Freedom's Price (2 page)

Today Eliza counted thirty-one boats tied to the docks.
Surely with all these boats, there must be one friendly cook who would take pity on her and give up some drippings.

The first steamboat she tried had a guard who wouldn't even let her up the gangplank. Shrugging, Eliza trudged to the next ship, a bright white vessel with green trim that looked more promising. Best of all, there was no one to stop her from coming aboard. Humming nervously, she headed down the first stairs she could find, knowing that the kitchens were usually in the bottom of the boat.

The luxury in the dining room made her gasp. The tables gleamed like mirrors, and the chairs were cushioned with red velvet. The floor was covered with a thick carpet. She jumped up and down, enjoying the plush feel as she landed. Gingerly making her way across the soft surface, she headed for the swinging door that must lead to the kitchen. She hesitated, took a deep breath, and tapped on the door.

“Yes?” a voice called out.

Pushing the door open, Eliza saw a boy mopping the floor. His dark skin matched her own. He wore an apron streaked with red. Eliza wondered if the stains were meat juice or fruit stains.

“Can I help you, Miss?” he asked. He spoke so softly that Eliza had to strain to hear him. Her nervousness melted away like butter on a summer afternoon. He called her “Miss”! A steamboat like this had lots of paying passengers, and he must have learned long ago to speak politely. Eliza's pa was the same. His respectful manners came in handy at the lawyer's office where he cleaned and ran errands each day.

“I'm looking for the cook,” she said.

“He's not here. He went into town for some supplies,” the boy answered, leaning on his mop. “Visiting a tavern, more likely!” He winked.

She didn't have much experience talking with boys, but this one seemed to be about her own age and friendly enough. “Can you help me? I need drippings.”

“What's a pretty girl like you want with the cook's extra fat?” he asked.

Eliza stared down at the floor. Even though Ma would prefer her to stay a child forever, Eliza knew that young men would start courting her soon. But not yet! “So the cook does have extra fat?” she asked, ignoring the compliment.

“Have you seen him? He's so chubby he can barely fit into this tiny room they call a kitchen.”

Eliza couldn't help grinning while she waited patiently for a real answer.

“Yeah, we got plenty of fat,” he said. “But only if you tell me what you need it for.”

“My ma uses it to make her special soaps,” Eliza explained. “We'd be grateful for what you can spare.” She held out the empty bucket.

Putting his mop to one side, the young man beckoned her forward. “Come in. What's your name? Mine's Wilson. Wilson Madison.” The kitchen was as tiny as he had said. The only fresh air came from a porthole set in the wall above the enormous stove, which took up half the room.

“My name's Eliza,” she answered. “Doesn't it get hot in
here?” Her pa always joked that she was more curious than a cat and just as likely to get scalded.

“Hotter than heck,” Wilson said, pulling out a huge can full of grease from next to the stove. He poured some into her bucket. “So you're a laundress. Your ma must be a free woman if she's sending you out looking for supplies.”

“Not really,” Eliza said warily; this was the kind of conversation her mother was always warning her about. She touched the stove gingerly before leaning against it.

“Free or slave—it's one or the other, unless you're running.” He lifted his eyebrows, inviting her to explain. “And if you're running, I don't think you'd be making soap.”

“My ma and pa lived in a free territory for years, so they're suing their owner for their freedom.”

Wilson whistled. “That's brave. Will they win?”

Eliza shrugged. “It's been three years now, and we're still waiting for the courts to decide.”

“That must have made your master spitting mad.”

“My ma says I don't have a master. I was born on the river.”

“A river rat like me!” Wilson wiped stray grease off the side of her bucket with a cloth. “But just because you say you're free, don't mean your master agrees.”

“It's the master's widow who claims she owns us. But Mrs. Emerson lives up north in Massachusetts, so we don't ever see her. She hires us out. Ma does laundry, and Pa cleans offices.”

“When does your court case get decided?” Wilson asked.

“As soon as the court opens again. Two, maybe three weeks. Then we'll be free.” Eliza was surprised at how easily Wilson had gotten her to talk, but she could be just as inquisitive. “What about you?”

