Chains (5 page)

A breeze ran through the courtyard, fluttering the leaves of the young pea plants and blowing cool across my cheek where Madam struck me. “She needs watching over.”

He nodded. “How long have you been with the Locktons?”

“Three days.”

Curzon listened carefully as I told how Madam and her husband bought us. “Lockton is a dirty Loyalist,” he said when I finished.

“Loyalist or rebel, I don't care.” I stood up from the stump and brushed the back of my skirt clean. “Can we go?”

He nodded, picked up his package, and led me out of the alley. “You feel beholden to Lockton?”

“Pardon?”

“He's going to feed you and your sister, give you a place to sleep. He can order you sold, beat, or hung, if the mood takes him. That could make a person feel a kind of loyalty.”

I stopped, considering this. “Someday I'll find that lawyer and Miss Mary's will and that'll free us. Until then, we need to eat, work, and stay together. So yes, I guess I'm loyal to Lockton.”

The words tasted bitter. Being loyal to the one who owned me gave me prickly thoughts, like burrs trapped in my shift, pressing into my skin with every step.

We paused at a corner while a soldier drove a cart filled with barrels down the street. After we crossed, Curzon spoke so quiet I had to lean in to catch his words. “You might be better served if you placed your loyalty with us.”

“Who is ‘us'?”

“My master and those he serves, the rebels, the Congress. We're fighting for freedom from people like Lockton.”

“I'm just fighting for me and Ruth. You can keep your rebellion. How much longer till this pump?”

He stopped beside a barricade. The brim of his hat cast his face in shadow. “You might hear things. At the Lockton house.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Useful things. Things that might help you get to that lawyer and your freedom.”

I frowned. “I don't like riddles. Talk plain.”

“New York is a ball tossed between the Loyalists and
Patriots,” he said, scratching at the scar on his face. “Right now the Patriots hold it.”

“So?”

“Lockton has returned to hurt our cause.”

“Why don't they arrest him?”

“It's not that simple. Plenty of folks hereabouts haven't decided which side they favor. One day they cheer General Washington, the next day they toast the King. Putting Lockton in jail could turn them against us.”

He started walking again, nattering on and on about plots and conspiracies and battle plans and secrets, but truth be told, my mind drifted. I cared not a fig for politics nor soldiers. I was worried about my sister, and my cheek still hurt.

“Will you help us or not?”

He stared at me intent as I tried to figure his meaning. It slowly dawned.

“You want me to be a spy?” I asked. “Are you funny in the head? Do you know what they would do to me?”

“Shhh,” he warned. “Keep your voice down. You just have to listen and alert me if you hear anything important. You won't be in any danger.”

“You are a crazy fool. How do you know I won't tell Master Lockton you sought me out?”

“Wouldn't matter if you did. He knows he's under suspicion. Might do you some good, bring you favor in his eyes if you told him. But it would be a mistake. Lockton won't reward you. The Patriots can.”

“Reward?”

“Colonel Regan is the officer in charge. He could send you back to Rhode Island, maybe, help you find that lawyer and his papers.”

I pondered this. Was he lying? Could I trust this strange boy, filled with war and secrets? What would Momma do?

I shook my head. “It's too dangerous. I'll have enough to do with chores and watching Ruth and keeping out of Madam's way.”

“All you have to do is to listen for talk of the King's troops.”

“See, there you go again, proving you're a fool. They won't say anything in front of me.”

“You are a small black girl, Country,” he said bitterly. “You are a slave, not a person. They'll say things in front of you they won't say in front of the white servants. 'Cause you don't count to them. It happens all the time to me.”

There was truth in his words, hard truth, a hammer striking stone.

“If you hear something, come to Bellingham's house in the night, across from where your ship docked this morning. I sleep in the shed room. Tap on the window and I'll awake.”

I touched my cheek. I couldn't. I shouldn't.

“I can't,” I said. “I promised Momma I would take care of Ruth. Now can we please go?”

