Freedom Bound (4 page)

AFTER BREAKFAST
, Mrs. Doughty wrapped in a canvas sheet
the clothes that she had washed the previous day. She tied
the bundle with cords.

“I've drawn thee a map.” She showed Charlotte a piece of
paper. “Here's Stoll's Alley, where we are now. Thee must
take this bundle to Mrs. Edgar, on King Street. I've marked
the house with an X.”

“I'll find it,” Charlotte said, looking at the X.

“The charge is three shillings. Be sure Mrs. Edgar pays
thee. Don't let her put thee off by saying she'll pay next
week.” Mrs. Doughty placed the bundle in Charlotte's arms.
“When thee returns, thee will find the door unlocked.”

Was she wise to leave the door unlocked? Charlotte wondered as she started out. With footpads and drunken sailors
roaming the streets, surely this was folly. Or was it faith that
God would watch over her home? If so, Mrs. Doughty should
place less reliance on God and more on common sense.

The bundle was awkward to carry, though not especially
heavy. The difficulty was keeping her footing. With every
step her shoes squelched in slimy muck.

With the map to guide her, Charlotte easily found Mrs.
Edgar's home. The front door, like that of many Charleston
houses, opened onto a long veranda that ran along the side
of the house. Without setting down her bundle, Charlotte
managed to scrape her muddy shoes on the bootjack before
setting foot on the spotless veranda floor. Halfway along the
veranda was the actual entrance to the house.

At Charlotte's knock, a black woman opened the door and
held out her arms to receive the load. In her flower-print
dress and white apron, she looked neat and tidy enough to be
the lady of the house. Only her colour told a different story.

“The charge is three shillings,” Charlotte said, not releasing the bundle.

“I'll fetch my mistress.”

Standing with the laundry in her arms, Charlotte waited
several minutes before a stern-faced white woman came to
the door. A white, ruffled cap covered her hair, and she wore
a calico gown.

“You could have given the laundry to my slave.” Her cold
voice made her annoyance clear.

“I expected you'd want to pay me yourself.” Charlotte felt
emboldened, ready for battle.

Mrs. Edgar looked her up and down. Charlotte's well-made blue cloak with its braid trim was a garment no
Quaker would wear and no washerwoman could afford.

“It's not convenient just now,” said Mrs. Edgar. “I'll pay
next week.”

Charlotte drew back, still holding the bundle.

Mrs. Edgar sighed. “Let me get my purse. Two shillings,
isn't it?”

“Three.”

With the money tucked safely into her new pocket,
Charlotte felt pleased with herself. The walk back to Stoll's
Alley seemed no great distance at all.

She had nearly reached Mrs. Doughty's front door when
she noticed a big man standing in the shadow of a doorway
across the street, staring at the house. Although the brim of
his hat shadowed his face, she could see that he was white.
He had a thick neck, his shoulders sloped, and his shape was
so bulky he made her think of a bear. When he noticed
Charlotte looking at him, he turned his head away, as if his
interest were in something further down the street.

“Did all go well?” Mrs. Doughty looked up from the
kitchen table, where she was kneading dough on a floured
board.

“Perfectly well. Mrs. Edgar made almost no objection to
paying.” Retrieving the coins from her pocket, Charlotte
placed them on the table. “But there's one thing I should tell
you. A man is watching your house. He's there right now,
standing in the doorway across the street.”

Mrs. Doughty flinched. After wiping her hands, she went
into the front room, stopping close to the window, but not
so close that anyone could see her from across the street.

“I have seen that man before.” She turned to Charlotte.
“This house is often watched. None of my neighbours belong to the Society of Friends. Many have held me in suspicion ever since I was caught teaching a slave to read.”

“You were brave to do that.”

“Not especially brave. It began almost by accident.” Mrs.
Doughty turned away from the window and returned to the
kitchen. As she went back to kneading the lump of dough,
she began to tell the story. Charlotte sat down to listen.

“The girl's name was Phoebe. She was twelve years old.
My husband rented her at the time of my last lying in.”

“Rented her!”

