Freedom Bound

by Jean Rae Baxter

  OTHER BOOKS BY

  JEAN RAE BAXTER

  Broken Trail (2011)

  Scattered Light (2011)

  Looking for Cardenio (2008)

  The Way Lies North (2007)

  A Twist of Malice (2005)

  FREEDOM BOUND

  Copyright © 2012 Jean Rae Baxter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).

  RONSDALE PRESS

  3350 West 21st Avenue, Vancouver, B. C., Canada V6S 1G7

  www.ronsdalepress.com

  Typesetting: Julie Cochrane, in Minion 12 pt on 16

  Cover Art & Design: Massive Graphic

  Maps: Jean Rae Baxter and Veronica Hatch

  Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Program, the British Columbia Arts Council and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Baxter, Jean Rae, 1932–

  Freedom bound / Jean Rae Baxter.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55380-143-6 ISBN EPUB 978-1-55380-153-5

  1. United Empire loyalists—Juvenile fiction. 2. United States— History—Revolution, 1775–1783—Juvenile fiction. 3. Canada— History—1775–1783—Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  PS8603. A935F74 2012 jC813'.6 C2011-906812-5

  for Leigh

  Chapter 1

  JANUARY 1781

  SHE COULDN’T SEE Nick anywhere.

  Charlotte stood at the bow, her eyes searching the wharves as the Blossom entered Charleston Harbour. Around her, the other passengers’ voices mingled with the sounds of sailors shouting, water lapping against the wooden hull, spars creaking and gulls shrieking.

  The harbour was clogged with ships. There were warships of King George’s Royal Navy, merchant ships, transport ships, slave ships, and the hulks that held prisoners of war. Except for the hulks, every ship carried guns. Even the Blossom, with its twelve passengers and its cargo of tallow and hides, was armed with twenty guns. What with French, Spanish and rebel warships on the hunt for any vessel flying a British flag, the seas were perilous all the way from Nova Scotia to the Carolinas.

  At Charlotte’s side stood Mrs. Dickinson, the purser’s wife. The only other woman on board, she was short and sturdy, with a red nose and cheeks roughened by sun and wind.

  “Do you see him yet?” Mrs. Dickinson asked.

  “Not yet. When we’re closer, he’ll be easy to spot. Nick’s very tall.”

  But when the ship moored at its wharf and the sailors were lowering the rope ladder over the side, Charlotte still had not seen him.

  “Even if I can’t spot him in the crowd, he’s sure to see me,” said Charlotte. “I’ll be the only woman climbing down the ship’s ladder, except for you.”

  “Me! Merciful heavens! You won’t catch me on that ladder one more time than I can help! Climbing it to come aboard was quite enough for me.”

  “Don’t you want to see Charleston?”

  “No, thank you.” Mrs. Dickinson shook her head firmly. “From what I hear, the streets swarm with refugees, cut-purses and runaway slaves. I’ve no wish to go ashore. My only reason for going to sea is to be with my husband. If I didn’t, I’d never see him at all.”

  “I know what that’s like. Nick and I have been married more than a year. In all that time, we’ve spent a total of twenty-two days together.”

  “At that rate, you can hardly call yourself married, if you ask me.”

  “There’ve been times I thought so, too. But everything’s about to change. After three years as a courier, Nick has been attached to the Civilian Department of the Southern Command. He’s been given a room of his own in the officers’ quarters, and I have come to Charleston to join him.”

  Charlotte stepped away from the rail. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Dickinson, I’m eager to go ashore.”

  “My best wishes go with you!”

  “Goodbye and thank you. It’s been a comfort not to be the only woman on the ship.”

  Hurrying to the spot where sailors had lowered the rope ladder, Charlotte was first in line when the gate in the rail was opened.

  “Careful there, young lady!” a sailor warned, holding out his hand to offer help. But she was already over the side, her foot reaching for the next rung down.

  “That lass is fit for a life at sea,” another sailor laughed.

  “I’d like to see her up in the rigging,” the first chortled, “with those skirts blowing in the wind.”

  She pretended not to hear.

  Charlotte was eighteen years old. She had black hair, pink cheeks, and lively brown eyes. For her arrival in Charleston, she was wearing a blue cloak over a plum-coloured woollen gown—her first new garments in four years. Nick had sent five pounds sterling from his pay so that she could purchase clothes in Quebec before embarking.

  If she had been wearing breeches on the voyage and not a long cloak and gown, she would have loved to climb up in the rigging, where wind filled the sails, as far away as possible from her berth between the decks.

  Charlotte thought that whoever gave the Blossom that name must have had an odd sense of humour, for her quarters had reeked of pitch, bilge water, and human waste—a noxious stench that nearly turned her stomach. She had heard rats skittering and squeaking, and sometimes she saw one. Although it was cold on the Atlantic in winter, she had spent almost every waking moment on deck. Even so, she felt as if the stink of the ship would cling to her clothes forever.

  As soon as she was standing on the wharf, Charlotte resumed her search for Nick, her mind refusing to accept what her eyes told her.

