Chains (3 page)

His missus sipped Jenny's chowder, shuddered at the taste, and reached for her mug of small beer. She stole glances at us from time to time. I could not figure what kind of mistress she would be. In truth, I was struggling to think straight. The air in the tavern had grown heavy, and the weight of the day pressed against my head.

When the men took out their pipes and lit their tobacco,
Ruth sneezed, and the company all turned and considered us.

“Well, then,” Lockton said, pushing back from the table to give his belly some room. “The wife is looking for a serving wench.”

Missus Lockton crooked a finger at us. “Come here, girls.”

I took Ruth by the hand and stepped within reach. Missus Lockton studied our hands and arms, looked at our feet, and made us take off our kerchiefs to look in our hair for nits.

“Can you cook?” she finally asked me.

“Not much, ma'am,” I admitted.

“Just as well,” she said. “I don't need another cook. What do you do?”

I put my arm around Ruth. “We can scrub your house clean, care for cows and pigs, work your garden, and carry just about anything.”

“My aunt trained them up herself,” Mr. Robert added. “And they come with blankets and shoes.”

Lockton sighed. “Why not wait, Anne, and procure another indentured girl in New York?”

His wife sat back as Jenny arrived with coffee. “Indentured servants complain all the time and steal us blind at the first opportunity. I'll never hire another.”

Jenny set the tray on the table so hard the cups rattled in their saucers.

Lockton reached for a plate of apple pie. “Are you sure we need two? These are uncertain times, dear.”

Missus regarded Ruth. “This one looks simple. Is she addlepated?”

Ruth gave a shy smile.

I spoke before Mr. Robert could open his mouth. “She's
a good simple, ma'am. Does what she's told. In truth, she's a harder worker than me. Give her a broom and tell her to sweep, and you'll be able to eat off your floor.”

Jenny poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of the missus, spilling a little on the table.

“She's prettier than you,” Missus said. “And she knows how to hold her tongue.” She turned to her husband. “The little one might be an amusement in the parlor. The big one could help Becky with the firewood and housekeeping.”

Jenny pressed her lips tight together and poured coffee for Lockton and for Mr. Robert.

Missus bent close to Ruth's face. “I do not brook foolishness,” she said.

Ruth shook her head from side to side. “No foolin',” she said.

The missus cocked her head to one side and stared at me. “And you. You are to address me as Madam. I expect obedience at all times. Insolence will not be tolerated, not one bit. And you will curb your tendency to talk.”

“Yes, ma'am, M-Madam,” I stuttered.

“What say you, Anne?” Lockton said. “We sail with the tide.”

“I want these girls, husband,” Madam said. “It is Providence that put them in our path.”

“How much do you want for them?” Lockton asked.

Mr. Robert named his price. Our price. Two for one, us being sold like bolts of faded cloth or chipped porridge bowls.

“Wait,” Jenny announced loudly. “I'll … I'll take them.”

The table froze. A person like Jenny did not speak to folks like the Locktons or Mr. Robert, not in that manner.
Lockton stared at her as if she had grown a second head. “I beg your pardon.”

Jenny set the kettle on the table, stood straight, and wiped her palms on her skirt. “I want them two girls. I need the help. We'll pay cash.”

“Keep to your kitchen, woman.” Madam Lockton's words came out sharp and loud.

Did she change her mind? Will she really take us?

Work in the tavern wouldn't be bad, maybe, and Jenny would be kind to Ruth. I could ask around about Lawyer Cornell's papers. When we found Miss Mary's will, I'd work extra to pay Jenny back for the money we cost her, fair and square. Ruth and me would stay together, and we'd stay here, close to Momma.

Please, God, please, God.

“Leave us,” Lockton said to Jenny. “And send your husband over.”

Jenny ignored him. “It'll take us a couple of days to get your money together,” she said to Mr. Robert. “We'll give you free lodging in the meantime.”

Mr. Robert's eyes darted between the two bidders. Ruth yawned. I crossed my fingers behind my back.
Please, God, please, God, please, God, please.

Madam Lockton flicked crumbs to the floor with her handkerchief. “Dear husband,” she said. “These girls are a bargain at double the price. With your permission, might we increase our offer twofold?”

