Freedom Bound (2 page)

CHARLOTTE'S ANXIETY SOON
ended. In a couple of minutes Captain Braemar reappeared, followed by a black man
with a pushcart. She walked down the steps of the Exchange
to join them. “That one's mine.” She pointed to a wooden
trunk bound with brass straps.

Captain Braemar helped the man lift it onto his cart.

“I hope you don't mind a walk,” he said to Charlotte.

“I'm happy to walk. I need to find my land legs again.”

Once she started walking, she was less happy to be on
foot. The street was unpaved, soft and slimy. Charlotte's first
impression of Charleston was that it smelled nearly as bad
as the
Blossom
.

“Do you know much about Charleston?” Captain Braemar asked.

“Very little.”

“It's built on a peninsula that's shaped like a tongue. On
the west side, there's the Ashley River. On the east side, there's
the Cooper River. Charleston Harbour is where they join.”

“Do you know the town well?”

“I should know it! I was born and raised here. My family
has a house in town, where we spend part of the year. The
rest of the time we live on our rice plantation, Bellevue,
twenty-five miles up the Ashley.”

While they talked, Captain Braemar frequently looked
back over his shoulder, apparently checking to see that the
carter still followed. Either he's worried lest we become separated in the crowd, Charlotte thought, or he's afraid the
man may run off with my trunk.

“There is such a quantity of people,” she observed. “I've
never before seen so many in one place. And most of them
are black.”

“Before the war began, whites and blacks were more or
less in equal number. But now the blacks outnumber the
whites. We have about thirty-eight thousand black people to
eleven thousand white.”

“I suppose all the black people are slaves.”

“Most are slaves, but some are free.”

“How do you tell them apart?”

“A slave going about town must carry a pass that says he's
on his master's business. The man I just hired to bring your
trunk is free and has a certificate to prove it.” Captain Braemar looked around again. The carter was still with them.

They were passing a stately building with an open portico,
two tall pillars flanking the door. Chained to one of the pillars was a black man. His back was bare, and he was being
whipped. His head hung to one side, and he made no sound
that Charlotte could hear, although she was near enough to
hear the whoosh of the lash and the smack as it struck his
skin. Blood welled from the open cuts. A dozen or so spectators—black and white—stood watching.

She stopped walking. Once, on the
Blossom
, she had seen
a sailor being flogged, but not with such ferocity. The man
wielding the whip had his teeth bared in a savage grin. He's
enjoying this, Charlotte thought, and she shuddered.

“Come away,” Captain Braemar said. “You don't want to
watch this.” When he tugged her arm gently, she yielded and
they walked on.

“What could that poor man have done to deserve such
punishment?”

“Most likely he's a runaway. One hundred lashes for correction.” He spoke as if explaining something to a child,
bending his head toward her to be sure she heard. “He's getting off lightly. Sometimes they tie a nail to the whip.”

“It's horrible.”

“Yes ma'am. It is horrible. And it's a horror we brought
upon ourselves.”

“You mean, slavery?”

“I'm not against slavery. The prosperity of South Carolina
depends on it. We couldn't grow rice and indigo without
slaves to do the work.”

“You could hire people, couldn't you?”

“Costs too much. And you wouldn't find many white
men who'd want to do it. No ma'am, the slave system is the
only one that will work in the South. And it worked well
until British policy makers hatched the idea that we could
hurt the rebels by offering freedom to their slaves. All a slave
had to do was stay behind British lines for one year, helping
the military. At the end of the year, he'd be granted a General
Birch certificate. Owning that certificate makes him a free
man.”

“It sounds to me like a good idea.”

“Too good, as it's turned out. Word spread from one
plantation to the next. Thousands of runaway slaves flocked
to every town behind British lines. Most didn't know which
side their owner was on. All they heard was ‘Freedom.'”

“Who can blame them?”

