Freedom Bound

by Jean Rae Baxter

  He kissed her anyway. “I’m off to the locksmith, and then straight to Headquarters.”

  “The locksmith may mistake you for an escaped convict.”

  “He won’t. He knows me too well, and he knows I work for Southern Command. It’s part of a locksmith’s profession to be discreet. He won’t even ask about the collar and hand bolt.”

  Nick crossed the room to the front door. With his hand on the latch, he said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but there’s no telling how long this will take.”

  He left her then, shutting the door behind him.

  Gone again. It was absurd to fear for his safety every moment he was out of her sight. But she remembered what happened the last time they parted. He had said he would see her “in an hour or two.” And look what happened!

  “Miss Charlotte . . .” Phoebe’s voice broke in upon her thoughts. “If Jammy was coming here, I can think of only one thing that would stop him.” She took a deep breath. “Slave catchers.”

  Charlotte looked away. She could think of one other unattractive possibility. However, Jammy was far more likely to be captured by slave catchers than eaten by an alligator.

  Phoebe’s voice trembled. “Mrs. Doughty told me there was a reward.”

  “Yes. It was advertised in the Royal Gazette. Twenty pounds. Payable if Jammy was delivered to the workhouse.”

  “Do you think Jammy may be imprisoned in the workhouse?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlotte’s thoughts raced.

  Jammy had started out for Charleston three days ago. If slave catchers caught him, it would have been yesterday, maybe the day before. How much time normally passed between capture and execution? How long would it take for Southern Command to act upon Nick’s information? Jammy might be dead before the truth about Lewis Morley’s activities came to light. Much good a General Birch certificate would do him then!

  From the kitchen came Mrs. Doughty’s voice: “Breakfast is ready.”

  “Phoebe,” Charlotte said calmly, “the first thing to do is to find Jammy. If he’s being held at the workhouse, we must find a way to get him released.”

  “There is no way.” Phoebe began to weep. “You know that. He’s run away three times.”

  Charlotte grabbed Phoebe’s hands. She wanted to say, But there is a way! Already she realized that this would be the hardest secret she’d ever had to keep.

  Chapter 26

  “I’VE NEVER BEEN inside the workhouse,” Phoebe said, “but Jammy has. He told me about it. Mr. Morley paid the warden a shilling for his correction. They took him into the whipping room, where the walls are two-feet thick and filled with sand to muffle the screaming.” Phoebe’s lower lip trembled. “There was a crane, with a pulley. The warden chained Jammy’s feet to bolts in the floor. Men hoisted the crane until his body was so stretched out he thought he’d be pulled apart. And then they beat him.”

  “I’ve never been there either,” said Charlotte, “and it’s not a place I want to go. But if Jammy is imprisoned there, the sooner we know, the better.”

  Phoebe wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “If they’ve taken Jammy there, I don’t know any way you can free him. The only person who could do that is Mr. Morley.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” Charlotte said, wishing she could at least hint that Mr. Morley would soon lose his rights over Jammy. “The first thing is to find out if Jammy’s there. And if he isn’t there, where is he?”

  Not voicing her fear that Jammy might already be dead, Charlotte settled her good blue cloak about her shoulders. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. There’s laundry to deliver, so if you could—”

  “But I can’t. I still don’t have a certificate that says I’m free. I won’t be able to get one until I have that deed of manumission from the lawyer. If I go out on the street, the slave patrol might pick me up if I’m not with a white person. Then you might be looking for me at the workhouse, too.”

  “Oh,” Charlotte muttered, “I should have remembered.” What a world we live in! she thought. It’s not only unjust, it’s ridiculous.

  It was a long walk from Stoll’s Alley to the workhouse, which was located in the northwest part of Charleston. As she turned from Church Street onto Queen Street, Charlotte could see it from blocks away, its great bulk looming above the surrounding buildings. With its massive towers and barred windows, the workhouse matched her idea of an ogre’s castle—a place of torment, darkness, and danger. Behind the building, a brick wall enclosed the workhouse yard, where the gallows were erected. The gallows stood taller than the wall.

