Freedom Bound (9 page)

AS LONG AS
Captain Braemar was present, Charlotte managed to keep up a show of fortitude. But the moment the
door closed behind him, she let herself go. One hand covering her face, she groped her way to the settle and dropped.
Overcome, she put her head down on her knees and burst
into tears.

Mrs. Doughty came to her, sat beside her on the settle, and
took her hand. “Poor girl, poor girl!” She stroked Charlotte's
hand. “We must pray for Nick. That's all we can do.”

Charlotte raised her head. “Why does God allow things
like this to happen?”

“These matters are beyond our understanding. When
Caleb was taken from me, I asked why God allowed such
wickedness. I was overcome with grief and bitterness. But I
knew there would be no peace for me until I accepted that
this was part of God's plan.”

Phoebe was crying too, crying and mumbling, “It's because of me. This happened because of me.”

Charlotte pulled herself together. “No, Phoebe. It's not
because of you. You must not blame yourself. This happened because Nick was a spy in the backcountry, and two
men at the auction recognized him.”

“He would never have gone to that auction except for me,”
Phoebe said between sobs. “If he hadn't been there, those
two men wouldn't have seen him.”

“If they hadn't seen him at the auction, they might have
seen him someplace else,” Charlotte replied.

“We must pray for Nick. That's all we can do,” Mrs.
Doughty said again.

Mrs. Doughty's words roused Charlotte. She gently withdrew her hand from Mrs. Doughty's, stood up, and began to
walk around the room. “I believe in prayer,” she said, “but I
also believe God helps those who help themselves.” Putting
her thought into words helped to rally her spirit, but she still
spoke more confidently than she felt. “What I mean is, I'm
not content to sit and wait for the Lord to bring Nick back
to me. I'm going to search for him. You heard Captain Braemar. He thinks those men took him into the swamp.”

Mrs. Doughty stared at her from the shadow of her
bonnet's deep brim. “Will thee go into the swamp?”

“Yes.” Charlotte wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Miss Charlotte,” said Phoebe, “the swamp's full of alligators.”

“And desperate men,” said Mrs. Doughty. “A woman dare
not go there alone.”

“Well, I dare.” She paused. “I'm sure it is too dangerous
for a woman. But I don't intend to go there dressed like a
woman. I'll disguise myself as a man.”

“Disguise is not just a matter of clothing,” said Mrs.
Doughty. “The smallest action may give thee away. Thee
walks like a woman—”

“I know,” Charlotte broke in. “But I've done this before. A
couple of years ago, Nick and I travelled through the wilderness from Carleton Island back to the Mohawk Valley to
retrieve some valuables hidden on our farm. We pretended
to be two brothers. Before we left, he drilled me on how to
walk like a boy, how to sit, how to slouch. I can still do it.”

Mrs. Doughty lowered her head. She looked as if she were
praying, or perhaps thinking deeply. After a minute she
looked up.

“Thee is right. To travel as a man is safer. To be safer still,
thee must disguise thyself as a Friend.”

Charlotte sat up straight. This made sense. Maybe not all
slaves knew about the Quakers, but all who did must know
they were enemies of slavery. As for white people, both
Whigs and Tories generally left Quakers alone.

“I'll need the right clothes.”

“I still have some of my husband's clothes. Caleb was not
a big man. With a little alteration, they will fit.”

“I'm quick with my needle,” Phoebe offered.

“Quick enough to have them ready first thing in the
morning?” Charlotte asked. “There's no time to lose.”

That night Charlotte slept fitfully, reaching out for Nick at
wakeful moments and feeling a burst of panic not to find
him there.

She was glad when morning came. Throwing off her
quilt, she stood up, stretched, and tiptoed into the kitchen,
where Phoebe was still asleep on her mattress on the floor,
and the baby in his cradle. The clothes were ready, folded on
the table.

Carrying them, she tiptoed back into the front room and
began to dress. As she pulled on the late Mr. Doughty's
breeches, she recalled the first time she had donned men's
clothing. She remembered how awkward she had felt wearing breeches. But very soon she had discovered how practical
they were for travelling through the wilderness. Much more
sensible than a gown. She felt confident about her disguise
and comfortable with the prospect of pretending to be a
young man.