“I can't say I do blame them. The problem is, only slaves
owned by rebels qualify for a General Birch certificate. If the
owner is a Loyalist, we send his slaves right back to him. That
makes them angry. Many refuse to carry out their duties, or
perform them poorly. So their owners must use harsh measures to keep them in line.”

Charlotte glanced back over her shoulder at the man
chained to the pillar. The more he slumped, the more vigorously his tormenter wielded the whip. Was this an example
of harsh measures? It made her feel sick.

He continued. “Since last May, after we took Charleston
from the rebels, the situation has become worse. General
Clinton, the British Commander in Chief at the time, issued
a proclamation offering full restoration of property and
civil rights to all rebels who would swear allegiance to King
George. In Charleston alone, more than two thousand men
accepted the offer. ‘Now that we've returned to our allegiance,' they said, ‘kindly give us back our slaves.'

“But the genie was out of the bottle. Those newly freed
slaves were now serving in black regiments or working on
fortifications. To return them to slavery would have been
impossible. So there's plenty of bad feeling all around.”

Charlotte and Captain Braemar turned onto a street that
had a brick sidewalk—clearly a better part of town. The
houses here were large and elegant. Along the sidewalks
grew the strangest trees that she had ever seen. Instead of
branches, each tree had a clump of long, bristling leaves
stuck on top of a bare trunk.

“What are those trees?”

“Palmettos. I guess you've never seen them before.”

“There's a lot I've never seen before.” She could have
added,
and I don't just mean trees
. But she didn't say it out
loud.

They stopped in front of a handsome three-storey house
that stood behind a wall with a wrought-iron gate. It had
two verandas, an upper and a lower, that extended on one
side of the house all the way from the front to the back.

“Here we are,” he said. “The officers' quarters.”

“Why, it's a mansion! At Fort Haldimand on Carleton
Island, the officers' quarters are a wing of the barracks.”

“This is Charleston, not a fort on an island in the middle
of the wilderness. Here, officers are billeted in the better
homes. In this case, Southern Command took over an entire
house for their use.”

“Is this where you live?”

“No. Since my family owns a house in Charleston, I live at
home.”

While Captain Braemar and the carter lifted the trunk
from the cart, Charlotte gazed in awe at the magnificent
dwelling in front of her. Would she really be living here?
What a contrast to the army tent that had been her family's
first home in the refugee camp on Carleton Island, and to
the little log cabin that she and her father had built last summer! What would Papa say if he could see this mansion?

“Will you open the gate for us? Our hands are full.” Captain Braemar's voice broke into her thoughts. He sounded
amused, and she realized that she had been acting like a
country bumpkin, staring at the house.

“Oh, sorry.”

She unlatched the gate so that they could carry her trunk
through, and then walked ahead of them to open the front
door.

When the trunk had been set down in the entrance hall,
Captain Braemar handed the carter a coin. Touching his fingers to his forehead, the black man said, “Thank you, sir.” To
Charlotte, the way he pronounced it sounded like “Suh.”

The room that lay before her was large. Silk curtains hung
at the windows. Enormous mirrors in gilded frames adorned
the panelled walls. On the marble mantelpiece gleamed silver candlesticks, the candles unlit since ample light streamed
through the tall windows. There were wingback chairs by
the fireplace, as well as an upholstered settee. Four officers
sat at a table, playing cards.

“I'll present you to Colonel Knightly,” the captain said,
“and then take my leave. I wish I could stay to see you settled, but I'm due at Headquarters and must not tarry.”

“Thank you for escorting me here.” Charlotte straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, trying not to appear
overawed by her surroundings. “I'm sure I'll settle in with
no problem.”

One of the officers rose from his chair. He wore a red coat
of fine wool, with buff collar, cuffs and lapel. Around his
ample waist was a crimson sash, and on his head a white
periwig. He was a portly gentleman, about fifty years of age.

“May I present Mrs. Charlotte Schyler,” said Captain Braemar.

The colonel bowed politely, but he looked at Charlotte as
if he had never heard of her, as if he did not expect her at all.

