Freedom

by Catherine Johnson

  “Mary Lee?” I asked. “Are there slaves here in England? Bought and sold like dogs or carpets or fruit?”

  She nodded, matter of fact. “Course.”

  I felt my stomach drop. There was a knot in my throat so big I could barely swallow.

  “Are they only black like me?”

  “Naturally.” She dried her hands on her apron and went to the table where there was a tray with the remains of what I recognised as the young master’s breakfast and a newspaper, folded in half. Mary unfolded it.

  “Look. Notices for slaves that have run away from their owners. Every week there are three or four.” She jabbed her finger at the squiggly lines I knew were words but could not make out. None of us back home could. In fact I remembered Mamma had been beaten, more than once, for trying to learn her letters.

  Mary continued. “And here, a sale of slaves at…” She peered close. “Long Acre, that’s a street in Covent Garden, that is.”

  She pushed the paper towards me but the letters meant nothing.

  “How can you tell, you are a kitchen maid.”

  She looked at me, cracked a broad smile. “You cannot read!”

  “And you can?”

  Mary nodded. “Sunday school at the Methodist chapel. It came naturally, not like scrubbing or sweeping. But there was only the Bible. Here in town there are no end of words, on bills posted up in the street and newspapers and such like.” She shrugged. “But as Cook says, words en’t no use in a kitchen.”

  She smoothed out the paper. “It says here, two boys are for sale in town this very week. And from the look of notices, like this one –” she pointed at the newspaper – “that if you run away folk will track you down.”

  I felt cold. “Are you inventing this? How do I know what you say is true?”

  Mary snorted “What reason do I have to lie!” She picked up the paper. “I will read,” she said, “since you cannot.” I looked away a little ashamed. She cleared her throat. “Runaway from a house in Hanover Square – Cuffay, grey livery, black cap. Hair cut short. Speaks English, Dutch and African. Anyone who returns him to Mr Harris at the following address shall receive a reward. There. And another one. Boy, around nine years old, runaway from a house in St James – that’s near here – wearing a silver collar with his name ‘Toby’ and address written on it. Reward promised for finder.”

  “No!” I cried out. “I was sure there was no slavery here. We all knew that. I had planned to make my fortune before I returned. I thought in England everyone was free.” My mind was racing. “Those boys? When they find them will they cut off their feet?”

  Mary goggled. “Pardon?”

  “Cut off your foot so you can’t run away again? Or slit their noses?”

  Mary looked indignant. “That is horrible!”

  “They don’t do that here, then?” I asked. “Do they?”

  “Some places they still lock you up in the stocks and folk pelt you with eggs or mouldy cabbages.” She stopped to think. “Oh, there’s whippings surely, hangings, brandings sometimes…”

  “Only sometimes?” I said. “All of us the Barratts own have this.” I pulled at the collar of my shirt to show the B pressed into my skin by a hot iron.

  Mary gasped. “God in Glory! They treat you worse than a dog! Did they take your finger too?”

  “That was Mr Bird, the parrot.”

  “It did that?” She paused. “Even so, I should like to see it! Only I’m not allowed in the house, not unless Maggie is ill and I have to lay the fires and clean out the ashes. Maggie says he is green and red and one hundred years old. She says she is afraid of him and he bit one of the footmen…”

  I was about to tell her why Maggie was right to be scared when Cook slammed in from the pantry, I rearranged my shirt and Mary began drying the dishes as if her life depended on it.

  Cook nodded at me. “Your Missis Palmer wants you right away, boy. I hear you’re to have a new suit of clothes, and maybe shoes too! You’re a lucky fellow. What I’d give for some new shoes…”

  Missis Palmer had her office next to the kitchen. She was standing at the small table with a gentleman wearing an inch measure around his neck and a small pair of glasses on his nose. A jacket was laid out on the table, sewn all over with flowers and fruit. It was so brightly coloured anyone would see the wearer from a mile away. Missis Palmer lifted it up gently, clucking with approval.

