Freedom's Price

by Michaela MacColl

  “I’ll try to come. Maybe next time I see you, I’ll bring you a cake.”

  “That’d be nice,” she said, holding out her hand for her bucket.

  “We’re sailing north in a few days, but we’ll be home soon enough. We have a regular route up the Ohio River to Pittsburgh and back.” He put the handle of the bucket in her palm; it was heavy enough to placate Ma when she asked where Eliza had been all this time. “Eliza, it was a real pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” she murmured. She liked that their eyes were at the same level. Usually she was taller than most boys her age. “Thank you again.” Holding up the bucket, she waved.

  Eliza was heading back through the dining room when she heard heavy steps coming down the stairs. A man was tripping and swearing as he tried to navigate the narrow stairs. She set the bucket down and ducked behind a velvet chair. Even in the dim light she could see the man was round as a pot of jelly and his face was just as red.

  “Who are you?” he demanded loudly, catching sight of her. “What are you doing here?” His voice was slurred, but he was steady enough to grab her. Eliza tried to pull away, but his fingers clamped on to her arm.

  “Hey, Cook!” Wilson called from the kitchen. The man turned his head, which gave Eliza the opportunity to twist out of his grip. She grabbed the bucket, ignoring the sloshing and spilling of the grease, and ran up the stairs as fast as she could. She flung herself headlong down the gangplank, letting the heavy bucket help pull her to the shore. Gasping for air, she glanced back at the ship. All was quiet. Maybe Wilson hadn’t gotten into trouble for her sake.

  Instead of heading back to Ma, Eliza took a dozen steps in the opposite direction so she could see the name of Wilson’s ship. It was the Edward Bates. Eliza would keep an eye out for the Edward Bates—she wouldn’t mind meeting Wilson again.

  CHAPTER Three

  NO NEED TO HURRY, SINCE THE ONLY THING WAITING FOR ELIZA was a mountain of dirty clothes. She walked slowly down the shore, lost in a pleasant daydream of Wilson coming to church with a cake. Ma would be suspicious; she didn’t trust any boys. But she’d be won over by his good manners. Lizzie would love him because he’d brought a treat. And Pa would like anyone who made Lizzie smile.

  A toot from a passing steamboat brought her back to herself. With her free hand, she waved as the boat moved majestically down the river. It was coming from the North: Where had it been? What kind of people was it carrying? What was its cargo? Eliza never tired of watching the massive paddle wheels go round and round, dripping water in the ship’s wake.

  The spring air lost its chill as the sun climbed in the sky. The bucket dragged in the dirt; drippings were heavier than they looked. But Eliza paid no attention. Instead she practiced a hymn she had learned at church. Happy or scared, Eliza loved to sing. She cast her voice out toward the center of the river and then let it drift back like a fishing line.

  I’ve got peace like a river in my soul,

  I’ve got a river in my soul,

  I’ve got joy like a fountain in my soul,

  I’ve got a fountain in my soul.

  In the distance she saw the steam rising off Ma’s laundry kettle, taking a fantastic shape for an instant, then disappearing in the breeze. Bustling about the fire, Ma was easy to make out in her bright green cotton dress with a white apron. The same colors, Eliza thought, as the Edward Bates. Slaves usually wore a dull, faded blue, and no doubt Ma’s mistress, Mrs. Emerson, would take issue with Ma’s choice of color. However, since Mrs. Emerson was far away in Massachusetts, Ma could do as she liked. But her dress was still made out of cloth that marked Ma as a slave. If only the court would hurry and make up its mind—then Ma would be free to wear any color, any cloth, she pleased.

  In the distance, Eliza could see the other laundresses chatting and working together. The only person who seemed out of place was a colored boy hanging about the riverbank between Ma and the others. Not many boys helped with laundry. His short trousers and too-big linen shirt made it hard to gauge his height. She wondered who he was. If he was a slave, his master was too miserly to buy him boots. As he roamed along the bank, eyes fixed on the ground, Eliza decided he must be from the shantytown. The people who lived there were always scavenging for anything they might find along the riverbank.

  Eliza watched Ma lift the laundry with her long paddle, then push it back into the boiling water. She knew how heavy the wet clothes were, and she winced to see how Ma braced the small of her back with one hand as she stirred. It was odd that she hadn’t noticed before that Ma’s back hurt her. Maybe Ma just never let her go far enough away to see things in a new light.

