Chasing Freedom (18 page)

Thirty

T
HE COURTROOM WAS EXCEEDINGLY NOISY ON THAT
overcast day in August. Sarah counted every tick of the corner clock. It seemed as though time had left her stranded in a faraway place, waiting for someone to rescue her.

When Justice Smithfield arrived through the side door, his stern voice let out a command for all to rise. He remained standing, bringing his gavel down hard. Silence fell upon the room. Fortune gripped Sarah's hand. She feared her punishment. Would they banish her from the province, hang her, lash her with cat-o'-nine-tails or use the whip?

Without any emotion in his voice, Justice Smithfield said,
“
I have reviewed the evidence. I find the accused guilty as charged. I hereby order forty lashes to be administered at two o'clock on the twenty-first of August
1785
, at the whipping post, outside this County Courthouse, to one Miss Sarah Redmond, on the charge of assault against one of our leading citizens.”

Silence was an angry beast that stunned the crowd and carried Sarah down into a great void where all awareness deserted her until a sudden explosion of loud noise — cheers, whimpers, curses, crying and clapping — revived her. A circle of men surrounded Ramsey and shook his hand. His laugh was long and hollow. His scandalous joy filled the room.

This cannot be what justice is all about, Sarah thought. After her argument about fairness, she could only see that the judge, of all people, was no more than an arrogant, cruel slave master, protecting his own interests at the expense of others.

“Clear the courtroom,” Justice Smithfield ordered.

The room soon emptied, the people spilling out onto the road and alleyways. Soon, music blared from the alehouses and folks drank and danced in the lanes.

The bailiff escorted Sarah down a narrow path to the local House of Corrections. She did not hear the chains that clanked and coiled about her ankles and hands. She did not feel the rocks the crowd threw out of anger, nor did she see the eyes that glued themselves to her or the mouths that spit on her. She walked with her head high, her steps steady and even.

When they reached the House of Corrections, the bailiff informed her that she was to work and earn her keep while there. Any surplus earnings went to the keeper for wages and for those unable to work. The place was small and full of Negroes: men and women, some in fetters and shackles on their wrists and feet. Their alleged crimes were numerous: robbery, murder, pilfering livestock or goods, assault, brawling, forgery and even counterfeiting. They were a pitiful lot, and later, when Thomas, Fortune and Margaret Cunningham came to see her, Sarah sat in silence at the back of the room with her back turned away from them.

Fortune found the courage to speak first. He said, “You come around now, Babygirl. You did what you had to do. Don't blame yourself for what happened.”

Without turning to face him, Sarah said, “It is over, Papa! I have been judged!”

“It is not over.” Thomas insisted. “You had the right to defend yourself from a raging man. The judge was heartless. We can't let the judge get away with this.” Margaret Cunningham walked towards her. “Come here, Sarah,” she said. “You need not fear us. We are family.”

Sarah turned to face them. Thomas reached for her hands.

“Judge Smithfield was extremely harsh. From what I hear, Ramsey's gang cornered him in the back room. I believe that he gave in to their demands. I would wager that being a newly appointed judge, he felt pressured, but he's paid to uphold the law, not bitterness.” Margaret spoke with a bitterness of her own.

Thomas looked at Sarah. “We have six days,” he said. “Perhaps we can get his decision overturned by another judge, one more respectful of the law. We need a plan.”

“You leave this to us, Sarah. Trust us,” Margaret said.

Sarah stared down at the little woman. She was a mighty force in Roseway, organizing events, helping the poor and now she was preparing to take on the arrogant stiff-necks of power. She was firm in her resolve, fearless and confident, but Sarah understood that she was up against a force mightier than the king's army. She glanced away and said, “It's of no use.”

“I will not let them do this to you, Sarah.” Her tone was rigid and her face fierce. “We will find Justice Moody. He is hearing cases at this end of the colony. The people will not influence him.”

Papa pressed his hands against his face. “If I could trade places with you, Babygirl, I would. How could they do this to you? How in God's name can this be justice?”

“I don't know,” Sarah said, “but Mama did not give in when she was punished and neither will I. I will not be afraid. They can hurt my body, but they cannot hurt my spirit.”

