Chasing Freedom (6 page)

Ten

I
T WAS A GOOD END TO A LONG WORKDAY. AS THE SUN
set, it spread bright ribbons of orange, gold and red along the horizon. In Birchtown, the trails and paths were deserted. All was quiet, but for the uproar coming through the walls of the partly constructed meeting house.

The indentured Negroes from Roseway, who regularly fled their cruel and cheating employers to seek the safety of Birchtown, had gathered to voice their concerns. With much shouting and fist waving, they were letting Colonel Black know they were tired of the continued hostility and unfairness of the white settlers. It was a rowdy gathering. Lydia and Sarah stood at the back observing the ruckus.

Harris Clark, a carpenter, said that when some tresses fell on him and injured his back, he received only half of the pay he deserved for the time he worked. Priscilla Hayward complained that her employer turned her out with no pay or provisions from the King's Bounty and refused to pay what he owed her. Thomas Wheaton alleged that he had to use his wages to pay for the rations his employer received for him and for tools to do his work. Hagar Primus found herself hired out to other citizens without her permission.

And so it went. The list of injustices continued: beaten for disobedience, forced to serve extended time through false contracts, sentenced to hard labour or shackled in leg irons for neglecting assigned work and even starved for displeasing behaviour. Public whippings and hangings were issued for theft of the smallest items like shoes or butter, indentures were being passed on in wills illegally and children stolen.

At the front of the room, Colonel Black listened graciously, letting them speak their minds well into the night, promising that he would take the matter before the local justices of the peace. But this enraged the crowd further. Many had already appealed to the General Sessions Court and local magistrates for justice, only to be ignored. Taking matters into their own hands, the angry gathering settled on a course of action: A march through Roseway, as the white labourers had done, to show their unity and discontent. They demanded Colonel Black lead them.

Sarah listened with great interest. Colonel Black grew weary as he argued that an illegal gathering to show their frustration would only serve to stir up violence, not bring sympathy or justice. His refusal to support them or even to offer a solution angered the crowd. And when Harris Clark stood up and screamed that such a leader deserved a tar and feathering, Sarah saw Colonel Black slowly sneak along a wall and disappear into the night.

On the way home, Sarah said, “It's Colonel Black's responsibility to seek justice for all the wrongs we face. It seems he's still bound to the master with his loyalty.”

Grandmother said, “Master Redmond once said that for the sake of a little privilege and money, most would sell themselves to the devil.” She let out a long turkey chuckle.

“Why are you laughing, Ma'am?” Sarah asked.

“If you had an angry crowd ready to tar your behind, you would run too.”

Sarah shook her head. She could not bring herself to smile. “The man in him is weak,” she said with disgust. “Our people have lost all respect for him now.”

Grandmother walked along, changing the words of her favourite hymn to a newer version, her version:
Come back Moses, way down in this free land, Tell old pharaoh it's time, oh Lord, time to let my people go.

When she finished several rounds, she said, “This place needs prayers. Everyone in this colony has forgotten why we came. Lord, Lord, will we ever learn to work together?”

THE WORRY, ANGER AND SORROW THAT WERE OVERWHELMING
the Birchtowners also nibbled at Lydia. On an early October evening, she sat soaking in the washtub. She looked at her feet, all lumped up with corns and bunions, swollen and rough. She remembered a time when her feet danced to tribal rhythms and ran along the banks of the Niger. She also recalled the long march to the West African coast to board a slave ship. Her slave's feet had travelled thousands of miles in all her years, sometimes covered, sometimes bare.

She gently touched her face, felt the hollows in her cheeks, the winkled brow, the sagging pockets of fat along the jaw. How many times had her mouth endured the slaps and spit of overseers? She looked at her sore hands, all puffed up, chapped and rough like tree bark from chores and lye. They were work hands. She rubbed them kindly with a little pig grease from the pot at the side of the tub. She rubbed her shoulders, marvelling at the softness of a slave woman. She pressed her fingers through the tight wad of crimped grey hair and massaged her scalp. It felt good.

A slave woman, she thought, never fully realizes the joy of her heart nor the sweetness of her body. All these years, her body has served others. It has known the work of a man and a woman, the cut of the lash and the forced bearing of children, but never the tenderness of love. She stared at the back wall and mouthed the name given to her by her mother:
Abena
. The name was in a place beyond her memory. “I have lost the way to go home,” she whispered.

