Freedom Bound (5 page)

IN THE MORNING
Mrs. Doughty went out in search of a wet
nurse, confident that she could find among the Friends a
nursing mother who would want to help.

A heap of laundry was waiting to be done. Charlotte filled
the washtub with hot water and set to work. She felt better
now, her headache gone. The baby was in his cradle in the
kitchen. The front room rug was back in place, hiding the
trap door. Patience, Charity and Joseph were sitting on it,
playing with little spinning toys she had made, one for each
of them, from a button and a string.

Charlotte added her delicate nightgown to the clothes in
the washtub. Her fall into the cellar, landing her on the dirt
floor, had left the fabric embedded with grime. She scrubbed
and scrubbed, although she knew that no matter how hard
she tried, it would never be so fresh and pretty as before. But
the state of a nightgown, she reminded herself, was unimportant when compared with the plight of Phoebe, Jammy,
and the now motherless baby.

She was rinsing the clothes when Mrs. Doughty returned.

“I've found a wet nurse. Her name is Hannah Perkins. She
can't keep the baby in her home, because she has her own
little ones to care for. I would like thee to take him to her
twice every day. Friend Perkins lives on Meeting Street. I'll
give thee directions.”

“Will two feedings be enough?” Charlotte knew enough
about babies to realize that they were hungry nearly all the
time.

“He won't think so,” Mrs. Doughty said wryly. “We'll have
to comfort him with sugar water in between.”

“When shall I take him there?”

“Take him now. I'll finish the laundry. He'll want a feeding
as soon as he wakes.”

Charlotte bent over the cradle and picked up the baby. She
was surprised at his weight. He was much more solid than
he looked, a real flesh-and-blood little person with tawny
skin and a fuzz of black hair.

“What's his name? You never mentioned a name.”

“Noah.”

He woke as she was wrapping him in a shawl, staring up
at her with wide grey eyes. She took a second look.

“His eyes are grey!”

“He has his father's eyes.”

Mr. Morley's eyes.

“Then it's no wonder his presence made Mrs. Morley uncomfortable. If I were Mrs. Morley, I wouldn't like it either.”
Charlotte paused. “What about Phoebe? Those grey eyes
must remind her every single day of what her master did to
her. Frankly, I don't understand how she can love this baby
so much. I don't think I could love a child born as the result
of such a deed.”

“If thee lived Phoebe's life, thee might understand. Her
mother is a field hand at a rice plantation owned by Mrs.
Morley's brother-in-law Paul Vesey, twenty miles up the
Cooper River. Five years ago, when Mrs. Morley was looking
for a bright girl to train up as a house servant, her sister,
Mrs. Vesey, said she could have Phoebe as a birthday present. She was ten years old when Mrs. Morley brought her to
Charleston, a frightened child torn away from everyone she
loved. Phoebe hasn't seen her mother or her brothers and
sisters since. This baby makes up for everything she's lost.”

“She has Jammy.”

“And she loves him, but in a different way. They've been
friends ever since the Morleys brought Phoebe to Charleston. And lately . . . they're more than friends. The Morleys
bought Jammy when he was six years old to be trained as a
stable groom. He slept in the stable. According to Phoebe,
his only friends were horses until she joined the household.
Phoebe tells me they want to spend their lives together. But
then, they're both only fifteen. Who knows what will happen?”

The baby, whose big grey eyes had been fixed on Charlotte's face for several minutes, began to pucker his lips and
suckle at the air.

“Be off with thee,” said Mrs. Doughty. “We've done enough
talking. This little one's hunger can't be denied.”

Friend Perkins was a plump, cheerful woman whose coal-scuttle bonnet was askew and apron far from spotless. She
had two little children clinging to her and a few larger ones
trailing after. There were so many she made Charlotte think
of the old woman who lived in a shoe.

As soon as Friend Perkins saw Noah, she took him into
her arms, gave him a cuddle, and pronounced him a perfect
angel.

“Will thee step inside and have a seat for half an hour
while he feeds?” she asked.

Charlotte, seeing nowhere in the front room to sit down
without displacing a child, decided that this was a good opportunity to go for a walk.

It was a bright, clear morning. She decided to stroll down
to the wharves on the Cooper River to watch the ships until
it was time to pick up Noah.

After Charlotte had finished her walk and taken Noah back
to Stoll's Alley, Mrs. Doughty had another task for her. It was
time to pick up the load of laundry for washing the next day.

“Keep thine ears and eyes open when thee goes about
town,” said Mrs. Doughty. “News travels fast in Charleston.
There may be talk about last night.”

“I'll do my best, for I'd surely like to know what's happened to Jammy and Phoebe.”

It was mid-afternoon. The sky had clouded over since
earlier in the day and a chilly wind was blowing from the
harbour.

