Stealing Freedom (13 page)

Out of the barn came Thomas. He was older than Alfred, broad-shouldered and very dark. “Yes, Master?” he said. His voice sounded calm, as if he knew nothing about what was happening, but his face told Ann that he'd heard the whole thing and knew full well what he would be commanded to do.

“Tie this boy up, Thomas. And give him thirty lashes. That should teach him to keep my wife waiting.” Dr. Anderson adjusted his spectacles, crossed his arms over his narrow chest, and waited for Thomas to obey.

“Master, please…” Alfred pleaded.

Thomas grabbed Alfred by the wrists and, though he struggled, overpowered him. He tied his hands together.

“Master, I won't be late again. Please don't whip me!” Alfred cried. He winced as Thomas cinched the rope tighter around his wrists.

“Get on with it,” Dr. Anderson ordered impatiently. Then suddenly he noticed Ann and Sarah.

“You, girl.” He pointed to Ann. “Get that child out of here.”

Ann stared at him, unable to move.

Sarah wriggled her hand free from Ann's grasp. “Ouch, you're squashing me,” she complained. “The man says we have to leave.” She pulled at Ann's arm.

But Ann felt paralyzed. Her mouth had gone dry as sawdust.

“I said, Get that child out of here!” Dr. Anderson bellowed.

Sarah yanked on her, and Ann felt herself move as if she were swimming through molasses. They started back down Jefferson Street. Ann saw a thicket of bushes that ran in a line toward the barn they'd just left. She pulled on Sarah to duck into the bushes with her. Sarah resisted. “What if someone catches us?” she demanded. She looked a little scared, but also very curious.

“They won't,” said Ann, tugging harder.

Sarah followed, saying, “If we get into trouble, I'm blaming it all on you.”

They crept along the shrubbery until they were just behind the house and barn. From there they could see and hear everything.

Alfred was already tied, arms outstretched over his head, to a willow tree. Thomas went into the barn and came out with a horsewhip.

“Thirty lashes, you said, Master Anderson?” Thomas asked.

“Yes,” he answered, then turned on his heel and went back into the house.

Thomas stood back from where Alfred hung. He raised up the whip and let it fly. It cracked, shattering the still air, and Alfred cried out. One.

Thomas raised the whip again; again it cracked. Alfred moaned. Two.

Ann covered her face. Each snap of the whip jarred her body. Three. Four. Alfred's cries grew louder, more pitiful. Five. Six.

Ann wanted to scream, but the cracking of the whip continued. Seven. Eight. Nine.

Ann heard footsteps and peeked between her fingers. It was Elizabeth, running from the slave quarters toward the barn. She was carrying a pot. Salt water for the gashes, Ann thought.

Crack. Ten. Eleven. Alfred began to moan more softly. Fourteen. Fifteen. Ann held her ears and huddled on the ground. She stopped counting and simply wished for it to be over.

After a time she heard Dr. Anderson's voice from the house. “Thomas, you're going to kill that nigger.”

“I've done twenty-five, Master Anderson. You want me to stop now?” Thomas asked.

“No. Go ahead and finish,” came the answer.

The last five crisp cracks sounded in the air. Alfred's moans were faint now. Elizabeth ran to him. Ann looked up to see Elizabeth's hands covered in crimson as she applied the contents of the pot to Alfred's back.

They cut the ropes that held him, and Elizabeth and Thomas dragged his almost lifeless form toward the cabin.

Ann felt the blood drain from her face. Blackness crowded the edges of her vision. “I've got to know if he'll live,” she whispered to Sarah.

Sarah's eyes were wide with horror. She simply nodded.

Afraid to stand and be seen, Ann crept along the line of bushes until it ended at the bottom of a little hill. Then, crouched low, she ran as fast as she could to the cabin.

She stood for a moment outside the closed door, terrified of what she would find. She wiped tears from her cheeks and put out her hand to push the door open. Then she heard Alfred's voice.

“Thomas, you are one lousy aim, you know that?”

“Sit still, Alfred.” That was Elizabeth. “I'm going to clean this up whether you want me to or not.”

“Look who's calling me a lousy aim!” That was Thomas. “Last time Master told you to whip me, you hit me three times. I call
that
lousy aim.”

“Three times no harder than a feather. You hit me— Ouch! Elizabeth, are you cleaning that cut with red pepper?”