Sounds of life now came from the kitchen. Noah was crying, and Mrs. Doughty was clattering her pots and pans.

Charlotte joined them. With the Doughty children still
asleep upstairs and Phoebe sitting in a corner nursing her
baby, the kitchen was quiet. Charlotte ate a quick breakfast
of leftover grits.

“I'm ready to go,” she said when she had finished eating.

She stood by the kitchen table while Mrs. Doughty and
Phoebe gave her a final inspection. Her hair was pulled back
in a pigtail under a wide-brimmed black hat. She wore a
short grey coat over a long black vest. Reaching nearly to her
knees were leather boots that Mrs. Doughty had waterproofed with a boiled-up paste of beeswax, tallow and tar. A
satchel, slung over her shoulder, held bread and cheese, a
tarpaulin, a Bible, and twenty shillings that Nick had given
her from his pay. It also held a file and a sharp knife, tools
that she might need in freeing a prisoner.

Mrs. Doughty nodded approvingly. “All who see thee will
take thee for a Friend.”

“The vest still doesn't fit right,” said Phoebe. “You aren't
shaped like a man.”

“I should hope not! But if I keep the coat on, nobody will
notice.”

“Does thee know the way to the swamp?” Mrs. Doughty
asked.

“I know that King Street becomes the broad way out of
Charleston. If I follow it and take the first road that branches to the right, I'll come to the swamp.”

“Beyond Charleston,” said Mrs. Doughty, “the main road
is known as the wagon track. This is all low country. The
tides rise and fall twice a day. When the tide is in, the wagon
track is half under water. Between Charleston and the rice
plantations lie twelve miles of useless swamp.”

“How do people go back and forth from their plantations
if the road is half under water half the time?”

“Rich people don't use the road. They have schooners to
take them by river. The swamp remains as wild as the day
God made it. And sometimes I wonder why he did.” Mrs.
Doughty shook her head. “It may be a sin to have such
thoughts, but . . . does thee know what God did on the third
day of Creation?”

“He divided the waters from the dry land.”

“Exactly. But when I consider the swamp, it seems to me
that God failed to complete his work that day.”

“Maybe God wanted to leave some place for alligators to
live.”

“I do not question the ways of the Lord. But why God created alligators is also beyond my understanding.”

Charlotte, knowing almost nothing about alligators, had
no opinion on that subject. “There's plenty I don't understand, either. But the sun is up, and it's time to be on my
way.”

Phoebe looked at Charlotte with an expression that mingled hope and doubt. “Miss Charlotte, Jammy may be hiding in the swamp. If you meet him, he'll help you.”

“I'm sure he will. And if I find him, I'll tell him you're
safe.”

“And that I'm waiting for him.”

“I'll tell him that, too.”

Phoebe looked ready to throw her arms around her. To
save her wondering whether she should, Charlotte took the
initiative and wrapped her in a big hug. She embraced Mrs.
Doughty, as well, before she left.

She was unlikely to meet Jammy, she thought as she
started through the quiet streets. It was Elijah whom she
hoped to find, since she had some idea where to look for
him. If she found him, she would ask him to help her look
for Nick. But she would not count on anyone but herself.

THE SUN WAS
at her back as she passed through the gap in
the hornwork wall that stretched across the peninsula at the
town's boundary. There was a change in the air as the brackish smell of swamp water replaced the stench of garbage.
Beyond the earthen dike that lay on her left, she saw snowy
egrets wading in black-water pools. From vast tracks of
marsh grass came the calls of redwing blackbirds wintering
in the Carolinas—a sound that made her think of home. No
more than twenty feet away, a male bird clung to a tall stock
of grass. His shiny black feathers set off his red and yellow
shoulder patch, and his head was thrown back as he raised
his voice in song.

Charlotte paused to listen and to watch. As she watched,
a long, slender snout parted the marsh grass like a comb.
She saw dark, scaly skin banded with creamy white, and a
pair of yellow, bulbous eyes. A leap. A splash. Jaws gaped and
snapped shut. In an instant, the bright singer was no more.

She flinched. Charlotte was not squeamish. Back on the
farm, she had dealt death to hundreds of chickens. It was
partly the suddenness of the act that shook her, and partly
the creature's appearance. It reminded her of a storybook
dragon from some twisted fairy tale.

