Stealing Freedom (17 page)

The rest of her time she spent looking through the peephole, watching the street outside with its lazy procession of people, horses and carriages, sheep, goats, chickens, and cows. They were near the corner of Seventh and E streets, Mr. Bigelow said, just a few blocks away from Pennsylvania Avenue, where President Pierce lived in the White House.

How strange, she thought, to be free and yet to be a prisoner. She would gladly have made herself busy with washing and cooking and sweeping. Anything would be better than this boredom.

One evening, during a talk with Mr. Bigelow, while he stood on the second rung of the ladder and she rested her chin on her hands at the edge of the trapdoor, she looked into the living room at the walls lined with bookshelves. The books were fat and black, some with gold lettering on their spines.

“What are all of those books about?” she asked.

“Ah. Those are my law books. They are there to give off a musty odor and convince all my visitors that I am, indeed, a very educated man.”

“There must be a lot of laws to fill so many books,” she said.

Mr. Bigelow gazed at his library and scratched a sideburn.
“Strange, isn't it? I am a man of the law, and yet, by the law, I am a criminal and deserve to be thrown in prison.”

They were both silent for a time.

“Well, enough lamenting for me. It's time for bed,” said Mr. Bigelow, and turned to step off the ladder.

“Wait,” said Ann urgently. She didn't think she could stand another day of staring alternately at the ceiling and out the peephole. “Your books—might I borrow one to read?”

“Why, my dear child, I had no idea you could read!” he said, astonished. “But those books…” He looked at the long black rows. “They're no more interesting than watching ice melt.” He gave a perplexed sigh, then suddenly brightened. He marched over to a low corner shelf and pulled out a small red book. He blew dust off it and brought it back to her. “I saved this from when I was a boy, in case I ever had a son of my own.”

Ann held the book and read the title embossed in silver on the front cover:
Robinson Crusoe.

“It's really a story for boys, but it's the best I can offer,” said Mr. Bigelow.

Ann turned the book over in her hands, feeling the smoothness and coolness of it. Mr. Bigelow must have seen the look of excitement and longing on her face, because he said, “I suppose now you'll want a candle.”

“Oh, could I?” She could scarcely believe her good fortune.

He gave her a very short, stubby candle. “This is to make sure you get
some
sleep tonight,” he explained.

She thanked him profusely, and gladly retired to her bed. There, by the light of the candle, she opened the book. She ran her hands over the silky pages, then turned to the text and
began: “Chapter 1. I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family….”

She was carried away to the world of a young man's decision to seek adventure on the high seas, a terrible storm, and his narrow escape from a sinking ship. She read until the candle flickered, sputtered, and died. But even in the dark, images of grand ships and raging storms lasted in her mind until they mixed with her dreams.

The peephole gave Ann just enough light for reading. Each day she looked forward to discovering where Robinson Crusoe would find himself. In the evenings she showed Mr. Bigelow the words she hadn't been able to sound out and the parts she couldn't understand, and he helped her with them. When Mr. Crusoe was captured and became a slave of the Turkish ship captain, Ann was perplexed.

“Isn't he a white man?” she asked Mr. Bigelow.

“Yes,” he assured her.

“And he's a slave?”

“My dear,” said Mr. Bigelow, “men have made slaves of each other for thousands of years, and men of every race on earth, and their wives and children, have found themselves under the yoke of slavery.”

Ann was relieved when Crusoe escaped from his master. He traveled to a land filled with dense jungles and wild beasts. Ann and Mr. Bigelow discussed whether or not Crusoe had done the right thing when he shot the great lion, who was simply
sleeping in the shade. Ann thought it was cruel, and that Crusoe should have gone looking for water someplace else and left the poor beast alone.

Whether she approved of Crusoe's actions or not, his story kept her rapt attention. Her hidden room had been transformed into a place of adventure, and she no longer felt like a prisoner in it.

Weeks passed, and by late October, although her runaway notice was still appearing in the papers, Mr. Bigelow said the worst of the furor had died down. He decided it would be safe for her to come down for meals again.

He kept the front door tightly bolted, the heavy curtains drawn, the trapdoor open, and the ladder set up and ready. If there was a knock at the door, Ann was to climb to the attic and stay there until he gave the three-knock signal for her to come down. In the meantime, she was glad to be able to stretch her legs walking around the house, get another bath, and insist on cooking.

One Sunday morning, as she was frying bacon and boiling porridge for a late breakfast, there was a loud knock at the door. She froze and for a moment couldn't move. Then, quickly, she ran to the ladder. Her foot slipped and her shin slammed into one of the rungs. Mr. Bigelow came to hold the ladder steady for her. “Stay calm,” he said softly, “and
quiet.
“

Shaking, she climbed up, then fitted the boards into place. She heard Mr. Bigelow slide the ladder into the closet.

The front door opened, and she heard muffled voices from outside. The voices moved inside and she heard them more clearly.

“We're mighty glad things have settled down—you know—and that we could come,” she heard a man say. As soon as she heard the voice, she wanted to cry and shout and jump all at once. But she held her breath and waited for the three knocks from Mr. Bigelow. A baby cooed. The three knocks sounded. Ann flung open the trapdoor and without even waiting for the ladder, swung down through the hole and landed on the floor like a sack of flour.

“Papa!” She jumped into her father's arms.