Lockton picked at his teeth. “As long as we can conclude this business quickly.”

Madam stared at Jenny. “Can you top the offer?”

Jenny wiped her hands on her apron, silent.

“Well?” Madam Lockton demanded.

Jenny shook her head. “I cannot pay more.” She bobbed a little curtsy. “My husband will tally your account.” She hurried for the kitchen door.

Mr. Robert chuckled and reached for his pie. “Well, then. We had a little auction here, after all.”

“Such impudence is disturbing,” Lockton said. “This is why we need the King's soldiers to return.” He pulled out a small sack and counted out the coins to pay for us. “I thank you, sir, for the meal and the transaction. You may deliver the girls to the
Hartshorn,
if you please. Come now, Anne.”

Madam Lockton stood and the men stood with her. “Good day to you, sir.”

“Safe voyage, ma'am,” Mr. Robert replied.

As the Locktons made their way through the crowded room, Mr. Robert dropped the heavy coins into a worn velvet bag. The thudding sound they made as they fell to the bottom reminded me of clods of dirt raining down on a fresh coffin.

Ruth put her arm around my waist and leaned against me.

WHAT A FINE AFFAIR IT WOULD BE IF WE COULD FLIT ACROSS THE ATLANTIC AS THEY SAY THE ANGELS DO FROM PLANET TO PLANET. –LETTER FROM JOHN ADAMS TO HIS WIFE, ABIGAIL

It took two nights and two days for the
Hartshorn
to sail from Newport to the city of New York. Ruth and me were housed below the packet-boat's deck with six sheep, a pen of hogs, three families from Scotland, and fifty casks of dried cod. At the far end of the hold were crates of goods stamped LOCKTON & FOOTE and casks of rum with the same marking.

I spent most of the voyage bent double over a puke bucket, bringing up every scrap of food and swallow of brackish water I choked down. Ruth stood on a box looking out of a porthole, counting seagulls and waves in a whisper that could barely be heard over the creaking of the hull.

The seas calmed late on the second night, and I was able to walk a bit. Ruth was sound asleep in our hammock, thumb in her mouth. The hatchway to the deck was open and tempting. I climbed up the ladder slowly. The few sailors on watch saw me but didn't say a word.

The fat moon lit the water like a lantern over a looking glass. A clean, cold breeze blew from the north, pushing the ship so fast across the sea we seemed to fly. I sat on a crate facing the back end of the ship and hugged my knees to my chest. A mist of salty spray hung in the air.

The coastline of Rhode Island had long disappeared into darkness. I could not see where we came from or where we were going. Maybe the ship would spring a leak and sink. Maybe we would be blown off course and land in a country without New York or people who bought and sold children.

Maybe the wind would blow us in circles until the end of our days.

I wiped the mist from my face.

Momma said that ghosts couldn't move over water. That's why kidnapped Africans got trapped in the Americas. When Poppa was stolen from Guinea, he said the ancestors howled and raged and sent a thunderstorm to turn the ship back around, but it was too late. The ghosts couldn't cross the water to help him so he had to make his own way in a strange place, sometimes with an iron collar around his neck. All of Momma's people had been stolen too, and taken to Jamaica where she was born. Then she got sold to Rhode Island, and the ghosts of her parents couldn't follow and protect her neither.

They kept moving us over the water, stealing us away from our ghosts and our ancestors, who cried salty rivers into the sand. That's where Momma was now, wailing at the water's edge, while her girls were pulled out of sight under white sails that cracked in the wind.

THE INHABITANTS [OF NEW YORK] ARE IN GENERAL BRISK AND LIVELY…. IT RATHER HURTS THE EUROPEAN EYE TO SEE SO MANY SLAVES UPON THE STREETS…. THERE ARE COMPUTED BETWEEN TWENTY-SIX AND THIRTY THOUSAND INHABITANTS… THE SLAVES MAKES AT LEAST A FIFTH PART OF THE NUMBER. –LETTER WRITTEN BY PATRICK M'ROBERT, A SCOTSMAN VISITING NEW YORK

The Hartshorn docked in New York the next morning, just after a sailor brought down some old biscuits for our breakfast. I picked out the worms and tossed them through the porthole, then gave the biscuits to Ruth.

