Freedom Bound

by Jean Rae Baxter

  “Not hopeless.” He shook his head. “Until the sale is over and the buyer takes her away, something may yet be done.”

  Nick said nothing more, but he appeared to be deep in thought all the rest of the way to Mrs. Perkins’ house.

  He waited outside while Charlotte took the baby to Mrs. Perkins.

  She returned smiling. “Mrs. Perkins will keep Noah for an hour so we can go for a walk.”

  Nick drew her hand warmly into the crook of his elbow. “Where shall we go?”

  “It doesn’t matter. King Street, maybe.”

  It was a beautiful day. The late afternoon sun bathed the houses in a mellow light. The roadway was not as mucky as usual. They passed a coffee house, from which came the sound of cheerful voices. In one house someone was playing a clavichord, and the music drifting through the open window made her think of home.

  “Do you remember how my mother used to play the clavichord?” Charlotte asked.

  “I remember. She played beautifully. And so did you.”

  “Not nearly so well.”

  “You will someday, when you have a clavichord of your own, and time to practise.” He gave her arm a squeeze.

  After supper, when Mrs. Doughty had put her children to bed and the baby was asleep in his cradle in the kitchen, Nick, Charlotte and Mrs. Doughty sat together in the front room. Nick seemed unusually quiet, although there was plenty to talk about.

  After a particularly long silence, during which he crossed his legs and then uncrossed them, he said, “I’ve been thinking.” He turned to Mrs. Doughty. “You and your husband bought a slave and set him free.” Nick spoke slowly and deliberately. Charlotte could tell that he was weighing every word. “If Phoebe were free, could she and the baby have a home with you?”

  With a sigh and a shake of her head, Mrs. Doughty answered, “I’d gladly give them a home. But I have no money to buy her. Since Caleb died, no manner of scrimping and saving would make it possible. I would if I could.”

  “What would it cost?”

  “Far too much.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Phoebe is a house servant, trained as a lady’s maid. That increases her value. But some people wouldn’t want to buy a slave who’d tried to run away. That lowers her value. Twenty pounds might be enough.”

  Nick answered vaguely, “Then there’d be the lawyer’s fee to draw up the document of manumission.”

  Charlotte saw the light in his eyes that gave a glow to his whole face whenever he was excited. She knew what he was thinking.

  “I’ve just received my quarterly pay. Twenty-five pounds.”

  Mrs. Doughty’s eyes shone from the shadow of her poke bonnet with brightness that equalled Nick’s.

  Nick turned to Charlotte. “What do you think?”

  Charlotte gulped. If they bought Phoebe, there would be no money left to rent a place for the two of them to live . . . though they probably couldn’t find one anyway.

  And then she felt like shaking a finger at herself. How could she, even for an instant, be so mean as to place her own comfort ahead of something so important!

  She smiled. “It’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll find out details about the sale,” said Nick. “There’s sure to be a poster put up near the Exchange.”

  “There’s going to be an advertisement in the Royal Gazette.” Charlotte felt good about herself again. “I heard a couple of gentlemen talking about it in front of a coffee house.”

  Mrs. Doughty went into the kitchen to close the shutters there. She returned with a lit candle in a candlestick. “Here’s a bit of extravagance to celebrate Nick’s safe return.”

  That night, two straw-filled mattresses lay side by side on the rag rug covering the trap door. At last Charlotte was able to wear for Nick the almost perfect nightgown she had bought in Quebec.

  It’s not a dream, she said to herself with happiness so great she could hardly believe it. We’re together at last. We’ll never be parted again.

  Chapter 13

  LOUD SINGING WOKE Charlotte and Nick in the middle of the night:

  I am a man upon the land,

  I am a silkie in the sea.

  It sounded like two men, both very drunk:

  And when I’m far and far from land

  My home it is in Sule Skerrie.

  What on earth was going on! The singing stopped. Then the banging and thumping on the door began. Charlotte was thankful that Mrs. Doughty no longer left doors unlocked.

