Chasing Freedom (14 page)

Twenty-four

I
T WAS A BEAUTIFUL AND JOYFUL JUNE SATURDAY. WILD
cherry and apple blossoms sweetened the air with a dream-like potion. Sarah and Fortune were out in the yard slicing the eyes off sprouted potatoes, getting ready for the spring planting. Prince, now nine months, babbled away, watching from a small seat made from black ash by a local Mi'kmaq.

Fortune scanned the ploughed field. It was far from a perfect job with the crooked rows and clumps of hard sods. Breaking the ground had been a backbreaking task with a horse and a dull, homemade plough made from scraps of metal. The rocks were unforgiving under the thin soil and there was no knowing if the weather would cooperate during the short growing season.

Sarah was in good spirits. Two jobs kept her busy — one during weekdays at the school and the other on Saturdays at Mrs. Cunningham's home. She thought of Reece less frequently. He had been gone since February and time had slowly eroded the earlier feverish feelings. Like a smouldering fire, she was confident the desire would flame again when he returned.

“Hello, Fortune. Hello, Sarah. It's a great day for sorting seed!” Mr. Cunningham roared as he flicked his whip and sped by in the carriage.

Fortune gave a shout back, “Aye, it is,” and waved.

It was not long before Grandmother came to the door and let out a holler. “Come in! Mr. Cunningham left us a trunk.”

“A trunk. I cannot believe it. Come on, Papa. Let's go see,” Sarah yelled.

“Likely it's all women's things. No need for me to go. I'll finish up here.”

Sarah hurried, skipping like a child wild with excitement.

“The Cunninghams always think of us,” said Grandmother. “I heard the supply ships were on their way. Oh Lord, everyone wants a trunk from the British missionaries. I bet everyone flocked to the wharf in Roseway. I never thought we would ever see one.”

Grandmother threw back the lid. Such beautiful things: bedding, dishes, shoes, skirts, blouses, men's breeches and shirts. That was not all. Sarah reached into the black trunk and pulled out a red wad of chintz. Her jaw fell. With fine detailing, puffed sleeves and a flared skirt that spread out like an inverted bowl in perfectly even gathers around the waist, it was no ordinary dress. The seams were practically invisible and the stitches regular and delicate. She held the dress to her shoulders and looked down the full length. In an instant, it came to her. Dresses such as this were difficult for the women of Roseway to get. She thought about ol' Briggs, the man who made the clothing at the Redmonds. How she had helped cut the fabric and sew the pieces. She loved watching yards of cloth become wonderful garments. It came to her that she could create lovely dresses to wear to the weddings, embroidery parties, coffee houses and literary meetings. A Port Roseway tailor.

Grandmother was less enthusiastic after hearing the plan. When Sarah held the dress up and proclaimed it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, the old woman looked at it as though it was blasphemous. “That's not a dress for us to wear,” she scowled.

Sarah squared her shoulder and gritted her teeth. “We have just as much right to feel grand. We are worthy.”

So harsh was Sarah's tone that Grandmother stood silent for a moment. “I know how the dress makes you feel, Chile.” She chomped down hard on the end of her pipe. She was not about to let Sarah off easy. “But red brings trouble.”

Sarah's eyes flashed. The idea of red bringing trouble was no more than a superstition. She remembered how the slaves wore clothing of the brightest colours to defy such notions. She smiled. How good it felt to forget so many old beliefs and wondered why Grandmother held on to them.

“Trouble finds us no matter what colour we wear. We may as well save it the time and the effort.”

“You could be right about that.” Grandmother let out a soft turkey chuckle.

Sarah snatched up the dress and whisked it away to tuck safely into a trunk at the foot of her bed, leaving the lid ajar. She sat on her bunk staring at the red roll. She hoped Birchtowners were ready because she intended to go out in the dress, attend a dance or two, maybe turn some heads.