Ann's hand remained in midair, next to the door latch. Then, bracing herself, she lifted the latch and opened the door. All three faces turned to her.

Her cheeks were muddy with dirt and tears, her hair was tangled with twigs from the bushes she'd been crawling through, and her eyes were red and wild.

“Miss Ann Maria, I thought you'd gone home!” Alfred exclaimed.

Ann shook her head and took in the scene. Elizabeth stood behind Alfred, a bloody rag in her hand. Alfred sat at the table, his shirt off and the skin of his back stained a clear red. Thomas sat across from him. Although Alfred's back bore the raised scars from past whippings, there was only one place from which he was bleeding: a cut near his right shoulder blade.

“Oh, my Lord, did you watch, Ann Maria?” Elizabeth asked.

Ann nodded.

“How was my performance—pretty good?” Alfred grinned.

“You sounded like a dying pig, if you ask me,” Thomas chided him.

“Will you two hush?” Elizabeth cried. “Can't you see the child is scared half to death?”

Alfred's face fell. “Miss Ann Maria, you thought…You didn't know….” He rose from his chair and wrapped his arms around her.

Ann rested her cheek against his chest and sobbed. He was alive and barely hurt. For that she was more thankful than he could know. How they had done it, she still didn't understand.

He held her until she'd quieted. He smelled musky, and a little bit sweet, like berries. That's when she noticed the crushed raspberries in a pot on the table.

“Old Master Anderson, he's more than a bit shortsighted,” Thomas explained. “And he doesn't have much of a stomach for whippings, either.”

“He usually goes in the house,” said Alfred. “So me and Thomas, we practiced and practiced on a tree one spring, cracking that whip just an inch or two away, but not touching it.”

“And they put on a show,” said Elizabeth, “crying and yelling like cowards, just to make sure the master thinks there's a whipping going on.”

“He can't tell the difference between blood and raspberry jam even with his spectacles on,” said Thomas. “I wonder what his patients would think if they knew!”

They all laughed, including Ann.

“Where's the white child?” Elizabeth asked suddenly, running to the door and looking around.

“She's up the hill,” said Ann. “I need to go to her. She was scared, too.” She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I'll tell her you're all right. But I won't tell her quite how much you look and smell like a raspberry pie.”

Alfred tickled her side playfully. “And I won't tell anyone how many of those bushes you're wearing on your head.”

Ann reached to pull a twig from her hair, and he caught her hand and held it. It was the memory of the look he gave her then, his round eyes soft and smiling, that she took with her as she left.

There was no travel pass from Master Charles for Independence Day. The summer days grew humid and sticky, with clouds of gnats that swarmed around Ann's head and sometimes got stuck in her eyes. Master Price began to bring groups of slaves into the cellar of the house more frequently. Ann guessed this meant his business was picking up. She had learned, after the evening she'd spent with the first group that passed through, to keep a distance from the slaves. If she talked with them and allowed herself to get to know them, her heart would break each time. So she kept a store of pilfered food in a special hiding place in the larder, and smuggled it to the cellar to supplement the bread Mistress Carol gave her. And she said prayers for each group that passed through. But she never again listened to their stories.

With school out for the summer, Ann missed her walks with Alfred. Sunday became their one precious day to spend together. On one particularly hot and gnatty Sunday, in the churchyard after services, Alfred asked her, “Miss Ann Maria, will you come
to the Rock Creek with me? I'm going to wade and dangle my feet in that nice cool water.”

As Ann opened her mouth to say yes, she heard a man deliberately and loudly clear his throat behind her. She swung around and found herself face to face with Jacob Bigelow. He looked as if he would have liked to disappear behind the lilac bushes.

“Miss Ann Maria, I need to have a word with you,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “before your master has me arrested for ‘mingling with the Catholics’ or some other such trumped-up charge.”

Ann looked from Mr. Bigelow to Alfred and back again. To Alfred she said, “It's Mr. Bigelow, the man who helped my parents. Will you wait for me here?”

She followed Mr. Bigelow to the side of the graveyard, where tall boxwoods and chirping insects gave them privacy.

“I've offered your master eight hundred dollars for you, and he has again refused to sell you.” He looked down at Ann Maria somberly. There was sweat clinging to his bushy sideburns, and his collar looked too tight. “I've come to ask you this: Do you want your freedom—even if we have to steal it?”