“My ma's a free woman in Pennsylvania. She met my pa when he was working on a steamboat. I've been free since the day I was born.”

“So you joined a crew too?” Eliza asked.

He nodded. “I love being on the river.” He looked out the small porthole. “And I knew what the life was like from my pa.”

“I'd love a job like yours where I got to travel all the time,” Eliza confided. “The last thing I want to do is what my mother does. Day in, day out, washing other people's underthings is like a millstone wearing me down bit by bit.” Her eyes went to the floor as she realized that she'd mentioned underthings.

But Wilson just laughed. “I took this job because the cook promised to teach me everything he knows.” Making a show of peering into the dining room to make sure no one was eavesdropping, he added, “If you promise not to laugh, I'll tell you a secret.”

Eliza crossed her heart. “I promise.”

“I want to be a pastry chef.”

“You want to make cakes?”

He nodded. “Cook is teaching me. Meanwhile, I do all the cleaning and dirty work. It's a fair trade for a dream.”
He leaned against the worktable in the center of the kitchen. “I've told you my secret—what's yours?”

“What makes you think I have one?”

“Call it a hunch.” He grinned widely, inviting her to confide in him.

“I do have a secret wish,” Eliza offered. “I've never told anyone.”

He spread out his hands.

“Maybe someday I'll tell you,” she said with a giggle. “After I know you better.”

“Then, I'll have to see you again,” Wilson declared.

“On Sundays you can always find my family at the First African Baptist Church on Fourteenth Street and Clark Avenue.” She hesitated, then added, “I sing in the choir.”

“I'll try to come. Maybe next time I see you, I'll bring you a cake.”

“That'd be nice,” she said, holding out her hand for her bucket.

“We're sailing north in a few days, but we'll be home soon enough. We have a regular route up the Ohio River to Pittsburgh and back.” He put the handle of the bucket in her palm; it was heavy enough to placate Ma when she asked where Eliza had been all this time. “Eliza, it was a real pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she murmured. She liked that their eyes were at the same level. Usually she was taller than most boys her age. “Thank you again.” Holding up the bucket, she waved.

Eliza was heading back through the dining room when she heard heavy steps coming down the stairs. A man was tripping and swearing as he tried to navigate the narrow stairs. She set the bucket down and ducked behind a velvet chair. Even in the dim light she could see the man was round as a pot of jelly and his face was just as red.

“Who are you?” he demanded loudly, catching sight of her. “What are you doing here?” His voice was slurred, but he was steady enough to grab her. Eliza tried to pull away, but his fingers clamped on to her arm.

“Hey, Cook!” Wilson called from the kitchen. The man turned his head, which gave Eliza the opportunity to twist out of his grip. She grabbed the bucket, ignoring the sloshing and spilling of the grease, and ran up the stairs as fast as she could. She flung herself headlong down the gangplank, letting the heavy bucket help pull her to the shore. Gasping for air, she glanced back at the ship. All was quiet. Maybe Wilson hadn't gotten into trouble for her sake.

Instead of heading back to Ma, Eliza took a dozen steps in the opposite direction so she could see the name of Wilson's ship. It was the
Edward Bates
. Eliza would keep an eye out for the
Edward Bates
—she wouldn't mind meeting Wilson again.

C
HAPTER
Three

N
O NEED TO HURRY, SINCE THE ONLY THING WAITING FOR
E
LIZA
was a mountain of dirty clothes. She walked slowly down the shore, lost in a pleasant daydream of Wilson coming to church with a cake. Ma would be suspicious; she didn't trust any boys. But she'd be won over by his good manners. Lizzie would love him because he'd brought a treat. And Pa would like anyone who made Lizzie smile.

A toot from a passing steamboat brought her back to herself. With her free hand, she waved as the boat moved majestically down the river. It was coming from the North: Where had it been? What kind of people was it carrying? What was its cargo? Eliza never tired of watching the massive paddle wheels go round and round, dripping water in the ship's wake.

The spring air lost its chill as the sun climbed in the sky. The bucket dragged in the dirt; drippings were heavier than they looked. But Eliza paid no attention. Instead she
practiced a hymn she had learned at church. Happy or scared, Eliza loved to sing. She cast her voice out toward the center of the river and then let it drift back like a fishing line.

