Chasing Freedom (9 page)

Fifteen

“Y
OU OWE ME TWICE OVER CECIL. WE HAD AN AGREEMENT.”
Boll weevil screamed, the spit flying from his mouth.

Cecil scowled. “We had a deal and you fell short. A man has to live up to his word, otherwise his word becomes a shallow reminder of how useless he is.”

“Damn you, Cecil. I agreed to do your dirty work. You couldn't have managed without me this morning. The old woman and her son were a handful.” Anger cut across his face. “An honest man keeps his word. It wasn't my fault the first attempt failed.”

Cecil laughed and then grunted. “An honest man you say? Have you forgotten how long I've known you? You are far from that or you would have returned and reported what happened. Did you think I wouldn't hear the news of Lydia's prank? I've been terrified that she would reveal our plot. I was sick because of your blunder.” Cecil was edgy, wondering how any man could speak of honour in times like these. He massaged his forehead several times. “I won't pay you for a botched job. This second attempt to capture Lydia and the girl will put an end to this blasted partnership. For that, I will pay.” He held Boll weevil's gaze and gave him a poisonous sneer. His tone hardened. “We will talk after you honour your promise to return this evening.”

Boll weevil eyed Cecil with contempt. Anger bloomed beneath his skin. “I need supplies and the least you can do is allow me credit. You owe me that. Business is slow with the Birchtowners on their guard, hiding runaways and sharing their certificates.”

“I owe you nothing, man. I would be crazy to trust you in these anxious times. There is no credit here. What chance would I have of repayment? All you've got to barter with is a gun and a shabby horse.”

“You're a miserable snake, Cecil. You'll pay for this.” He was in Cecil's face with his right hand raised. “You can't cut a man down and walk away free.”

Cecil smiled nervously. “Here's money to rent the wagon. Just be sure you are alone and back here by dusk,” and he handed Boll weevil some coins. “We will strike a fair deal then. I'll pay for what you've earned.”

When Sarah opened the door at Cecil's, Boll weevil stormed past, meeting her surprise with scorn. She watched him mount his bony charger, mumbling unintelligibly under his breath. Sarah grew faint, wondering if he would remember her, turn around, and come back. She watched as he steered the horse around. Her thoughts were also of Reece's safety. When Boll weevil headed in the opposite direction, her fear slowly subsided.

Inside, Cecil scurried about. His face was flushed with sweat though the small stove was barely heating the store. Sarah stood in the doorway watching as he nervously poked in the fire. He appeared distressed and she moved with caution towards him.

“Hello, Mr. MacLeod.” She expected to see Grandmother sitting near the door, but there was no sign of her or Papa. She looked about. The stillness was disturbing. Something was amiss. The sight of Boll weevil caused her mind to fill with chilling thoughts while Cecil's awkward silence created even more uncertainty. Sarah spoke again, choosing her words carefully, “Cato stopped by with your message. I am here to see to my Grandmother.”

Cecil was not himself. The prospect of keeping captives in his root cellar rattled him. Hatching his plan meant one more to join the others. The sheer weight of all the uncertainty filled him with exhaustion. This was turning into a nasty business. “She's down in the cellar, picking over the vegetables. Go down and give her a hand.”

Cecil led her to the back of the store where he wrestled with a trap door bolted to the floor. Sarah had not noticed the door before. Why had he bolted it? Grandmother would need light, need to get back up. In her uneasiness, Sarah was trying to decide if she should stay or run. When the door was fully open, she could see a crude set of steps leading into the darkness. Cecil gave her a nudge, saying, “There's nothing to be afraid of.”

Sarah hesitated. Cecil stood behind her motioning for her to go. “Lydia has a candle. She is at the far end. You go on now. Get along.” She moved cautiously down the seven shoddy steps. When she reached the bottom step, the trap door slammed.

A strange sickness overcame her as she stood on the bottom step trembling, trying to adjust to the darkness. The cellar had a strange musty odour. It was bitter cold. Faint bands of light glared through the holes in the stone foundation crisscrossing at various angles. “Grandmother. Are you here?” She could barely mutter the words. Overhead, she could hear Cecil moving and the blows of a hammer pounding, pounding on the trap door. She held her breath and listened for signs of life—human or otherwise. A sudden tapping on the dirt floor spooked her just as muffled sounds came from the right of the stairs. Sarah halted. She searched through the darkness, adjusting her eyes to the dim light, expecting to see Grandmother, when instead of one figure, she saw two. They sat upright on the ground.