The customer's slave woman had the laundry bundle
ready. Handing it over in a businesslike manner, she showed
no inclination to chat.

The laundry bundle was large and awkward to carry. Charlotte's arms and shoulders strained under its weight, and she
could hardly see over it or around it. What a sad sight she
must present, she thought, wearing her shabby gown and
carrying a load of dirty laundry. At least she was unlikely to
meet anyone she knew. That was something to be thankful
for.

Her gown had been a good one once. She had worn it on
the trek north when her family had fled from the Mohawk
Valley, and it had served her for three years in the Loyalist
camp on Carleton Island. Now, its deep blue faded to nondescript grey, it made her look like any poor washerwoman
on her rounds.

And this was a good thing because, if she wanted to listen
for gossip, she must be inconspicuous.

At a street corner, three redcoats stood chatting. Perhaps
they were discussing last night's ruckus in the street. Affecting a weary manner, she approached as closely as she dared
and leaned against a lamppost, as if needing its support.

The soldiers were not talking about slaves or slave catchers.
Their subject was a recent battle fought at a place called
Cowpens.

Cowpens! It sounded like a barnyard, not a battlefield.

Apparently Cowpens was a place in the backcountry
where the rebels had recently defeated an army of British
and Loyalist troops. The three redcoats assured each other
that this was just a minor setback. As they discussed the
battle, it became clear to Charlotte that their conversation
would shed no light upon slave catcher activities last night.
She walked on.

The next place she stopped was in front of a coffee house,
where two periwigged gentlemen in frockcoats stood chatting in the doorway. One sported a dark green coat. The
other's coat was navy blue.

She bent her head to listen.

The gentlemen were criticizing England's policy regarding slaves. It wasn't that either of them supported the revolution. Certainly not! God save the King! But to arm escaped
slaves was dangerous. Who knew when they might turn
upon the very people who set them free?

This conversation sounded promising. She waited and,
sure enough, in a few moments she heard a word she had
been waiting for.

“Jammy.”

Charlotte trudged over to the wall, leaned against it, and
heaved a weary sigh. If the gentlemen noticed her, they
would think she was simply resting for a minute and not
paying attention to them at all.

“The boy's run away three times,” said the gentleman in
green. “He'll hang when they catch him. He overpowered
the slave catcher, knocked him senseless, and ran away
shouting, ‘Phoebe, I'm comin' back for you!' The other slave
catcher was so busy hanging on to the girl that he couldn't
help his partner. But he heard what the boy said.”

The gentleman in the blue coat laughed out loud.
“‘Phoebe, I'm comin' back for you!'” he repeated in a mocking tone. “Noble sentiments . . . for a slave. So when Jammy
returns to rescue the damsel in distress, they'll put a rope
around his neck.”

“Damn shame. I'm sorry for Lewis,” said his companion.
“He told me the boy's a first-rate hand with horses. A good
stable groom is hard to find. But Lewis has to make an
example of him or we'll end up with a full-scale slave revolt.
At least they got back the girl.”

“The Morleys aren't keeping her, though,” said the gentleman in the blue coat. “I met Lewis this morning on his way
to the
Royal Gazette
office to place an advertisement. The
wench will be sold at auction next week.”

“I'm not surprised they've decided to sell her,” said the
other. “Lewis' wife Abby told my wife months ago that the
girl was giving her a lot of trouble. This was even before that
awkward business of the baby. Abby said the girl is too clever
for her own good. A couple of years ago, the Morleys hired
her out to a Quaker woman who taught her to read and
write. That's what spoiled her.”

“Quite right,” said the gentleman in blue. “A slave's no
good once he gets a little learning into his head. Turns him
into a troublemaker. Best thing the Morleys can do with the
girl is sell her.”

“Those Quakers are a serious problem we need to deal
with,” said the gentleman in the green coat. “For all their
peaceful ways, they're a threat to society. If our slaves someday rise up against us, the Quakers will have our blood on
their hands.”

Now Charlotte had some real news. Jammy was a fugitive.
Phoebe had been returned to her owners and was about to
be sold.

Tightening her arms around her bundle, she set off for
Stoll's Alley.

THE HARBOUR WIND
whipped at her back. It had started to
rain, and the muck underfoot was slippery. Peering around
the edge of her bundle, she looked for solid footing where
there was none. She just hoped she could get back to Stoll's
Alley without taking a tumble.

It was not to be. Stepping around a pile of horse manure,
she skidded and landed on her backside. For a moment she
simply sat there, the bundle still in her arms. Well, she
thought, it's a good thing I'm carrying dirty laundry instead
of clean.

A stout man wearing a tricorn hat walked by, looking away
in an obvious pretence that he did not see her. Charlotte was
still sitting on the muddy roadway when she noticed someone coming from across the street. He stopped in front of
her.

