Freedom Bound

by Jean Rae Baxter

  “Thee must be Mrs. Schyler. I have been expecting thee.” She turned to Posy. “I’ll help thee to carry the box inside.”

  “No! Please,” said Charlotte. “Let me.”

  Mrs. Doughty stood aside to make way as Charlotte and Posy carried the trunk inside. After they had set it down, Charlotte reached for her pocket. Even though she needed to be careful with her money, she wanted to give Posy a penny.

  The pocket was not there. Frantically she felt about in the space between her skirt and petticoat. In an instant her fingers felt the ends of the cloth tapes that had held her pocket to her belt. The tapes had been slashed.

  “Oh! No!” She felt tears spring to her eyes and struggled not to cry, but this was too much.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mrs. Doughty.

  “My pocket is gone! My purse was in it, with all my money.”

  Mrs. Doughty took her hand. “Come sit down. Thee is white as a sheet.”

  Charlotte, her hand in Mrs. Doughty’s, turned to Posy. “I’m so sorry! I wanted to give you a penny for your help.”

  “Them pickpockets,” said Posy, “they so quick. They cut the strings and a body don’t feel a thing. But never mind about giving me money. Thank you for the thought.”

  Posy stepped outside, picked up the handles of her cart and trundled it off down the street.

  Mrs. Doughty led Charlotte to a chair, one of two plain wooden chairs that stood in front of an empty fireplace, along with a simple wooden settle.

  The room was square, with no pictures on the walls. There were no draperies at the windows—just plain shutters. The tall floor clock in its wooden case was unadorned.

  Three small children were sitting on a braided rug in the centre of the room, playing with alphabet blocks. There were two little girls, about six and five years of age, and a boy of about two. Like their mother, the children wore black. Lifting their heads, they regarded Charlotte with solemn eyes.

  “These are my little ones,” Mrs. Doughty said. “Patience is the eldest, then Charity, and then Joseph.”

  “How do you do?” Charlotte hardly knew what she was saying. Her thoughts were on her stolen pocket. It wasn’t just money that she had lost. Nick’s letter was gone.

  “Very well, I thank thee,” each girl answered. Joseph merely stared.

  Mrs. Doughty left the room, returning quickly with a tumbler of water.

  “Thee must take such a loss with forbearance.” When she handed her the water, Charlotte noticed that her hands were red and raw. “There are more important things in life than money.”

  Charlotte sipped the water. “Important or not, money is necessary if I am to pay for my lodging.”

  “Let’s not worry about that.”

  “I don’t like to be beholden.”

  “Since thee has no money, I welcome thee not as a lodger but as a guest.”

  “But I can’t accept your hospitality without giving anything in return. There must be something I can do to help you.”

  “Do not fret. I do it for thy husband’s sake. Nick is a friend, though not a friend.”

  This curious statement caught Charlotte’s attention. “A friend but not a friend?”

  “Others call us Quakers, but the Society of Friends is what we call ourselves. Thy husband shares our beliefs about war and slavery.”

  “Nick is a man of peace. That’s why he served as a courier but never as a soldier.”

  “It’s hard to preach peace in a time of war. For the most part, we Friends are tolerated. But our situation has worsened of late, as much because of our abhorrence of slavery as because of our hatred of bloodshed. My husband Caleb was fined because I taught a black girl to read and write.”

  “Is that against the law?”

  “It is. And the law assumes that whatever a wife does, she does it under her husband’s direction.”

  “I did know that. My father says that the men who made that law must all have been bachelors.”

  “In this case, my husband approved of what I did, and he said so when he appeared before the magistrate. The magistrate rebuked him severely. But being fined didn’t change our ways. In fact, it made our opposition to slavery stronger still. We resolved to buy a slave in order to set him free. It took a year of frugal living to save enough money. Thirty pounds was the price. The slave’s name was Duncan. He went north to New York, where it would be easier for him to live as a free man.