  “Not that house, laddie,” a slurred voice said. “We’re on the wrong street.”

  “Noo, why dinna ye tell me?”

  Another burst of fists hammered on the door.

  “I did, but ye wouldna listen. ’Tis too late anyway. Let’s go back to the ship or we’ll na escape flogging.”

  Their voices receded as they moved off, mournfully moaning another verse of their song:

  It shall come to pass on a summer’s day

  When the sun shines hot on every stane

  That I shall take my little young son . . .

  The sound made Charlotte think of sick wolves howling.

  “Lonely Scots far from home,” said Nick, “and looking for solace in a tavern.”

  “They must have taken a wrong turn. There’s no tavern in Stoll’s Alley.”

  “As they realize. So now that the entertainment’s over, we can go back to sleep.”

  “Good.”

  Before they fell asleep, she had a question.

  “Nick, what’s a silkie?”

  “Hm?”

  “The song those men were singing: ‘I am a man upon the land. I am a silkie in the sea.’”

  “A silkie is a seal,” he said drowsily. “But not an ordinary seal. A silkie can take off its skin and go on land, just like a man.”

  “What’s the song about?”

  “The silkie visits a girl. She doesn’t know who or what he is. He leaves her with a bairn when he goes back to the sea. Later, he returns to take the bairn away. He pays her for taking care of his child.” Nick sat up, sleep forgotten as he softly sang the song:

  And he had taken a purse of gold

  And he had placed it on her knee.

  “Now give to me my little young son

  And take thee up thy nurse’s fee.”

  “He’s heartless,” said Charlotte.

  “Not really. It’s sad for everybody. All Scottish ballads are sad.”

  The story made her think of Phoebe, separated from her child. But there the similarity ended, for Mr. Morley would never, ever come to take away his son.

  “That song’s my favourite,” said Nick. “But there are hundreds more. Somebody ought to collect them in a book before they’re forgotten. In the backcountry I heard ballads from many countries, ballads I’d never heard before. Men sing them in taverns. As a spy, I spent a lot of time in taverns.”

  “Sneaking around listening to people?”

  “No need to sneak. When I came riding into a village on my handsome bay gelding, everybody gave me a warm welcome. I told them I was the son of a Georgia planter looking for customers to buy my father’s cotton. You should have seen me in my embroidered vest and my doeskin breeches. My pouch was stuffed with guineas to buy drinks for the locals. Wherever I travelled, I stayed at the best inn and slept in a feather bed.”

  There were no feather beds on the Blossom, she thought.

  “In the evenings I’d buy drinks for everyone, then sit back and listen to people talk. My biggest challenge was remembering to say ‘Y’all’ and not let my speech slip out of that southern drawl I’d spent weeks practising. No need to ask whether my new friends were Whigs or Tories. Whichever side they supported, words flowed as freely as the beer and rum punch. By the time I’d visited a dozen or so villages, I’d memorized the names of nearly a hundred secret Loyalists who were prepared to keep fighting. There were a lot more villages that I’d intended to visit, but before I’d finished
my assignment, I was forced to leave.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d been forced to leave.”

  “Afraid so. I thought I was a very convincing planter’s son. Yet somebody must have seen through me. At the last village I visited, a courier disguised as a traveller passed me a message warning that the Board to Detect Conspiracies had its eye on me.” Nick chuckled. “I didn’t waste any time. That same night the planter’s son disappeared into the hills.”

  “So that’s why you’re back in Charleston a month early.”

  “Yes. That’s the reason. Now that I’ve been recognized, my career as a spy is finished. Someone else will take over from me. And I’ll go back to organizing food and shelter for refugees.”

  “Which side is winning in the backcountry?”

  “That’s the question. Nathanael Greene is a superb general. Under him, the rebels are taking back South Carolina bit by bit. They’re capturing one British outpost after another. But they haven’t yet reached Fort Ninety-Six.”