“Just a slave,” Cecil had said that day in the store. The hateful words stirred a pain in Lydia that gnawed and ate, but could not find its fill. There it was—three cruel words to sum up a lifetime of bondage. In the pain, she found her voice and it was loud and sharp. “Just a slave. Is that what he thinks? I am just Lydia, an empty soul, something to claim and abuse. No, Cecil, never again.” The days of being afraid of Cecil MacLeod had passed. But having secrets was dangerous. She must be on her guard, forever watchful. She sat in deep thought, looking back at her past until the water was icy cold. She wiggled her toes in the water and prayed, then dried herself with an old blue rag.

The next day was cold for a fall day. Mrs. Cunningham had paid Lydia with a piece of jewellery, saying her funds were low and there was hardly a coin to be found in the colony. She had insisted that Sarah accompany Lydia home; one of her servants had disappeared the week before. Daylight was fading into darkness when Lydia swapped the valuable brooch for goods at Cecil's store. Her bag was heavy with cornmeal, molasses, beans and a pickled beef tongue, enough to share with Beulah.

The air was damp. It felt like rain. “Best hurry,” Lydia advised. Behind them, the grind of approaching cartwheels filled the air with a jerky rhythm. When the cart nudged slowly past and came to a stop at the side of the road, a man leaped down with a cap hung low on a face that sported thin grey whiskers. A Birchtowner, Sarah thought. His breathing was burdened and his footsteps heavy. As he drew nearer, Lydia stopped and reached for Sarah's arm. “It's Boll weevil, Girlie. Boll weevil.”

Without warning, a brilliant flash of lightning streaked through the tall shadowy spruce. Heavy thunder rumbled. Lydia turned and her eyes fell on the willowy man with chalk-white skin in a worn brown jacket. He held a short rifle in his right hand. She knew the familiar stare, the piercing blue eyes. “Have mercy,” she groaned and her knees went weak.

His voice was scratchy. “Do you Negroes have papers?”

“Papers?” Lydia's voice quivered.

“You heard me. Certificates. Certificates of Freedom.”

“Yes Sir, I do. Why are you asking?”

“There are Negroes in the province without proper papers,” he said. He eyed her sharply. “I aim to see they are returned to their rightful owners.”

“You've got no worries about us. We are staying right here in Scotia.” Her nervous turkey chuckle broke the tension, but only for a second.

“I was told about you and the girl.” His lips fell into a sneer. “Told you were here without papers. I want to see them.”

The words echoed through Lydia's head. Who could have told him such a thing? She laid her goods on the ground and fished deep into the rag purse. She fumbled eagerly among a heap of head rags, pieces of lace, yellowed scraps of paper, string, nails and other odd bits.

Lydia stopped digging and looked up. “Oh Lord,” she said. “Save us, Lord.” In an instant, the old woman fell to the ground with a thud.

Letting out a cry, Sarah ran to her grandmother.

Boll weevil took several steps back.

After kneeling and lifting the old woman's head, Sarah saw that Grandmother's eyes were open and her mouth hung to the side of her face. She shook the lifeless mass of flesh. “Grandmother. Grandmother,” she cried. She cast a scowl at Boll weevil and swallowed hard. Her whole body trembled as she looked up and slowly announced, “She's dead.”

Lingering thunder hovered over Birchtown. The storm did not produce a drop of rain. What was Boll weevil going to do next? The stillness was cruel and Sarah's face flushed with frightful anticipation.

“Dead is she? Good. This saves me the time and effort.” Boll weevil's voice deepened to scorching anger. “All my troubles and for what, a dead woman? I won't be able to fatten my pockets with that.”

“We have papers, Sir,” she said. “I can look for the certificates.” Sarah reached for the purse.

After a short pause, Boll weevil scoffed. “Never mind. I've had enough of you lot.”

“What about my grandmother?”

Boll weevil turned to her and his eyes were biting, but he did not speak. He sauntered to the wagon and climbed in. He turned back then and shouted, “Let the crows eat her!”

Sarah watched until he was out of sight. She huddled over the limp body and from the old woman suddenly came tiny, feeble sounds. As they grew stronger, Sarah's mouth widened to a smile. She stroked Grandmother's face, shook her shoulders and rolled the body from side to side. Suddenly, the rigid form stirred. Grandmother jolted and sat upright as straight as an arrow. She wobbled to her feet and looked at Sarah.

“Boll weevil thinks he can outsmart ol' Lydia. We will have to guard ourselves better. Be mindful at all times. We must get a good stick to defend ourselves.”

After Sarah found two sturdy sticks by the roadside, Lydia steadied herself on hers and said, “Grab that bag. We best get along now before he decides to come back.”

