Chasing Freedom (13 page)

Twenty-two

S
HERIFF ANGUS BEAUFORD STOOD BEFORE JUSTICE
Nicholas
Moody and read the following request:

Port Roseway, March
10, 1785

Justice Nicholas Moody,

I ask your favourable permission to solicit the release of Fortune Redmond from his present confinement. I am content that he had no part in the crime of murder against Mr. Cecil MacLeod, on the ninth January 1785, nor in the attempted robbery of goods from Mr. MacLeod's store. It is my belief that he himself fell victim to a crime and that he went to Sheriff Beauford with honest intentions to declare the truth of his situation. I am content that he is an admirable Negro and a good citizen of Birchtown, having fought in the King's army.
I am, with due submission, Gentlemen,

Your most obedient Honourable servant,

Birchtown Magistrate

Colonel Septimus Black

As the Birchtown magistrate, Colonel Black had intervened in Fortune's case by petitioning Justice Moody, just as he had promised. The Redmonds were grateful for his interest in the case, while his efforts brought him renewed respect in Birchtown.

Fortune sat to their right, his legs in irons and his hands in chains. He was thin, unshaven and his face was drawn. He did not look at his mother or daughter, but kept his eyes fixed on the magistrate. Lydia, Sarah and Enos listened intently as the sheriff read Colonel Black's letter. When Sheriff Beauford reached the part stating Fortune served in the king's army, the Judge's eyes widened and he nodded his head in support.

Outside the courthouse, the small gathering of black and white citizens swelled, soon spreading out across the yard and down the road. Raw emotions charged the air as opinions seesawed back and forth.

One man said, “That Negro killed Cecil. We don't need to wait to convict him.”

Another shouted, “We would be murderers if we did not wait for justice.”

A tall woman in a floppy bonnet screamed, “We have enough proof.”

“We need to hear his side.”

“You know Negroes never tell the truth.”

“He fought for the king and that alone makes him a good man.”

“I say we are getting soft on the Negroes and this proves we need more laws to keep them in line.”

Neither side gained enough strength to take the lead. It was not quite a mob, but all it would take was one forceful speaker, a shepherd, and the majority would fall into step, march to one beat like a herd of sheep.

Beulah kept her eyes fixed on the door to the courthouse. She could not bring herself to enter. She was listening to all the remarks and growing nervous. She kept her ears tuned for trouble. It was not until she heard ol' Brown say that if the judge found Fortune guilty and Fortune would be found swinging from a tree, did she realize the horror of the situation. She moved back to the fringe, and then further until the loud chatter became a muffle.

Margaret Cunningham placed her hand on Beulah's shoulder. “Any word on how this is going?”

“No, Ma'am. The magistrate arrived but an hour ago.”

“Did Lydia make it? Is she inside?”

“Yes Ma'am. Enos drove us here and he went inside with her.”

“I'm glad of that. From what Lydia tells me, they were all victims of that terrible Boll weevil. Who knows what would have become of them?”

“That's true, Ma'am. They are lucky to be here. Do you think the magistrate will believe Fortune?” She faced Margaret with a lump in her throat so large it felt like an apple.

“That is a good question. I have faith in Nicholas. He is a good man and an excellent magistrate.” She paused a moment, not wanting to fill Beulah with unreasonable hope. “His position on Negroes has always been fair. I know that he will do the right thing.”

“I can only believe what Mother Redmond says, that the heart of a man will always show its hand. If the magistrate is a good man, we will have Fortune back.”

“There is much to consider and not one witness. All the judge has is Fortune's words and the sheriff's evidence. There are no statements from Lydia or Sarah.”

“What about Boll weevil?”

“I heard that Boll weevil lost his memory and cannot recall that night.”

“I dare say that he came up with such a trick to keep from being found guilty.”

“A trick?”

Beulah moved closer to Mrs. Cunningham. She kept her voice low. “He's a smart one. If he cannot remember, then no one will question his guilt. He wants sympathy. He knows exactly what he is doing. He's betting that everyone will assume Fortune is guilty. If you ask me, there is not a thing wrong with that man. Anyway, it all rests on the credit of Fortune's story.”

“That's true. Mr. Carter thinks he is a wise fox, but do not give him too much credit. Nicholas is a far wiser man who has seen the best and the worst of the criminal mind. I dare say that thinking yourself too smart can lead to tripping yourself up.”

“I do not doubt that. I hope that Sheriff Beauford found a clue, something to help the magistrate reach a decision.”

“It won't be long before we know. The facts are as plain as the nose on your face and, by God, I think the facts are on Fortune's side.”

