Authors: Gloria Ann Wesley
Seventeen
B
EFORE BOLL WEEVIL HAD COVERED A MILE, HE GAVE A
fierce yank on the old mare's reins to steer the cart around and head back to Cecil's store. He was in a pickle and he knew it. He had only planned to get what Cecil owed him, not to kill him. Was there any fault in that?
He pressed his lips together. As his witching stirred, a grin spread across his face. It would be obvious to all of Roseway who the murderer was: Fortune. Yes, that brazen lot was out looting after dark when he stumbled upon them. He would turn them over to Sheriff Beauford. His spurts of laughter steamed the air and demons danced in his wild eyes. It was almost too easy. The Redmonds, still tied up, could offer no resistance. It would compensate for all his troubles.
Lydia and Sarah snuggled together as Fortune stumbled about in the darkness looking for a means of escape. “I'll have to try the trap door,” he said, extending his arms and pushing with all his strength on the sealed cover. Then came the unmistakable creaks of the wagon. He eased back from the stairs and sat quietly, feeling anxious ⦠waiting.
Above the trio, the lamp flickered with an orange and eerie glow. Boll weevil quickly helped himself to barrels of flour, kegs of rum, salt fish, tobacco and rope. He made several trips to the wagon, nearly forgetting to leave space for his passengers. He took two muskets from a wooden barrel and loaded each with a small ball and black gunpowder. He threw one behind the wagon seat and kept the other with him. “These items should fetch a good price. The coin will add up. Who knows, maybe I'll own this store one day.”
Cecil's body lay sprawled near the door. Boll weevil pulled his knife from the man's chest. He gave it a quick wipe on Cecil's blood-soaked shirt and shoved it into the leather pouch tied to his belt. Before moving away, he looked at Cecil and raised his foot, kicking him several times in the head to release his hateful venom. “A little send-off,” he chuckled. “A dignified pay for a dignified man.”
Boll weevil grabbed a small crow bar from the bunch of tools lining the back wall. He worked it around the edges of the trap door, puffing and rushing wildly with enthusiasm, like a lunatic. He was eager to end this forsaken day, eager to get away from the colony. He drew a long breath and finally lifted the cellar door. The curfew in Port Roseway was a blessingâno one would be out at this hour. It would be clear sailing once the captives were in the wagon and secured. With the lamp in one hand and his gun in the other, he commenced the short climb down into the cellar.
The three Redmonds sat quietly. Fortune was ready, his dragoon loaded and pointed at the top of the steps. He stared, wondering which man was approaching. A foot hit the first step, then the second. Fortune was biding his time, hesitating to fire until he at least knew who he was dealing with. The stranger stepped slowly, cautiously, off the third step, the fourth and fifth.
With the lamp he carried casting a dim light, the man peered into the blackness below. He strained to make out the forms, listened for breathing. He kept descending, carefully planting his right foot on the sixth step. As his left foot came slowly down on the last step, the strip of cotton caught his ankle and he tumbled and hit the frozen ground. The air was heavy with the smell of whale oil from the lamp, but the flame held. He let out a loud, lengthy groan and then, losing consciousness, lay in a silent heap.
Fortune's hand shook. Strange whimpers emerged from his lips as his anguish withdrew.
Lydia picked up the lamp and held it to the man's face. “It be Boll weevil,” she gasped.
Fortune scooped up the rope from the floor and tied Boll weevil's hands and feet. He untied the rag from the stairs and stuffed it in his pocket.
Upstairs, Lydia and Sarah warmed themselves beside the stove while Fortune secured the trap door. They stood in stunned silence as though the whole world had fallen into the shadowy Atlantic deeps.
“Boll weevil ⦠he ⦠he ⦠killed Cecil,” Grandmother finally stammered.
“Will Boll weevil be all right?” Sarah asked.
“He is dazed from the fall. He should come around,” Fortune said. “We best make our way home while it's still dark and no one is about.”
“We can't leave yet,” Lydia said. “I got one more piece of business. Cecil had my Certificates of Freedom, Fortune.” Their eyes connected and held. “I ain't leaving till I find my papers. They are in a small brown pouch.”