“They got no cause. No cause.”

“It is the poison, Papa. That is what makes it right in their eyes.”

Fortune turned to Margaret Cunningham. “Judge Moody was fair in my case, but do you really think he would help us?”

“We can try, Fortune. I will get Fibby to stay with mother and Prince. Fortune, you and I will go to Yarmouth, even up to Digby, if we have to. Thomas, since you have to work, you can organize a petition in Birchtown. Get as many as you can to sign it. If folks cannot write, you print their names and get them to put their ‘x' beside it.”

“It's not over yet, Sarah,” Thomas said, holding Sarah's face in his hands. “We are going to be busy, working on getting you out of here. You must stay strong. Do not give up.”

When they were gone, Sarah sat on the long bench twisting her hair. The whipping would be a show, like when Big Cain juggled the seven gourds and everyone gathered with their mouths hung open, amused with wonder. If only this show could be so joyful. She was the seven gourds that would dazzle the crowd, only the awes and thrills would come from the worst of human instincts, the thirst for another's blood. She inhaled deeply, then again and again.

Thirty-one

I
T WAS EARLY MORNING, AUGUST 21, THE DAY OF THE
whipping. The long days had dragged by for Sarah without a word from Margaret Cunningham or her papa. She awakened to an aching back and the sound of rain pounding heavily on the roof. Sleeping had been close to impossible in a room full of strangers on a hard, narrow bunk. She was exhausted. The remnants of her courage were fading fast. She realized that her destiny was in a race against time. What, in such a short time, could her papa and Margaret accomplish?

Praying became part of her daily routine to remain strong and hopeful. She wondered if fear had kept the Birchtowners away. There had been but three visitors. Thomas faithfully came by each day after work with updates on the petition. It was proving difficult to get signatures. Either the Birchtowners were scared of retaliation in the form of violence or loss of work, or they believed it would not do any good. To Sarah's surprise, Reece came by twice. It was comforting to hear him say that he supported her right to defend herself. He wanted her to know that he had visited his mother several times and that, in Fibby's care, she was holding on. The wait to hear from Amelia was keeping her strong. The third visitor was Priscilla Hayward. She came by, she said, to express sadness over such a crime against her friend. Though her sentiments felt genuine, she did not leave without letting it be known that she had finally caught Reece's attention. Happiness to them both, Sarah thought. They deserve it.

Noon came quickly and still there was no news from Papa and Margaret. Her stomach was about to explode when the keeper arrived with a plate of stew and tea. The gravy was cold and thick with a nasty scum, the bread was hard, not cut but torn from a loaf, and the tea cold. More pig slop, she thought, as hunger forced her to approach the table. In the end, she could not eat. She sat on the bench staring at the wall, the butterflies in her stomach caught up in a hurricane.

When the bailiff came, he stood with his face in a mocking grin. “Half an hour remaining,” he said. Sarah's head felt heavy. She pictured herself tied to the whipping post before the jeering crowd. She thought of all the times Cecil had called the slaves from their work to witness some type of miserable act: the removal of a limb, a hanging or a whipping. She thought of her mother and that gave her courage. She would show them the willpower a slave could muster in the face of pain. She would not scream and she would not tremble! She closed her eyes and felt her brain do a dance of sorts. There was no way to track the time, but the hour was looming. What had become of Papa and Margaret? Where was Thomas? Had they been successful in finding Justice Moody or anyone who might believe her innocence and keep her from this punishment?

It was fifteen minutes before the hour when she heard the keys clang as the sheriff unlocked the door. He led her in chains down muddy King Street. Without her coat, she shivered as the biting cold of nerves nipped her courage. Her hope for salvation was retreating, but she walked queenly with her back straight to the rhythm of the clinking shackles around her ankles. She focused on the end of her ordeal now, rather than the beginning. He took her down Water Street to a spot the locals called Stanhope Hill. The whipping post stood like a crucifix. She saw Reece and Priscilla at the front of the crowd. Enos was there, too. The three were rigid, expressionless, and she turned away.