Grandmother approached and stood beside the bed until Sarah looked at her. “One of these days, you will understand why all of the things I say can put your life in danger. You got to watch every step. There's always someone ready to strike. I know there are times when you think I don't want you to enjoy yourself, but that's not why I say these things.”

“Then why, Grandmother?”

“Because I want to protect you, Sarah, to keep you safe from all the hardship I've seen. You and Fortune mean the world to me. I guess I worry too much.”

“We must let our spirits fly.”

“You are a wise one, for sure, but watch yourself, Sarah Redmond.”

SARAH STOOD IN THE WINDOW WAITING FOR GEORGE
Washington Brindle to arrive. She dazzled like the beautiful crimson clover in the fields of Carolina in the red dress, ready for the dance at ol' Brown's shack.

“You and that Fortune make a fine pair of roaming owls. Your late hours fill me with worry.”

“Stop worrying. We have the right to a little merrymaking.”

“Oh Lord, you know the law forbids such a thing. Some of these folks get a little crazy in the head when they get that poison in their bellies.”

“You don't find the law unfair, only applying to Negroes? Everyone else can have a good time. Roseway has enough ale houses for three colonies.” Sarah turned away from the window. She stood for a moment with her eyes mashed together and her teeth clenched. Then, like an angry cat, she growled, “The law makes no sense. It assumes that drunken Negroes will act differently than drunken white men. We are no more shameful or brutal than they are. Such laws make us out to be the brutes and to further separate us.”

“Chile, I hate the laws, they are not fair. We must continue to fight against them, but all I am saying is that for now, you watch yourself. Your name is all you got. Remember that.”

Sarah held her tongue. She had heard Grandmother's sermons so many times before. She thought about Colonel Black. The old woman had a point, but she needed to stand her ground. “There's no need for you to worry. Besides, George will watch out for me.”

“And who will be watching out for George? You have a lot to learn, Girlie.” The old woman had had enough. She sighed and said, “Lord, put some sense in that chile's head.”

Day or night, there was always a good time at ol' Brown's place. The laws strictly forbid Negroes from gathering to dance and drink. Frolicking they called it. Ol' Brown said he was just waiting for the sheriff to poke his nose through his door. He was a free man, and that was that. He did not fight in the white man's war to end up treated like he was the enemy.

When Sarah and George arrived, the party was well under way. Ol' Brown sat in his usual spot, to the left of the open door, with his Winchester Flintlock across his knees. Already fights and arguments were filling the yard around his shack, but ol' Brown just sat back and watched, content as long as they kept it outside. Sarah saw two men boxing, two others pushing each other and three women screaming back and forth.

Sarah looked at ol' Brown, who sported a Pioneer jacket, beat-up and filthy now, along with a raggedy shirt and breeches. Ol' Brown was a leech of sorts. He knew nothing of earning an honest living—partly because he lost a leg during the war, but mainly because he did not have an honest twitch in his body. Sarah found him amusing. Grandmother did not. She called him “Half-penny Brown” because, in her estimation, he fell short of a whole penny. It was hard for Sarah to refrain from calling him that when she greeted him. “Hello, Mr. Brown,” she giggled.

A smile burst across his grubby face. “Jambo, Miss Sarah.”

The thick ether from Brown's foul brew hovered in the air. George dropped two shillings into the small keg on the floor beside the chair. There was always music: washboards, spoons, homemade violins and banjos. And Brown always had a pot on. Tonight was no exception. The steam from the tripe drifted throughout the shack. Getting on midnight, he would drop some vegetables in and when it was ready for the eating, his yell would fill the room: “Grab a plate!” That was the one kindness ol' Brown seemed to possess—that and looking after his Flintlock. It sparkled, even in the dim light.

Tonight, Rod was drawing his bow across his hand-made fiddle, stirring up the dust. The rickety boards trembled as the crowd stepped wildly. Sarah made her way through the clamour to a group of people standing near the stove ol' Brown had constructed. In their midst was Medley, the Birchtown handyman who could not find a woman in the whole of the colony desperate enough to be his wife. Priscilla Haywood was the one currently slapping his advances away. Spotting Sarah, she ducked under Medley's arm and headed in her direction.