  The building’s proper name was the House of Correction. Charlotte did not know why everyone called it the workhouse. No one imprisoned there ever did any work. They were sent to the workhouse for punishment, which was politely called “correction.” It was just for black people. Every level of offense committed by a black person—from running away to murder—was dealt with there.

  She knew that white offenders had a courthouse of their own as well as prisons of their own. And the rules were different.

  The street was filled with people. The closer she came to the workhouse, the more the crowd grew. Charlotte was jostled and bumped. Through the slit in the skirt of her gown she kept a tight hold on her pocket.

  When they reached the building, she let herself be carried along by the crowd. There was a crush of people pushing and shoving in their hurry to enter. No doubt something important was about to happen in that stern, forbidding place. Everything seemed ominous. She thought of Jammy and felt afraid.

  The crowd forged ahead through a pair of open doors into an entrance hall, and then up a wide staircase into another hall, where a set of double doors stood open. Everyone was jostling and shoving to get into the room beyond those doors.

  At the entrance, Charlotte hesitated. By her sudden stop she caused the man behind her to bump her shoulder rather hard.

  “Beg your pardon, Miss,” he said.

  The man’s companion was speaking to him. Charlotte’s ears caught one sentence: “I’m interested in hearing what Lewis Morley will say.”

  Lewis Morley! What would he say about what? It must have something to do with Jammy. The man whom Charlotte had overheard obviously expected Mr. Morley to be present. But would he be? Nick had taken the bill of lading to Southern Command two hours ago. A lot could happen in two hours. Mr. Morley might be a prisoner in the Provost Dungeon by now.

  The room Charlotte was entering had a dais at the back wall, with a long table standing on the dais. There were two water pitchers on the table, and four tumblers evenly spaced along its length. A man in livery stood at one end of the table. There was a closed door behind it in the back wall. In front of the dais was a boxed-off area just big enough to hold one person.

  A dozen rows of benches took up most of the room. The benches were packed with people. Most were men, and all were white. The room smelled of sweat.

  She took a seat in the back row, hoping not to be noticed.

  After a few minutes, the man in livery announced, “All upstanding!” At these words, everybody stood up.

  Four white men now entered in single file, marched up the aisle between the rows of benches to the table on the dais, and took their seats facing the benches. Then everyone sat down again. It felt a bit like church.

  Three of the men at the table wore well-cut frockcoats and ruffled shirts. The fourth man was differently garbed. He wore a black robe with little crossed tabs for a tie, and a long, curly white wig. In his hand he held a silver-headed gavel, with which he now rapped on the table.

  “The Magistrates and Freeholders Court is in session,” he announced. “This morning, four slaves will be sentenced. Correction will immediately follow.”

  That man’s the magistrate, Charlotte decided. The other three are the freeholders—men of property.

  “Produce the first slave,” the magistrate commanded.

  The door behind the dais open
ed. Through the doorway two guards entered with their prisoner between them, in chains. It was Jammy.

  Charlotte’s heart began to thump with excitement. Jammy was alive! But could she save him?

  He was still barefoot and half naked, his exposed skin still covered with mosquito bites and dried mud. Dozens of fresh welts stood out in reddish purple lines, vivid against the mud. His right eye was swollen shut, and his cheek was puffy.

  “Will the petitioner come forward?” the magistrate said.

  Nothing happened.

  “Is Lewis Morley present in the court?”

  The people seated on the benches stirred and looked about.

  “Is Lewis Morley present in the court?” the magistrate repeated. Still no one stepped forward.

  The magistrate banged the table with his gavel and asked for the third time.

  “Is Lewis Morley present in the court?” He waited. He banged the table again. “We cannot proceed in the absence of the petitioner.”

