Chains (16 page)

I did not answer him but forced my knees to hold me up.
The wood locked around my neck was rough and splintering. My hands were soon without sensation, my neck and arms pricked a hundredfold by pitchforks. Two men were housed in the iron cage next to City Hall. One lay on the ground, asleep or dead. The second, his skin burned by the sun and peeling and missing his left ear, stared back at me blankly.

A court official, his coat covered with yellow dust, arrived with a man who wore a leather apron. He set to work pumping a hand-bellows to increase the heat under the branding irons. The bellows wheezed in and out while the sun rose higher in the sky.

It had rained in the night. The mud puddles scattered around the yard gave off steam like cauldrons coming to boil.

Sweat rolled off my face and fell in great drops to the dirt below. The wind shifted and blew the smoke from the brazier into our faces. I held my breath. In betwixt me and the brazier, dandelions grew in the mud.

The man in the dusty coat pulled one of the branding irons out of the fire. He brought it close to his face and spit on it. The iron sizzled. My companion coughed and cursed the court officials and the judge who had sentenced him.

A crowd had gathered a few lengths on the other side of the brazier, mostly soldiers and tradesmen, with a few women, one carrying a babe in her arms. I thought I saw a boy in a red hat, but when I blinked, he was gone. Men at the front of the crowd called us names and jeered. The sunburned man in the cage yelled back, and soon the courtyard was filled with shouts and filthy language, the kinds of words my mother never wanted me to say or hear. I fought against tears and lost; they fell to the dust in big drops too. If I cried a river, maybe I could swim away, or slip under the water to freedom.

The man in the dusty coat said something to the man in the leather apron. I could not hear him because of the noise of the crowd and the crackling coals and the beat of my heart in my ears. The men walked toward me. The dandelions were lemon yellow with bright green leaves and thick stalks pointing at the sky.

At home in Rhode Island, the corn was tall as Ruth now. The spring lambs would be too heavy to pick up. The new goat, he'd be running headfirst into every fence post. This was a good day to bleach the wool.

The man with the leather apron pinned my head against the wood. He stank of charcoal. I tried to pull away, but my hands and head were locked fast. The splinters chewed on me. Dandelions grew in the mud.

The glowing iron streaked in front of my face like a comet.

The crowd roared.

The man pushed the hot metal against my cheek. It hissed and bubbled. Smoke curled under my nose.

They cooked me.

The man stepped back and pulled the iron away. The fire in my face burned on and on, deep through my flesh, searing my soul. Stars exploded out the top of my head and all of my words and all of my rememberies followed them up to the sun, burning to ash that floated back and settled in the mud.

A few people at the edge of the crowd had fallen silent. They walked away with their heads down.

My momma and poppa appeared from the shadows. They flew to me and wrapped their arms around me and cooled my face with their ghost tears.

Night crept into my soul.

THE TIME IS NOW NEAR AT HAND WHICH MUST PROBABLY DETERMINE, WHETHER AMERICANS ARE TO BE, FREEMEN, OR SLAVES; … THE FATE OF UNBORN MILLIONS WILL NOW DEPEND, UNDER GOD, ON THE COURAGE AND CONDUCT OF THIS ARMY…. WE HAVE THEREFORE TO RESOLVE TO CONQUER OR DIE. –MESSAGE ISSUED TO CONTINENTAL TROOPS FROM NEW YORK MILITARY HEADQUARTERS, JULY 1776

The spark kindled on my cheek flared and spread through my entire body. First my eyes, then hair, then down my limbs, until even my toes and fingers felt they were aflame.

Strange scenes swam before me, first in light, then darkness, then light again. I saw Poppa, but no, not truly him; another son of Africa, brow furrowed, his voice deep and strong as a church bell. Momma hovered over me, but her face faded into a woman I did not know, older than Momma, with strands of white in her hair. She talked Jamaica, more song than words, and brought bitter tea to my mouth and made the world smell of lemons and told me to sleep. I asked about Ruth over and over again and tried
to apologize for letting her get stole, but the words were sawdust in my mouth.

Curzon's face floated up in front of me. He told me to shake my lazy bones and get out of bed. He did not turn into a dead person from when I was little. This was a strange comfort.

