Chasing Freedom (15 page)

“A tailor's shop. Hmmm … And are you spoken for, Miss Sarah?”

Sarah managed a half-smile, “I thought I was.”

“Which means?”

“It's not working out the way I expected.”

“What happened? What did you expect?”

“I had big dreams. I was looking forward to settling down, but sometimes dreams do not work out. It has been four months since he went away and I'm doubtful that he's going to return.”

“Then you are free, as far as I can tell.”

Sarah smiled and she let herself enjoy the happiness overtaking her, though it troubled her that she had dismissed Reece so easily. Was she finding an excuse to abandon him? Had she just admitted that her future with Reece was becoming increasingly uncertain? For the moment, none of it seemed to matter. “I am a free woman with no obligations,” she finally said.

The music slowed. Thomas led her to the centre of the floor. He smelled of sweet cedar wood. She felt like a million yesterdays tucked away inside a double-happiness jar. As they danced, Priscilla watched from the sidelines until she could stand it no longer, then she strolled over to the couple and with devilishness she said, “Well Sarah. With Reece away you seem to have found yourself a new sweetheart.” She laughed and said, “It must be the dress leading you astray.”

Thomas withdrew his arms. A pained expression swept across his face. Sarah looked at Thomas, then turned and gave Priscilla a short, cold sneer before she managed to say, “No, I did not.” She turned and headed to the door.

Outside, she stood under a huge hemlock. She was not obligated to wait for Reece, to pine away, hoping for something that might never be. She twisted her face. It was good that she left, for surely she would have taken a swipe at Priscilla and embarrassed herself and Thomas too.

It took Thomas a second or two to come to his senses before hurrying to the door where ol' Brown was slumped down in his makeshift chair. He was drunk, but not so drunk that his one opened eye could not follow the young women about the room or watch out for any commotion. Between the snorting and grunting, Thomas broke in with his question: “The young woman who just walked past in the red dress, which way did she go?”

“Dat way,” ol' Brown said, pointing to the right side of the shack.

Even in the dark, the red dress drew Thomas's eye. He made his way towards Sarah, thinking on what had just happened.

“I believe you, Sarah Redmond. Please don't be upset.”

Thomas's sudden appearance startled Sarah. She took a deep breath. The truth was Priscilla's remark was a blessing. Deep inside, where all the lingering doubts held up her expectations, there was a cleansing going on. She let the remnants of past dreams fly away. She faced Thomas and, oddly, felt a deep sense of respect for this stranger. He seemed to see clearly into the nature of people and to have a few things figured out.

“I am fine,” she said. “It's been quite the night.” Sarah thought about Grandmother's bad juju and was sure she felt its hold on her evaporate as she looked up at this handsome stranger and allowed her face to crinkle into a smile.

Twenty-five

T
HOMAS REMAINED IN BIRCHTOWN FOR ANOTHER
TWO
weeks. He and Sarah shared a joyous time: talking, laughing and dancing. His love was a healing potion, nourishing Sarah's emptiness, leaving room in her thoughts for only him. At first, she hesitated, trying hard to maintain her feelings for Reece, trying to figure out how such a thing could happen, but this new fire and passion sought her out and devoured her.

It may have been his smile or his confidence or the way he thought about life, she wasn't sure. Perhaps it was something that happened on the evening they went to the clearing to a boxing match. The strongest Negro men in Birchtown lined up in pairs to fight each other. By the fifth round of the first fight, Thomas had turned to her and said, “Such brutality. The Negroes fight for a few coins to please this senseless crowd and the white men from Roseway who come to drink, take our women and make sport of the men who tear each other apart. We're always for their amusement and never their equals. These men who cheer for us at night will jeer us during the day.” Without asking permission, Thomas took Sarah by the arm and said, “After coming out of slavery, we should never have to witness such brutality again.” And with that, he led her away.

On another occasion, he stopped by the cabin and carried her buckets from the well. Instead of sitting on a stump and watching her do the wash, like most men would have done, he pitched in and helped, not giving it a second thought. She grinned, thinking of how in an instant the idea of women's and men's roles could change. He brought a fresh view of life. There was a lot to like about Thomas Cooper.