“Grandmother? Papa? Is that you?” The ceiling was low with thick beams that prevented her from moving quickly. She knelt and put her hand on the old woman's face. It was cold and clammy and her breathing strained. She untied the rag from around Grandmother's mouth, then struggled to untie the ropes that bound her hands and feet, but the knots were too tight. She turned to her father. A sudden flurry of mice scattered about his feet. She pushed her hand against her mouth. Would she survive even an hour in this hole? She worked the knots until Fortune's hands fell free. He stretched them behind his ears and untied the filthy rag from around his mouth. Slowly he untied the rope that bound his feet.

He stood and stretched as best he could. After freeing his mother, he turned to Sarah. “How was Cecil able to lure you here?”

“He got Cato to tell me to come. That Grandmother needed me. She had taken a spell.”

“This has turned into a game for them, I believe.” To his mother, he said, “Do you have any idea why they would want to do such a thing, when you have papers to protect you?”

Lydia was quiet, but shortly she responded: “Times are hard. Who can you trust?” Soft humming flowed from her lips while her mind was busy wondering how she was ever going to keep the truth to herself. What a morning. One minute she was looking at the shipment of used dishes and the next Cecil and Boll weevil were grabbing her from behind. They scuffled in the cellar as they tried to tie her up. In the process, she heard the words, “sail to Boston” and “money.” When they brought Fortune down, it was then that she fully realized the truth. The two men had hatched this terrible plot to get her out of Birchtown.

Lydia gasped for air. “Forgive me. Forgive me,” she moaned. She was a fool to believe she could leave her torment behind, that it could possibly not trip her up in a faraway place. So this was how Cecil's cunningness was to play out. If only she had revealed the truth about having children by him after arriving in Birchtown … but she had hesitated, believing there was too much at stake. Here was the result of her stalling—and it was not just her life on the line, but Fortune's and Sarah's as well.

Sarah sat in silence, too overcome to speak. Her first thoughts were of Reece, wondering if he was safe and if she would live to see him again. Boll weevil and Cecil had the three of them caged like animals. She wondered how long they would keep them in the cellar. She wondered if Grandmother's God was watching. Impulsively, she cast her eyes upward and prayed.

Fortune took several deep breaths. Lydia's run-in with Boll weevil had something to do with their situation and he wanted answers. He put his hand on her arm. “Tell me what happened the evening Boll weevil tried to kidnap you and Sarah.”

The demand irritated the old woman. She remained silent for a long time before saying, “Oh my Lord. He tried to say we were runaways.” She snatched up her pipe from her pocket, and sucked air for several seconds. “He planned to ship us down to Boston. His living comes off the backs of slaves you know.”

“You have your certificates. Did you show him your certificates?”

“I searched in my purse, but I could not find them because, oh, sweet chariots … they were gone.”

“What happened to the papers?”

“I don't know. I had them at Cecil's store that morning.”

“How would he get his hands on your papers?”

“I left my purse on the counter when I went to look at the vegetables.”

“Mama, of what interest was your papers to Cecil?”

Lydia stared at the light coming through the tiny holes in the cellar wall. She rubbed the back of her neck, felt the pain of a thousand beatings, the weight of long-held secrets when they came like thieves to steal her rest. It was her fear of Cecil and shame that kept the secrets safe. She was careful in her answer this time. “You know how Cecil loves the coin. He would sell his own mother if he could make a shilling.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, Lord, Fortune, that man is not worrying about who he catches.”

“He planned this for a reason.” He looked at his mother. “I believe that you know the reason. It is time now to be free of your worries. Tell what happened.”

She sucked more air through the pipe. “I was bought to make slaves. I was breeding stock. Cecil bred me behind Master Redmond's back for the light-skinned babies to sell.” Silence hung on her painful account and tears streamed down her face. “He fathered my children. He is … your father as he was Prince's.”

For a moment, Fortune could feel nothing, then his heart rebelled and the pain was so intense, it was as if a sharp blade was passing through it. However, he came to himself and summed up the situation. “You suffered a lot. I saw how he treated you. That was the practice, selling, buying and breeding slaves without any regard for life or decency. But that does not explain why he wanted to get rid of you and Sarah. That's my concern.”

“He is protecting himself because he has moved up in the world. He is afraid I will tell about his past. He will not lose what he has. “Cecil and I have a daughter in Roseway, perhaps a son in Birchtown, and another daughter somewhere.”

“My Sweet Lord. Who are they, Mama?”

“I only know of the one for sure.”

“Who?”