  Lizzie was throwing a small wooden ball into the air and laughing out loud. Her little sister was so easy to please. The whole family loved to make her happy. Ma would scold and say they were spoiling her—but as soon as Ma heard Lizzie’s gurgling laugh, she would smile too. Take that ball, for instance. The delight on Lizzie’s face when Pa gave it to her had cheered everyone for days. Eliza smiled as Lizzie caught the ball once, twice . . . on the third throw, Lizzie missed. Faster than Eliza thought possible with her short legs, Lizzie ran after the ball, much too close to the river’s edge.

  The river looked like it ran slow, but its current was swift and hidden. Eliza’s eyes darted toward Ma, but she was too intent on the laundry to notice that Lizzie was in danger. In a split second, Eliza dropped the bucket and ran for Lizzie, shouting her name. Ma heard and whirled around, eyes searching for her little girl. Eliza was closer, and she scooped up her baby sister in her arms and started back toward Ma.

  “You scared me half to death,” Eliza said sternly. “You can’t swim yet, and the river could take you away so fast that I wouldn’t reach you in time.”

  “But I didn’t fall in,” Lizzie protested.

  “That won’t matter to Ma.” Out of the corner of her eye, Eliza noticed the boy with short pants had started toward them, then stopped short. Perhaps he had wanted to help.

  As Eliza had predicted, Ma had some sharp words for Lizzie. “I should tie a rope around your waist and tie the other end to my ankle,” Ma threatened.

  Lizzie cowered away from Ma, clinging to Eliza’s leg.

  “You wouldn’t really do that, would you, Ma?” Eliza asked.

  “If Lizzie can’t stay away from the river, I’ll have to.”

  Lizzie began to cry, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Ma and Eliza exchanged frustrated looks—neither of them could resist Lizzie when she cried.

  Ma knelt down and gave Lizzie a quick hug. “Stop crying and help your sister with that heavy bucket.”

  Eliza’s head snapped toward the abandoned bucket. “C’mon, Lizzie.” Eliza let Lizzie tug on one side of the bucket while Eliza did the heavy lifting. As they made their way back from the river’s edge to Ma’s fire, Eliza slowed down her long stride to match Lizzie’s tiny steps.

  When Ma turned away from the fire to fetch more wood, a rapid movement caught Eliza’s attention. The boy had darted toward Ma’s pot, as though he had been waiting for the chance. He grabbed one of the shirts straight from the boiling water, even though it must have scalded his hands. Before Ma even knew what had happened, the boy was running away, toward Eliza and Lizzie.

  “Stop, thief!” Eliza screamed, moving to block his way. “Give that back!”

  Ma spun around.

  The boy hesitated only a scant second, trapped between Eliza and her ma. Then he took off inland toward the maze of ramshackle huts of the shantytown. Eliza dropped her bucket, ignoring the fat sloshing over the rim, and raced after him.

  “Ma, get Lizzie!” she called.

  “Eliza, come back. Come back right now!” Ma shouted.

  She ignored her mother’s calls and chased the boy even faster. Ma couldn’t afford to replace that shirt. And if they lost their customers, how would the family survive? The thief wasn’t burdened with heavy boots, and his trousers didn’t catch on the brush like her dress did. The big sh
irt spread out behind him like a kite catching the wind; Eliza hoped it would slow him down.

  They were deep in the shantytown. Eliza wasn’t allowed to come here, but she knew what it was. The houses were flimsy, made of materials washed up by the river. But what the river gave, it also took away. These settlements flooded all the time, and the poor people who tried to live here lost everything over and over again. Ma called the shanties dens for thieves. But Eliza had seen her share of criminals, and she wasn’t afraid. Not too afraid.

  Her legs were longer than the boy’s, and she was gaining on him. But she was running out of time and distance; he knew the area and she didn’t. She’d lose him for sure if she didn’t act fast. Her breath rasping, heart pounding, she forced her feet to move just that much quicker. In a final burst of speed, she extended her arm and grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt. With the strength she had earned by hauling laundry day in and day out, Eliza pulled him so hard he fell. The shirt flopped to the ground.