  “Fort Ninety-Six. You’re not the first person to mention that place. Why does it have a number for a name?”

  “The reason I heard is that it’s ninety-six miles from the nearest Cherokee town. This seems to me a mighty odd reason. But however Ninety-Six got its name, it’s not just a fort. There’s a village, too, with a courthouse, a jail, a church, a blacksmith, and a tavern.”

  She smiled. “There’s bound to be a tavern.”

  “True. Having all these things makes it the key to the backcountry. Ninety-Six is where the British forces will make a stand. The fortifications are excellent. Southern Command is confident that Ninety-Six can beat off any attack.”

  “It sounds as if the rebels are confident, too.”

  “Very confident. In fact, they already have their own government-in-waiting. Its assembly meets in a village called Jacksonboro, twenty-five miles from here. A committee there is hard at work gathering names of Loyalists. If the rebels win, they’ll banish every family on the list and confiscate their property.” He hesitated. “Sweetheart, if I’d known how critical the situation was becoming, I wouldn’t have asked you to join me here.”

  “Then I’m glad you didn’t know.”

  The next evening, Nick returned from work with a copy of the Royal Gazette. He walked straight into the kitchen, where Charlotte was peeling shrimp and Mrs. Doughty was mixing biscuits. He set the newspaper on the table, the back page up so both of them could read it.

  “Two notices,” he said. “One for Jammy. One for Phoebe.”

  The first item he pointed to was set in a box and decorated with a tiny figure of a black man running.

  Run Away from the subscriber, the 20 of January, a Negro fellow named Jammy, age 15, about 5 feet 8 inches high. Black skin with large pits of the small pox on his face. Whoever delivers the said Negro to the workhouse, shall have Twenty Pounds currency reward, and all reasonable charges.

  Lewis Morley

  Charlotte looked up at Nick. “It says there’s a twenty-pound reward. Why would Mr. Morley offer so much money? Jammy’s just going to be hanged if he’s caught.”

  “Morley’s saying what Jammy’s worth. It helps to establish the compensation. When killing a slave is in the public interest, the owner shouldn’t be left out of pocket. That’s local policy.”

  “Small justice,” she murmured.

  “Do you see the advertisement for Phoebe, lower down on the same page?”

  “Here it is.” She read it aloud:

  To be Sold at Auction in front of the Exchange on February 3. Negro wench named Phoebe. Age 15. 5 feet high. Speaks excellent English. Pleasing manner and appearance. Skilled seamstress. Expert at embroidery and lace making.

  Thomas Watkins, Auctioneer

  “It won’t be a big auction,” said Nick, “not like the ones they hold when a slave ship arrives from Africa. At those auctions, they put hundreds of slaves on the block. Plantation owners come from all over the South to buy them. The sale tomorrow will just be a domestic auction.”

  “Domestic?”

  “The slaves offered aren’t new stock from Africa. Most were born right here in the Carolinas. They’re already somebody’s property. Some are skilled artisans: carpenters, tailors, dressmakers. They’re worth a great deal of money.”

  “The advertisement doesn’t mention that Phoebe can read and write.”

  “Of course not. Literacy lowers her value because it marks her as a possible troublemaker.”

  “That’s why there’s a law against teaching a slave to read,” said Mrs. Doughty. “Slaves who can read get dangerous ideas. They learn about liberty and think, ‘Why not me?’ The spread of such ideas could bring about the end of slavery.”

  “Amen,” said Charlotte. She folded the newspaper and handed it to Nick. “What sort of person is Mr. Morley?”

  “He’s a Charleston businessman, an importer.”

  “Does he have many slaves?”

  “Not many,” said Nick. “A couple of dozen labourers and household servants. It’s not as if he owned a plantation. It’s common for rice and indigo growers to own hundreds of field workers.”

  “But Mr. Morley is a rich man, isn’t he?”