  The other men at the table nodded solemnly. A buzz of whispers rose from the benches.

  A reprieve! It seemed that Jammy was safe as long as Mr. Morley did not appear. Although he would return to the horrors of the workhouse, he would escape hanging for the time being. And time was on his side.

  “Mr. Morley received due notice of this proceeding,” said the magistrate. “Does anyone in the courtroom possess information to explain his absence?”

  Charlotte stirred in her seat. Did Morley’s absence mean that he was already under arrest? It might mean that. It might not. Other reasons were possible. An accident. Sudden illness. An emergency at Morley’s warehouse.

  Suddenly a gentleman two rows in front of Charlotte stood up. He wore a grey frockcoat and a white periwig with a little pigtail at the nape. “Your worship,” he said. “I represent Mr. Morley.”

  The magistrate banged his gavel. “Then can you enlighten this court as to why he is not here?”

  “No, Your Worship, I cannot. But I have a signed and notarized deposition prepared by Mr. Morley for presentation in the event that the demands of business should prevent him from attending.”

  “Produce the deposition,” said the magistrate.

  The man in livery took from the gentleman a folded, sealed document. He handed it to the magistrate.

  The magistrate broke the seal, unfolded the document, and read it silently. He raised his eyes. “This appears to be in order. The court may proceed with sentencing.”

  Charlotte sat stunned. For a breathless moment she had thought that Jammy was safe, if only for today. Now that moment had passed. A vision came to her of Jammy mounting the scaffold, a crowd gathered to watch him die.

  She rose to her feet. Everyone’s eyes were upon her as she stuck out her chin and mustered a firm voice.

  “Your Worship, the sentencing must not proceed.”

  Chapter 27

  THE MAGISTRATE RAISED his head and looked in her direction. She was not afraid. She felt strong and full of purpose.

  “If you wish to know why the sentencing must not proceed, then send a messenger to the Headquarters of Southern Command. For the present, that is all I am free to say.”

  She took a deep breath. Oh, what a chance she had taken! What if something had happened to Nick on his way to Headquarters? What if the bill of lading had not been evidence enough? What if she was speaking too soon? It was possible that Lewis Morley had not yet been arrested.

  From the way people looked at her, she supposed that everyone in the courtroom thought she was insane. Voices rose all around.

  The magistrate banged the table with his gavel.

  “Order!”

  He addressed Charlotte. “You could be charged for disrupting the order of this court.”

  “Yes, Your Worship. I understand. Charge me if you must. But at least, delay sentencing for the time being.”

  “What is your name, young woman?”

  “Charlotte Schyler.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Stoll’s Alley.”

  She heard laughter. “Stoll’s Alley! Ha, ha, ha!”

  The magistrate frowned. For a moment he and Charlotte looked into each other’s eyes. He cleared his throat.

  “The court will send a messenger to Southern Command. In the meantime, we shall proceed with the other cases. Young woman, you are not to leave this courtroom without my permission.” Raising his hand, he pointed to Jammy. “Remove the prisoner.”

  Jammy was standing with his mouth hanging open, staring at Charlotte. The look on his face was one of total amazement. He remained staring at her over his shoulder as the guards led him away.

  Charlotte sat down. She had done what needed to be done. And she had done it without revealing the evidence of the bill of lading. How long would it take for a message to come back from Headquarters? And what would that message be?

  Her hands, she noticed, were trembling. She grabbed the edges of her cloak and willed the trembling to stop.

  The next prisoner was a male slave—field hand, age twenty-five—accused of murdering another slave in a quarrel over a woman. After hearing the evidence, the panel of freeholders found him guilty, and the magistrate sentenced him to hang.

  Then came the trial of a female house servant—cook, age fifty-one—found guilty of attempting to poison her master and his family. She, too, received a death sentence.

  The last trial was of a runaway—male, age twenty—who, like Jammy, had made two previous escape attempts. For him as well, the sentence was death, the ultimate correction.