  “Gotcha!” In an instant, Eliza straddled him, her palm flat on his chest to keep him down.

  “Oh!” She pulled her hand away from his shirt as though it were scalding hot. “You’re no boy!” Besides the beginnings of breasts under the thief’s shirt, Eliza now saw that her features were softer and rounder than most boys’.

  “So?” the girl snarled.

  “You’re right,” Eliza agreed. “Boy or girl, how dare you steal from my ma!”

  Eliza’s hand was still raised, and the thief’s eyes were fixed on it, her body stiff as though braced for a blow. The girl’s ebony skin was marked with pox scars, and her lip showed a recent bruise. Slowly, Eliza lowered her hand.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Eliza assured her. She grabbed the wet shirt, no longer steaming hot, and climbed to her feet. “But this belongs to us.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Ain’t you gonna turn me in to the police?”

  “Not if you never come round my ma’s laundry again,” Eliza growled. “Why’d you steal it anyway? This wouldn’t fit you in a hundred years!” She struggled to fold the shirt over her arm, but it was heavy with water and hard to handle.

  “I was going to sell it,” the girl replied. “And get some food for me and my ma.”

  Eliza’s stomach let out a hungry growl. Her eyes met the girl’s, and they both smiled a little. The shared glance was just enough to bridge the gap between them. “I know what it’s like to be hungry too,” Eliza admitted. “What’s your name?”

  “Celia.”

  “I’m Eliza. Are you free folk?”

  “For all the good it’s done us.” Celia spat out the words. “We’re worse off than we was before. Ma’s master freed all his slaves in his will. But now we don’t got a home or anyone to make sure the catchers don’t take us.” She looked curiously at Eliza. “What about you?”

  “My ma was born a slave, but she’s gone to the law to get free. In the meantime, she does laundry.” Eliza lost her grip on the heavy shirt, and the girl caught it before it fell to the ground again. Without thinking, Eliza snatched it back.

  “I wouldn’t steal from you again,” Celia insisted with an injured look.

  “Come back with me and apologize to my ma. Ask her for help. We don’t have much, but we can probably find you a dress and shoes to wear.” She glanced down at Celia’s ragged pants and dirty bare feet.

  “We don’t need your charity,” the girl muttered.

  “You’d rather steal?” Eliza asked, raising her eyebrows like Ma did when she didn’t believe Eliza. “I have another idea. Come to Reverend Meachum’s church on Fourteenth Street. He’ll help.”

  Celia stared for a moment, twisting her hands together. Eliza saw that they were covered with insect bites and infected cuts. “I can’t.”

  “Why not? What harm could it do?” Eliza tried reasoning with her.

  “I’ve got to go,” Celia blurted. Without looking back, she ran into the tangle of huts and disappeared. Eliza decided she had best head right back to the river before Ma had a fit.

  Retracing her steps, Eliza was surprised to see how far she’d run. She couldn’t wait to see Ma’s face when she returned triumphantly with the shirt, even if it was covered with dirt.

  Ma, face stern and arms crossed, was waiting at the river’s edge. Lizzie sat on a rock, Ma’s usual punishment whenever she got into trouble. Lizzie’s mouth fell open as soon as she saw what Eliza was holding.

  “Ma, look! I got it,” Eliza crowed.

  “You disobeyed me. I told you to come back, but you kept on running.” Ma’s voice was filled with anger. But Eliza could hear the fear too. Her triumph faded, replaced by guilt.

  “You’re a young colored girl with no one to protect you!” Ma went on. “A slave catcher could have swooped you up, sold you downriver, and we’d never hear from you again. I didn’t raise my daughter to be a fool.”

  Tears springing to her eyes, Eliza held out the shirt. “But I got it back, Ma!”

  Without softening one bit, Ma pointed at Eliza, then the shirt. “To us you are worth more than one hundred times that shirt! Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

  Eliza swallowed big gulps of air, trying to keep from sobbing. “I won’t, Ma.”

  Ma glared at Eliza for a long moment.

  “I really am sorry,” Eliza said.

  Ma lay the back of her hand against Eliza’s cheek. “You’re safe only when you’re with us.”