“It's quite common. Some people purchase slaves for the
sole purpose of renting them out. It's an investment. For
example, a family wanting an addition built onto to their
house will pay a good price to rent a skilled carpenter. In my
case, I needed somebody to help with housework and to
take care of Patience and Charity.

“I had been ill with yellow fever in the first months of my
pregnancy and was still not strong. Some Friends criticized
my husband for renting a slave, until they realized that I
needed more help than they could give.

“Phoebe was very bright. Her mistress, Mrs. Morley, was
training her to be a household servant, and so she had taught
her to sew and to speak correct English, unlike the Gullah
dialect field workers use. Phoebe lived with us for eight
months. Since Mrs. Morley had gone to England to visit
relatives, Phoebe was not needed in their household during
that time.

“When I gave birth to Joseph, Patience was four and Charity was three. Patience had a set of alphabet blocks, with
which she'd learned to spell a few words. One day I sat nearby, holding Joseph in my arms, while she tried to teach her
sister to spell ‘Charity.' Phoebe, who was watching, said, ‘Can
you make my name?' Patience answered that she would try,
and she spelled it as ‘F-e-e-b-e-e.'”

Charlotte smiled.

Mrs. Doughty continued. “‘Very good,' I said. ‘But not
quite correct.' I then explained about ‘PH' and ‘F' making
the same sound. I laid Joseph in his cradle, got down on the
rug with them, and showed them the right spelling. Then I
used the blocks to spell more words. From then on, Phoebe
was making words with those blocks whenever she had a
free minute. I gave her a quill and paper and showed her
how to form letters. Then I taught her to read Bible verses.
By the time she left us, she could read just about anything.
That was two years ago.”

“I wonder how many books she's had a chance to read
since then?” said Charlotte. “Not many, I reckon.”

“Her mistress caught her reading one—a novel that had
been left on a table. Its title was
Fanny's Garters
. A foolish,
wicked book, or so I've heard. I was shocked to learn that
Phoebe would fill her head with such trash.”

“Was Phoebe punished?”

“I believe she escaped with a warning. At that time, she
was a favourite with Mrs. Morley.”

At that time? But perhaps not now? Charlotte wished that
Mrs. Doughty would explain, but it seemed she had nothing
to add to the story.

In the afternoon, she asked Charlotte to go to another
address to pick up laundry for washing the next day.

This time, Charlotte put on her old gown and cloak, as
they seemed more suited to her work. It gave her a glad feeling to have a useful task. And picking up dirty laundry was
certainly no worse than mucking out a barn, which had been
one of her chores on the family farm.

As she closed the door behind her, Charlotte saw that the
big white man still lurked in the shadow of the doorway
across the street, and, further up the block, a black boy was
also watching the house. He was young, of average height,
and he had a thin, wiry build. His shirt was torn, his feet
bare, and his breeches stained. The boy's eyes met hers for a
moment, and then he ran away, disappearing down a narrow passage between two houses.

This is strange, Charlotte thought. Two people watch
ing—one white and one black. Why should either be spying
on the house of a simple Quaker family?

Upon returning with the load of dirty laundry, she said to
Mrs. Doughty, “I think someone else is keeping an eye on
the house. He's black, and he looks about fifteen years old.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Doughty's eyes met Charlotte's for an instant,
and then she turned her head away.

Charlotte had the feeling that Mrs. Doughty wanted to
tell her something, that she was on the verge but had not
decided yet.

A SCREAM CUT
through her slumber.

A woman's scream. Then a baby's ragged cry. In an instant
Charlotte was bolt upright, her body ready to act though
sleep still blurred her mind.

Another scream. It came from the front room.

Then a crash, like a chair knocked over. Charlotte sprang
from her cot and ran toward the noise. In the darkness, all
she could see was the tall rectangle of the front doorway,
open to the night. Framed in that paler darkness two figures
struggled, a man and a woman. The man, big like a bear, was
dragging the woman from the house. Over and over she
screamed, “Let me go! Let me go!” It didn't sound like Mrs.
Doughty's voice.

Men were shouting in the street.

A baby was crying.

Charlotte raced toward the door, when suddenly there
was no floor beneath her feet. She was falling, tumbling. Her
body bounced. Hip, spine, shoulder. She landed hard. Her
head snapped back, struck something, and rang like a bell.