I blinked and he was gone.

The room was dark again, with starlight in the windows and the sounds of a baby crying, and farther away, the barking of a lonely dog.

Strangest of all was the hive of bees that had taken up residence inside of me. They swarmed under my skin and gave off peculiar vibrations. The buzzing echoed in my brainpan and crowded out my thoughts.

The fire in me burned on and on.

I woke.

I did not know where I was.

This was not Rhode Island, or the hold of a ship, or the Locktons' cellar or any other room in their house. It certainly was not the dungeon under City Hall.

Was this a dream? Had I passed over to the land of the dead? Did ghosts sleep on clean sheets that smelled of mint?

I sat up. The room was warm and quite small but entirely free of dirt, vermin, and mice. The walls were freshly whitewashed and the floor polished. Lace curtains fluttered in the window. Through it I saw the tops of trees. This was an attic room, then. The bed was softer than anything I had ever lain in, properly made up with linens, two pillows, and a coverlet of deep blue. A chair was positioned next to the bed, and a chamber pot, empty, rested under that.

I tried to stand, but the room spun around me and I
plopped back down. I was wearing my shift, still stained with blood at the neckline, but my skirt, stockings, and bodice were not to be seen. Or my shoes. I closed my eyes tight, then opened them again. Same room. Still no shoes.

The door opened and in stepped the funny-talking Dutch maid of Lady Seymour. Her eyes flew open wide, then she slammed the door shut and ran away. A moment later, the door opened again and in walked the Lady herself.

“Ah,” she said with faint surprise. “You've come back to us.” She poured water from the jug into a mug, handed it to me, and sat on the chair.

I drank down a gulp. My lips were dried and cracked. When I swallowed, it caused my burned cheek to ache. My fingers flew up to check the wound. There was a cloth stuck to my face, with ointment oozing out from the edges.

Lady Seymour leaned forward and gently removed my hand. “Best not to touch it yet,” she said. “The healer woman put a comfrey salve on it to draw out the pestilence.”

“Beg pardon, ma'am,” I croaked. My voice was raspy with lack of use. “But where am I? And why?”

She glanced out the window before she spoke, her mouth set in a grim line. “How best to say this?” she began.

I waited, not sure how to answer.

“You have lain here, near insensible, for six days.”

“Six?”

“Do you remember what happened?”

The bees threatened to overtake my mind again, their wings beating quickly. I took another drink of water. “I remember some. The rest is a jumble, ma'am.”

“You tried to run away and were beaten in the attempt. You passed two days under City Hall and emerged gravely ill with fever and heaven knows what else. After your trial,
you were branded. I was not aware of these events until after they occurred. Your friend with the red hat came to the door with the news that you were near-dead in the stocks. After consulting with Anne, I arranged to have you transported here.”

She looked directly at me. “I further questioned Anne and discovered her version of the events. I find the buying and selling of children most repugnant. Your reaction to the news of your sister, while unfortunate, was understandable, in my view.”

Ruth, Ruth, Ruth,
buzzed the bees. I blinked back tears. “Do you know who bought my sister, ma'am?”

“I have so far failed to uncover that fact.” She stood up and walked to the window. “My nephew's wife is stubborn as well as intemperate.”

I clutched at the bedcovers.
I will find her.

She pulled the lace curtain aside and studied something passing in the street below.

I thought through what she said and found a slim thread of hope to grasp hold of. “Begging pardon again, ma'am, but do I work for you now?”

She let the curtain fall. “I am afraid not. Anne insists that you be returned to her household as soon as you are able. The law supports her position, I fear, and in these unsettled times, there is little remedy.”

A wave of weariness crashed over me at the thought of serving Madam again, of allowing her to see her mark upon my face every day.

“I expect you'd like to bathe,” Lady Seymour said. “Angelika is preparing the water for you as we speak. You'll find the rest of your clothes in the kitchen.” She paused in the doorway. “You miss your parents terribly, don't you?”

“Pardon, ma'am?”

“While you lay in the fever, you spoke of them with great affection, as if they were in the room with us.” She hesitated for a moment, then picked up her skirts. “No matter. I will escort you back to Anne's once you've bathed and eaten.”