  “Caleb knew he would pay a price for giving Duncan his freedom. When he lost a third of his customers, he was not surprised. We were both prepared for that.”

  As she spoke, Mrs. Doughty’s fingers were twisting a corner of her apron. “One week after Duncan left, ruffians attacked Caleb on his way home from a meeting of the Friends.” She raised the corner of the apron to her eyes. “A neighbour found him and brought him home.” A sob caught in her throat. “Caleb did not survive.”

  For a moment Charlotte could not speak. When she did speak, “I’m so sorry,” was all she could say. Her sympathy was mixed with horror. This man had been murdered for his decent, courageous human act.

  Mrs. Doughty gave a quick look at her children. She sat up straight in her chair, and Charlotte saw that she was determined to compose herself. She doesn’t want to upset her children, Charlotte thought.

  “Caleb was a shoemaker, a good provider,” Mrs. Doughty continued in a quiet voice. “His death brought us close to ruin. But the Friends help us. And I carry on my husband’s work.”

  She raised her head. “Now I must make thee welcome in our home. The two bedrooms upstairs are where my children and I sleep. The best I can offer thee is a cot in the kitchen.”

  “Mrs. Doughty, for three weeks I slept in a greasy hammock, slung from hooks in the ship’s timbers. Before that, my bed was two flour sacks sewn together and stuffed with beech leaves. So you see, a cot in your kitchen will suit me fine.”

  More than fine, she said to herself. But she must find some way to contribute. Only then could she feel perfectly comfortable living here.

  Looking around the Quaker family’s simple home, she thought it was a good place to wait for Nick’s return. But what did Mrs. Doughty mean by saying that she carried on her husband’s work? Her husband had been a shoemaker. There was no sign of cobbler’s tools about. So she couldn’t mean that.

  Chapter 5

  THE FIRST THINGS Charlotte noticed in Mrs. Doughty’s kitchen were half-a-dozen clotheslines stretching from wall to wall overhead. Apart from that, the kitchen was much like any other. It held a wooden table, a counter with a dry sink, a slop bucket under the sink, and shelves above the counter. There was a fireplace for cooking, with a swing-out crane from which pots could be hung. Near the back door stood a big copper washtub on an iron stand. In the washtub, red, green, blue, and brown clothes were soaking in sudsy water. There seemed to be clothes of every colour except Quaker black.

  “Would thee like a biscuit?” Mrs. Doughty asked. “I made them fresh this morning.”

  “No, thank you. I breakfasted well.”

  “Then I’ll get back to my work.” She rolled up her sleeves, pulled a green shirt from the water, and began to rub it vigorously on her scrubbing board.

  “May I help?” asked Charlotte.

  “Only one person can use a scrub board at a time. But thee can keep me company.” She wrung out the shirt and laid it on a wooden trough that stood next to the tub. “I should like to know more about thee, if I may.”

  “Of course.” Charlotte sat down at the kitchen table. “I was born and raised on a farm near a little place called Fort Hunter in the Mohawk Valley.”

  She fell silent as memories flooded her mind. The warm kitchen with its long harvest table. The smell of earth in the spring, just after the ploughing was done. The honking of wild geese passing overhead on wide-spread wings.

  Mrs. Doughty lifted her head. “Go on.”

  “I had three brothers.” Charlotte fought the lump in her throat that always rose when s
he thought of the loved ones she had lost. “There was James, then came Charlie, and then Isaac. I’m the youngest, born five years after Isaac. We were a happy family until the year I turned thirteen. That’s when everything changed. There was talk of revolution. People took sides. They were either Tories, like my family, loyal to England, or they were Whigs, ready to fight for independence. Neighbours who’d been our friends now became enemies.”

  “It was the same in the Carolinas.”

  “I think it was like that everywhere.” Charlotte paused. “All three of my brothers were killed.”

  Mrs. Doughty stopped scrubbing. “All three were killed?”