Ann's stomach lurched. Images from the gruesome stories she'd heard flashed in her mind. “But they do horrible things to runaways when they catch them….” she whispered.

Mr. Bigelow took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “We will take great pains to prevent you from being caught. And we will take precautions to protect you if you
are
caught,” he said.

Another image crept into Ann's mind—that of Seth Concklin
lying dead on a riverbank, his hands and feet in chains, his skull crushed. “But what about
your
safety?” she blurted out.

Mr. Bigelow smiled slightly with surprise. “I am happy to hear of your concern for me, my dear. But you wouldn't be the first slave I've helped find freedom illegally, and you won't be the last. If I'm caught, you needn't feel responsible.”

Ann was still reeling from the suggestion, and realized she hadn't yet answered his question. But he had more to tell her.

“I can offer you help to escape to freedom,” he said quietly. He rubbed his chin and looked at her sadly. “But I cannot offer you a life with your parents and brothers and sister.”

Ann let out a small whimper. What was he saying?

“As a fugitive, you could be hunted anywhere in the States. We'd have to send you north to Canada. I believe you have relatives there.”

Aunt Mimi and Uncle William! They'd sent word that the town they lived near was named Dresden. She hoped she'd be able to find them. But how would she ever see her family again if she ran so far away? And suddenly a new thought tugged at her heart: how could she move so far from Alfred?

“You must tell me, Miss Ann Maria,”—Mr. Bigelow ducked his head to better see into her eyes—”if you want your freedom under these circumstances. Shall I give you some time to think on it?”

Ann wanted to say, “No, I'll stay here.” Stay with what she knew. Stay where she hoped to be allowed to visit her parents soon. Stay close to Alfred and where she knew she would not be putting her life or Jacob Bigelow's life at risk. Stay…
in
bondage for the rest of her life.
She tossed her head to shake away the temptation. “I do want my freedom,” she said. Her voice sounded neither strong nor convincing, but she knew she'd spoken the truth. “No matter what the circumstances.”

Mr. Bigelow hesitated, as if giving her a chance to change her mind. “You understand everything I've told you?” he asked. “And you are sure?”

She closed her eyes and nodded. “I'm sure,” she whispered.

Mr. Bigelow gave her shoulder a squeeze. “We will do all we can to keep you safe, Miss Ann Maria. For right now, this is what you must do: forget that we have spoken. Forget what you have said to me today.”

Ann wiped tears from her cheeks and nodded very slightly.

Mr. Bigelow tipped his hat, as if they'd just been discussing the weather, and bade her good day.

“Miss Ann Maria, are we going to the creek or not?” Alfred called to her.

Ann quickly put on a smile and joined Alfred, who saw right through the fake smile.

“Did that man upset you?” he demanded. He glared angrily at Mr. Bigelow's carriage as it drove past, carrying him away. “I'll have his hide!”

“I think I just got a gnat in my eye, that's all,” she said, hoping to deflect Alfred's worry. “Can you get it out?”

Alfred peered into both of her eyes, pulling at the lids and looking very concerned. “Any man ever says a rude word to you, white or black, you let me know and I'll fix his wagon,” he muttered as he worked to find the nonexistent gnat.

Ann pulled away and blinked. “I think it's out. Thank you.” This time her smile was real.

“Can we go wading now?” he asked. “I'm hotter than a smoked pig.”

They walked up the Baltimore Road straight to where it crossed over the Rock Creek on a rickety wooden bridge. They scrambled down to the creek. Ann waded in up to her calves, lifting her dress a bit to keep it dry.

“Look at you, trying so hard to act like a lady,” Alfred chided her. He plodded into the creek, trousers and all, and sat down.

“And look at you, acting like a hog in the mud!” she exclaimed.

He splashed her delicately. She splashed him back, and before she could move away, he yanked her hand and she went toppling into the water with him.

She stood up, dripping and with more than a few dead leaves clinging to her dress. “Alfred, look what you've done!” she cried.

“I've cooled you off, that's what I've done,” he said with a grin.

Ann gave an exasperated sigh and began to wash a patch of mud off the hem of her dress.

“I'll help,” he offered, and moved closer so he could pick the dead leaves off her back and skirt. She slapped his hand away.