Madam Lockton's voice rose above the shouting sailors. “Bring those girls up,” she said.

A fellow missing most of his teeth stuck his head down the hatchway and waved us over to the ladder. We climbed up, shading our eyes against the bright light of day. Men of all types and colors swarmed the deck, carrying casks and chests down the gangplank, scurrying up the rigging to tend to the sails, unloading gear, loading gear, and making me feel very small and in the way.

Ruth stood at my side and stared so hard, her thumb fell out of her mouth.

The ship was tied up at a long dock, one of many that jutted into the river. The sun sparkled off the water so strong I had to shade my eyes. Tall houses of brick and stone faced us, with rows upon rows of windows looking down at the street. They reached higher than the oldest trees back home. There were smaller buildings, too, all crowded shoulder to shoulder, with no room for a feather to pass betwixt them.

We had arrived soon after a heavy rain. Soldiers splashed through the glittering puddles, toting wood, emptying wagons, carrying buckets hither and fro, and standing about on corners conversating with each other. Some wore uniforms and carried long muskets. Others, in homespun clothes, dragged fence posts to a barricade.

There were ordinary people, too; maids with baskets over their arms moving into and out of the shops and cart men pushing their barrows over the cobblestones, calling out to each other and yelling at the dogs in their way. The working people were dressed muchly as we did out in the country, but there were a few gentry who stuck out of the crowd like peacocks wandering in the chicken pen. Some of the working folk were black. In truth, I had never seen so many of us in one place, not even at burials.

A wagon drawn by two thick-necked horses stopped just beyond the end of the dock. Not far behind it came a beautiful carriage drawn by two pale gold stallions and driven by a stout man in livery with a three-cornered hat on his head. He clucked to the horses to walk on until he stopped behind the first wagon.

The toothless sailor approached us again and pointed down to the dock where the crates and casks stamped LOCKTON & FOOTE were being stacked. “That's where you belong. Don't wander off or one of them soldiers will shoot you dead.”

He laughed as he walked down the swaying plank. We followed with tiny steps, Ruth's hand in mine. As I stepped onto the solid dock, I stumbled.

“There you are!” exclaimed Madam Lockton, coming around the stack of crates. “Be careful with that,” she said to two deckhands carrying a fine walnut chest. “That goes on the back of the carriage, not to the warehouse.”

The men nodded and carried the chest toward the beautiful carriage with the golden horses at the end of the dock.

“Pretty horses,” Ruth said.

A soldier at the end of the dock picked up his musket and stopped the two men carrying the walnut chest. There was a brief argument, then the sailors returned, still carrying their burden.

“What is this?” Madam asked as they set the chest at her feet. “I told you to put that on the carriage.”

“Beggin' your pardon, ma'am,” the sailor said, “but them fellas say all cargo has to be inspected at the wharf before it enters the city. Order of some committee what's in charge here.”

“Inspected?” She lifted her chin. “Those are my personal belongings. They will not be inspected by anyone. I do not permit it.”

Master Lockton had been half following the turn of events while supervising the unloading. As his wife's voice rose, he hurried to join her.

“Now dear,” he said. “I told you there would be some inconveniences. We must be accommodating. Look, there's Charles. He'll straighten this out.”

A second wagon had pulled up next to the first. A round, short man rolled off it and bustled up to the Locktons.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the round man. “You shouldn't have come back.”

“Lower your voice, Charles,” Lockton said. “Where are the men I instructed you to bring?”

The round man pulled a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and wiped his face. “Washington's men took them all to work on the blasted fortifications. Oh, double-blast. Look there: Bellingham.”

An official-looking man in a somber black coat had stepped out of a building across the street and was striding toward our little group, walking stick in hand. He was followed by a thin fellow carrying a book near as big as Ruth. Behind him walked a slave boy about my height, whose arms were weighted down with a wooden contraption and a small case with a rope handle. The boy wore a floppy red hat, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the blue breeches of a sailor, and a pair of dusty boots.