As soon as the introduction was completed, the captain
departed. The three officers at the card table looked up.
Their faces showed signs of impatience.

“Excuse me for interrupting your pastime,” Charlotte said
with as much dignity as she could muster. “I'm newly arrived from Canada. My husband has a room here in the officers' quarters. If someone will kindly show me to it—”

“My dear Mrs. Schyler, this is most awkward.” She heard
the embarrassment in the colonel's voice. “Recently we received a large number of reinforcements, with the result that
every available room was needed.”

“You mean, I can't stay here?”

“Uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “When your husband left
for the backcountry, we put his possessions into storage.
Captain Antrim now has the room that was assigned to
him.”

“Oh . . . where am I to stay?”

“That is the question. Since we have no accommodation
for you here, some other arrangement will be necessary.”

“I don't know anybody in Charleston. I have no friends to
take me in.” She felt stunned and helpless. Everything was
going wrong. No Nick. No place to live.

She had travelled for two weeks in an open bateau from
Carleton Island down the St. Lawrence River to Quebec City,
and then been tossed about at sea for three more weeks.
Charlotte was exhausted. A roaring filled her ears, and she
felt the floor tilting. Darkness came over her in a rush.

SHE WOKE CHOKING
, and jerked her head back and forth to
escape the pungent fumes that seared her nostrils. When she
opened her eyes, she saw a slender white hand holding a
glass vial under her nose. Smelling salts, of course. The next
moment, she realized that she was lying on the settee in
front of the fire and that someone was perched beside her
on the edge of the seat.

Lifting her eyes higher, she saw that the person beside her
was an elegantly dressed woman.

“Awake, my dear? You gave my husband a terrible fright.
He was too blunt with you, I fear. That's his way. Well, I declare, he shall do his penance now.”

Charlotte gave her head a shake. A moment passed before
she understood. “Is your husband the colonel?”

“Yes, he is. I am Clara Knightly. And I am so sorry for the
rude welcome you received.” She closed the vial and placed
it in the dainty reticule that hung from her wrist. “Poor
young creature! As if we would thrust you out of doors like
a beggar!”

Charlotte struggled to sit up. She didn't like being called
a poor young creature. “I've never fainted before,” she spluttered, trying to cover her embarrassment.

“Do not fret. Every young lady is entitled to have the vapours now and then. Don't you worry about anything. The
colonel has sent a man to make enquiries of a Quaker woman
who may be able to give you lodging. Nick has mentioned to
us that he has friends among the Quakers. As for tonight, I
have told Colonel Knightly that he must sleep here in the
common room, because you are going to share my bed.”

“Oh, no! I would not presume.”

“I insist. We shall be like sisters. Now, if you are sufficiently recovered, I'll take you upstairs. Your trunk is already
there.” Mrs. Knightly stood up. “My slave Posy is heating
water for your bath. After bathing, you may either dine with
my husband and me or sup from a tray in private. The
choice is yours.”

“Thank you. Then I choose the tray, for I am exceedingly
tired.”

This lady seemed to assume that she could take over
Charlotte's life. But for one night, why not let her? After
three weeks on board the
Blossom
, the idea of a bath was
irresistible. She did have to sleep somewhere. And so she
decided to make no further objection.

Outside, the daylight was fading. A small black boy in
blue livery moved about the room, lighting candle after candle. Soon dozens of lights were reflected in the tiny panes of
window glass.

“Come along, then.” Mrs. Knightly held out her hand. Her
fingers were white and smooth, and on one she wore a sapphire ring. Her gown was as blue as the sapphire. It had deep
flounces at the sides, each flounce trimmed with a ruffle.
Her figure was graceful, her complexion perfect, and she
looked twenty years younger than her husband.

Charlotte took the offered hand and stood up carefully,
not sure how steady on her feet she would be, and followed
her from the room.

They walked side by side up a curving staircase and along
a hall, stopping in front of a gleaming mahogany door. Mrs.
Knightly drew a key from her reticule, and turned it in the
lock.