“I hope so, Ma'am, I surely do.”

Margaret hugged Beulah. “It will all go well, just you wait and see.”

In the courtroom, the heat from the wood stove filled the crowded space. Onlookers twisted and turned in their seats. Sarah could feel their anger and she moved closer to Grandmother. Her heart raced as she reached for the old woman's hand and silently prayed. Grandmother squeezed her hand hard. She wished she could squeeze away all the nervous energy that was keeping her on the edge of her seat.

Justice Moody sat with an odd look of displeasure on his face. He removed his monocle, wiped it with a large white handkerchief and returned it to his face. After clearing his throat several times, he raised his gavel and struck the bench twice. Reading from some papers, he said:

On this day, the twelfth of March, seventeen hundred and eighty-five, I hereby state that the facts pertaining to this case are clear and concise. There were no witnesses to the crime, therefore my summary and judgment are as follows:

Cecil MacLeod was murdered. The murder weapon was a hunting knife. That part is clear. The weapon used to kill Mr. MacLeod was on Boll weevil Carter's person when found in Mr. MacLeod's cellar
.
Having failed to remove all of the blood from the knife handle, and having blood stains on his hands, jacket and pants at the time he was rescued, I hereby declare Boll weevil Carter to be the murderer.

He paused for a few seconds, and then continued.

An attempted robbery appeared to be in progress at the time of or following the murder. The murderer failed to leave with the stolen goods, therefore no robbery occurred
.
It is known hereabouts that slave catchers, such as Boll weevil Carter, were in the service of their employers or the local authorities to retrieve Negroes from this province. That fact may be connected to this horrible act of murder, but that remains to be proven
.

Grandmother held Sarah, clinging to her like a frightened orphan, waiting anxiously for a decision that would either liberate or condemn their beloved Fortune.

Justice Moody discharged yet another loud snort. He raised his eyes from the page and stared at the family before he continued:

I hereby issue a warrant for the arrest of Boll weevil Carter
.

Turning to Fortune, whose face was stone cold, Justice Moody forced a thin smile.

I have concluded that Fortune Redmond is guilty of … neither murder nor robbery. Fortune Redmond, you are free to go. This case is dismissed.

Justice Moody struck the bench with one thunderous blow of the gavel. He rose and turned to face Lydia, Sarah and Enos. He nodded and left the courtroom by the back door.

No one stirred for several seconds. The onlookers were numb and bewildered. It was Fortune who first rose to his feet. Within minutes, the sheriff had removed Fortune's irons and chains, and he hobbled to his mother, lifting her from the chair and hugging her passionately. Sarah watched, thinking that at any moment her heart would stop.

The Negroes outside stood stock-still when the magistrate's carriage flew past them in a cloud of dust. A group of them immediately burst into the courtroom and, upon learning that Fortune was innocent, raised him to their shoulders.

Outside, the whites wandered about, restless and impatient, perplexed by the sudden departure of the magistrate. Their anger rode high on a wave of smugness. Their confidence in a favourable verdict — one that found the Negro guilty and that would put Negroes in their old place — showed in their faces and slid from their tongues. “This will teach them,” a rough-looking man shouted. “He'll hang by nightfall and we'll drink to that.” All were ready for a celebration but for the few who stood together off to the side of the road praying for sanity and compassion. The remaining Negroes waited patiently, barely uttering a sound. Fear was their master, striking them hard with a vicious sting. They wept, not just for Fortune, but also for themselves. They waited quietly, drowning in wild emotions and watching the rowdy crowd carefully, knowing it was a dangerous animal that could lash out at any second.

When Fortune came through the courthouse doors carried on the throne of shoulders, the Negroes stood transfixed for several seconds. Could this mean he was free, an innocent man? It didn't take them long to figure it out, and when they did, they let loose and filled the air with rejoicing. Their laughing, singing and dancing in gratitude brought many to the ground. It was a spectacle that the residents of Port Roseway would remember for a very long time. For the Negroes, it was a happy, unforeseen ending to a very bad dream and a wonderful taste of justice in their new country.

For their part, the Redmonds glowed. They walked with their heads elevated, not superior but proud. The hostile comments and flying debris could not shake their confidence. When Enos finally managed to gather them up, they sat in the back of his cart like heroes, smiles stretching from ear to ear. Fortune threw his hat to the wind and let out a lifetime of restraint in shouts. Enos sat tall and stiff on his seat like the grand master of a parade, leading the throng of revellers back to Birchtown to continue the celebration.