Her words turned to mumbles. The name would not fall from her lips. What right did she have to reveal her daughter's mixed blood without her permission? She thought again of the trouble that letting it slip in Roseway might bring.

“This woman, do I know her?” Fortune growled, impatient with his mother's stalling.

“The name is the least of our worries now. How are we going to escape from this cellar?”

Fortune realized now that, sadly, she and Cecil were entangled in a secret web. “I'll wait on your time to tell me. You are right about the cellar. We need a plan for when Cecil and Boll weevil return. I got my pistol.” He reached down inside his long brown boot and gently rubbed the cold metal of his ol' dragoon, as though it were a harmless kitten.

The old woman picked up the bottom of her wide green dress. She carefully ripped a strip of cloth from the worn edge. Crawling to the bottom step, she tied the strip from one railing over to the other. One way or another, Cecil had to be stopped. They had a gun, a trick and a prayer.

Sixteen

U
NDER THE COVER OF DARKNESS, THE RICKETY WAGON
clamoured along the snow-covered road, turning at the fork that led to Birchtown. The wind and damp cold gnawed through the man's heavy coat and gripped his thin body. Stabs of pain shot through his hands and feet. The slow haul from Roseway was taking longer than expected. There was just too much snow.

True to his word, if a rogue can be honourable, Boll weevil had made his way back to Cecil's store. He jumped from the wagon, a string of pointless banter flowing from his cracked lips. He was out of joint, still agitated from Cecil's heavy-handedness. Eyeing the premises, he approached carefully, stopping first to peer through the window. Inside, a lamp burned brightly. He saw Cecil with his head down on the counter having a snooze. He pounded heavily on the locked door.

Down in the cellar, the captives nestled together for protection from the bitter cold. The hard thumps awakened Lydia. In the startled darkness, she rubbed her hands to soothe her aching joints and pushed against her empty stomach to stop the loud rumbling. Beside her Fortune slept, making noises that reminded her of a snorting horse. She shook his arm. “I hear someone overhead. Cecil has company. It must be Boll weevil,” she whispered, “What are we going to do?”

“All we can do is sit tight,” Fortune said, rousing Sarah who lay sleeping on his shoulder.

“He has come for us.”

“Maybe so, but don't be scared. I am ready.” Fortune patted his leg for his gun. He realized that the weather could mess everything up — his cold pistol might not fire. He pulled out the gun and stuck it down inside his jacket to warm it. The cold had stiffened his fingers. He wondered if he could even pull the trigger.

Sarah rocked back and forth. Her insides surged like incoming waves. How could anyone have thought of such a place as the Land of Milk and Honey, she wondered. Where would they end up? And would Reece look for her? She listened as the biting cold caused Grandmother's breathing to come in quick, short puffs matched by steady pleas to her Lord. Were they going to die here, unbeknownst to anyone? Maybe it was better to die now, here in this stinking cellar, and be through with it.

Upstairs, Cecil finally bolted upright at the pounding. He stood up groggily, stretched and shook his head. “Who is there?”

“It's me, Boll weevil. Unlatch the door, man.”

“You brought the wagon?” Cecil asked.

“Yes and a costly one it is. You can add that expense to my bill.”

Cecil cut Boll weevil a nasty look as he brushed past. It was a strange night. The wind had been unrelenting, slamming the window shutters hard against the logs. There was a strange howl in the wind, a nor'easter with an eerie pitch. The lamp had gone out twice. Strangely, Cecil was glad to see Boll weevil. It meant the end was now in sight. Though the Redmonds were secure with no means of escape, he anguished over having them in the root cellar. Once Boll weevil placed them on the ship to Boston, his worries would be over. He had considered alternatives, such as burning them out, but this way was best. No one could connect him to the plot and his problem would be sailing south with no chance of ever returning. “The Lord does work in mysterious ways,” he laughed.

He glanced around the store. Yes sir, he was doing well. He owned this store. He had a good wife and two grown lads in the British army. After tonight, he could focus on getting back to business as usual. In the faded light, he sized Boll weevil up as he dashed about the store, helping himself to food. He hated the look of the man's chops and his brash attitude. His behaviour was growing insane, but then he was always a little unhinged, always seeking some crazy adventure. No matter, it would all end soon.

Boll weevil sat on a barrel chewing strips of dark beef jerky and crunching hardtack with his rotten teeth. “I ain't had a bite to eat in two days,” he said. “I can't work on an empty stomach. You could have cooked up a scoff on that fancy stove and had it waiting.”