The door opened, revealing a high bed with red velvet
hangings, a satin coverlet, and snowy white pillows piled at
the head.

Charlotte gasped. Such luxury!

At the sight of those spotless pillows, she reckoned she
knew the real reason why Mrs. Knightly was so keen on her
taking a bath. Who would want to share a bed with a person
who reeked of bilge water?

A copper hipbath stood near the hearth, where a small
fire burned. Steam rose from the bath.

“Posy is likely fetching more water. She will see to your
needs.”

“I don't need help to take a bath.”

“My slave is well trained. You won't find her attentions
offensive.” Mrs. Knightly took a step toward the door. “I'll
give the cook directions for your supper tray. After you've
eaten, no one will disturb you. If you're asleep when I return, I'll be very quiet and try not to waken you.”

When Mrs. Knightly had left the room, Charlotte opened
her trunk and took out the nightgown she had purchased in
Quebec before embarking. It was made of fine white cotton,
with lace at the bodice. She had bought this nightgown with
Nick in mind, dreaming of the honeymoon that they had
never had. Even though Nick was not here, she was glad she
had bought it. A bed with velvet hangings and satin pillows
called for something better than a worn linsey-woolsey
shift.

As Charlotte was unfolding her nightgown, a black woman entered carrying a ewer from which steam rose. She
was tall and graceful, with skin as black as ebony. Around
her slender neck was a brass collar. It was hinged, with a lock
at the back. Instinctively, Charlotte raised her fingers to her
own throat, imagining how it must feel.

Silently the slave woman emptied the water into the tub.
Instead of then leaving the room, she stood by, apparently
expecting to help Charlotte take her bath.

Well, I don't need help taking off my clothes, she thought,
so I might as well get started.

As Charlotte undressed, Posy took each garment from her.
First her gown, then the belt under her gown from which her
pocket hung, and then her petticoat. At first she felt awkward to be taking off her clothes in front of this woman. But
Posy seemed so completely indifferent to her state of undress that Charlotte's embarrassment soon passed.

When she was seated in the tub, Posy advanced on her
with a cake of soap. Mercy! Does she plan to scrub me?
Charlotte thought. But Posy's ministrations were limited to
washing her hair.

After that was done and Posy had carried away every
stitch of the clothes she had been wearing, Charlotte finished washing herself and then remained soaking, enjoying
the warmth of the water. It had been a long time since her
last real bath. Back in the Mohawk Valley, a copper tub like
this one had been set up in front of the kitchen fire every
Saturday night. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Mama
used to say.

When the bath water had cooled, Charlotte climbed out
of the tub, dried herself with the towel that Posy had left for
her, and combed her hair.

She was wearing her nightgown and robe when Posy
brought in the supper tray.

“Thank you,” said Charlotte.

Posy nodded her head but uttered not a word. Can't she
talk? Charlotte wondered. Or has she been trained not to?

On the tray lay a dish of scalloped oysters, a plate of biscuits, and an orange. There was also tea in a silver pot. To
Charlotte, who had never before eaten oysters or an orange,
this meal was delightfully exotic.

After she had eaten and finished getting ready for bed, she
mounted a little step to climb into the deep feather bed. The
combined effect of a warm bath and a good meal left Charlotte feeling much better about her plight. Even though she
was not with Nick, she was ten times nearer to him than if
she had stayed on Carleton Island. Very soon, she was fast
asleep.

In the morning she woke to see Mrs. Knightly's head, its
tresses covered by a ruffled nightcap, resting on the pillow
next to hers.

When Charlotte rose, being careful not to waken Mrs.
Knightly, she found her gown and cloak, well brushed, on a
clothes rack. Her undergarments, washed and ironed, lay
folded on a chair.

“Did Posy take good care of you?” Mrs. Knightly asked while
they breakfasted in the dining room. For breakfast they ate
ham served with biscuits and a strange sort of porridge that
Mrs. Knightly called grits.