  A young officer stood a few yards away, his red coat and white cross belts making him stand out from the crowd. From under the brim of his tricorn peered a pair of eyes that seemed fixed on her. She turned away, avoiding eye contact. As she continued to look for Nick, she could not suppress the rising fear that something had gone wrong.

  When she happened to notice the young officer again, he was still staring at her. The steadiness of his gaze forced the truth upon her. Nick was not here. This stranger had come to meet her. Their eyes met. She did not look away.

  The young officer stepped forward. He bowed.

  “Have I the honour of addressing Mrs. Charlotte Schyler?”

  “I am Charlotte Schyler.” She held her breath, waiting.

  “Captain Ralph Braemar, South Carolina Royalist Regiment, at your service. Nick asked me to meet you. He is most unhappy not to be here.”

  “Has something happened to him?”

  “No. Nick is well.”

  “Then why . . . why isn’t he here to meet me?” Her words caught in her throat. She had travelled three weeks in a stinking ship, enduring every kind of hardship cheerfully because she believed that as soon as she stepped ashore, Nick would be there to welcome her.

  Captain Braemar looked around before he spoke, as if to make certain that no one could overhear. “He’s been ordered to the backcountry.”

  “You mean the army is still using him as a courier? I thought that was finished. He wrote to me that he’s now attached to the Civilian Department.”

  “He was. But the military needed someone to go into the interior of South Carolina to gather information. We think there’s considerable support for the King, but with so much persecution of
Loyalists, hundreds have taken to the swamps to hide. General Cornwallis needs to know how much active support the army can expect. Nick has the skills to find that out.”

  Her voice shook. “Are you telling me that Nick is a spy?”

  “Shh!” His voice sank to a whisper. “You could say that. But you don’t need to worry. If the rebels couldn’t capture him when he was a courier, they can’t catch him now.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She wanted to believe this. For three years she had forced herself not to worry about Nick. But she knew that a spy, like a courier, faced hanging if he were captured.

  “As soon as he received his orders, Nick wrote to warn you not to come to Charleston. His letter went by ship to Canada about six weeks ago. Since he knew it was unlikely to reach you in time to stop you from setting out, he made me promise to meet every ship. He didn’t want you to arrive and find no one waiting.”

  She looked around at the dozens of wharves and the dozens of ships at dockside or anchored in the harbour.

  “You’ve met every single ship that arrived this winter?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I haven’t missed one ship flying the British flag.”

  “Thank you, Captain Braemar. I am most grateful.”

  “It was no more than friendship requires.” He bowed again. “Now let’s find your trunk. If we stand on the steps of the Exchange, we can watch the wharfingers unload the ship. They always start with the passengers’ boxes. As soon as those are on the wharf, I’ll hire a man with a pushcart to carry your trunk.” He offered Charlotte his arm.

  “Is the Exchange that beautiful big building on the waterfront?” She took his arm. “It’s so grand, I thought it must be the Governor’s palace.”

  “No ma’am. The Exchange is our customhouse. It was built for commerce and for important social events. Underneath there’s a vault where we lock up political prisoners.”

  “Oh.” She shivered. “A dungeon?”

  “Yes. We call it the Provost Dungeon. It wasn’t built to be a dungeon, but that’s what it’s used for now. We don’t have enough room in the hulks to hold all the prisoners of war, and the city jail has been turned into barracks for soldiers. Charleston is an occupied city, you know, and we’re at war.”

  “Nick warned me that I wouldn’t like everything I saw.”

  “It’s not so bad, really. You’ll be comfortable in the officers’ quarters. Nick is lucky they assigned him a room.”

  When they had mounted the steps of the Exchange, they stood watching as the wharfingers, manning a clumsy wooden crane, unloaded an assortment of boxes and trunks and sea chests onto the dock.

  “I see my trunk,” she said after a few minutes.

  “Wait here. I’ll find a carter.” He walked down the steps, leaving her waiting.

  Charlotte pulled her cloak closer about her shoulders. She felt a twinge of panic as Captain Braemar disappeared in the crowd. What if something happened to him? Then what would she do in this unfamiliar city where she didn’t know a soul?

  Chapter 2

  CHARLOTTE’S ANXIETY SOON ended. In a couple of minutes Captain Braemar reappeared, followed by a black man with a pushcart. She walked down the steps of the Exchange to join them. “That one’s mine.” She pointed to a wooden trunk bound with brass straps.

  Captain Braemar helped the man lift it onto his cart.

  “I hope you don’t mind a walk,” he said to Charlotte.

  “I’m happy to walk. I need to find my land legs again.”

  Once she started walking, she was less happy to be on foot. The street was unpaved, soft and slimy. Charlotte’s first impression of Charleston was that it smelled nearly as bad as the Blossom.

  “Do you know much about Charleston?” Captain Braemar asked.

  “Very little.”

  “It’s built on a peninsula that’s shaped like a tongue. On the west side, there’s the Ashley River. On the east side, there’s the Cooper River. Charleston Harbour is where they join.”

