Text copyright © 2015 by Michaela MacColl and Rosemary Nichols
Cover illustration copyright © 2015 by Mark Summers
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, contact [email protected].
Although this work centers around historical events, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual incidents or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Calkins Creek
An Imprint of Highlights
815 Church Street
Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-62091-624-7 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-62979-432-7 (e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015936507
First edition
The text of this book is set in Garamond 3.
Design by Barbara Grzeslo
Production by Sue Cole
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Laney and Jack
—MM
To Harriet and Dred Scott and the many other enslaved parents whose extraordinary efforts protected their children and preserved their families in terrible circumstances
—RN
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Authors’ Note
A Note about Our Sources/Further Reading
Photo Credits
An Interview with Michaela MacColl
About the Authors
CHAPTER One
Eliza Hates Laundry
WITH A LONG STICK, ELIZA TRACED EACH LETTER CAREFULLY into the muddy bank of the mighty Mississippi River. She darted a glance toward her mother, who was a few feet away stirring river men’s filthy shirts in an iron pot bubbling over a wood fire. Ma straightened her back, and Eliza heard her spine crack. It wouldn’t do for her to notice Eliza slacking. Or worse, for her to see that Eliza was writing.
Eliza Wants More
“Eliza, what are you doing?” her mother asked. The sharp edge to her voice made Eliza drop her stick and begin to smear the letters back into the mud with her toe. The thick mud stuck to her boot, and she knew she’d never get the smell of decay and dirty water out of them. As fast as she smudged the letters, she wasn’t quick enough to evade Ma’s sharp eyes.
“Doing lettering out here in the open?” Ma scolded. “What are you thinking? Are you trying to get us in trouble?” Ma wanted Eliza to have an education, but it wasn’t safe to let anyone see she knew how to read and write.
Eliza gestured around them. The flat riverbank was deserted. The city of St. Louis and the port lay to the south. North of them was a tangle of shanty houses—but there was no one near enough to see what Eliza was doing. Soon other laundresses would be working nearby at this shallow spot along the river, but for now Ma, Eliza, and little Lizzie were alone. “No one can see, Ma.”
“We only have a few weeks before the court decides our case. We can’t afford to be careless even for a moment,” Ma warned. “Why aren’t you fetching more water?”
“I’m waiting for the dirt to settle.” Eliza pointed to the barrel that was as high as her waist. It had taken her twenty-three trips with a small bucket to fill the barrel with river water. For a moment, she wondered if Ma hated Mondays as much as she did. Monday through Thursday they did wash at the river for the men who worked on the docks. Friday and Saturday they worked for the Charless family. It was a sorry excuse for a life, doing folks’ laundry every day, week in, week out. But Ma never tired of reminding her that they were better off than most colored people in St. Louis. Even if they weren’t quite free, they weren’t slaves either.
“Let me see.” Ma peeked inside Eliza’s barrel. She dipped her hand into the water and lifted it out, letting the water dribble across her palm. Streaks of Mississippi dirt striped across her hand. “It needs at least another hour,” she said. “The river is running higher and muddier than usual.”
Laundresses in St. Louis didn’t have a supply of fresh water for their laundry unless they were part of a proper household with a well. Most used the dirty water from the river or went to Chouteau’s Pond where the water was slimy and green. But there was a trick to using the Mississippi River. You had to let the water sit until the dirt sank to the bottom. Then you could pour off the clean water.
Eliza knew a slave named Lucy who had ruined all her mistress’s table linens by washing with water straight from the river. She didn’t have a mother to teach her how to wash properly. No matter how hard Lucy scrubbed, the linens hadn’t come clean. The Mississippi was like that—once it took hold, it never let go. Lucy’s mistress had sent her to the auction block the next month, and Eliza had never seen her again. All because Lucy had never learned to let the river dirt settle. Sometimes Eliza thought about Lucy and wondered what had happened to her. The way Ma and Pa talked about the auction block, it was a fate worse than dying.
The Mississippi River held no mysteries for Eliza. She knew all the tricks to doing laundry. But that didn’t mean she liked the work. She especially begrudged washing tablecloths from rich white people’s dinners. Every gravy stain or smear of meat juice was a promise of a fancy meal that Eliza would never get to eat.
Eliza shifted from one foot to another as she watched Ma consult the never-ending list of chores in her head, considering what Eliza could do with a whole hour. Please not the men’s shirts, Eliza said under her breath. She hated how the sweat stains had to be scrubbed; the lye in the soap burned her hands and arms. Mondays were bad enough without getting stuck with the worst job.
“I could find some more firewood,” she offered.
“We have enough.” Ma’s tired eyes rested on her daughter, and, to Eliza’s surprise, she smiled. Ma’s smiles were rare, but they lit up her solemn face and made it beautiful. “I know you don’t want to do the scrubbing. I suppose we could make more soap. I don’t have much left.”
Ma’s services were in demand because she was reliable and honest to a fault. But it was her special recipe for soap that let her charge extra. Soap-making was certainly better than pushing fabric against the ridged washboard, which always seemed to scrape Eliza’s knuckles.