  The session ended. The magistrate dismissed the court. Since the sentences were to be carried out immediately, there was a swift exodus of spectators as they rushed outside to secure a good viewing spot from which to watch the hangings.

  The three freeholders were also in a hurry to go. In the almost empty courtroom, Charlotte heard them explain to the magistrate that they depended on the incoming tide to help bear their schooners upriver to their plantations.

  Ignoring Charlotte, the magistrate now busied himself with a pile of papers in front of him on the table.

  Charlotte waited, alone on the back bench. After a few minutes, she heard a loud cheer from outside. That must be the first prisoner being hanged. The warden certainly hadn’t wasted any time getting on with the executions. “God have mercy,” she prayed, hoping that the poor man would have better luck in the next life than he’d had in this.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Turning her head, she saw a man in livery enter the courtroom. He went straight to the magistrate and handed him a folded paper closed with a red wax seal.

  The magistrate snapped the seal, unfolded the paper, and read. He shook his head and sighed when he had finished. Then he raised his head and looked directly at Charlotte.

  “You may approach the bench.”

  Since there were twelve rows of benches, she had no idea which one he meant.

  He must have sensed her confusion, for his stern countenance softened. “Come forward, young woman. Wherever I am sitting is the bench.”

  This did not make a great deal of sense to Charlotte, but the failure of things to make sense was becoming too common for her to question any longer. She walked up to the table, and when he directed her to take a seat, she sat down on the front bench, facing him.

  “It appears that Mr. Morley is under arrest. He has been taken to the basement of the Exchange, the Provost Dungeon. Charges of assisting the enemy have been laid against him. I cannot imagine how someone like you could have anticipated this. Do you want to tell me?”

  “No. I cannot.” Charlotte kept her countenance smooth, not showing her relief. “But it seems to me that you must let Jammy go free.”

  A frown knitted the magistrate’s brow. “In South Carolina a man is presumed innocent until proven guilty. The sentencing of this slave cannot take place during the present circumstances. It must wait for the result of Mr. Morley’s trial. Yet this hardly means I must order the p
risoner’s release.”

  “Why does he need to remain here? Let me take him. I lodge at the home of Mrs. Doughty, a Quaker woman of sound reputation. Send to her. I’m sure she will vouch for me. My husband, Nicholas Schyler, is employed at the Civilian Department of Southern Command. He will give his bond if you release Jammy into our custody.”

  The magistrate looked down at the paper and said under his breath, “Lewis Morley, of all people!” Then he leaned back in his chair, looking suddenly weary.

  “You know this slave, Jammy, I presume?”

  “I do. He is a young man of good character. He won’t run away. Why should he? In a few days, or maybe weeks, he’ll be eligible to apply for the General Birch certificate. But in the meantime, it’s cruel and unnecessary to keep him locked up in this horrible place.”

  “The purpose of the Magistrates and Freeholders Court is to keep blacks under submission and to protect slave owners’ property rights. It is not a court of justice or a court of mercy. Rarely is there opportunity for the exercise of either.”

  Charlotte heard him mutter something about the gentle rain from heaven upon the earth beneath. Then he stood up.

  “Wait here. I’ll summon a clerk and send a messenger to Mrs. Doughty. If she agrees to take responsibility for the slave Jammy, that will suffice.”

  Chapter 28

  BAREFOOT, BATTERED, and muddy, Jammy was wearing the same torn breeches that he had worn when hiding in the swamp. He walked between Mrs. Doughty, in her black Quaker habit and coal-scuttle hat, and Charlotte, in her blue cloak. They made an odd-looking trio. It didn’t surprise Charlotte that they received many a sideways glance on their walk to Stoll’s Alley.

  Before Jammy was well inside the front door, Phoebe, looking as fresh as a flower in her neat homespun dress and white apron, ran to him with a shriek and embraced him, dirt and all. The children stared.