  “Nathanial Barratt, in England even a slave may dress like a prince.” She saw me and her face fell. “Get that hay out of your hair, boy!”

  I patted my hair clean but said nothing about the coat. I thought any prince wearing that would look as if something had been sick all over them.

  “Such fine needlework!” Missis Palmer went on, and the tailor blushed.

  “Put it on then, put it on!” She held it up and I could see it was meant for someone smaller, but still she hustled me into it. It weighed a ton and it was too tight. I could barely lift my arms.

  “How will I work wearing this?” I said.

  “Be quiet, boy!” Missis Palmer snapped at me. She nodded. “This fit will do.”

  The tailor smiled. I started to take it off when Mississ Palmer held up her hand to stop me. Then she brought out what I thought at first was a cushion, but then realized was a bright red silken hat. “Your turban!”

  She squashed it down upon my head and smiled. “There!”

  It took every ounce of strength not to tear the thing off my head.

  “The outfit will definitely need a hat,” the tailor said. “I have heard it’s mighty cold up in Mistleton. Up north, it is, Yorkshire way…”

  I swallowed. I wanted to ask how far north.

  Missis Palmer cut in, “You will attend the mistress tomorrow. Make sure you are clean and there is no hay in your hair.”

  I looked at the ground. I wanted so much to run out of that house, but I thought of those notices in the newspaper. Even if I managed to run away, I still needed somewhere safe to go. Perhaps I could get Mary to write to Henry’s sister at the inn?

  “Oh!” Missis Palmer exclaimed. “The shoes! The shoes!”

  She bought out a pair of silver-buckled shoes made of the same stuff as the jacket. I would look like a junkanoo carnival dancer. At least nobody from home was here to see me. The cane-field boys would have laughed themselves sick.

  “Tomorrow we will begin teaching you how to pour tea,” she said, and shooed me out of her office and shut the door.

  I went into the garden then, behind the glasshouse where no one from the house could see, and kicked at stones. My blood felt hot as anger bubbled and burned under my skin. I would not be a dressed-up clown for any duke! I would not go to Mistleton. I would be free. I would find Henry, and perhaps his sister would let me work at the inn. Or perhaps he’d know someone who would find me work.

  I had promises to keep.

  After working in the garden I found Mary in the kitchen washing dishes. When I told her about the clothes she laughed. And then I laughed too; the thought of me in that stupid outfit pouring tea for a duke and duchess was indeed a funny one. Mary had a huge pile of dishes to get through so I lent a hand, taking the kettle of hot water off the fire and pouring it into the sink.

  “My brother Joshua would say it’s not worth letting the lords and nabobs get the better of you.”

  “The gardener?” I cut in. “I should like to meet him.”

  “I do think you two would get along. It is indeed a shame you won’t be staying in London.”

  I took up a clean cloth and began to dry the dishes. I smiled, thinking that perhaps, with Henry’s help, I would.

  Next morning I woke before dawn to the sound of clattering and banging. For a moment I was terrified, imagining something had happened to Mamma or Thomas. But it was Mary, sitting on the kitchen floor and opening cupboard doors, rummaging through each of them in turn. The stub of a candle rested on the table, flickering in the dark. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

  “
Mary?”

  She pulled out a bucket and a broom from a small cupboard and took a pile of rags from a shelf, and tucked them under her arm.

  “Are you all right?” I said, getting up from my bed.

  “It’s nothing.” She stood up, picking up the candle. “I’ve work to do.” Her face was grey with ashes.

  “What’s happened? Let me help.”

  She bit her lip, put down the candle and rubbed her eyes. I could see she was almost in tears. “I never meant it to happen, I was doing the fires for Maggie, I just wanted a look at Mr Bird. I’ve made an awful mess!”

  I went with her upstairs – after all, four hands would clean up faster than two. She opened the door from the servants’ staircase to the first floor, and led me across the landing through a set of double doors. In the yellow candlelight I could see the room was huge, big as a field, with curtained windows and walls lined with books. Chairs were set around the fireplace at one end, and I could see the familiar shape of Mr Bird’s cage, covered for the night with a cloth.