Lydia's thoughts gave way to suspicions. This night was all because of Cecil. Yes, it was he who had stolen her papers and set Boll weevil on them. It would take all she had to outsmart two such scheming men. They were the devil's hands.

Eleven

C
ECIL MACLEOD TOOK THE BLACK PIPE FROM HIS
mouth and gave a long sigh. Sweat oozed from his ghostly brow as the yellow flames danced in the wood stove and poured out heat. It was two weeks now since his plan had misfired and he was still beside himself with anger. Lydia was still a free woman and still very much alive. He flung the Certificates of Freedom on the counter and cursed them. On the plantation, there had been an acceptable order: the master, the foreman, the overseer and then slave. That he understood. Slaves were property, like horses. You could do with them as you pleased. They had no choice but to follow orders.

Here Negroes were petitioning the court for rights and some were finding justice. He didn't agree with the judge for awarding payments to a slave for lost wages or that the Harding woman should be able to have her master jailed for beating her. Yes, times were changing. And Lydia—she was changing, too, going from being a submissive slave to a demanding fool, a woman of confidence now, bold and thinking herself smart.

Cecil plunked himself on a stool, inhaling hard on his pipe several times. Money was scarce in Port Roseway. Another long winter lay ahead. His missus was unhappy, wanting to return home. The supply ships were late again and he was struggling to get the necessary goods and supplies for the store. There was little to count on in a new colony. There was no guarantee of making money—people were resorting to all kinds of tricks to save their cash, such as lying about their incomes to claim rations from the King's Bounty. He jumped from the stool and stretched his short legs. The pile of belongings people had traded for goods lay in heaps on the floor. Amid the fancy shoes, patterned dishes and books, he grabbed up a sword belt, an Indian basket, a dictionary, a violin, only to throw them back into the heap. Who needed such things when food was scarce? Who could pay for any of it?

These were desperate times and so Cecil had turned to slave trading on the side. He had a keen sense of who the runaways were—they had a different walk, a scared look, always slinking down inside oversized clothes. Ridding the colony of intruders and troublemakers would be a profitable service. The meeting with Boll weevil had been brief. Cecil presented him with the names of several Birchtowners he suspected of not holding certificates, adding Lydia and Sarah Redmond to the list. The plan they devised was simple. Boll weevil was to round them all up, book their passage on a local schooner owned by his friend, Harold Lambston, and take them down to Boston where an agent would pay handsomely for the cargo, selling them in turn to former masters or at auction. Cecil and Boll weevil would split the profit fifty-fifty when Boll weevil returned.

“Such a supply of goods at hand,” they had joked. But Cecil was not laughing now. He shook his head at the man's ability to botch such an easy job. He would try one more time. Without their certificates, Lydia and Sarah were vulnerable. It was inconceivable that a simple-minded woman like Lydia could outsmart Boll weevil. No, he could not let that happen again. He would give the man a second chance, but if that fool could not get it right this time, he would take matters into his own hands. Lydia might outsmart Boll weevil, but she would not dupe him.

He scratched his head and thumped the counter. Could he trust Boll weevil to return with his share of the profits? He figured it was worth the risk and besides, they were old friends. Two men cut from the same cloth. He sat back in his chair and thought about what it would mean if the old woman did not keep her mouth shut. He spit in a bucket near the counter. The devil would surely dance when disgrace fell upon him. He'd be the laughingstock of Port Roseway. They would call him “the father of Negroes,” and to be called that would make him an outcast. He twisted his fingers deep inside his grey whiskers. There were others in the same boat, but they would hide behind their fine names. And stick together in condemning him. He had to shelter his missus from disgrace and protect himself from the hateful hornet's nest Lydia could stir.

Cecil added more water and coffee to grounds in the pot that had been brewing for several days on the stove. After it boiled hard, he filled a giant mug scarred with pasty stains, sat back in the wide chair by the heat and gulped the black brew like it was his last. This whole business—the threat of old secrets and his wickedness exposed—had brought him sleepless nights and great agony of mind. The audacity of Lydia to refer to the off-breeds as “their children” incited him more and he heaved the empty mug against the far wall, watching as several dishes fell to the dusty floor and shattered.

Her boy was in Birchtown alright. He had seen him several times, knew him from watching him grow up on the plantation. There was not a chance Lydia could pick him out of the crowd, there were so many mulattos. Maybe he did care for that one the Redmonds raised. She had the backing of old money and her husband's good naval name. As far as he knew, no one ever mentioned her background. Such a disclosure would ruin not just him, but also one of Port Roseway's most prominent families.