Although her search had barely begun, she already felt
alone and powerless, cut off from any refuge from the dangers she had resolved to face.

“I won't fail,” she said to herself. “Everything will be all
right.” She said it again, determined to banish fear. “Everything will be all right.” Quickening her pace, she strode
straight ahead.

Ruts made by wagon wheels scored the muddy road. The
ruts as well as the prints of men's feet and animals' hooves
were half filled with water.

She passed by the first road that branched off to the left,
then the second, and then the third.

About six miles outside Charleston she came to a road
that forked to the right. According to Elijah, this was the one
that skirted the swamp. She turned in that direction.

At midday she topped a small rise and sat down at the
side of the track to eat a bit of bread and cheese. No alliga
tors here. A breeze wafted over her with the softness of a
feather brushing her cheek. Today was the fourth of February, but in South Carolina it felt like spring. If only Nick
were with her, they could make a picnic of the bread and
cheese.

As she sat eating, she saw a big man coming toward her
along the track. As he drew nearer, she saw that he was wearing a homespun shirt, leather breeches and thick high boots.
Not a soldier. Not a Quaker. His brown hair was cut in a
rough fashion, reaching the lobes of his ears. Perhaps he
could tell her something. As he drew near, she put away her
bread and cheese and stood up, ready for the test. She must
speak like a Quaker. She must sound like a young man.

“I bid thee good day.”

“Good morning, lad.” The stranger looked friendly.

“Can thee help me? I'm looking for my brother. Yesterday
he left town to hunt turkeys in the swamp. We thought he'd
be back before dark, but he hasn't come home. My mother
sent me to look for him. My brother is tall, with fair hair.
Twenty-one years old. Has thee seen anyone like that?”

“I have, but the young fellow was not a Quaker. Yesterday,
just before dark, I was walking along this very road when I
heard a gang of men coming along behind me. They were
cursing in a way
you
would never want to hear, you being a
Quaker. Since I was alone and didn't like the sound of them,
I stepped off the track and waited behind a tree till they
went by. There were five of them, and they had a young
fellow with them. His hands were tied behind his back. He
was tall and blond and about that age. But he wore a plum-coloured coat.”

“A plum-coloured coat? No. He couldn't be one of us. I
wonder what those men were doing with him, whoever he
was.”

“Planning some mischief, no doubt. Either he was a Whig,
and Tories caught him. Or he was a Tory, and Whigs caught
him.”

“That sounds likely.”

“I've no use for either. You being a Quaker, I'll speak
frankly about that. I can tell you that neither lot is on the side
of the angels. Both of them plunder and burn. They ought
to get over this fuss about whether they want the King or the
Congress to rule them.”

“Thee speaks the truth.” Charlotte was careful to express
correct Quaker views.

“What we need to fear is the enemy without and the
enemy within. By which I mean the savages and the slaves.
South Carolina won't be safe for settlement until every
Creek, Choctaw and Cherokee has been cleared right out.
And the other thing we need to do is keep the blacks under
control. Without a fear of the lash, they'll rise up and murder us in our beds.” He stopped to take a breath. “Being a
Quaker, you likely don't agree.”

“No. I can't say that I do.”

“I don't take it amiss. For all your daft notions, I think
well of Quakers. And I hope you find your brother safe and
sound.” He scratched his head vigorously, as if to stir up his
brains. “About a mile on, you'll come to an inn. You might
find somebody there who's seen him.”

“I thank thee for thy help.”

“You're welcome, though I don't see as I've been any help
at all.”

Oh, but you have! Charlotte thought as she watched him
continue on his way.

Mrs. Doughty had told her that this swamp extended for
twelve miles. “Twelve miles of useless swamp.” Searching for
Nick would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But at
least she now knew she had come to the right place. The
description of Nick was accurate, right down to the plum-coloured coat. Had others besides this traveller seen him?
Everybody said the swamps were full of men in hiding. She
wished a few would emerge for long enough to answer her
questions.

As the day wore on, clouds blew in from the west, great
dark, angry billows. If a storm was on the way, that inn would
be a good place to stop for the night. She hoped she would
reach it before the rain began. Although she had a tarpaulin
that could serve as a waterproof cape or as a groundsheet,
she would like to have a roof over her head and a dry place
to sleep. Distantly there was a rumble of thunder.