  “I had swept up, Nat, see?” Mary was saying as we crept inside. “Then I thought I’d take a look at that parrot.” Mary kept her voice low and pointed at the cage. “I only lifted a corner of that cloth, and he was there asleep, head tucked under his wing, like nothing more than a dove.” She paused, looked at me. “Then he woke up.”

  I could imagine her shock.

  “Oh!” she whispered. “I dropped that cloth sharp!”

  “You were lucky no one heard,” I said. “His screech can wake the dead.”

  Mary nodded miserably. “Then I tried to stop the bucket crashing, and I managed that, but it fell on to the carpet and rolled away.” She held up the candle and showed the damage: there was a pile of ash in front of the fire and all over the pale green rug. “We’ll never get it clean before they wake!”

  “Of course we will,” I said, but I wasn’t sure if I was right.

  I took the brush she’d bought from downstairs and began sweeping.

  Mary explained she couldn’t manage if they cut her wages.

  “But couldn’t you find another job? You’re free, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Not without a good reference.”

  I swept harder. Outside it was getting light, and the stub of candle had burned down into a pool of wax.

  I went to the window, taking care to go quietly round the birdcage, and opened the curtains and shutters to let in some light. The rug was still a little grey, but the fireplace was clean again. Mary pushed the hair away from her face. She almost smiled. “Nearly there.”

  “If we could give that rug a beat—” I began.

  We both froze, looking at each other. Mary’s face went pale. We could hear someone outside.

  “Quick!” We put the bucket of ash and the brushes in the grate. I pulled her towards the window and pushed her behind the curtain just as the door opened. Missis Palmer didn’t see me at first. She strode straight to the birdcage and lifted it up without removing the cloth. Then she stopped.

  “Nathaniel Barratt!” She spat my name as if it was the worst curse in the world. “What are you doing upstairs?” She put the cage down, spotting the grey cast to the rug. “This is your doing?”

  I tried to think of something clever to say, but all I could see were Mary Lee’s two feet poking out from under the curtain. I looked away from them and into Missis Palmer’s face as she bore down on me.

  “I’m sorry, Missis. This was all my fault.”

  I knew the slap was coming. It stung like a flame. Then I felt her hand grasp my ear as she pulled me out of the room and back towards the servants’ stairs. She practically threw me down them.

  “This is no place for you! Go downstairs and you stay downstairs until I come down and tan the hide off of you!”

  She closed the door to the servants’ staircase. I listened hard, and prayed and prayed she would not find Mary. I rubbed my ear. It felt like she had almost pulled it off, and the skin on my cheek stung. I went back to the kitchen. Missis Palmer would be down soon. The length of the beating I would get would depend on whether she decided to tell the old mistress she’d found me upstairs.

  Cook came in as I was thinking, rolling her sleeves up and putting water on to boil.

  “Where is that Mary Lee when you need her?” She said it to herself as much as me.

  At that second, Mary came in with a bucket of ashes in her hand.

  “Here, Cook!” she said. “I’ll just empty this.”

  She hooked her arm in mine as we walked out into the garden.

  “She didn’t see you?” I asked.

  “No! Nat, I can’t thank you enough. Will she hit you hard?”

  I half smiled. “I thought I’d be free here,” I said. “How could we all be so wrong?”

  Up in the sky flew small birds, not bright like hummingbirds back home, but dark blue, almost black. They were shaped like scythes and swooped high in the sky. They could go anywhere they liked. Mamma and Martha were depending on me. I had sworn I would come home. I had sworn I would free us all.

  “It’s not fair,” Mary said, low. “That you belong to them, that they can do what they like to you. I know I get the back of Cook’s hand but they can’t sell me.”

  I looked back at the house and down at my two whole feet. Why should I stay in this house a moment longer? If I could find my way to Henry, to the inn in Shadwell, he would help, I was sure of it. I knew I had to act now. Why wait for more bruises?