For a long moment the ringing in Charlotte's ears
drowned every other noise. Then the ringing stopped. The
screaming and shouting sounded far away. But the crying
baby was very near. Its wails filled the dank air.

If this was a nightmare, she wanted to wake up now.

Above her, footsteps thumped. Over the baby's wailing,
she heard Mrs. Doughty's voice. “Charlotte! Charlotte!”

A candle flame appeared overhead, and behind the flame
Mrs. Doughty's blurred features. She was looking down over
the edge of a big, square hole. By the candle's light Charlotte
saw a set of steep, narrow steps.

“I'm down here.” Now she realized what had happened.
She had fallen through a trap door. She was lying in a cellar.
The existence of either a trap door or a cellar had never
crossed her mind. Her head pounded. The baby's cries
echoed all around.

So the woman being dragged away couldn't have been
Mrs. Doughty. Some other woman. Who? And what had she
been doing in this house?

Mrs. Doughty was descending the stairs. Charlotte considered rolling out of the way, but before she could manage
it, Mrs. Doughty stepped over her and knelt at her side.

“Is thee hurt?”

“A bit shaken.”

“That's no wonder!”

“What's going on? There's a baby . . . and a woman . . .”

“I'm sorry! I should have told thee all.”

The baby was still crying. Charlotte turned her head. Now
by the candle's flickering light she saw a cradle on the cellar
floor. The noise was coming from that cradle. Sobbing,
choking—a baby in distress.

So it was neither a dream nor a noise in the street that she
had heard the previous night. There was a baby in the house.

Mrs. Doughty set down the candlestick on a step. From
the cradle she lifted the wailing infant. It was small. Not
much bigger than a cat.

“There, there,” Mrs. Doughty murmured, patting the
baby's back, “that's my brave little man!” The baby quieted
after a few gulping sobs. Rocking him in her arms, she looked
down at Charlotte, who still lay sprawled at the bottom of
the stairs. “I'm sorry I failed to tell thee about the baby. It
was both wrong and foolish to hide the truth from thee.”

“It doesn't matter. Just tell me what's going on. Who was
that woman?”

“Phoebe, the girl I taught to read.”

“And that baby is her child?”

“Yes.”

“And the white man who's been watching your house is
the one who dragged her away?”

“The slave catcher. Yes.”

Although her head ached, Charlotte's brain was beginning to put the puzzle together.

“What about the black boy who was watching the house?”

“His name is Jammy. The Morley family owns him as well
as Phoebe. Jammy's the stable groom.”

“Is he the baby's father?”

“No. He's not the father.” Mrs. Doughty paused. “Let me
take the baby upstairs and then come back for thee. A dark
cellar is no place to talk.”

Now that the baby was quiet, Patience, Charity and Joseph began a crying chorus of their own, the noise carrying
from their upstairs bedroom down to the cellar. What a
night for everyone!

Mrs. Doughty carried the baby up the steep steps. She
would not return for quite a while, Charlotte thought, not
until she had managed to settle all the little ones.

Charlotte moved her limbs one by one. Nothing felt
seriously wrong. Putting her hand to the back of her head,
she felt a bump, but no bleeding. No need to wait for Mrs.
Doughty's help. Bringing the candle with her, she crept up
the steep steps.

At the top, she sat for a moment on the floor near the
open trap door. She had better close it, she thought, before
anybody else fell through.

The door moved freely on its hinges. When she had it
closed, she went into the kitchen to rekindle the fire. The
baby, wrapped in a blanket, was asleep on top of the quilt
that covered Charlotte's cot, where Mrs. Doughty had laid
him down.

From above came the voice of Mrs. Doughty comforting
her children.

When the fire was blazing, Charlotte filled the kettle and
hung it on the hook over the flames. They could use a cup
of tea while they talked, and they certainly did need to talk.
Charlotte suspected that some terrible trouble lay behind
the events of the night.

After a time, Mrs. Doughty came downstairs and collapsed onto a chair at the table. Charlotte poured the tea and
passed a cup to her.

“Who is the baby's father? Or doesn't it matter?”

“It matters.”

Charlotte waited, expecting she knew not what.