“We got to hurry,” Fortune ordered.
They searched every container, drawer, nook and cranny. When after half an hour the papers did not surface, Lydia turned to Cecil's body. She searched all of his pockets, but in vain. She staggered about and found an old rag behind the counter, wiped her blood-soaked hands and put the rag in the stove. She reached for the lamp and climbed the stairs to the loft. When she finally descended, there was a smile across her tired face. “We are done here,” she said. “We can go home.”
Eighteen
P
ORT ROSEWAY SHIVERED. THE NEWS OF CECIL'S DEATH
engulfed the settlement in fear. Fuzzy details became solid facts as the gossip spread. Who could do such a terrible deed, the settlers wondered. How quickly they had dismissed the death of Isaac Haywood when his body was found in the Birchtown clearing, but the murder of one of their own, a prominent business man, had them all steaming like a pot of boiling soup.
Fortune paced back and forth. He could not rid himself of the fact that they left Boll weevil in the cellar. Nor could he forget the image of Cecil's body lying on the cold wood floor. The man had stolen his mother's certificates and had hired Boll weevil to kidnap them and take them to Boston. That much he understood. But why? Was it for the money and pride, as his mother insisted? She was guarding an important piece of information, another secret, and he wanted to know what it was and who she was protecting. She had not been herself this morning. He had never seen her so distraught. Getting to the truth would take more than one round of questioning with her.
When Lydia returned from her visit with Beulah, Fortune waited until she had swept the floor, put on some soup and made a pretence of ignoring him. He could tell that she was wound up, but this pressing mess could not wait. First he asked about Beulahâand found she was wellâthen about Prince, who by the sounds of it was getting stronger by the day. Then Fortune poured two tankards of tea and said, “Come and sit here at the table, Mama. We need to talk. There are things we must take care of and things that need saying.”
“Do you want to talk about Cecil?” she asked. “Everyone knows now. I hear the sheriff was at the store early this morning.”
“It's not about him. We didn't finish our talk last night. I don't like secrets. I'd like to know who your child is in Roseway.”
“It's not my right to spread her business.”
“If I have a sister, shouldn't I know?” He reached over and held his mother's hands.
“It's not our place to get into her business.”
“Our place?” he asked. “Is that the problem? Staying in our place?”
The two stared at each other. In Fortune's mind, all this worry about who was who and where you fit was pointless. He had seen and heard enough about race in the war. The fuss over skin was just foolishness to keep the races apart, to put one above the other. “Place,” he shouted. “Can this colony afford to worry about place when death waits to claim any one of us?”
“It's the way folks think. I wish it didn't have to be that way.”
Fortune laughed. “It didn't matter about the skin when it came to breeding. No worries about the Negro's blood then. No sir. Not then.” His eyes strayed to the fire. “How many drops do you think she has?” he snarled. “Reverend Ringwood says all the races come out of Africa so everyone has at least one drop of
Negro
blood.”
The old woman stared at Fortune. “He said that? Oh my Lord, ain't that a yarn. Well, as far as I can see, Christians do not pay any attention to that. They make up their own rules. There is no loving the neighbour if the neighbour has a drop. Love is a poor person's dream.”
“People believe such nonsense about race, and Cecil, well, he just hated most everyone. I saw the way he treated you. Oh, Mama, I am not blaming you. You had to obey him or lose your life. I could see that you were afraid of him. We all were. I understood how slavery worked.”
“There's no need for you to fret over this, son. This is not your concern.”
“We are free now, Mama. Cecil is dead. He can't hurt you anymore.”
“The hurt will never leave. It holds me back sometimes. I cannot let anything come between me and my child. I don't want to upset her with things I might say or do. At least I can see her and feel her kindness. I had five and I only know what happened to three of them.”
“I know it's painful, but when you let it out, the weight will fall from your shoulders.”