“I’ll do it, Ma,” Eliza said eagerly. “Do we got ashes?”
“We have ashes,” Ma corrected firmly. Ma might not be able to read or write, but she could speak properly. Under her former master, she had served dinner to the most important men in the Wisconsin territory. “But I need some fat. You’ll have to go asking.”
“I’ve never gone begging for the fat,” Eliza said, her eyes drifting downstream to the deeper water, where the steamboats were moored to the docks. Every boat had a kitchen to provide meals for the crew, passengers, and human cargo. Somehow Ma could always get the cooks to let her have some of the fat drippings.
“Begging, indeed! Mind your tongue, Eliza. They can spare it, and we need it for our business.”
Lifting her chin, E
liza retorted, “What business? We work our fingers to the bone, and we don’t even get to keep our pay.”
“When we win our case, we’ll get all the money back. The harder we work, the more we’ll deserve our just reward. Don’t you forget that.” Ma kept her eyes fixed on Eliza until she nodded. “Now, do you want to find some fat or stay here with your little sister and scrub shirts?” Her little sister, Lizzie, was only four, and one of Eliza’s duties was keeping her out of the fire and the river.
Lizzie appeared at Eliza’s elbow. “Can I go too?” she asked. Over Lizzie’s head, Eliza’s eyes met Ma’s, imploring her to say no. They both knew that Lizzie would follow Eliza anywhere.
“Not now,” Ma said firmly. “You have to stay with me.”
Lizzie’s dark brown eyes, so much like Eliza’s own, filled with tears.
“I’ll be back soon,” Eliza promised, grabbing the pail and hurrying away before Lizzie started to cry.
“Now, mind you’re respectful,” Ma called after her. “Always ask for the cook. And be careful.”
Ma’s cautions ringing in her ears, Eliza headed south along the riverbank to the docks, the pail swinging and knocking against her knees. She intended to enjoy every minute of her freedom; Ma hardly ever let Eliza go out on her own.
Coming from town was a group of colored washerwomen, carrying huge baskets of dirty laundry. They greeted Eliza politely when they passed her on the path. Without even looking behind her, Eliza knew they would say hello to Ma and Lizzie, then walk right by. Ma always worked alone. Ma’s skin was as dark as theirs, but these washerwomen were slaves. They were forbidden to associate with the likes of her ma. Harriet Scott was a freedom litigant who had dared to sue her master for her freedom. If the slaves wouldn’t talk to Ma, Ma was also cautious about talking to them. Ma never let Eliza forget that the Scotts weren’t slaves. It was a shame they couldn’t join the others at the riverbank, Eliza thought. It would be easier and much more interesting to do the laundry with a group.
Any day now the court would rule in their favor, and they would no longer be trapped between slavery and freedom. But until then, Ma’s rules were Eliza’s laws: Don’t draw attention to yourself, and stick close to the family. In any case, the court said they couldn’t leave St. Louis, so where was there for Eliza to go? Eliza sometimes let herself dream about boarding a steamboat and traveling far away. She wanted to go somewhere she could make a life for herself that didn’t involve laundry.
Even with the bucket banging against her knees, Eliza lengthened her stride. The farther she got from Ma and Lizzie, the lighter and more carefree Eliza felt. Ma always hovered, trying to protect her. Eliza was almost twelve and practically free. She strode off down the river’s edge, careful not to look too hard for the dangers Ma always warned her about. Eliza Scott could take care of herself.
CHAPTER Two
AS ELIZA DREW NEAR THE MOORED BOATS, THE SHORELINE became busier. The river ran deep here, and the biggest boats could dock close to shore. The wide flat levee between the warehouses and the riverbank looked like a rat’s nest of people, animals, and crates. Huge amounts of cargo came in and went out every day in St. Louis. Eliza dodged around porters loading bales of furs and hemp onto steamboats headed north and south on the Mississippi. Other porters were unloading barrels and crates off ships to waiting wagons. The Mississippi River brought shiploads of manufactured goods from the North every day and took back produce and furs from the frontier. Now that gold had been found in California, there were always prospectors heading west. Eliza was glad she didn’t see any slaves being loaded onto the boats today. Those slaves would be headed south to hard labor in cotton slave states like Louisiana and Texas.
Today Eliza counted thirty-one boats tied to the docks. Surely with all these boats, there must be one friendly cook who would take pity on her and give up some drippings.
The first steamboat she tried had a guard who wouldn’t even let her up the gangplank. Shrugging, Eliza trudged to the next ship, a bright white vessel with green trim that looked more promising. Best of all, there was no one to stop her from coming aboard. Humming nervously, she headed down the first stairs she could find, knowing that the kitchens were usually in the bottom of the boat.
The luxury in the dining room made her gasp. The tables gleamed like mirrors, and the chairs were cushioned with red velvet. The floor was covered with a thick carpet. She jumped up and down, enjoying the plush feel as she landed. Gingerly making her way across the soft surface, she headed for the swinging door that must lead to the kitchen. She hesitated, took a deep breath, and tapped on the door.