  “Very rich. He buys merchandise from shipmasters who bring goods from all over the world: England, Scotland, the Netherlands, France, the West Indies, the East Indies. Silks and fine furnishings, tea and coffee, ploughshares, rifles. Morley owns a big warehouse down by the wharves.”

  “And he’s a Loyalist.”

  “No doubt about that. You’ll see him every Sunday with his family in their box at St. Michael’s Church, joining his voice in the Prayers for the King.”

  “Pity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he were a rebel, Jammy could flee behind British lines to gain his freedom. In one year he would be given a General Birch certificate. Captain Braemar told me about that.”

  “It’s true. But Lewis Morley is staunchly on England’s side.”

  Chapter 14

  BACK IN THE Mohawk Valley, Charlotte had gone with her father and brothers to many auctions at the Johnstown sales barn. It had not bothered her to see a farmer pull back a horse’s lips to check its teeth or run his hands up and down its legs. But to see these same actions performed on men and women made her ashamed to be white.

  She tightened her grip on Nick’s arm. “Those people are being treated like livestock.”

  “They are livestock. It makes me sick.”

  The slaves to be auctioned were separated by sex, lined up in order of height, and chained together with their ankles shackled. The women were to the left of the platform, and the men to the right. There were six women and nine men — a small auction, as Nick had said.

  From the list handed to Nick at the door, Charlotte quickly learned which slave was Phoebe.

  Number 3. Wench. Phoebe. Age 15. House servant. Skilled seamstress. Expert at embroidery and lace making.

  So this was Noah’s mother, the girl whom Mrs. Doughty had taught to read and write. Phoebe must have felt Charlotte staring at her, for she turned and met Charlotte’s eyes in a steady gaze. Charlotte looked away, embarrassed to be caught behaving like a prospective buyer previewing the merchandise.

  “She’s very pretty,” Nick said.

  “Right now, she likely wishes she weren’t. The way men are looking at her, I’m sure it’s not lace and embroidery they have in mind.”

  There were about sixty white people attending the auction. All of them, except two men, were looking at the slaves. Those two men were staring at Nick.

  They stood side by side, leaning against one of the pillars of the Exchange. Both wore buckskin jackets, leather breeches, and thick high boots. One had a coonskin cap on his head, and the other a broad-brimmed hat with a flat top. The man with the coonskin cap had an aquiline nose that stood out like a beak beyond his receding chin. The man with the hat had bushy eyebrows and small eyes that squinted when he talked. He was talkin
g now, leaning his head toward his companion as they stared at Nick. The man in the coonskin cap frowned and shook his head.

  Charlotte nudged Nick. “Do those fellows know you? They’re watching you.”

  Nick did not turn his head. “I noticed them already. They’re Over Mountain men from the backcountry. They likely think they recognize me, but they’re not sure. Ignore them. Don’t let them see you’ve noticed them.” He took her arm. “Keep your eyes on the stage. The sale is about to begin.”

  The auctioneer stepped onto the platform. He was a sweaty-faced bald man, wearing a linsey-woolsey shirt with a red neckerchief. A thin young fellow who appeared to be his assistant removed the chain from the ankle ring of the tallest woman and dragged her by the elbow onto the platform. The woman’s ebony skin shone as if it had been oiled. With her broad shoulders and muscular arms, she was a picture of health and strength.

  “Who’ll start the bidding at twenty pounds for this fine field worker? She knows rice growing like the back of her hand. Never been sick a day in her life. Thirty years old and in her prime. Let’s hear twenty pounds.”

  “Fifteen!” a man shouted.

  The bidding went up quickly, one pound at a time. The new owner paid twenty-five and looked pleased as he led her away.

  The next woman brought onto the platform was older, perhaps forty. She had a sinewy look, with knotted muscles, and skin marked by smallpox scars.

  “This one don’t look so pretty,” the auctioneer admitted. “But those pock marks prove she’s already had the sickness. So she ain’t going to up and die next time there’s an epidemic. And look at those broad hips. Good breeding hips. She’s had eight children, and never lost a one.”