“Allow me to help you.”

He spoke with a Mohawk Valley accent, not the drawn-out South Carolina drawl. Charlotte recognized more than
just the accent. She knew the voice. Looking up, she saw a
red coat with white cross belts, and above the coat the familiar face of her friend Elijah Cobman, formerly of the King's
Royal Regiment of New York, the Royal Greens.

Their eyes met. His jaw dropped.

“Charlotte!”

“Oh, Elijah!” She felt as overwhelmed as if her guardian
angel had appeared before her, totally forgetting that she did
not want to encounter anyone she knew. But Elijah was different—a friend with whom she had shared danger and
hardship.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don't think so.”

He held out his hand to help her.

“Please. Just take the bundle. Then I can get up on my
own.”

He took it from her and held it while she struggled to her
feet. The bundle was only slightly splashed with muck; Charlotte's gown was a mess.

Elijah stared at her in a dazed sort of way. “What are you
doing here? When I saw you on Carleton Island three months
ago, you never breathed a word about going to Charleston,
even when I told you the army might send me back down
south.”

“Three months ago, I hadn't the least idea. I got a letter
from Nick just a few days after you left. In his letter Nick told
me he was no longer a courier. He said Southern Command
had transferred him to a different department and given him
a room in the officers' quarters. So he wanted me to come to
Charleston to join him.”

“That sounds mighty fine.”

“It would have been mighty fine, except they cancelled his
transfer. I didn't know a thing about it until I arrived in
Charleston and was told he'd been sent on a mission to the
backcountry. So I'm here, but Nick is not.”

Elijah gave a sympathetic smile. “When I first met you,
you were waiting for Nick to find you, and now you're waiting for him again. There always seems to be something keeping you two apart.”

He watched while she twisted and tugged at her clothing,
trying to see how dirty it was at the back.

“I can carry your bundle for you, wherever you're going.”

“Thank you. I'd appreciate that, if you don't mind being
seen with me.”

“Not at all. This reminds me of how we met. Remember
Canajoharie? You were peering into our kitchen window,
mud all over the back of your gown, just like now.”

“Same gown,” she laughed. “Different mud.”

“You were looking for a place where your family could
hide after the Sons of Liberty ran you off your farm. I thought
you were a rebel spy.”

“You came up behind me with a pitchfork and steered me
to the front door. Your mother took one look and said,
‘That's the dirtiest spy I ever seen.'”

He laughed. “You have a talent for landing in mud.”

“And you have a talent for rescuing me.”

“What's the reason this time? What are you doing, walking around in the rain, carrying that big bundle?”

“The bundle is dirty clothes, and I'm taking it to the place
where I lodge, the home of a Quaker woman who takes in
laundry.”

“Didn't you just say that Nick had a room in the officers'
quarters?”

“He did. But when Southern Command cancelled his
transfer, they gave his room to somebody else. Since they
couldn't throw me out on the street, they arranged for me to
lodge with Mrs. Doughty.”

“So you're living with Quakers. That's quite a change.”

“I liked the idea because I thought it would be peaceful
and quiet.”

“Isn't it?”

“Not at all. As I soon discovered, Mrs. Doughty had a
runaway slave girl with a baby hiding in the cellar. I didn't
know this until slave catchers invaded the house.”

Charlotte paused, wondering if she should tell Elijah the
details of Phoebe's plight. But, no. It was unnecessary.

“Go on,” he said.

“The slave catchers captured the girl but left the baby. So
now we have a baby to take care of.”

They reached Stoll's Alley and stopped at Mrs. Doughty's
door.

“Would you like to come in,” Charlotte asked, “and meet
Mrs. Doughty?”

“I wish I could. But I'm due back at barracks.” A shadow
passed over his face. “I very much want to talk with you.”

“I'd like that. Then you can tell me everything that's happened to you since the army sent you back down south.”

“Maybe tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow will be fine. But there's no rush, is there? If
you're attached to the garrison, you'll be in Charleston for a
while.” She pressed the door latch.

“I think not.” He frowned. “Look. There hasn't been anybody here I can talk to. But I can talk to you. I can talk to you
about anything.”

“Are you in trouble?”

They looked directly into each other's eyes, and then he
turned away.

“No. Not yet. I mean . . .” He spoke in a rush. “Oh, I don't
know what I mean. That is . . . ever since the Battle of Kings
Mountain. So many died there.”

“Come tomorrow. I have errands in the morning and
afternoon. But I'm here around noon.”

“Noon, then.” He passed the laundry bundle into her
arms.

Maybe he isn't in trouble, she thought as she watched him
turn and walk away, but something heavy weighs upon his
mind.

She opened the door and stepped inside. There was such
a lot to tell Mrs. Doughty! All about Phoebe and Jammy . . .
and about Elijah, too.