“Yes?” a voice called out.
Pushing the door open, Eliza saw a boy mopping the floor. His dark skin matched her own. He wore an apron streaked with red. Eliza wondered if the stains were meat juice or fruit stains.
“Can I help you, Miss?” he asked. He spoke so softly that Eliza had to strain to hear him. Her nervousness melted away like butter on a summer afternoon. He called her “Miss”! A steamboat like this had lots of paying passengers, and he must have learned long ago to speak politely. Eliza’s pa was the same. His respectful manners came in handy at the lawyer’s office where he cleaned and ran errands each day.
“I’m looking for the cook,” she said.
“He’s not here. He went into town for some supplies,” the boy answered, leaning on his mop. “Visiting a tavern, more likely!” He winked.
She didn’t have much experience talking with boys, but this one seemed to be about her own age and friendly enough. “Can you help me? I need drippings.”
“What’s a pretty girl like you want with the cook’s extra fat?” he asked.
Eliza stared down at the floor. Even though Ma would prefer her to stay a child forever, Eliza knew that young men would start courting her soon. But not yet! “So the cook does have extra fat?” she asked, ignoring the compliment.
“Have you seen him? He’s so chubby he can barely fit into this tiny room they call a kitchen.”
Eliza couldn’t help grinning while she waited patiently for a real answer.
“Yeah, we got plenty of fat,” he said. “But only if you tell me what you need it for.”
“My ma uses it to make her special soaps,” Eliza explained. “We’d be grateful for what you can spare.” She held out the empty bucket.
Putting his mop to one side, the young man beckoned her forward. “Come in. What’s your name? Mine’s Wilson. Wilson Madison.” The kitchen was as tiny as he had said. The only fresh air came from a porthole set in the wall above the enormous stove, which took up half the room.
“My name’s Eliza,” she answered. “Doesn’t it get hot in here?” Her pa always joked that she was more curious than a cat and just as likely to get scalded.
“Hotter than heck,” Wilson said, pulling out a huge can full of grease from next to the stove. He poured some into her bucket. “So you’re a laundress. Your ma must be a free woman if she’s sending you out looking for supplies.”
“Not really,” Eliza said warily; this was the kind of conversation her mother was always warning her about. She touched the stove gingerly before leaning against it.
“Free or slave—it’s one or the other, unless you’re running.” He lifted his eyebrows, inviting her to explain. “And if you’re running, I don’t think you’d be making soap.”
“My ma and pa lived in a free territory for years, so they’re suing their owner for their freedom.”
Wilson whistled. “That’s brave. Will they win?”
Eliza shrugged. “It’s been three years now, and we’re still waiting for the courts to decide.”
“That must have made your master spitting mad.”
“My ma says I don’t have a master. I was born on the river.”
“A river rat like me!” Wilson wiped stray grease off the side of her bucket with a cloth. “But just because you say you’re free, don’t mean your master agrees.”
“It’s the master�
�s widow who claims she owns us. But Mrs. Emerson lives up north in Massachusetts, so we don’t ever see her. She hires us out. Ma does laundry, and Pa cleans offices.”
“When does your court case get decided?” Wilson asked.
“As soon as the court opens again. Two, maybe three weeks. Then we’ll be free.” Eliza was surprised at how easily Wilson had gotten her to talk, but she could be just as inquisitive. “What about you?”
“My ma’s a free woman in Pennsylvania. She met my pa when he was working on a steamboat. I’ve been free since the day I was born.”
“So you joined a crew too?” Eliza asked.
He nodded. “I love being on the river.” He looked out the small porthole. “And I knew what the life was like from my pa.”
“I’d love a job like yours where I got to travel all the time,” Eliza confided. “The last thing I want to do is what my mother does. Day in, day out, washing other people’s underthings is like a millstone wearing me down bit by bit.” Her eyes went to the floor as she realized that she’d mentioned underthings.
But Wilson just laughed. “I took this job because the cook promised to teach me everything he knows.” Making a show of peering into the dining room to make sure no one was eavesdropping, he added, “If you promise not to laugh, I’ll tell you a secret.”
Eliza crossed her heart. “I promise.”
“I want to be a pastry chef.”
“You want to make cakes?”
He nodded. “Cook is teaching me. Meanwhile, I do all the cleaning and dirty work. It’s a fair trade for a dream.” He leaned against the worktable in the center of the kitchen. “I’ve told you my secret—what’s yours?”
“What makes you think I have one?”
“Call it a hunch.” He grinned widely, inviting her to confide in him.
“I do have a secret wish,” Eliza offered. “I’ve never told anyone.”
He spread out his hands.
“Maybe someday I’ll tell you,” she said with a giggle. “After I know you better.”
“Then, I’ll have to see you again,” Wilson declared.
“On Sundays you can always find my family at the First African Baptist Church on Fourteenth Street and Clark Avenue.” She hesitated, then added, “I sing in the choir.”
Freedom's Price Page 1