’m so sorry.” Words failed to convey enough solace. Her hands shook as she poured a cup of tea for the visitor. “Have you ever heard from her?”

  “My mama can’t write.”

  Again Catherine’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. How little she knew of the way things operated in this country. “Forgive me.”

  Anabelle inclined her head just as Elizabeth burst into the room. “Sister! I see you have finally met each other.” She embraced Anabelle.

  Only then did Catherine see the resemblance. She swallowed hard, wishing to be far from this family gathering. “I will watch the children.”

  “Nonsense. Florie is back. Sit. We’ll all take tea.” Elizabeth hurried to pour two more cups and then settled onto the settee. “Tell me how John is faring.”

  The next half hour was full of tales from the salvage operation. Catherine’s mind soon drifted, for Tom was not there—he rested in the rear bedroom. Instead, she pondered what Anabelle had said. Her mother had been sold to a Louisiana planter. Catherine would soon be in Louisiana.

  “I will ask about her.”

  Anabelle and Elizabeth turned to her, the conversation abruptly halted.

  “About whom?” Elizabeth asked.

  Catherine flushed, not realizing she’d spoken the thought aloud. “I will ask if anyone knows where your mother is, Anabelle. I am going to Louisiana.”

  Anabelle stared.

  Elizabeth smiled graciously. “It is a large state, and Mammy went there many years ago. She might be anywhere now.”

  “Even home in glory,” Anabelle said solemnly.

  They were right. A woman without rights could vanish and never be seen again. She’d seen it happen to the unfortunate in Staffordshire. Tragedy, such as the loss of a husband or parents, often sent the bereaved wife or daughter far from home. Just like her. Catherine shivered. In this light, Maman’s glittery stories looked tarnished.

  “You want to do what?” Tom’s eyes widened when Catherine mentioned that she intended to inquire about Anabelle’s mother.

  It had taken two more days before Tom ventured far from bed. This afternoon, he lingered on the back veranda of Elizabeth’s house, where the coconut palms and lime trees shaded the yard. Though his recovery had been slow, he’d seemed more his normal self this afternoon, so she’d broached the subject.

  “I intend to ask if Mammy lives in the area.”

  Tom shook his head. “If that’s the only name you have, it’s hopeless. Many Negro nurses are called ‘Mammy.’”

  “Elizabeth’s father, Mr. Benjamin, said she would most likely have his last name.”

  “Unless the new owner changed it.” Tom sank against the back of the seat. “It’s a hopeless task.”

  “With God, nothing is impossible.”

  “That’s what you will need, then. An act of God.”

  “My, aren’t you a curmudgeon.”

  “A what?” He sat up, eyes flashing.

  “Ah, that’s better. I knew there was some spirit left inside you.”

  He scowled. “I’ve been injured. A little sympathy is in order.”

  “You’ve had sympathy.” Catherine was beginning to think he was taking advantage of the situation. “Elizabeth tells me you will return to the salvage operation on the next ship that returns.”

  His scowl deepened. “That’s what everyone says.”

  “I heard the ship is arriving now.”

  He shot to attention. “Which one?”

  “Which one of what?”

  “Which ship?” His every muscle tensed.

  She couldn’t resist teasing. “There is more than one?”

  He heaved a frustrated sigh. “I’ve told you dozens of times that the O’Malleys have three ships in the fleet. Is it the Redemption, the Windsprite, or the James Patrick?”

  “How would I know?”

  “I thought you went into town each day to check with the shipping agents.”

  She hated when he caught her, something he was far too adept at doing. “I can’t possibly remember each of the ships. Moreover, I’m asking for passage to New Orleans, not about your shipwrecks.”

  “Wrecking vessels.” His jaw tensed. “They’re called wrecking ships, not shipwrecks.”

  She knew that, but she loved to irritate him. It brought back the spark in his eyes. “Shipwrecks. Wrecking ships. Whatever they’re called, one of them was sighted heading this way.” A thought crossed her mind. Tom needed to get out of this indolent state. A walk to the harbor would do him good. “Let’s meet it.”

  To her surprise, he resisted, claiming fatigue.

  “I thought you were a wrecker,” she countered. “A strong and courageous man.”

  That brought another scowl to his face and his feet to the ground. “Don’t question my courage.”

  Minutes later, they left the relative calm of Elizabeth’s house and entered the frenzy of the harbor. Several ships were at the wharves unloading cargo.

  “Your ship is here?”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t see any of the fleet, but we’re far from the O’Malley wharf.” He tugged her in the opposite direction, where the newer warehouses stood.

  Here the wharves were just as busy. Stevedores and porters milled about along with sailors and the curious, who’d come to see what treasures had arrived in port.

  “It’s the Redemption.” Tom pointed toward the open water. “See? She’s just reached the harbor entrance.”

  “It looks like it’s at anchor.”

  “Waiting out the ship that’s currently unloading. They’re workin
g the Allerton wreck too. There’s talk it’ll be one of the richest wrecks in Key West history.” The old gleam flickered to life in Tom’s eyes.

  Catherine smiled to herself. This walk had done precisely what she’d hoped it would—energize a man who’d been stranded ashore. In the little time she’d known Tom, she’d come to recognize his restless nature. He was indeed searching, and she doubted any woman could fulfill that yearning.

  That thought gave her pause. The time they’d spent together during his recovery had been pleasant, and she’d come to appreciate not only his wit but also his knowledge. He was well-read, having digested Shakespeare and Swift as well as the Americans Melville and Hawthorne. He had a lively mind but an even more restless spirit.

  Even now he hurried her toward the O’Malley wharf, weaving through the crowds with expertise that left her winded. Her grip on his arm slipped, and then she lost it completely. He looked back, but the crowds surged between them.

  “Pardon me.” She sidestepped a brawny man backing toward her with a cart and ended up jostling someone else. Flustered, she reached to straighten her hat.

  “Jewelry,” a nearby woman exclaimed to her friend. “We must insist our husbands purchase all they can afford.”

  Necklaces and rings held little interest for Catherine. The only jewels that meant a thing to her were the ones her mother had worn. Those were nearly all gone now, sold or buried with Maman.

  She spun around, searching for Tom. He was tall. If only she was a little taller, she could spot him above the crowd. Someone grabbed her arm, and she whirled around, ready to battle a pickpocket or nab the elusive stranger.

  Instead, Tom pulled her close. “I almost lost you.”

  “The crowd . . . I couldn’t hold on.”

  “It’s my fault.” He held on tightly now. “Let’s head toward the customhouse where it’s a bit less frenzied.”

  She gratefully followed, eager to get out of the fray. His hands were strong and his guidance sure. Within moments they’d emerged from the hordes and stepped into a clearing near the customhouse.

  “I’ve never been so grateful for a little space.” She breathed in deeply. “I’m not accustomed to such crushing masses.”