Freedom's Price (3 page)

“Stop, thief!” Eliza screamed, moving to block his way. “Give that back!”

Ma spun around.

The boy hesitated only a scant second, trapped between Eliza and her ma. Then he took off inland toward the maze of ramshackle huts of the shantytown. Eliza dropped her bucket, ignoring the fat sloshing over the rim, and raced after him.

“Ma, get Lizzie!” she called.

“Eliza, come back. Come back right now!” Ma shouted.

She ignored her mother's calls and chased the boy even faster. Ma couldn't afford to replace that shirt. And if they lost their customers, how would the family survive? The thief wasn't burdened with heavy boots, and his trousers didn't catch on the brush like her dress did. The big shirt spread out behind him like a kite catching the wind; Eliza hoped it would slow him down.

They were deep in the shantytown. Eliza wasn't allowed to come here, but she knew what it was. The houses were flimsy, made of materials washed up by the river. But what the river gave, it also took away. These settlements flooded all the time, and the poor people who tried to live here lost everything over and over again. Ma called the shanties dens for thieves. But Eliza had seen her share of criminals, and she wasn't afraid. Not too afraid.

Her legs were longer than the boy's, and she was gaining
on him. But she was running out of time and distance; he knew the area and she didn't. She'd lose him for sure if she didn't act fast. Her breath rasping, heart pounding, she forced her feet to move just that much quicker. In a final burst of speed, she extended her arm and grabbed the back of the boy's shirt. With the strength she had earned by hauling laundry day in and day out, Eliza pulled him so hard he fell. The shirt flopped to the ground.

“Gotcha!” In an instant, Eliza straddled him, her palm flat on his chest to keep him down.

“Oh!” She pulled her hand away from his shirt as though it were scalding hot. “You're no boy!” Besides the beginnings of breasts under the thief's shirt, Eliza now saw that her features were softer and rounder than most boys'.

“So?” the girl snarled.

“You're right,” Eliza agreed. “Boy or girl, how dare you steal from my ma!”

Eliza's hand was still raised, and the thief's eyes were fixed on it, her body stiff as though braced for a blow. The girl's ebony skin was marked with pox scars, and her lip showed a recent bruise. Slowly, Eliza lowered her hand.

“I won't hurt you,” Eliza assured her. She grabbed the wet shirt, no longer steaming hot, and climbed to her feet. “But this belongs to us.”

The girl's eyes widened. “Ain't you gonna turn me in to the police?”

“Not if you never come round my ma's laundry again,” Eliza growled. “Why'd you steal it anyway? This wouldn't fit
you in a hundred years!” She struggled to fold the shirt over her arm, but it was heavy with water and hard to handle.

“I was going to sell it,” the girl replied. “And get some food for me and my ma.”

Eliza's stomach let out a hungry growl. Her eyes met the girl's, and they both smiled a little. The shared glance was just enough to bridge the gap between them. “I know what it's like to be hungry too,” Eliza admitted. “What's your name?”

“Celia.”

“I'm Eliza. Are you free folk?”

“For all the good it's done us.” Celia spat out the words. “We're worse off than we was before. Ma's master freed all his slaves in his will. But now we don't got a home or anyone to make sure the catchers don't take us.” She looked curiously at Eliza. “What about you?”

“My ma was born a slave, but she's gone to the law to get free. In the meantime, she does laundry.” Eliza lost her grip on the heavy shirt, and the girl caught it before it fell to the ground again. Without thinking, Eliza snatched it back.

“I wouldn't steal from you again,” Celia insisted with an injured look.

“Come back with me and apologize to my ma. Ask her for help. We don't have much, but we can probably find you a dress and shoes to wear.” She glanced down at Celia's ragged pants and dirty bare feet.

“We don't need your charity,” the girl muttered.

“You'd rather steal?” Eliza asked, raising her eyebrows
like Ma did when she didn't believe Eliza. “I have another idea. Come to Reverend Meachum's church on Fourteenth Street. He'll help.”

Celia stared for a moment, twisting her hands together. Eliza saw that they were covered with insect bites and infected cuts. “I can't.”