Lydia stared into Fortune's eyes. Let the truth out, he was saying, but she was the one who felt cornered. She wanted to pounce like a cat and swallow up all the misery. Her silence was long and weary, but in the end, she knew Fortune was right. It was time to lay her burden down. “I suppose I've carried this long enough.” Her admission felt awkward. “I must speak with her first. It will not be easy to bring this up. Lord knows if she has any idea of her background.” The old woman smiled and relaxed a little.
“Well, when you're ready, Mama, I'm here and the Lord knows I won't judge you or anyone else for no good reason.”
“That business can wait. We got bigger troubles, Fortune. The sheriff found Cecil but there's been no word of Boll weevil. He must still be in the cellar. What are we going to do about that? We were part of it. We got to do what's right.”
“I know. I could not sleep. I worried all night over what happened.”
“We can't leave Boll weevil in the cellar. He could die.”
“Worse, if they find him, he could say I killed Cecil and that I tried to kill him.”
“Oh, sweet chariots. Oh my, yes. A devil such as that does not know truth. His tongue always waits to give birth to a lie. He would do anything to save himself, but the Lord looks to us to do what is right, even if Boll weevil is a sinner. We cannot leave him there, though he gladly would have left us.”
“If I report this, it's going to catch me up in a whole lot of trouble. They will never believe a Negro. Never.”
“What if he's dead? Then what?”
“They could still connect me to the murders.”
“How could that be?”
“Everyone knows he tried to kidnap you and Sarah. They might think I wanted revenge. The wagon was full of goods. They might think Cecil caught me robbing the store and I killed him.”
Lydia's eyes glazed over. She fell on her knees right there on the floor and went into wild praying. She kept it up for a long time. When finally she got up, she said, “The Lord is good. You do what your heart tells you to do, Fortune. The Lord will protect his own.”
SHERIFF ANGUS BEAUFORD USHERED FORTUNE INTO A SMALL
office at the House of Corrections. “Take a seat,” he said, moving over to a large desk strewn with papers, worn books and tobacco. He sat tall in his chair looking at Fortune, meeting the man's eyes with a frown.
“What brings you here, Redmond?”
“I have some information regarding the death of Cecil MacLeod.”
“How did you come by this news? Gossip, I suppose. That's all you Negroes do.”
“I was there at Mr. MacLeod's store ⦠when it happened.”
Sheriff Beauford rapped his white knuckles lightly on the oak desk. “Well, well, is that right? It is such a tragedy. A Birchtown Negro by the name of Sam stopped by to bring me the news earlier this morning. He saw the loaded wagon and grew suspicious, knowing at that hour in the morning Cecil would not be at the store. He glanced through the open door and saw the body on the floor.” Sheriff Beauford was staring at Fortune, watching him shift uneasily in his chair. “I hated to tell Cecil's wife, Annie, the news. I took her with me when I went out to the store this morning.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It was a gruesome job, identifying the body, but what else could I do?”
“It must have been hard for her, Sir.”
“Yes. Yes it was. It appears Cecil had quite a struggle. His face was bruised and swollen. There was one deep stab wound to the chest. The wagon from the livery was outside the store. Sure was peculiar how it was loaded with supplies and left behind. Looks like a robbery gone wrong. The Negroes are getting desperate. They'll do you in for no reason.”
Fortune could feel trouble in the air. He wished he had stayed away, but his sense of duty had gotten the best of him.
Sheriff Beauford sensed his discomfort. He stood up and looked out the window. The snow was light and it covered the dirty banks with a fresh white layer. “Hunger is causing so many crimes that I'm losing track, but none as brutal as this. Only a Negro could do such an evil thing,” Beauford said. “Isaac Haywood's death proves that. But this, to stab a good citizen of Port Roseway.” Now he was staring at Fortune. “What can you tell me about this crime? What happened out there?”
Fortune paused. He would have to choose his words carefully. A nerve moved up and down the side of his face as he chewed away on the inside of his jaw. How much of the story could he tell without putting himself and his loved ones in danger? Thick drops of perspiration gathered on his brow. He sat still, his back straight, staring at a spot on the wall beyond Sheriff Beauford. Even now, he felt condemned. Misgivings tormented him. He despised the way a Negro had to suffer the contempt of the law. It had all seemed clear earlier when he felt compelled to visit the sheriff. As he sat across from the man now, cold eyes staring at him, he became unravelled.