On the evening before Thomas left, Sarah took out the red dress and put it on. They stood in the moonlight holding each other as though bound by some syrupy tonic. “Sarah,” he said, with her face in his hands. “You and I belong together. I have never felt so certain about anything in my life. I love you deeply. More than I could ever have imagined.”

When she did not answer, he continued gently, “Come to New York with me. This life here has nothing to offer but lost dreams and misery. We can have a good life in New York. We will have a chance to grow there.”

In the unforgiving chill of the Birchtown night, Sarah found no easy words to answer a question that demanded such quick action. Hadn't she dreamed and longed for a better life, wanted to fly like a bird, be her own person? She looked down at the dress, admiring its showiness and defiance. Her smile grew narrow and her eyes closed. Nothing was ever clear-cut. What was holding her back? It was the timing and all the tangled bits and pieces of her life and, just as importantly, family. She could hear Thomas's voice pleading with her to answer. It sounded far away and desperate. She opened her eyes.

“Sarah, don't turn away from me.” He was shaking her gently with both hands. “Come away with me. We can leave in a few days. I have enough money. We can take your things with us. I have thought about this. I have a plan.”

Sarah did not answer. She kept staring away in the darkness. She was searching her heart, trying to grasp what was happening. She studied his eyes, not wanting to turn away from the passion in them, but she did, suddenly, uttering, “No. I can't. It would not be right to leave. I have family here, hopes and dreams. I could say that I do not love you and put an end to this right now.” She shook her head wildly and continued, “But no, that would not be the truth.”

“Then what is the truth? What is it, Sarah?”

“The truth is … I care deeply for you.”

“You love me, I know it. Say it!”

“I do love you.”

Thomas hung his head and stammered, “What can I say that would change your mind?”

“I can't say … just that I know I am where I need to be.”

“I understand your need to stay, but I can't stand the thought of leaving you behind. I will not try to persuade you against your will.”

Her eyes held his and she knew what she felt was as true as the moon above, but still … Unexpected thoughts of Reece surfaced and it came to her mind how her faith in him had been dashed by his sudden leaving. She ran her fingers along the edge of the puffed sleeves of her dress, feeling the fine detailing, the expert stitching: steady and even, like she wanted her life to be. She would help raise young Prince and follow her dream of becoming a tailor. If Thomas loved her so much … She wanted to scream it out loud, but it would have been selfish, and so what she said was, “Let's not be sad. Some things are not meant to last forever. We found joy in each other's company and maybe we should be happy with that.”

“Perhaps. But if you should change your mind, you come to New York and find me. I will make my name known in every Negro quarter.” He reached for her hand and this time she did not push it away.

Later that evening, she carefully folded the red dress, smoothing the wrinkles as though she were erasing the troubling lines of life. She wondered who it had belonged to, if it had been part of another romance, part of a lavish ball with handsome gentlemen. She wasn't feeling at all like the child who needed Grandmother to speak for her or the one who needed direction and advice. She was in charge, looking out for herself. Blessings and curses, joy and sorrow, all at once, like a thunderstorm when the sun was shining. What was this mixed-up crazy life really about? Sarah had worn the red dress for perhaps the last time. She gazed at it for a long time, then gathered it up in her arms and placed it in the trunk at the foot of her bed saying, “Guard the memories this dress holds dear.” And she closed the lid.

Twenty-six

I
T WAS EARLY JULY 1785. SARAH SPENT HER TIME
WORKING
at Mrs. Cunningham's, Mrs. Atkins' and at home. There was little time to think about Thomas. She had Prince to care for and, more urgently, Grandmother, who had fallen ill. The old woman lay in bed for three days, suffering delusions that caused her to cry and, sometimes unexpectedly, erupt into fits of laughter. Peace refused to settle across her troubled brow. Sarah worried that she might have smallpox or cholera and she kept an eye on her fever. Fibby was certain it was neither. She spread a thick paste of black mustard powder, flour and hot water between two pieces of cloth and laid the poultice on Lydia's chest. After several applications, the congestion had not loosened.

Grandmother lay on her side, her eyes wide as her raspy groans and deep breathing intensified. She called out saying, “Just a little glass of water, Sarah, and I'll be all right.”