“Why not? What harm could it do?” Eliza tried reasoning with her.

“I've got to go,” Celia blurted. Without looking back, she ran into the tangle of huts and disappeared. Eliza decided she had best head right back to the river before Ma had a fit.

Retracing her steps, Eliza was surprised to see how far she'd run. She couldn't wait to see Ma's face when she returned triumphantly with the shirt, even if it was covered with dirt.

Ma, face stern and arms crossed, was waiting at the river's edge. Lizzie sat on a rock, Ma's usual punishment whenever she got into trouble. Lizzie's mouth fell open as soon as she saw what Eliza was holding.

“Ma, look! I got it,” Eliza crowed.

“You disobeyed me. I told you to come back, but you kept on running.” Ma's voice was filled with anger. But Eliza could hear the fear too. Her triumph faded, replaced by guilt.

“You're a young colored girl with no one to protect you!” Ma went on. “A slave catcher could have swooped you up, sold you downriver, and we'd never hear from you again. I didn't raise my daughter to be a fool.”

Tears springing to her eyes, Eliza held out the shirt. “But I got it back, Ma!”

Without softening one bit, Ma pointed at Eliza, then the shirt. “To us you are worth more than one hundred times that shirt! Don't ever do anything like that again.”

Eliza swallowed big gulps of air, trying to keep from sobbing. “I won't, Ma.”

Ma glared at Eliza for a long moment.

“I really am sorry,” Eliza said.

Ma lay the back of her hand against Eliza's cheek. “You're safe only when you're with us.”

Ma's hand was rough from too much lye, but Eliza leaned in to take comfort from it. The memory of Celia, flinching when Eliza held up her hand, flitted into her brain. Neither Ma nor Pa had ever struck her, and Eliza knew they would die to protect her. “I promise to be more careful, Ma,” she vowed.

Sniffing hard to keep her nose from running, Eliza shoved the shirt back into the steaming pot of water. With Ma's long paddle, she poked the shirt until every bit of cloth had disappeared under the roiling bubbles.

C
HAPTER
Four

O
N
S
ATURDAY
E
LIZA HELPED HER MOTHER AT THE
C
HARLESS
family's place, a fancy house in the center of town. The Charlesses had at least a dozen rooms to live in and a large garden in back. The house had its own well, so getting clean water was easy. Ma had set up her pails in the basement with doors open to the back garden. The basement smelled of damp and starch, but the garden was fragrant with beds of herbs and early vegetables. Naturally, Eliza preferred to be outside.

“Take those dresses . . .,” Ma instructed. Her voice was muffled because she was bent over a washboard, pushing the heavy cloth across the board. As she pulled the laundry back, she found breath enough to finish her sentence. “And hang them up outside.”

Eliza gathered the slaves' wet dresses in a basket and heaved the basket onto her hip. Someday she'd like to use the scales outside one of the big stores and see the difference
in weight between a wet dress and a dry one. At least here at Miss Charlotte's house, she only had to haul them twenty feet or so between the basement and the garden. But Eliza missed the breeze from the river and the never-ending parade of steamboats to entertain her as she worked. An enclosed garden meant that the garments could be safely hung to dry without fear of thieves. Eliza was reminded of Celia; she wondered if the girl would come to church the next day. Eliza lifted one dress and draped it over a lilac bush. Her back to the garden gate, she carefully arranged the skirt to lie as flat as it could. The more attention she paid to the drying, the less ironing she would have to do later.

Eliza had just registered the sound of footsteps in the alley beyond the garden when the gate behind her was shoved open without any warning. Eliza tottered, then lost her balance. With a thud, she landed in the dirt.

“You're blocking the gate!” a sharp voice shouted down at her. A pair of high-heeled boots was planted in front of her face. She looked up to see Miss Charlotte's son, Mark, towering over her. She'd seen him once or twice before, but he had never bothered to notice her. She scrambled to her feet and saw that her eyes were level with his. Maybe he wore those boots to make up for not being very tall. He was not yet twenty, but he had the bad manners of someone who had been practicing a lot longer.