“Well, well. It's Sarah, though in that get-up should I call you Missy Sarah, the Queen of Birchtown?” Priscilla's taunting was loud. Rod stopped playing. Heads turned for the show. Folks had grown accustomed to watching the feuds of Birchtown and so they stood back with their ears alert for any signs of a showdown. All eyes focused on the pair.

Priscilla smirked, “I see Grandma has let you out again tonight.”

“I let myself out, thank you.”

“Are you sure that the old woman is not hiding around the corner, ready to yank you home by the hair?”

“You should worry about your own hair.” Sarah smoothed down the front of her wide red dress. She looked at Priscilla, gave her the once over, then cut her eyes. “At least I do not look like yesterday's news.”

“You know, Miss Teacher, this is not New York.”

“And what would you know about New York?”

“New York has a lot of women in red dresses. I know they're not school teachers.”

The place swelled with laughter.

“Don't be jealous, Priscilla. Your ugly dress matches your ugly spirit.”

“Same old Sarah, always quick with words.”

“Well, there's nothing quick about you Priscilla.”

The laughter turned into a roar this time. Ol' Brown let out a yell from his chair by the door. “None of dat foolish talk. You can take that one-upping somewhere else. Do you hear me in there? First thing you'll be in a fight and me place gets all broke up.” He let a shot go from the Flintlock up through the ceiling. Dirt fell from the sod roof onto the floor. The place fell into dead silence.

Sarah moved on. Having gotten one up was good enough for her. George reached out with a cup of liquor. She hesitated, then took a sip of the horrible concoction. At first, her lips tingled and her throat burned. The brew slid down into her stomach and set her gut on fire. For an instant, her vision blurred. She handed the cup back to George. “Wicked, wicked, foul stuff,” she said. “How can anyone drink such poison? Who knows what ol' Brown puts in this stuff? It could kill us.”

“It will loosen you up,” George laughed.

“And mess us up,” Sarah added. She could see that there was a sickening power in liquor by the way it took hold of the people. It would not control her. She passed the cup back to George. It was the music and dancing that lifted her spirits, not the liquor. She followed George to the middle of the floor. They were shoulder to shoulder with the crowd. Rod played a wild, jubilant kind of music, making it up as he went. Music made the dancers come alive. Made them want to step and whirl. Made them feel free from the world with nothing holding them back. Sarah created new steps and twirled in her red dress. The music picked up in tempo. This was living, she thought. It had been hard to survive without music and it felt good to hear it now.

Midnight was fast approaching and the pot would soon be ready. Sarah made her way to the bench by the back wall. A man in a white ruffled shirt and brown waistcoat approached her. His hazelnut skin glistened in the dull light and his smile astounded her.

“Hello, Sarah,” he said, extending a hand. “I inquired,” he said when Sarah looked at him, puzzled.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“You are striking in your red dress.”

“Thank you,” she said and in a sugary tone asked, “And your name?”

“Thomas Cooper.”

“And where are you from, Thomas Cooper?”

“Philadelphia, born the son of free Negroes.”

“Free?”

“Never free. A Negro is a Negro. The laws that applied to the slaves applied to us as well. For awhile, I was indentured to old Mr. Brunhoff who taught me to read and write and how to keep ledgers. A good man from Germany. Then I worked for my father, importing and exporting goods to Barbados and Jamaica until the war started. Our business closed and so I left.”

“What brought you here?”

“In New York, I heard about Nova Scotia. I thought it would be a good place to find work, but the poverty is the worse I've seen.”

“So you won't be staying.”

“I'm leaving for Halifax, then going back to New York.”

“I guess there's not much here to offer anyone, but I plan to start a business. A tailor's shop.”