“Well, sir,” he began, sitting up taller in his chair, “I went to Mr. MacLeod's store, as he asked.” Fortune held the sheriff's eyes. “He told me to come by because he had a job for me.”
“What type of job?”
“He said he wanted to add a small piece to his store.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday morning, Sir. When I got there, I did not see any lumber, so I asked what his plan was, thinking he did not need me. He said to check with a man standing near the back of the store. He said to ask him when the lumber would be arriving. I recognized the man right off. It was Boll weevil, the slave catcher.”
“Yes. Go on. You Negroes dawdle so. What did he say?”
“When I asked where the lumber was, he didn't answer. That is when he and Mr. MacLeod grabbed me, Sir. I tried to get away, but they overpowered me and the two of them took me down into the root cellar. They tied me up and put an old rag around my mouth.”
“Is that it?”
“No, Sir. They had already captured my mother, Lydia Redmond. She was there, tied up in the cellar. Later, my daughter, Sarah, was put with us in the basement.”
“What was the purpose of taking the three of you captive? You are free citizens according to the law.”
“Well, Sir, I heard Mr. MacLeod and Boll weevil talking above us. As you know, they are rounding up Negroes and shipping them south. There is good money in it. I heard them talking about taking us to Port Roseway, then putting us on a boat for Boston.”
“Nevertheless, why you Redmonds? You folks have a decent name hereabouts. It is common knowledge that you were a soldier. Your mother and daughter have their certificates. You were not among the Negroes we wanted deported. Something is not adding up.” He shook his head. “There's more to the story, I believe.” He stretched back in his chair now, lit his pipe and blew perfect rings of smoke.
The sheriff's questions made Fortune jittery. He knew a piece of the story was missing, but he could only tell what he knew and all he knew was how it happened. He continued with caution, knowing that his presence during the murder would be suspicious, his role, a foregone conclusion. He was dealing with the lives of two white men. He did not know quite how to tell what happened without bringing trouble to himself.
His story unfolded slowly. He told how the two men had an intense argument, how he heard the howl and the thud on the floor, heard the wagon leave, then return. He believed that it was Boll weevil making the trips in and out of the store. He was very careful not to accuse the man of stealing or murder.
The sheriff's hostile frown affirmed Fortune's fears. He took his time, weighed his thoughts carefully, considering all the ins and outs before speaking. He told the sheriff that Boll weevil tripped on the cellar steps and tumbled down onto the frozen floor, and that once they managed to get themselves free they tied Boll weevil up and left him in the cellar.
Sheriff Beauford studied Fortune closely. He twisted in his chair and mulled over the story. These Negroes, they act like children when caught, bend under pressure. It must be the weak blood in them, he thought. He was going to have to satisfy the townsfolk who wanted a taste of blood and he knew it. Not everyone would believe this man.
Fortune scratched his head, “Well, Sir, to tell the truth, all I could think of was getting my family out of there as fast as I could.”
“Yes, I suppose. I can understand your fear, but the question is: Was he injured? Was he alive when you left the store? Answer the question, man.”
“He groaned and passed out, Sir. I believe he is alive. I can't say for sure.”
“There's no telling how he is. There's a good chance he's dead.” His head bobbed up and down, taking stock of the information. He finally said, “I was out there earlier, never thought about checking the cellar. This calls for another trip to the store. There is a chance the man is still alive.”
“I hope you are right, Sir.”
“You had better pray that the man is dead, Fortune.”
“Why would I wish such a thing, Sir?”
“Can't you see that if he's alive, he will not admit to anything? He will happily pin the murder and theft on you. There will be folks, perhaps many, who will choose his word over yours. If he is alive, they will rally to his lies. If he is dead, they will have to weigh the evidence without his influence and judge for themselves. That is where your chances lie. It could go either way. It's all in the way the dog's tail wags. But from what you have said, he likely didn't sustain deadly injuries. You are trapped.”