“I don't recall saying that the job came with meals. I didn't indenture you.” Cecil laughed as he let out this last retort.

Boll weevil did not reply. He was too busy eyeing a huge block of yellow cheese. He pulled out his knife, leaned across the counter and cut a big chunk. Piercing the chunk with his knife, he held it up and took several bites, and then pointed the knife towards Cecil. “At least a servant has a contract. That's more than I have,” he sputtered.

“Come on, man. You are wasting time. There's work to be done,” Cecil snapped.

Boll weevil took a long look at the man rushing him. “Hold on,” he snorted. He went to the back and got a small keg of rum, and after gulping several mouthfuls, he drawled confidently: “Now tell me, Cecil, we had a deal, didn't we? I don't plan on moving this lot until we settle our business and you have met my terms.”

“When I have proof that you have done the job, then we will talk.”

Boll weevil's face darkened to a deep blue hue. “That is not what we agreed on. What now, another lie, Cecil? You keep changing the terms, going in circles, backtracking to cheat me. Remember the old days when we were like brothers. Is this how you treat a friend? The deal was to settle the account before I took this bunch to Roseway.”

“I had to rethink the offer. I'm just making sure everything goes as planned.”

“For a desperate man, anxious to rid himself of a bunch of meddling Negroes, you have forgotten one thing. There is a dignified fee for such a miserable job. That's all I ask.”

Cecil laughed. “A dignified fee for a dignified man.” His laugh ceased when Boll weevil waved the knife in his face. “Of course,” he said, stepping back, “I will pay you. But first, you must show me proof that you have done my bidding, that everything went as planned. I cannot afford to throw my money to the wind. No, Boll weevil, money is too scarce to be foolish. Bring back a statement from the captain in Roseway if you want your pay. It will be a couple of days before he sails.”

Boll weevil did not answer. He stood for a moment, staring at Cecil. In an instant, he drove the knife blade deep into the counter. “That does not set well with me. No sir.” The vein on the side of his neck throbbed, sticking out like a long snake. His eyes bulged. “You are a fool if you think I'll be running back and forth out here in this weather!” he screamed. “What if I come back from Roseway and you have changed up on me again? What then?” His voice resonated throughout the store. “Will it be papers from Boston I'll need? I treated you fair and square. I came back and I told you what happened. I agreed to take on this lousy job again, despite the weather. Do you think I am a fool? Pay up now or there's no deal. You can figure out how to get rid of that bunch yourself.”

Cecil moved closer to Boll weevil and raised his clenched fist. His voice was loud. “The likes of a man like you to question my integrity.” He grabbed Boll weevil by his coat lapels. “You are no more than filthy scum, Boll weevil. I know your past and there's not an honest bone in your body. You do not scare me with your wretched chaff nor will you twist a coin from my hand.” Boll weevil slid from his grip while he panted hard, like a dog returning from a long chase.

With a hard tug at the knife, Boll weevil freed it from the counter. He grabbed Cecil, and put an arm around his throat and the knife to his temple. “I mean business,” he yelled. “Show me where you keep the money.”

Cecil yelped, his face pressed into a nasty scowl. He stumbled as Boll weevil dragged him across the store by the neck. “There, by the back wall.” He pointed to the floor.

Boll weevil was insistent and screaming now, “Lift the boards up!”

“You can't do this. How can you rob a friend?” Cecil protested.

Boll weevil hauled back and gave Cecil a hard slap to the side of his head. Cecil whined like a kicked pup while he slowly lifted the boards. He retrieved a large tin box, heavy with his cherished spoils, and placed it on a bench by the back wall.

Boll weevil swallowed when he saw the box. He pushed Cecil to one side with such a hostile thrust that the man staggered and fell hard. Working the edges of the box with his knife, he forced it open. He reached in and started pocketing handfuls of coins, then, inspired, stopped, shut the lid and made his way towards the door with all the plunder.

“What about the Negroes?” Cecil moaned. His left arm and leg ached from the fall. He gripped a barrel and pulled himself up. The thought of losing the money heated his blood. “Come back you filthy brute. You will not get away with this. I will hunt you down, Boll weevil. Oh yes and I'll see that you suffer like the dog you are.” He made a mad dash after Boll weevil. “I'll be damned if I will let you leave with my hard-earned cash.”

All was quiet. In the root cellar, the three waited and listened. Their bodies trembled from the tension and ached from the savage cold. They heard the men tussle for several minutes. Then, without let up, there came a rush of lively blows followed by a loud scream, a heavy thud on the floor and a scurrying of feet towards the door.