I HIRED A GIRL TO CLEAN [THE HOUSE], IT HAD A CART LOAD OF DIRT IN IT … ONE OF THE CHAMBERS WAS USED TO KEEP POULTRY IN, AN OTHER SEA COAL, AND AN OTHER SALT. YOU MAY CONCEIVE HOW IT LOOK'D. THE HOUSE IS SO EXCEEDING DAMP BEING SHUT UP, THAT THE FLOORS ARE MILDEWD, THE SEALING FALLING DOWN, AND THE PAPER MOULDY AND FALLING FROM THE WALLS. –LETTER FROM ABIGAIL ADAMS TO HER HUSBAND, JOHN

It was near a mile from the Tea Water Pump back down the island to the Lockton house, a long journey carrying heavy buckets that stretched my arms into sore ribbons.

I forgot the pain when Curzon stopped, pointed, and said, “There 'tis.”

The house was made of blocks of cream-colored stone and was wider from side to side than Jenny's tavern. I tilted my head up and counted: four floors, each with big windows facing the street. There were balcony railings on the roof. There were even windows peeking out at foot-level, cellar windows, which meant five stories in one house.

A curtain moved.

“Make haste,” Curzon said. “If you value your life, don't use the front door.”

The sun caught the ring in his ear and blazed as he tipped his hat to me.

I hurried through the side gate. The mansion was twice as long as it was wide. A large plot stretched behind it with a cistern, a privy, a poor excuse for a garden, and at the far end, a carriage house and small stable.

“You there!”

I turned around. A tiny woman wearing a green calico skirt, a nut-brown bodice, and a dingy shift stood in the open door to the kitchen. She tossed a pan of dirty water onto the flagstones and pushed a strand of graying hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand.

“What's your business here?” she demanded.

“I'm Isabel. I'm the … Master Lockton brought us from Newport.”

The anger drained out of her face. “You're the new girl gone for the water. Lord help us. Did you get lost?”

“I don't think so. Curzon—”

“Funny little boy, ring in his ear?” She shook her head. “That's Bellingham's boy. You stay away from him. Bring in that water. We've a world of work to do.”

Her name was Becky Berry, “… though it'll be mud if I don't pull this house together in a flash,” she said as she poured the fresh water into a pot and swung it over the kitchen fire. She barely stopped talking long enough to draw a breath. “Eight months! They vanish to Boston for eight months and then show up with no warning and wanting tea. Tea! I could get tarred and feathered for brewing tea,” she muttered.

She turned around. Her face marked her as being of middle years, dotted with freckles and pox scars. Her chin was narrow and pointed like a shovel, and her smile was missing several teeth. “The rules here is simple: do what Madam says. You know where the Tea Water Pump is; you'll go up there every day. You'll go with me to market
when I need you to. Don't go north of Chambers Street, or wandering off past Mulberry, less Madam writes you a pass. You don't want folks thinking you're trying to run. That don't work here. You been a housemaid before?”

I shook my head. “We lived on a farm. Pardon me, ma'am, Miss Becky, but can you tell me where my sister is?”

“Your what?” Her eyebrows went up. “Ooohhh … that little girl.”

I nodded. “Ruth.”

“She's slow, ain't she?”

I didn't dare explain until I figured what kind of person Becky was. “She's good-natured.”

Becky walked into a pantry crowded with shelves of crockery. “Not going to cause me trouble?”

“Never,” I lied. “Where is she, please, ma'am?”

Becky came out carrying a tarnished silver teapot and a stack of china cups and plates.

“Madam Lockton told me to give the little one a bath and feed her.” She went back to the pantry and shouted a little so I could hear her. “She's in the privy. Your sister, I mean, not the madam.”

I let out a long breath and stepped toward the door.

Becky came back carrying a small chest. “Where do you think you're going?”

“To fetch Ruth.”

“Oh, no, you are not,” Becky said. “Madam wants her outside peeling potatoes. You're to work in here.”

“But …”

Through the window, I watched Ruth leave the privy and walk straight to a bench. She hopped up on it, pulled a potato from the sack next to her, and started peeling with a small knife, her feet kicking in the air under the bench. She
looked like a little bird on a twig. I relaxed some; she was safe and happy enough.

Becky brushed at the cobwebs clinging to her skirt. “But nothing. If Madam sees you idling and jawing out there, there'll be the devil to pay.” She paused. “She can be a harsh mistress to slaves.”

I waited for her to say more, but she shook her head once and handed me a broom.

“Me, I see things different.” She picked up a pile of rags and a jar. “You do what you're told and we'll get along fine. Now follow me and pay attention.”