  “James and Charlie died at the Battle of Saratoga. A week later, a Liberty man shot Isaac. There was so much violence in the Mohawk Valley that Papa said we had to leave. We made our way north to Canada. There we took refuge at Fort Haldimand on Carleton Island, at the eastern end of Lake Ontario. We lived in the Loyalist refugee camp. Our only shelter was a tent.”

  “Even in winter? It must have been terrible.”

  “It was terrible. The second winter, Mama died.” Charlotte swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can talk about this any more.”

  “I will not press thee further.” Mrs. Doughty lifted another garment from the tub, wrung it, and placed it on the trough. “Only this: where did thee meet Nick? Was it on Carleton Island?”

  “I knew him long before that. We were both pupils at Sir William Johnson’s school at Fort Hunter. There were thirty of us, little ones in the front rows, big ones in the back. I started school when I was seven. Nick was one of the big boys. Ten years old. He stood out because he was always asking questions—not to show off, but because he wanted to know the ‘why’ about everything.”

  “Then he hasn’t changed.” Mrs. Doughty laid another garment on the trough.

  “I don’t think he ever will. After he turned fourteen and was finished school, I’d see him drop by to borrow books from the schoolmaster. There was one called Gulliver’s Travels and another called Candide that he talked about. But it was much later that he told me about the books, when I was fifteen and we were courting.”

  “When Nick first came to Charleston,” said Mrs. Doughty, “he attended our meetings a few times. That’s how my husband and I met him. He was respectful of our beliefs, but he could not accept all of them. Reason, he said, was his only guide.”

  “He has told me the same,” said Charlotte.

  “Reason should not be our only guide, but it guided Nick to two great truths: slavery is wrong and war is wrong.” She stood up. “Now, if thee will help me empty the tub and fill it with fresh water, I can rinse the clothes. Then we’ll hang them to dry.” She glanced out the window. “It’s a fair day. They’ll dry quickly in the breeze.”

  Later, as they were pegging the laundry onto the clotheslines in the backyard, Mrs. Doughty said, “I have an idea how thee can help me. I take in washing from five households. To pick it up and deliver it is the hardest part of my work. I have to carry the bundle of laundry through the streets while keeping an eye on three little children. Then the children need to be cleaned up when we return home.”

  “I understand that. The streets are foul.”

  “People dump their garbage and empty their chamber pots right onto the roadway. Though they’re fined if caught in the act, many do it anyway.”

  “I’ll be happy to pick up and deliver laundry, for I want very much to make some contribution.”

  “That’s settled, then. I have a spare pocket I can give thee. Thee will need it to collect payment.”

  “Thank you. I’ll guard it more carefully than the one stolen from me.” She paused. “I don’t want to be impolite, but may I ask you a question?”

  “Thee answered my questions. Why should I not answer thine?”

  “It’s about the way you talk.”

  “We call it plain speech.”

  “It’s not like the Bible. You don’t say ‘thou.’ Just ‘thee.’”

  “Plain speech has its own rules. ‘Thee’ is correct for speaking to one person. We use ‘you’ when speaking to two or more. We believe that to say ‘you’ when speaking to one person is to acknowledge that person as your superior in rank. We Friends observe no distinctions of rank. To us, all are equal.”

  “I see,” said Charlotte, who really did not see but wanted to be respectful.

  “We use plain speech to remind ourselves of who and what we are.”

  “Then you don’t mind if I talk the way I’m used to?”

  “Not in the least.”

  That evening when the light was fading, Mrs. Doughty lit a candle, closed the kitchen window shutters, and then went into the front room to close the shutters there.

  “We retire early to save on candles,” Mrs. Doughty said, “and we rise at daybreak. The kitchen fire will give enough light for thee to see thy way to bed.”

  “I wish you good night,” Charlotte said.

  Mrs. Doughty stopped at the bottom of the narrow stairs that ascended from the kitchen. “In the morning, if thee wants to write a letter to thy father, I’ll give thee pen and paper.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Doughty. But there’s no way a letter can reach him in winter. It will be April before the ice breaks up so that a bateau can travel up the St. Lawrence River to Carleton Island.”