                  
I've got peace like a river in my soul,

                  
I've got a river in my soul,

                  
I've got joy like a fountain in my soul,

                  
I've got a fountain in my soul.

In the distance she saw the steam rising off Ma's laundry kettle, taking a fantastic shape for an instant, then disappearing in the breeze. Bustling about the fire, Ma was easy to make out in her bright green cotton dress with a white apron. The same colors, Eliza thought, as the
Edward Bates.
Slaves usually wore a dull, faded blue, and no doubt Ma's mistress, Mrs. Emerson, would take issue with Ma's choice of color. However, since Mrs. Emerson was far away in Massachusetts, Ma could do as she liked. But her dress was still made out of cloth that marked Ma as a slave. If only the court would hurry and make up its mind—then Ma would be free to wear any color, any cloth, she pleased.

In the distance, Eliza could see the other laundresses chatting and working together. The only person who seemed out of place was a colored boy hanging about the riverbank between Ma and the others. Not many boys helped with laundry. His short trousers and too-big linen shirt made it hard to gauge his height. She wondered who he was. If he was a slave, his master was too miserly to buy him boots. As
he roamed along the bank, eyes fixed on the ground, Eliza decided he must be from the shantytown. The people who lived there were always scavenging for anything they might find along the riverbank.

Eliza watched Ma lift the laundry with her long paddle, then push it back into the boiling water. She knew how heavy the wet clothes were, and she winced to see how Ma braced the small of her back with one hand as she stirred. It was odd that she hadn't noticed before that Ma's back hurt her. Maybe Ma just never let her go far enough away to see things in a new light.

Lizzie was throwing a small wooden ball into the air and laughing out loud. Her little sister was so easy to please. The whole family loved to make her happy. Ma would scold and say they were spoiling her—but as soon as Ma heard Lizzie's gurgling laugh, she would smile too. Take that ball, for instance. The delight on Lizzie's face when Pa gave it to her had cheered everyone for days. Eliza smiled as Lizzie caught the ball once, twice . . . on the third throw, Lizzie missed. Faster than Eliza thought possible with her short legs, Lizzie ran after the ball, much too close to the river's edge.

The river looked like it ran slow, but its current was swift and hidden. Eliza's eyes darted toward Ma, but she was too intent on the laundry to notice that Lizzie was in danger. In a split second, Eliza dropped the bucket and ran for Lizzie, shouting her name. Ma heard and whirled around, eyes searching for her little girl. Eliza was closer, and she scooped up her baby sister in her arms and started back toward Ma.

“You scared me half to death,” Eliza said sternly. “You can't swim yet, and the river could take you away so fast that I wouldn't reach you in time.”

“But I didn't fall in,” Lizzie protested.

“That won't matter to Ma.” Out of the corner of her eye, Eliza noticed the boy with short pants had started toward them, then stopped short. Perhaps he had wanted to help.

As Eliza had predicted, Ma had some sharp words for Lizzie. “I should tie a rope around your waist and tie the other end to my ankle,” Ma threatened.

Lizzie cowered away from Ma, clinging to Eliza's leg.

“You wouldn't really do that, would you, Ma?” Eliza asked.

“If Lizzie can't stay away from the river, I'll have to.”

Lizzie began to cry, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Ma and Eliza exchanged frustrated looks—neither of them could resist Lizzie when she cried.

Ma knelt down and gave Lizzie a quick hug. “Stop crying and help your sister with that heavy bucket.”

Eliza's head snapped toward the abandoned bucket. “C'mon, Lizzie.” Eliza let Lizzie tug on one side of the bucket while Eliza did the heavy lifting. As they made their way back from the river's edge to Ma's fire, Eliza slowed down her long stride to match Lizzie's tiny steps.

When Ma turned away from the fire to fetch more wood, a rapid movement caught Eliza's attention. The boy had darted toward Ma's pot, as though he had been waiting for the chance. He grabbed one of the shirts straight from the boiling
water, even though it must have scalded his hands. Before Ma even knew what had happened, the boy was running away, toward Eliza and Lizzie.