Becky led me down a narrow corridor to the front entry hall, where a grand staircase curled upward. A tall grandfather clock sat at the foot of the stairs, pecking away at the hour as if a crow trapped inside were trying to break loose. The walnut linen chest that Madam had fussed over at the dock was set in front of the clock.

Opposite the chest was the door that led to the street. Two other doors with tarnished brass pulls faced the hall. Becky pointed to the door on the right. “That there's the master's library. You don't step foot in it without permission. He don't like his things touched.”

“A library with books?”

“And maps and papers all in a jumble. It's a wonder he can find anything.” She opened the door on the left and entered, me at her heels. “This is the good parlor, where I'll serve the tea. The drawing room is upstairs. We'll clean up there later. Open them windows.”

The room was crowded with furniture draped with cloth. The air was thick and stale. I pulled aside the heavy drapes
and stretched on my toes to push up the window. The sills were dusty and the corners were spun thick with spiderwebs studded with dead flies. I went to open the next window as Becky laid out a rag on each sill.

“Wipe down the windows and sweep the floor before you uncover the furniture,” she said.

The second window was stubborn. I pushed as hard as I could until it suddenly flew up and I near lost my balance. Becky grabbed me before I tumbled outside.

“Easy on,” she said as I regained my balance. “You're no good to me with a cracked head.”

Three soldiers wearing homespun shirts and carrying muskets walked past the window, laughing loudly.

“I wish they'd all go home,” Becky muttered. “Soldiers is a nuisance.”

“You don't like the rebels?” I asked.

Becky put a finger to her lips and pulled me away from the window. “Listen to me good. Them that feeds us”—she pointed upstairs—“they're Loyalists, Tories. That means we're Tories, too, understand?”

“Yes, ma'am.” I nodded. “But …” I hesitated, not sure if I was allowed to ask questions. “Master Lockton claimed he was a Patriot on the docks.”

Becky fought to open the final window. A cool breeze flowed through the room and stirred the dust. “He was faking to protect his skin. Some folks switch back and forth. One day they're for the King, the next, it's all ‘liberty and freedom, huzzah'! A tribe of Mr. Facing-Both-Ways, that's what you'll find in New York. But you know what never changes?”

I shook my head. “No, what?”

“Madam wants lemon cakes with her tea. She is terrible
fond of cakes, is Madam. Lady Clarissa Seymour is coming to hear all the news from Boston.”

“A lady? A royal lady?”

Becky laughed. “Close enough. She's the master's aunt; she's rich and old, and owns land in three countries. The master hopes to inherit the lot when she dies, so they treat her like the Queen herself. To her face, at least.”

The grandfather clock in the hall bonged loudly, four times, startling us both.

“Wretched clock,” Becky muttered. “I'm off to the baker. Finish sweeping in here, and dusting. After that, polish the teapot and bring in the firewood. Don't stop moving, whatever you do.”

…WE HAVE IN COMMON WITH ALL OTHER MEN A NATUREL RIGHT TO OUR FREEDOMS WITHOUT BEING DEPRIV'D OF THEM BY OUR FELLOW MEN… WE WERE UNJUSTLY DRAGGED BY THE CRUEL HAND OF POWER FROM OUR DEAREST FRIENDS AND SUM OF US STOLEN… AND BROUGHT HITHER TO BE MADE SLAVES FOR LIFE IN A CHRISTIAN LAND THUS ARE WE DEPRIVED OF EVERY THING THAT HATH A TENDENCY TO MAKE LIFE EVEN TOLERABLE … –PETITION FOR FREEDOM FROM A GROUP OF SLAVES TO MASSACHUSETTS GOVERNOR THOMAS GAGE, HIS MAJESTY'S COUNCIL, AND THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, 25 MAY 1774

The days started early in the Lockton kitchen. Since Becky lived in a boardinghouse on Oliver Street, it fell to me to wake first and build up the fire. She did the proper cooking, and I did near everything else, like washing pots and plates and beating eggs till my arms fell off for Madam's almond jumbles and plum cakes with icing. If not in the kitchen, I was removing colonies of spiders, polishing tables and chairs, or sweeping up a mountain of dust. I saved the cobwebs, twisting them around a rag and storing them by our pallet in the cellar.
Cobwebs were handy when a person had a bloody cut.