Mrs. Morley set down her teacup. Her eyes met Charlotte's.

“The father is Phoebe's master, Lewis Morley. He forced
himself upon her. She was fourteen.”

“Oh!” For a moment, silence hung between them. “That's
terrible.”

She didn't know what else to say. She had been prepared
for something bad, but not as bad as this. It was sad. It was
sordid. It appeared to be dangerous. Mrs. Doughty had
answered her question, yet the answer just raised more
questions. Although Charlotte dreaded what she would hear
next, she wanted to know the truth.

“It's common,” Mrs. Doughty said, “for a master to abuse
his female slaves. They have no power against him.”

“Common? If the slave owner is married, doesn't his wife
object?”

“The wives can't stop it. Most pretend not to notice. Some
accept it as a normal part of married life.”

“Merciful heavens! What can they be thinking?”

“They must accept what they cannot change. Mrs. Morley,
like many wives in her situation, can't stand the sight of her
husband's half-black children. The more they resemble him,
the more bitter she feels.”

“I don't blame her.”

“Mrs. Morley will not allow such children to remain in
the household. Phoebe knew that her baby would soon be
taken from her. Rather then lose him, she decided to run
away with him, and she turned to Jammy for help.”

“He agreed to help her?”

“Yes. Jammy adores her.” Mrs. Doughty raised the cup to
her lips, sipped, and then set it down. “Their plan was for
me to hide Phoebe and the baby while Jammy looked for
contacts to help them flee north. There's slavery up north
too, but it's not as common. And the further away they
went, the safer they'd be from slave catchers.”

“So you offered to help them?”

“Not exactly. It was a complete surprise when they showed
up at my door last week. I hadn't seen Phoebe for two years.
She had the baby in her arms. ‘Phoebe,' I said to her, ‘my
house is the first place slave catchers are going to look.' But
she begged so piteously I hadn't the heart to turn her away.

“Jammy helped me to set up a hiding place in the cellar,
with a mattress for Phoebe and Joseph's old cradle for the
baby. I told him that my door would remain unlocked day
and night until he managed to take Phoebe and the baby
away.”

“I thought it strange that you didn't lock your door,” said
Charlotte. “There are so many footpads and drunken sailors
around. But now I understand.”

“From the start, I saw slave catchers watching my house.
After a few more days, I saw Jammy watching too. I hoped
this meant he'd found somebody to help them and was
waiting for a chance to take Phoebe and the baby away.”

“Then I arrived,” said Charlotte, “to complicate matters.”

“Thy arrival surely caused a problem. To reject Colonel
Knightly's offer would have raised questions, since everybody knew I needed money. It was foolish to imagine that I
could keep thee from knowing there was a baby in the house.
I should have told thee about Phoebe at the beginning.”

“I reckon you wanted first to know me better.”

“No. I trusted thee from the start. But I didn't want to
bring trouble upon thee. It's a crime to help a slave escape.
In the eyes of the law, concealing a crime makes one a party
to it. If I could keep Phoebe's presence a secret, thee would
not be put in that position.

“For the past three nights I've scarce slept a wink. Tonight
I heard the hinges squeak when Jammy opened the trap
door, and then the uproar when the slave catchers burst in.
There were two of them. One took Jammy. The other took
Phoebe.”

“But they left the baby.”

“They had their hands full with Jammy and Phoebe.”

“Do you think they'll come back for the baby?”

“Not likely. The Morleys don't want him. As for selling
him, a one-month-old infant wouldn't fetch enough to pay
the slave catcher's fee. For the present at least, the baby is
ours to care for.”

“In that case,” Charlotte said, “let's bring the cradle up
from the cellar. There are still a few hours left before dawn.
After some sleep, we can think more clearly what to do.”

Standing up, Charlotte felt dizzy. Her head hurt badly
while she helped Mrs. Doughty haul the wooden cradle up
the stairs and set it near the kitchen fireplace. The sleeping
baby did not wake when Mrs. Doughty lifted him from the
cot and tucked him in the cradle.

Now all was quiet. Charlotte lay down on her cot, but she
could not stop worrying about Phoebe, Jammy and the baby.
Light was visible through the crack between the shutters
before she drifted off.