Twenty-three

T
HE RUN-IN WITH THE LAW HAD NOT SOURED FORTUNE,
BUT
he was disappointed that Boll weevil was still at large, with not a word surfacing about his whereabouts. At last, on April
3
,
1785
, the surveyors arrived and marked off but a handful of the remaining land grants for the squatters. The rest of the men in the Black Pioneers received their lots by rank, the same as the white folks, while the other squatters came last. The original land grant, now reduced in size because of the generous allotments to the white Loyalists, could not accommodate all the Negroes. Happily, Fortune got his.

Fortune scrutinized his rocky plot in Birchtown with disbelief. The one hundred acres promised had dwindled to fifty. In spite of that, he convinced the surveyor to measure off two ten-acre lots from his grant so that both Lydia and Sarah could share in his stake. Receiving any amount of land, he supposed, put them among the lucky. From squatters to landowners—their dreams were coming true.

Every day presented a face-off between endurance and defeat. Nothing made him angrier or destroyed his confidence more than feeling betrayed and desperate. He was not alone. All the poor settlers were without their needed provisions. Upon arrival, the Royal Bounty of Provisions had filled two storehouses on Commissary Island, close to the shores of Roseway. Thousands of pounds of flour, bread, pork, beef, rice, vinegar, oatmeal, butter and countless gallons of molasses and rum had been brought in and distributed as rations, but the demand soon outstripped the supply as greedy individuals, able to pay for supplies, took from those in need. The bounty of provisions, extended twice, was now restricted to a few and reduced to one-third rations to the people who settled on farmland and improved it—but it was too late. It had taken so long to receive the land that it could not be cultivated in time to feed anyone. Requests to the king asked for two more years of provisions.

The promise of prosperity was now a joke. Birchtown was thinning as the crushing weight of poverty drove folks away. Some of the residents fled to other parts of Canada or back to the American colonies. Some talked of finding a way back to Africa. Fortune's resolve was strong. He refused to leave. What he had was just enough. After all, what had he known but a hard day's work, one pair of shoes, raggedy overalls and two squares a day? He had as much here and more. The Birchtowners who stayed sank to scrounging, begging, re-making items or putting up with what they had. Every day the number of deserted shacks added to the increasing despair. Some folks roamed from place to place looking for work or liquor, whichever came first.

Fortune knew that his soil was poor, and without proper tools and good seeds, his crops would be undersized and the hay sparse. He had one old ox, a horse, four cows and a few chickens. It was not much, but as Lydia said, “It keeps the wolf from the door.” He often walked the surveyor's lines. He delighted in knowing his property stretched beyond the horizon. It felt vast. He found joy in being able to work the land, in shaping it, nurturing it and claiming it. To him, it was not just land, it was
his
land. All of it was his: the trees, the fields, the swamps and the rocks.

He thought of Beulah often. Prince had been the lucky one, assigned to breed her right off. Though he longed for her himself, Fortune made sure the other men kept away from her. That was before Dahlia came along. But now there was a chance and he might try testing the waters. He was ready to move forward and a partner would make life sweeter.

For her part, Beulah was getting better with each passing day, finding her will to step away from the past. And so on this sunny April day, he set out to Beulah's with a wide grin on his face. He found her sweeping the floor. She greeted him shyly, pulling the rag from around her head and smoothing the front of her ragged dress.

Fortune handed her a bag. “I brought you a beef heart. It's not much.”

“Thank you, Fortune. Care to sit for a spell?”

“I don't mind if I do.” He lifted Prince from the floor and tickled his chin.

“I got a pot on. Just beans. Stay for supper?”

Fortune looked at the small black pot hanging over the fire. “I'm thankful for whatever you have. We are lucky to have a pot.”

“That we are.”

“It must be hard, you being on your own with a son to raise. Are you lonely, Beulah?”

“Is that pity I hear in your voice?”

“No, no. It's just that I care about you.” There, he thought, something simple, a start. But his next words had no time to form. The door to Beulah's shack flew open with a heavy kick. Both sets of eyes went to the plump white man standing on the wobbly step, a rifle pointed inside at them.

“I'm looking for the Negro, William Hampton, a runaway servant from Roseway.”

Beulah snatched Prince from Fortune and held him tight. “There's no runaway here!” she screamed.

“Step to the side while I look about this hole.”

Fortune jumped to his feet. He thought of the dragoon in his boot, but quickly changed his mind, saying, “We have nothing to hide. Go ahead and look and then leave us in peace.”

The man stepped inside the one-room shack and glanced about. Satisfied with finding no one, he walked to the door saying, “You people have no regard for the law. Harbouring a runaway will mean a hanging. Just letting you know.”