“Excellent care. I'm not used to such attention.”

“Colonel Knightly bought Posy for me five years ago. She
was newly arrived from West Africa. He paid fifteen pounds.
I thought it was too much. But Posy has proved to be worth
every penny. I have trained her to arrange my hair.” She
touched her fingers to the artfully twined tresses. “And to
look after my clothes. To my astonishment, I discovered that
she was already a skilled seamstress.”

“Doesn't it trouble you to keep a slave? In Africa, I suppose she was free.”

Mrs. Knightly shook her head. “In Africa she was a slave
to idolatry. But now she is a Christian. And so, in the life to
come, she will be free.”

“I was thinking of this present life.”

“Servitude in this present life is a small price to pay for
eternal happiness.”

Charlotte gulped. It was hard to swallow the idea that
Africans should be grateful to those who carried them off to
a life of slavery. Even though Mrs. Knightly was more than
ten years her elder and also her superior in social rank,
Charlotte spoke up.

“It seems to me that you're working mighty hard to persuade yourself that something wrong is really right.”

Mrs. Knightly flushed. There was a flash of anger in her
eyes.

I shouldn't have said that, Charlotte thought. I'm her
guest, and she's being very kind to me. But is it wrong to
speak the truth, even when it's a truth she doesn't want to
face?

After a silence, Mrs. Knightly said, “I forgive your impertinence. It's understandable that you share your husband's
views. That being the case, you will be comfortable living in
a Quaker household. And I'm happy to tell you that arrangements have been made.”

“Has Colonel Knightly found a place for me to stay?”

“Yes. You will lodge with the Quaker woman I spoke of.
Mrs. Doughty is a young widow with three small children to
support. She is willing to take in a lodger for the few shillings a week it will bring.”

Charlotte hoped that Mrs. Knightly would say that the
colonel had arranged for the payment of those shillings.
When she did not, Charlotte tried to think of a tactful way
to raise the subject, but saw no way to do so without seeming to insult her hostess. Besides, she did not want Mrs.
Knightly to think her a pauper. After all, she still had three
pounds left in her purse. By being frugal, she hoped she
could make them last until Nick's return.

“Who will take me to this woman's house?”

“Posy knows the way. She can take your trunk in a handcart.” Mrs. Knightly pushed her chair back from the table.
“I'll summon her directly.”

Charlotte was waiting in the entrance hall for slaves to bring
down her trunk when the front door opened and Captain
Braemar stepped inside. She smiled, glad to see a familiar
face.

“Good morning,” he said with a bow. “I'm surprised to see
you ready to go out so early. It's fortunate I haven't missed
you.” He reached into the black leather pouch that was
attached to one of his white cross-belts. “I have a letter that
Nick asked me to give you if I succeeded in meeting your
ship. Rather than carry it around with me, I decided to keep
it safe in my closet until you arrived.”

He handed her a folded sheet of paper, closed with a red
seal.

“Oh, thank you.” She clutched the letter.

“I don't wish to detain you,” he said, “and so I take my
leave.”

Charlotte cracked the letter's wax seal as soon as the door
shut. She began to read:

December 6, 1780

My dearest Dear,

If you have this letter in your hands, it means that you have
reached Charleston and that my friend Ralph Braemar met
you. If such be the case, he will have told you the reason for
my absence. Your distress at not finding me waiting can be
no greater than my distress at failing you.

By now you must have learned the news that the Loyalist
army raised and trained by Major Patrick Ferguson was
destroyed in a battle atop a place called Kings Mountain
on the 7th of October. Since then there has been great
persecution of Loyalists, and it is feared that many have
given up. I am being sent to the backcountry to assess
morale and gauge what support for England remains.

Despite continuing strife in the rest of South Carolina, you
are safe in Charleston. With eight thousand British and
Loyalist troops to defend it, the rebels will not dare to attack.
I trust that you will be comfortable in the officers' quarters
and I hope that the pleasant society of others will divert you
until my return.