  “Do you know the town well?”

  “I should know it! I was born and raised here. My family has a house in town, where we spend part of the year. The rest of the time we live on our rice plantation, Bellevue, twenty-five miles up the Ashley.”

  While they talked, Captain Braemar frequently looked back over his shoulder, apparently checking to see that the carter still followed. Either he’s worried lest we become separated in the crowd, Charlotte thought, or he’s afraid the man may run off with my trunk.

  “There is such a quantity of people,” she observed. “I’ve never before seen so many in one place. And most of them are black.”

  “Before the war began, whites and blacks were more or less in equal number. But now the blacks outnumber the whites. We have about thirty-eight thousand black people to eleven thousand white.”

  “I suppose all the black people are slaves.”

  “Most are slaves, but some are free.”

  “How do you tell them apart?”

  “A slave going about town must carry a pass that says he’s on his master’s business. The man I just hired to bring your trunk is free and has a certificate to prove it.” Captain Braemar looked around again. The carter was still with them.

  They were passing a stately building with an open portico, two tall pillars flanking the door. Chained to one of the pillars was a black man. His back was bare, and he was being whipped. His head hung to one side, and he made no sound that Charlotte could hear, although she was near enough to hear the whoosh of the lash and the smack as it struck his skin. Blood welled from the open cuts. A dozen or so spectators—black and white—stood watching.

  She stopped walking. Once, on the Blossom, she had seen a sailor being flogged, but not with such ferocity. The man wielding the whip had his teeth bared in a savage grin. He’s enjoying this, Charlotte thought, and she shuddered.

  “Come away,” Captain Braemar said. “You don’t want to watch this.” When he tugged her arm gently, she yielded and they walked on.

  “What could that poor man have done to deserve such punishment?”

  “Most likely he’s a runaway. One hundred lashes for correction.” He spoke as if explaining something to a child, bending his head toward her to be sure she heard. “He’s getting off lightly. Sometimes they tie a nail to the whip.”

  “It’s horrible.”

  “Yes ma’am. It is horrible. And it’s a horror we brought upon ourselves.”

  “You mean, slavery?”

  “I’m not against slavery. The prosperity of South Carolina depends on it. We couldn’t grow rice and indigo without slaves to do the work.”

  “You could hire people, couldn’t you?”

  “Costs too much. And you wouldn’t find many white men who’d want to do it. No ma’am, the slave system is the only one that will work in the South. And it worked well until British policy makers hatched the idea that we could hurt the rebels by offering freedom to their slaves. All a slave had to do was stay behind British lines for one year, helping the military. At the end of the year, he’d be granted a General Birch certificate. Owning that certificate makes him a free man.”

  “It sounds to me like a good idea.”

  “Too good, as it’s turned out. Word spread from one plantation to the next. Thousands of runaway slaves flocked to every town behind British lines. Most didn’t know which side their owner was on. All they heard was ‘Freedom.’”

  “Who can blame them?”

  “I can’t say I do blame them. The problem is, only slaves owned by rebels qualify for a General Birch certificate. If the owner is a Loyalist, we send his slaves right back to him. That makes them angry. Many refuse to carry out their duties, or perform them poorly. So their owners must use harsh measures to keep them in line.”

  Charlotte glanced back over her shoulder at the man chained to the pillar. The more he slumped, the more vigorously his tormenter wielded the whip. Was this an example of harsh measures? It made her feel sick.


  He continued. “Since last May, after we took Charleston from the rebels, the situation has become worse. General Clinton, the British Commander in Chief at the time, issued a proclamation offering full restoration of property and civil rights to all rebels who would swear allegiance to King George. In Charleston alone, more than two thousand men accepted the offer. ‘Now that we’ve returned to our allegiance,’ they said, ‘kindly give us back our slaves.’

  “But the genie was out of the bottle. Those newly freed slaves were now serving in black regiments or working on fortifications. To return them to slavery would have been impossible. So there’s plenty of bad feeling all around.”

  Charlotte and Captain Braemar turned onto a street that had a brick sidewalk—clearly a better part of town. The houses here were large and elegant. Along the sidewalks grew the strangest trees that she had ever seen. Instead of branches, each tree had a clump of long, bristling leaves stuck on top of a bare trunk.

  “What are those trees?”

  “Palmettos. I guess you’ve never seen them before.”

  “There’s a lot I’ve never seen before.” She could have added, and I don’t just mean trees. But she didn’t say it out loud.

  They stopped in front of a handsome three-storey house that stood behind a wall with a wrought-iron gate. It had two verandas, an upper and a lower, that extended on one side of the house all the way from the front to the back.

  “Here we are,” he said. “The officers’ quarters.”

  “Why, it’s a mansion! At Fort Haldimand on Carleton Island, the officers’ quarters are a wing of the barracks.”

  “This is Charleston, not a fort on an island in the middle of the wilderness. Here, officers are billeted in the better homes. In this case, Southern Command took over an entire house for their use.”

  “Is this where you live?”

  “No. Since my family owns a house in Charleston, I live at home.”