Freedom Bound (7 page)

“
I RETURNED ONLY
an hour ago,” Nick said after the sound
of the bells had faded. “As soon as I'd made my report to
Headquarters, I hastened here.” His arm was about her
shoulders as he steered her toward the door, clearly intending to take her back into the house she had just left. “For
weeks I worried about you, thinking of your ship arriving
and you finding me gone. But I've just been talking with
Ralph Braemar, and he assures me that he met you, brought
you here, and delivered my letter.”

“He did. Captain Braemar was a great help.”

“And you've made yourself at home. God be thanked that
you found a warm welcome.”

She stopped, turned to face him.

“Nick, I'm not living here.”

“You don't live here?” His face looked blank.

“After you left for the backcountry, they gave your room
to somebody else and put your things in storage.”

“But Ralph told me . . .”

“He doesn't know.”

“Where do you live?”

“I lodge with the widow Doughty, in Stoll's Alley. And I
have to go there right now.”

The bells that had rung so joyously only a minute earlier
also reminded her that it would soon be time for Noah's
feeding.

Nick showed no sign of moving from where he stood.

“Mrs. Doughty? I know her. I went to Quaker meetings a
few times.”

“She told me. But now I really must go back. I can tell you
everything on our way.”

“What's the hurry?”

“I have to take a baby to his wet nurse.”

“You
what
?”

“I'm not the only homeless person Mrs. Doughty has
taken in. When I arrived, she was already hiding a runaway
slave girl with a baby.”

“It sounds as though she's carrying on her husband's
work.”

“Those were the very words she used when I first came to
her home. ‘I carry on my husband's work,' she said. I didn't
know then what she meant.”

“Brave woman—after what happened to him.”

“She doesn't seem to worry about danger. Putting food
on the table is her main concern. She takes in laundry, and I
do the fetching and carrying for her. It's also my task to take
the baby to his wet nurse twice a day.”

“Can't his mother provide milk for him?”

Charlotte shook her head. “She's gone. Slave catchers
caught her but left the baby.”

“A great deal seems to have happened,” Nick said, “since I
left.”

Charlotte placed her hand in the crook of his arm, and
they set off.

They found Mrs. Doughty sitting in the front room with the
baby on her lap. Patience, Charity and Joseph were playing
on the rag rug with painted wooden animals: a pig, a cow, a
horse.

Mrs. Doughty gave a gasp when she saw Nick, and then
she smiled. “I prayed for thy safe return, but did not expect
so quick an answer to my prayers.”

“Nor did I expect to return so soon.”

Charlotte sat down on the wooden settle, where Nick
joined her. He took his seat awkwardly, his big frame seeming too large for the small room. Patience and Charity
stopped playing and stared at him. Joseph crept to Mrs.
Doughty's side and leaned against her knee.

“Thank you for your prayers,” Nick said, “and for taking
Charlotte into your home. Now I must beg you to make
room for me while I try to find lodgings where we can be
together.”

“Thee is welcome here for as long as thee remains in
Charleston, for I doubt thee can find any other place to
lodge.”

“I know that all too well. Before I was sent to the backcountry, my work was to help Loyalist refugees. The Civilian
Department tries to find shelter for the homeless—the sort
of help that the Society of Friends provides for its members . . . and for others.” He paused, looking at the baby.

Noah whimpered.

“He's hungry,” said Charlotte.

“I found him a wet nurse,” said Mrs. Doughty, “but he
isn't getting enough milk.”

The whimper became a wail. Noah's tiny fist waved in the
air.

“He's trying to put his fingers in his mouth,” Charlotte
said. “He does that when he's desperate.” She stood up and
lifted the baby from Mrs. Doughty's lap. “I'll take him to
Friend Perkins now.”

“I'll go with you,” said Nick.

Noah gave a mighty howl.

“His lungs are big enough,” Nick observed.

“He'll stop crying as soon as we're walking,” said Charlotte. “Whenever I take him outside, he knows he'll soon be
fed.”

As Charlotte promised, Noah's crying ceased almost as
soon as they were out the door. “He needs his mother,” Charlotte said. “But I don't think he'll ever see her again.”

“How did Mrs. Doughty happen to take them in? Was it
something the Quakers arranged?”

“No. The girl—her name is Phoebe—lived with the
Doughtys for eight months a couple of years ago.”

“She must be the girl that Mrs. Doughty taught to read
and write.”

“The very same. She belongs to Lewis Morley. He's the
baby's father.” Charlotte kept her voice very matter-of-fact.

“Ah. One of those situations.”

“Phoebe knew that Mrs. Morley wanted the baby out of
the house. She decided to escape with him before he was
taken from her. She asked her friend Jammy, the stable
groom, to help her. They ran away together, with the baby.
Jammy hasn't yet been captured. But Phoebe was caught.
She's to be sold at next week's slave auction. It's a hopeless
situation.”

“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.

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.”