Sarah held the water to her parched mouth only to watch her barely swallow it. She knelt on the floor beside the bunk. There was a dullness in the old woman that was unfamiliar. Sarah searched her eyes for signs of hope. What she saw was troubling.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is troubling you? Is there something more I can do, some way to comfort you?” She wondered what was so heavy on the old woman's mind that she could not speak it.

Grandmother forced her head up on the thin pillow and sipped a tiny bit of water. Her scratchy voice came in weak spurts, “I got to make … my peace with God. Do you hear?”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Sarah replied.

Grandmother spoke again and her words formed a plea. “Where is Fortune? Can you get your Papa, please?” The old woman spoke with an unsettling urgency. “There is something I got to tell him.”

“Papa is out at the woodpile. I'll get him.”

After Fortune took his place in the chair beside his mother's bed, pulling off his cap and hanging it on his knee, he said simply, “I'm here, Mama.”

The old woman turned to Fortune, squinting. She stretched upright on her elbows. “I'm so glad that you found us, Fortune.” She opened her eyes wider. Her words evened out. “I never told you this before, but you surely are a blessing and, oh Lord, I need you now, son. I got to make this journey to Glory with pride, without any regrets. I got to gather my children now. I got to try.”

Grandmother's eyes strayed from Fortune's face. She looked towards the light streaming through the thin canvas draping. “It is true. I was keeping things from you, waiting on the right chance. Oh the guilt and shame I felt over the loss of my children. It seemed like some evil spell stole my life.” She slowed, taking deep breaths. “I did not want the burden on no one but myself. The time has come to speak the truth … all of it.”

“You don't have to talk about it now, Mama. Sometimes the past is best forgotten and things left alone.”

“Fortune, you have to listen to me, now. I must get it all said. I have to stop waiting on time. Time is running out.”

He brought the chair closer to the bed. The time had finally come for the telling, “the freeing of the soul,” the slaves called it. Fortune wished Reverend Ringwood was there, but he was not about to suggest that.

And so, between catching her breath and the raspy coughing, Lydia unfolded her sad story. So many births, too many to count for a breeding slave. Most of the babies had died, leaving her with five children. Boll weevil and Cecil had guarded her newborns like soldiers, one of their jobs being to decide when the children would go to sale. They would cart the babies and children off like cattle to auction. Some remained to learn skills or work the fields. She recalled how Cecil took the three light babies, saying she had no right to them.

She assured Fortune that she had kept her promise and spoken with Margaret Cunningham. It was all out in the open now, how Cecil had sold her back to Master Redmond to bring up as a Redmond. She told them too about Amelia and another son who had been taken. And when her head fell back on the pillow, with not an ounce of breath left, both Fortune and Sarah felt her sadness right to their core.

Fortune showed no evidence of surprise. Looking at his mother, he said gently, “Well. Margaret Cunningham. The secret is out at last. It all makes sense. It wasn't hard to figure out after thinking about it. I heard the fondness in your voice when you spoke of her. One time ol' Tally, the wood carver, told me the slaves were marking their daughters with the rings he carved. It sure did raise my curiosity when I saw Margaret's ring, just like yours. Well, mama, I'm happy for all of us. It's what you have prayed for, to bring your family together.”

“Here in Scotia we can put this family back together. We can know our real kin. There's no shame in that.”

“There is no shame in that,” Fortune repeated. He paused. She had kept the secret for so long. Pride and guilt, he thought, it stole her joy all these years. If only he had found the courage to say something when he first suspected, when he wondered where the babies went, when he saw the creamy tint in Margaret Cunningham's skin and his mother's attention to her. No matter, you can't change the past, but you can enjoy the moment. He kissed his mother on the cheek and grinned, “It feels good to know she's one of us.”

“Son, I can't rest until I know what happened to my other children, my boy and my girl.” She looked away, her bones telling her there was only a little time left to do anything.

“Do you have any idea of what became of them?”

“The girl stayed with the Redmonds for awhile, a playmate for Margaret, and then she was sold to Mr. Pinkham. I let him do that, Fortune! Let him sell my child without a word. Oh, Lord, please forgive ol' Lydia.”