  Ma’s hand was rough from too much lye, but Eliza leaned in to take comfort from it. The memory of Celia, flinching when Eliza held up her hand, flitted into her brain. Neither Ma nor Pa had ever struck her, and Eliza knew they would die to protect her. “I promise to be more careful, Ma,” she vowed.

  Sniffing hard to keep her nose from running, Eliza shoved the shirt back into the steaming pot of water. With Ma’s long paddle, she poked the shirt until every bit of cloth had disappeared under the roiling bubbles.

  CHAPTER Four

  ON SATURDAY ELIZA HELPED HER MOTHER AT THE CHARLESS family’s place, a fancy house in the center of town. The Charlesses had at least a dozen rooms to live in and a large garden in back. The house had its own well, so getting clean water was easy. Ma had set up her pails in the basement with doors open to the back garden. The basement smelled of damp and starch, but the garden was fragrant with beds of herbs and early vegetables. Naturally, Eliza preferred to be outside.

  “Take those dresses . . .,” Ma instructed. Her voice was muffled because she was bent over a washboard, pushing the heavy cloth across the board. As she pulled the laundry back, she found breath enough to finish her sentence. “And hang them up outside.”

  Eliza gathered the slaves’ wet dresses in a basket and heaved the basket onto her hip. Someday she’d like to use the scales outside one of the big stores and see the difference in weight between a wet dress and a dry one. At least here at Miss Charlotte’s house, she only had to haul them twenty feet or so between the basement and the garden. But Eliza missed the breeze from the river and the never-ending parade of steamboats to entertain her as she worked. An enclosed garden meant that the garments could be safely hung to dry without fear of thieves. Eliza was reminded of Celia; she wondered if the girl would come to church the next day. Eliza lifted one dress and draped it over a lilac bush. Her back to the garden gate, she carefully arranged the skirt to lie as flat as it could. The more attention she paid to the drying, the less ironing she would have to do later.

  Eliza had just registered the sound of footsteps in the alley beyond the garden when the gate behind her was shoved open without any warning. Eliza tottered, then lost her balance. With a thud, she landed in the dirt.

  “You’re blocking the gate!” a sharp voice shouted down at her. A pair of high-heeled boots was planted in front of her face. She looked up to see Miss Charlotte’s son, Mark, towering over her. She’d seen him once or twice before, but he had never bothered to notice her. She scrambled to her feet and saw that her eyes were level with
his. Maybe he wore those boots to make up for not being very tall. He was not yet twenty, but he had the bad manners of someone who had been practicing a lot longer.

  “Sorry, I was doing the laundry,” Eliza muttered, her face hot. He was the one who had knocked her down, and yet she was apologizing.

  “My mother’s slaves are as clumsy as they are slow,” he barked. Pushing her aside, he slammed the gate and headed to the kitchen door. His mincing walk made him look as though he were skipping on hot coals.

  Eliza glared at his back and clapped her hand over her mouth. Ma had told her again and again to hold her tongue. She glanced at the basement door, wide open to let in light and air, hoping her mother had heard how well-behaved Eliza had been. But Ma was still scrubbing in the basement. Eliza’s only witness was Lizzie, sitting in the grass trying to coax the house cat to play. Lizzie frowned and said, “That man is mean.”

  “Hush, Lizzie.” Eliza put her finger to her lips. “We can’t say so. Even if it’s true.”

  Her fall had torn the sleeve of her dress from the bodice. This dress had already been mended too many times. Even Ma’s clever sewing couldn’t repair it again. She wished now she’d spoken her mind to Mark Charless.

  With a sigh, she returned to the laundry. Once the lilac and forsythia bushes were covered with skirts, Eliza had to make use of the wires strung between two poles. The clothesline was always her last choice because the wire was sharp and hurt her hands. She reached up to pin a dress to the clothesline and smiled. A few months ago, she had needed a stool to reach it. Eliza had no head for heights, even ones that weren’t very high. Then she thought of Ma, and her smile disappeared. The taller Eliza got, the more Ma worried about slave catchers. Ma said they looked for girls Eliza’s age because they fetched such a good price. As if Eliza would ever let herself get taken by the likes of a slave catcher.

  To take her mind off such an unlikely possibility, she began to sing one of the new songs she had heard on the street. She liked it because the words were so funny.