“Sorry, I was doing the laundry,” Eliza muttered, her face hot. He was the one who had knocked her down, and yet she was apologizing.

“My mother's slaves are as clumsy as they are slow,” he barked. Pushing her aside, he slammed the gate and headed to the kitchen door. His mincing walk made him look as though he were skipping on hot coals.

Eliza glared at his back and clapped her hand over her mouth. Ma had told her again and again to hold her tongue. She glanced at the basement door, wide open to let in light and air, hoping her mother had heard how well-behaved Eliza had been. But Ma was still scrubbing in the basement. Eliza's only witness was Lizzie, sitting in the grass trying to coax the house cat to play. Lizzie frowned and said, “That man is mean.”

“Hush, Lizzie.” Eliza put her finger to her lips. “We can't say so. Even if it's true.”

Her fall had torn the sleeve of her dress from the bodice. This dress had already been mended too many times. Even Ma's clever sewing couldn't repair it again. She wished now she'd spoken her mind to Mark Charless.

With a sigh, she returned to the laundry. Once the lilac and forsythia bushes were covered with skirts, Eliza had to make use of the wires strung between two poles. The clothesline was always her last choice because the wire was sharp and hurt her hands. She reached up to pin a dress to the clothesline and smiled. A few months ago, she had needed a stool to reach it. Eliza had no head for heights, even ones that weren't very high. Then she thought of Ma, and her smile disappeared. The taller Eliza got, the more Ma worried about slave catchers. Ma said they looked for girls Eliza's age
because they fetched such a good price. As if Eliza would ever let herself get taken by the likes of a slave catcher.

To take her mind off such an unlikely possibility, she began to sing one of the new songs she had heard on the street. She liked it because the words were so funny.

                  
I come from Alabama,

                  
With a banjo on my knee.

                  
I'm going to Louisiana,

                  
My true love for to see.

                  
It rained all night the day I left,

                  
The weather it was dry.

                  
The sun so hot, I froze to death,

                  
Susannah, don't you cry.

Within a few minutes, she had fallen into a working rhythm and almost all the laundry had been hung.

“Hi, Eliza.” A soft voice came from the parlor's wide window, opened fully to let in the air on this breezy day. It was Sadie, the cook's daughter. She wore a crisp white apron over her neat blue dress made of shirting, the same kind of dress that Eliza was hanging to dry. It might be a slave's dress, but it fit Sadie well. Eliza couldn't help wishing for a dress that gave her room to breathe. Her own dresses stretched too tight across Eliza's shoulders. She couldn't swing her arms wide, much less run freely.

“Hi, Sadie,” Eliza called back.

“You've got the prettiest voice,” Sadie said. “The old lady was all crotchety until she heard you singing—then she settled right down.”

“What old lady?” Eliza asked.

“Miss Sofia, the master's aunt, just came to live with us. She's a little . . .” Sadie tapped her head. “Your singing kept her still while I brushed her hair.”

Eliza ducked her head. She loved to sing, but she wasn't sure it was right to be proud of something the Lord had given her.

“Come round to the kitchen after. My mama's made shortbread.”

“I will,” Eliza beamed. Working for Miss Charlotte meant treats from the kitchen. Sadie's mother was one of the finest bakers in town.

Eliza's work let her see through the wide window into the grand house. She watched Sadie and the other house slaves polishing Miss Charlotte's prized wood furniture and sweeping the floors. They were chatting and laughing. Their work looked easy. Eliza glanced down at her hands, raw and chapped from the wet laundry. Ma always talked about being free like it would solve all the family's problems, but so far as Eliza could tell, freedom meant more work and less food.
Look at Celia
, she thought. Freedom hadn't helped her at all—she had to steal to eat. But Sadie, a slave, was plump and had a soft life. Sadie didn't have to worry about slave catchers kidnapping her off the street. If you were properly owned, you were protected.

Eliza gave herself a sharp shake; Ma would be furious
if she ever heard her say such things.

Her mind on other matters, she didn't notice when her hand slid along the sharp wire. A thin red line appeared. She stared at her palm, wondering why it didn't hurt. Then the pain arrived. “Ow!” she cried.