At the whipping post, the sheriff said, “Step up to the pole. Turn your back to the crowd.” He freed her hands.

She heard the loud jeers and slurs about Negroes, the name-calling and threats. Despite the apples and eggs that pelted her, she looked directly into the crowd before turning and retreating into herself. In these last minutes, she did not beg for compassion as she had seen slaves do, for she knew such wickedness did not know mercy. She stood erect and defiant.

A man wearing a black suit, black gloves and a three-cornered black hat greeted her with a quick nod. In his right hand, a whip curled like a serpent. His long white hair hung beneath the hat and framed his head like a fringe. Sarah turned her head and eyed him sharply. His eyes were barren. He was ready to perform his duty. He ordered her to remove her top garments. With her upper body exposed, her bare back facing outward, the sheriff tied her to the post with a rope.

She watched the whip unfold from his hand. The full length of it—six feet—fell to the ground. In a loud, ringing voice, the sheriff announced, “On the count of three … One,” he screamed.

Sarah murmured,
“Do not scream.”

“Two.”

Sarah murmured, “Do not tremble.”

“Three.”

Sarah stiffened. The first blow came down with a whistle.

The onlookers gasped as their eyes followed the rise and fall of the long whip. It bit into her shoulder and opened her flesh. Bright red splatters of blood flew past her face. The blood running down her cold back felt like warm water. The pain was scorching hot.

After the first taste of blood, a spasm jarred the crowd, making them cringe and fall into an eerie silence. Sarah squeezed her eyes tight and held her breath. She stiffened and gritted her teeth as the sheriff skipped the countdown and yelled, “Two!”

Again, the whip danced, making a loud snap as it caught the air the second time. She waited in fear for the whip to strike and when it did, she sprang from the ground. Her blood sprayed in the air like water from a fountain.

The whip whistled again and circled around catching the wind for the third strike. “Three!” the sheriff screamed. The leather came down with a thud and she felt the burn of the rope on her wrists as she slid a few inches down the pole.

Thirty-seven to go, she thought. The rest of the lashes meant nothing now. She was already weak. Her mind was floating away. She was nearly unconscious, hearing, seeing and feeling little. The sound of the whip whirling high above her head was faint. The muted cries ringing out in the crowd came from a distance. They were blurry and she strained and forced herself to hear.

“Stop it. Stop the whipping.” And again, “Stop the whipping.” The voices were louder now, sharper, clearer. Was she dreaming? Was that Thomas's voice?

Again the shouting came, “Stop this execution.” The crowd stirred and, to her ears, sounded like the hum of a world of bees.

Justice Moody screamed above the uproar. “Stop it, I say. My God, man, stop. It is by order of the magistrate. Stop this butchering.”

The man in black let the whip fall and asked, “Who be you to bring such an order?”

Justice Moody shouted, “I, Justice Moody, bring the order. It is an order from the Provincial Magistrate's Office.”

The crowd swelled with noise and became unruly chaos. The sheriff raised his gun and fired twice. Justice Moody stepped forward and took the whip from the man's hand. He then shouted at the top of his lungs, making a declaration to the crowd: “Due to an error, Justice Smithfield's decision has been overturned. The accused, having undergone a wrongful conviction, will not undergo further punishment. Please go home now. Go about your business.”

The show was over and the onlookers made their way to the alehouses where both disappointment and relief manifested into a rowdy night of drunkenness and brawls.

The sheriff untied the rope and unchained Sarah's feet. Her back and skirt were drenched in blood. After two steps, she keeled over and lay in a red puddle beside the whipping post. She could barely see Thomas when he took off his jacket and spread it around her shoulders. Fortune scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the wagon.

At first, the long, deep gashes would not stop weeping. Sarah lay quiet in her bed for three days suffering from the shock of her punishment. For weeks Margaret and Fibby took turns caring for the terrible lacerations, bathing them with wild herbs collected at the roadside and ointment from Mrs. MacLeod's store. The lashes would leave scars, thick rides as tough as rolled leather, but by the third week, when she was feeling somewhat herself, she knew they would become reminders for when she needed strength and determination.