Fortune reached for her hands and rubbed them gently. “You could not stop it. Cecil would have beaten you … or worse.”

“One day she came back to Master Redmond's, grown, almost a woman. I wanted to mark her like I did Margaret, but there was no time for ol' Tally to make a ring. Oh, Fortune, I pray that I will see her again!”

“I wish there was something I could do.”

Grandmother let out a long sigh. Her bedclothes were soaked and her lips dry.

According to Chance, the local healing woman, Lydia had pneumonia. How long she had to live was anyone's guess. Each day an endless parade of well-wishers descended upon the little cabin. Margaret came to sing a round of hymns, bathe her mother and help change her gowns. She said it was strange how the tables had turned. It was her turn now to look after dear Lydia, just as the old woman had looked after her. Having dragged on for over two weeks, the sickness finally cleared, but Lydia remained weak and bedridden.

When finally she regained enough strength, Lydia called Fortune to her bedside once again. “I believe that Amelia is in Scotia. Margaret has told me she found the Pinkham name in one of the books listing the military men who came here. The Pinkhams headed to Yarmouth shortly after they arrived. Her name is likely Amelia Pinkham. This is the only lead Margaret has. I have to try to find a way to contact her and tell her this ol' woman needs to see her one more time.”

“Don't fret, Mama. If she is in Nova Scotia, I'll find her. I will do my best. What about the boy? Do you know where he is?”

“I kept the boy but a short time. He looked so much like Margaret when he was born. That Cecil, I believe he knew where he was, but he would not tell me. I have searched every mulatto face in Birchtown, but I can't say for sure that he is here.”

Fortune said, “Asking questions is trouble, but I'll stir the pot to see what I find.”

Fortune's eyes clouded. He stood out in the fresh air, taking a break from chopping wood, and scanned the land, thinking of how far they had come since Carolina. He was grateful. They were finally landowners. Sarah could read and write. Prince Jr. was doing fine. Mama had realized part of her dream with the reconciliation with Margaret.

For some reason, the idea of going back into the past made him anxious. Fortune picked up the axe, brought it down hard and buried it in a thick block of hardwood. His worry now was how Amelia would react to being found. Oddly, it was not just light-skinned ones who were afraid to acknowledge their mixed heritage; many Negroes were running away from their past and their families. The colony was wading in a flood of shame and frightening memories that made talking about slavery difficult. Neither did the white folks acknowledge their role in the horrible practice, though it was ingrained on their tongues and minds, like a permanent scar. They were all acting like a little time could wipe the slate clean with no side effects. It made not an ounce of sense to Fortune. It was to him like holding onto another secret of which no good or peace could come. He prayed Amelia's reaction would not be one of the remaining barbs in his mother's crown. Misgivings aside, Fortune vowed to honour his mother's wish. That was all he could do — give an old woman a promise to help her make peace with herself and God.

After supper, Fortune lit a candle and placed it on the table. He looked at Sarah and said, “Can you write a letter for me?”

Sarah went to the trunk and got some paper, a quill and black ink.

“Okay, Babygirl. This letter is to go to my old friend, Fred, down in Yarmouth. We served together in the Pioneers. He worked on the Pinkham plantation, so address it to Fred Pinkham. Tell him I need a favour. Ask if he can find an Amelia Pinkham.” He scratched his head, wondering what to say next. “Write out a special message for Amelia and put it in the letter to Fred. Tell her that we have need of her … tell her that she has a very sick mama.” His words were thick and burdened with soreness. “Tell her to come to Birchtown as soon as possible. Remember to put it separate with her name on it.” He finished by saying, “I would sent it by pony express, but it might take too long. I will see if I can find a boat heading to Yarmouth in the morning and someone willing to take it.”

Fortune watched as Sarah wrote the letter. Her writing amused him. “Babygirl,” he said, “Grandma's life has been a long journey burdened with the kind of misery we can't even imagine, though we seen a lot. We got to send her off happy. We got to pray.” Sarah bowed her head. Fortune turned his face upward. “Sweet Lord.” he said. “The one who the pastor said delivered Moses out of Egypt, the one who delivered us up to Birchtown, I am asking for a little time to see this through, before Mama is delivered up to Glory. We put our faith in you. Amen.”