Angelika took the trouble to make the tub full and the water warm and sweet-smelling. I thanked her and she gave me a little smile. She said something in the Dutch speech, which I did not understand. We must have looked two fools, me speaking English, her talking Dutch, both nodding our heads and wishing we had the right words.

My clothes had been washed and ironed, my shoes wiped clean of mud and muck. Even better was the meal of fried eggs, toasted bread, and a fruit compote of pears and apples topped with strawberries and cream. When Angelika set the food in front of me, her eyes went to the fresh scar on my face, rinsed clean of salve and patted dry. She winced at the sight.

As I wiped up the last of my egg with the bread, Lady Seymour entered, followed by her cat. She had changed into a peach-colored crinoline gown and was pulling on lace gloves.

“It is time,” she said.

I walked two steps behind her, carrying a basket of daisies and a heart filled with dread. When we arrived at the Locktons' she walked up the front steps without ever looking back at me. She paused before she lifted the door knocker.

“Go on,” she said.

I opened the side gate to the garden, entered, and closed it behind me. I heard the knocker booming under Lady Seymour's hand as I walked, slowly, to the back door.

OUR SLAVES, SIR, COST US MONEY, AND WE BUY
THEM TO MAKE MONEY BY THEIR LABOUR. IF THEY ARE
SICK, THEY ARE NOT ONLY UNPROFITABLE, BUT EXPENSIVE.
—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, THE
GAZETTEER AND
NEW DAILY ADVERTISER

Melancholy held me hostage, and the bees built a hive of sadness in my soul. Dark honey filled up inside me, drowning my thoughts and making it hard to move my eyes and hands. I worked as a puppet trained to scrub and carry, curtsy and nod.

Madam would not look at me. When she had an order to give, it went through Becky, even if we all stood in the same room.

“Tell the girl the hearth needs sweeping.”

“Sal,” Becky would say, “please sweep the hearth.”

“Tell the girl to fetch my fan.”

“Sal,” Becky would say, “please fetch Madam's ivory fan.”

“The library needs dusting. Tell the girl.”

“Sal—”

I swept the hearth and fetched the fan. I dusted the library without looking at the books on the shelves or the horse on
the wall. I preferred the chores that took me out of the kitchen, for it was there the bees tricked me into seeing Ruth's ghost playing on the floor, churning butter, or counting out kernels of corn. When her voice whispered to me, I caught fire again, from my toes to my face, and I burned slow, like damp wood.

Becky watched me careful when I turned inside myself like that. She once tried to apologize for what happened. The instant she stopped talking, I forgot what she said.

“Tell the girl there are bedbugs in my chamber.”

“Tell the girl to wash the steps.”

Curzon came around day after day and talked to me through the boards of the fence.

I did not answer him.

July marched out and August sailed in on a suffocating tide.

British ships continued to land at Staten Island, hundreds of them carrying thousands of soldiers armed with countless guns and bullets. We went two weeks without rain. There were outbreaks of camp fever, smallpox, and dysentery amongst the rebel troops. They turned King's College into a hospital to care for thousands of sick men.

I prayed that Colonel Regan was there. I prayed he would fall ill and die a terrible death for lying to me and betraying me and letting them break my body. Whenever I heard the words “liberty” or “freedom,” I wanted to spit in the dust.

The air was steeped in evil during those muggy, pestilent days.

“Tell the girl to sweep the cellar.”

When I swept it I found the cobwebs I had saved for Ruth. I threw them into the kitchen fire, along with the mouse carcasses and rotted potatoes.

“Tell the girl the milk has soured.”

'Twas left in the sun on purpose.

The British finally made a move toward the end of August, rowing half their army across to the Long Island in flat-bottomed boats. Becky convinced Madam to send me to market on my own again because she was afraid to go, what with battle due to break out any minute.

Madam agreed. She said my mark would ensure I stayed out of trouble.

As commanded, I purchased two packets of straight pins, a piece of lace, and a basket of turnip greens. The shopkeepers and other folks looked at my face and saw only the angry red scar, just starting to fade at the edges. They did not see the girl hidden behind it.