  “Go inside, Mary,” I said. “If she asks, tell Missis Palmer you didn’t see me.”

  Mary looked anxious. “What! Where are you going?”

  “To find my friend Henry Hughes,” I said. “To be free.”

  I walked to the garden door and out into the mews. I walked fast, over the cobbles, past the stables, then out into a busy street. I thought I heard someone shout. Missis Palmer? I did not turn back.

  I broke into a run.

  CHAPTER

  6

  I kept running and running for what felt like hours, down what seemed like a thousand streets, all lined with high buildings, until my feet were so sore that I had to stop. I bent over, gulping in air.

  I straightened up and tried to take my bearings. The sun was setting in the west, and Shadwell, where Henry lived, was in the east, wasn’t it? I hoped Henry was still there at his sister’s inn, and wasn’t already sailing off across the world. Henry had said the inn was by the river, but I could not see or smell water close by. I looked round again – and I shook my head. I could not believe it. The garden square looked exactly the same as the one I’d fled. A knot of children thronged in the square; some kind of music was playing, a violin perhaps. There were the same young trees with new green leaves. My heart hammered in my chest. Had I made all that effort, run ’til my feet were cracked and bleeding only to come full circle?

  I grasped the railings in front of a tall white townhouse and tried to steady myself. The front door banged open. A tall footman in gold-braided livery and white gloves came out. He shouted at me, his voice low and threatening.

  “Get off with you!”

  I staggered away and back out on to the pavement and into the road. How would I get anywhere in this damn city if everything looked the same? What if I’d never get away from the Barratts however far I ran?

  “Ho there!” a voice yelled behind me, and I turned round. Coming straight for me were two huge carriage horses, eyes rolling, hooves flying. The driver yelled again. I felt a sharp stab of fear as I thought the horses would most certainly run me down. Perhaps I wanted them to? Then there’d be no more running. The moment stretched on, and I felt the ground thunder under my poor sore feet. I shut my eyes.

  A hand closed round my arm and pulled me hard. The carriage clattered by so close I swear I felt the horses’ breath hot upon my cheek.

  I looked up at the man who had pulled me back. He held me tight and looked as angry as the footman.

  “What are you thinkin
g?” The accent was American. The face was darker-skinned than my own.

  “Sir…” I thought perhaps I must be in some kind of waking dream, because this man, taller than twice my height, wore a tricorn hat that carried a model ship. A full-rigged three-master, not unlike a miniature of The Brave Venture. He looked at me hard, and I could see he was worried not angry. He took in my feet and his face tightened. He marched me back to the square and picked up a violin.

  “You should come with me,” he said in a low voice. “If anyone asks, tell them I’m your father.”

  I tried to pull away. Could I trust him?

  He bent down and his eyes were dark brown and uneasy. “I know what you are,” he said. “I can help.”

  I was still frozen. He loosened his grip and I rubbed my arm.

  “Please.” He spoke gently now.

  I looked up at the model boat again and suddenly I remembered what Mary Lee had said. “You are Mr Shadrack Furman! You are the dancer, aren’t you?”

  His face cracked into a smile, and I saw there was warmth there. “Indeed I am, young man. Born on the Guinea coast and broken in Charlotte, Carolina, across the Atlantic, in America. I have a trade that is not dancing, but as an old soldier of the Royal Ethiopian regiment I am forebade work. But see –” he began to open his jacket and pulled his shirt away from his collarbone: there was a mark, a brand, of interlocking letters – “if I am not mistaken we have much in common.” He saw me nod and covered up again.

  He put out his hand and I took it. Freely this time.

  “Are you enslaved?” I asked, quietly, in case someone heard.

  “Not any more.” We started walking.

  “I need to get to Shadwell,” I said. Mr Furman led me across a busy road and down a street of shops and businesses. I went on. “I have a friend there, in an inn called The Cat and Mutton…”

  “You shouldn’t be out on the street on your own,” he said. “I doubt if I’m wrong, but I reckon as folk will be looking for you soon enough.”