  “He must worry about thee.”

  “I know he does. Since Mama died, I’m all he has.”

  “I shall remember him in my prayers.”

  After Mrs. Doughty had shepherded her children upstairs, Charlotte changed into her nightgown, the one she had bought to please Nick.

  Where was Nick now? she wondered as she lay on the cot under a patchwork quilt. If only she had his letter to read over again! Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut and tried to visualize the words on the page. Nick had called her “my dearest Dear.” He had said that his assignment would be completed by the end of February. He had promised her a thousand kisses. Now that was something to look forward to! She just had to concentrate on those kisses and not let herself think of the dangers he faced before she could collect them. Thinking about Nick, she drifted happily into sleep.

  A cry startled her awake. She stiffened, but did not move. It sounded like the squawky wail of a very young baby. She could not place where it came from, and listened to hear it again. But all was silence. I must have been dreaming, she decided, and went back to sleep.

  In the morning she told Mrs. Doughty what she thought she had heard.

  An alarmed expression crossed the woman’s face, but her voice was composed. “It could have been a dream. Or a noise in the street.”

  “It must have been,” Charlotte said. But it hadn’t felt like a dream, and the cry had sounded too close to have come from the street.

  Chapter 6

  AFTER BREAKFAST, Mrs. Doughty wrapped in a canvas sheet the clothes that she had washed the previous day. She tied the bundle with cords.

  “I’ve drawn thee a map.” She showed Charlotte a piece of paper. “Here’s Stoll’s Alley, where we are now. Thee must take this bundle to Mrs. Edgar, on King Street. I’ve marked the house with an X.”

  “I’ll find it,” Charlotte said, looking at the X.

  “The charge is three shillings. Be sure Mrs. Edgar pays thee. Don’t let her put thee off by saying she’ll pay next week.” Mrs. Doughty placed the bundle in Charlotte’s arms. “When thee returns, thee will find the door unlocked.”

  Was she wise to leave the door unlocked? Charlotte wondered as she started out. With footpads and drunken sailors roaming the streets, surely this was folly. Or was it faith that God would watch over her home? If so, Mrs. Doughty should place less reliance on God and more on common sense.

  The bundle was awkward to carry, though not especially heavy. The difficulty was keeping her footing. With every step her shoes squelched in slimy muck.

  With the map to guide her, Charlotte easily found Mrs. Edgar’s home. The front door, like that of ma
ny Charleston houses, opened onto a long veranda that ran along the side of the house. Without setting down her bundle, Charlotte managed to scrape her muddy shoes on the bootjack before setting foot on the spotless veranda floor. Halfway along the veranda was the actual entrance to the house.

  At Charlotte’s knock, a black woman opened the door and held out her arms to receive the load. In her flower-print dress and white apron, she looked neat and tidy enough to be the lady of the house. Only her colour told a different story.

  “The charge is three shillings,” Charlotte said, not releasing the bundle.

  “I’ll fetch my mistress.”

  Standing with the laundry in her arms, Charlotte waited several minutes before a stern-faced white woman came to the door. A white, ruffled cap covered her hair, and she wore a calico gown.

  “You could have given the laundry to my slave.” Her cold voice made her annoyance clear.

  “I expected you’d want to pay me yourself.” Charlotte felt emboldened, ready for battle.

  Mrs. Edgar looked her up and down. Charlotte’s well-made blue cloak with its braid trim was a garment no Quaker would wear and no washerwoman could afford.

  “It’s not convenient just now,” said Mrs. Edgar. “I’ll pay next week.”

  Charlotte drew back, still holding the bundle.

  Mrs. Edgar sighed. “Let me get my purse. Two shillings, isn’t it?”

  “Three.”

  With the money tucked safely into her new pocket, Charlotte felt pleased with herself. The walk back to Stoll’s Alley seemed no great distance at all.