“Wicked, wicked,” Fortune said, after the man left. “They hunt us like foxes. They want every ounce of blood in us if we do wrong.”

Beulah brought tea to the table and sat down across from Fortune. He looked at her and felt what he thought was affection. “As I was saying before we were stormed, I care about you Beulah. I am thinking of taking a wife, if you would have me.”

“Good Lord. I cannot think about being a wife or having more babies. I am done with that kind of aching. I had my share. It would take a deep love to change my mind.”

Fortune was confused. He wanted to get on with living and could make no sense of her reaction. This courting business, could he ever get used to it? In slavery, breeding was the reason for mating. Was she saying that love was now the purpose? To his way of thinking, it was simple: A good man and a good woman got together. Love was a luxury in a place desperate for the basics of life. Did love matter when you were destitute, wanting just the warmth of a body to share your bed, a good woman to share the load? It wasn't that she hadn't caught his eye and it wasn't that he didn't want her company, but refusing him based on love alone when she was having it so hard … He scratched his head, trying hard to understand Beulah's hesitation. He said softly, “I wish I knew how to make this right. You mean the world to me. I have a job on the new road to Annapolis and soon I'll have enough to start a small farm. It is not much, but you and my nephew are welcome to it. I will be good to you. That I guarantee.”

Beulah was anxious and trembling. She could not explain why she felt the way she did, other than her heart was empty. She faced Fortune now and looked at him intently. Her mind was drifting back to Prince. That had been a good match. They had found happiness. Neither she nor he had known much about marriage, but it came easy in their short time together. Sometimes, late at night, she would think of all the things they were going to do to make their dreams ripen sweet—and then he was gone. “You have been so kind these past months. I could not have survived without your help. I don't mean to be ungrateful.”

The tears welled up in Fortune's eyes. His throat was tight.

Outside the wind was blowing, howling like the pain in his heart. He longed to tell her that he ached for her, that life could be sweet if she wanted it to be.

A FEW WEEKS AFTER FORTUNE'S VISIT WITH BEULAH, HE
came to realize how true it was that life could come at you hard. Lydia had turned in early after a busy day. Fortune was watching Sarah hem a dress when Fibby opened the door after two faint taps. She was grim-faced and puffing. She held Prince Junior in her arms and a large sack on her back. They looked at her in alarm.

Sarah went to the door, taking the child and handing him to Fortune, then taking the sack and placing it on the cot. Fortune looked at the woman and immediately he sensed the grief in her eyes. It was unlike her to venture out by herself in the darkness.

After she joined them at the table, Fortune said, “What brought you here with Prince at this hour?” He was already assuming there would be bad news.

“I brought the boy to you because I didn't know what else to do,” she mumbled.

“What do you mean, Fibby? What on earth has happened?” Sarah asked quietly.

“Beulah got sick.” Fibby said. “I tried to save her. I tried. I thought she would get better, but the cholera took her. You know it is raging through the colony, taking us down fast, showing no mercy. She was sick only for a few hours. Went into shock … she couldn't move or speak and then … just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers, “she was gone. I would have come sooner, but I could not leave her in that state. She passed but a few hours ago.”

“It's all right,” Fortune said, wiping his eyes on a rag he pulled from his pocket. “You were her friend. We thank you for caring for her and brother Prince and the babies.”

“What's all the chatter out here?” Lydia asked, appearing from behind the canvas sheeting and bundled in several heavy sleeping gowns and a nightcap. “What's happened?” she asked.

“Beulah passed this evening,” Fibby said. “Cholera.”

Grandmother fell back against Sarah's chair. She looked from one to the other and shook her head. “It doesn't seem right. Prince and Destiny, now Beulah … gone. One by one, the hunger, filth and strange diseases are taking us. What is this juju that shows no mercy? What's to become of the rest of us?”

Sarah held onto Grandmother's arm and let the tears flow down her cheeks.

After some time, Lydia said goodnight to Fortune, Fibby and Sarah, kissed little Prince, and made her way to the back room. Her sobs were loud and without let-up.

“Don't worry, she will be alright,” Fortune said.

Fibby turned and made her way to the door. “I wrapped her up as best I could … Beulah. She is at the hut waitin' on burial. I'll stay there overnight. Tomorrow, you come by and do the rest.”

“We will be there in the morning,” Fortune said, pushing back the lump in his throat.

“I hated to bring bad news. You tell Prince that his mama loved him and his papa, too. Tell him every day. And now ol' Fibby has to get going.”