Her father squeezed her tightly. “There's my baby girl,” he said softly, caressing her hair with one large, rough hand. She clung to him until he said, “Your mamma's here too.”

Ann let him go and reached for her mother. She let herself be folded into the softness of her mother's arms, breasts, and belly. She choked on tears, then let them flow as if she were a small child again. “It's all right,” her mother said, rocking her gently. “You're with us now.”

Ann lifted her head and caught a watery glimpse of Catharine with a child on her hip. She stretched out her arms to include both of them in an embrace. “My new brother!” she exclaimed. She laughed through her tears as the baby caught a clump of her hair and gave it a yank. “Ow!” she cried. “He's strong, like his daddy.”

Mr. Bigelow brought Ann a clean handkerchief and ushered them all into the sitting room. First they just wanted to look at one another—all dressed in freedmen's clothes of smooth cotton and rough wool. Catharine's face had grown round, and Ann noticed that in the time they'd been there her sister hadn't coughed once. Her father had more gray hair peppered
in with the black, and her mother's waistline had quite expanded since the last time Ann had seen her.

Ann tapped on her mother's large middle. “That John Junior must have been a big one,” she teased.

“He was not.” Arabella lifted her chin proudly. “It's a new one. Due to arrive this winter.”

Ann's eyes grew wide. Another baby brother or sister! She touched her mother's belly again, this time with awe, then felt a twinge of sadness as she realized she would probably never even see the child.

They talked about Catharine's school, and how Arabella was attending a freedmen's school in the evenings to learn to read and write. Ann proudly shared with them her own ability to read and write.

“You can write to us when you get to Canada!” Catharine declared.

But Ann didn't want to think about Canada now; she just wanted this day with her family to go on forever. She was thankful when her father changed the subject. “We've brought one of Arabella's famous apple pies, so let's eat.”

The bacon and porridge had long since burned. Mr. Bigelow threw them out the back door, and they started over with fresh bacon and potatoes to fry. John Junior sat on his mother's lap to eat, stuffing potatoes into his mouth with tiny fists.

The light coming through the heavy curtains became brighter with the afternoon, then began to fade as the day slipped away. They talked about Joseph, Addison, and Augustus, and how they were still trying to locate them. Ann wondered what her brothers were doing on this Sabbath—if they'd
found new people to fish with and go to church with. She hoped they weren't too lonely or mistreated.

“We'll find them,” her father said, gazing at the curtains as if he could see through them. “I feel it in my bones.”

Even though Ann wished it wouldn't, the conversation drifted back to talk of Canada. Her parents spoke in encouraging tones of Aunt Mimi and Uncle William. Of course, no one dared write to tell them of her coming; she was far from safe, and a letter could be intercepted. But her parents had heard more news: The Bradleys had had another child, a son. And her uncle had been able to buy land, and they had built a small house on their homestead.

“Just like he always dreamed of!” Ann breathed.

Her father nodded. “And they'll be happier than pigs in mud to have you come live with them.”

“You'll be able to meet our new cousins, Ann,” said Catharine.

The talk about her aunt and uncle should have made her feel hopeful, Ann knew, but it only made her feel how far away her parents, brothers, and sister would be. Mr. Bigelow must have seen the look in her eyes, because he interrupted: “But we won't be sending her on for a while yet. We want Mr. Price to give up searching before we risk all that travel.”

Finally, sadly, it was time for her family to leave.

“They ring those firehouse bells at nine,” said her father, “and Negroes and children have one hour to get themselves indoors or the constable comes after you.”

Ann was stunned. Even in Unity, when they were slaves, no one had insisted they be indoors by ten.

“City laws,” Catharine explained.

“If all remains quiet, we'll see you here again next Sunday, then?” Mr. Bigelow asked.

“A mountain of snow couldn't keep me from visiting my baby girl,” said her father.

They hugged each other tightly, just in case worse things than snow happened before the next Sabbath.

The next few Sundays brought joy-filled visits for Ann with her family. She baked real bread and stewed a chicken for them, to show how she'd learned to cook since they'd seen her last. John Junior, who hadn't paid much attention to her on his first visit, took to crawling up on her lap and trying to eat the buttons off the front of her dress. And no one mentioned Canada. It was as if they had all decided secretly to pretend that these Sunday visits would go on forever. And that was the way it felt.

One Monday evening Ann rested on her mat in her hiding place, imagining a life for herself in Washington City: how she would go to school with Catharine and help her mother with John Junior and the new baby when it arrived; how she would be here to welcome her brothers when they came home to freedom. The sound of the front door opening, and then the familiar three knocks, pulled her back to reality.

“Miss Ann Maria, please come down,” said Mr. Bigelow Ann roused herself from her dreamy state and lifted the ceiling boards.

“I need to move you to a new hiding place,” said Mr. Bigelow.

Ann's stomach twisted. She'd grown so used to her life in the tiny room, with her reading and daydreaming, and Sundays with her family. She'd all but blocked out of her mind that soon things would change. She climbed down the ladder and smoothed the front of her dress.

“Where am I going?” she asked.

“Remember what I said about how I don't hire any servants because of the risk?” Mr. Bigelow asked. His spectacles had slipped down a bit, and his eyes looked huge behind them.

She nodded.

“I've changed my mind,” he said, fumbling with the package he was holding.

Ann gave him a quizzical look. He had a strange hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Here are some new clothes for you,” he said. He pushed his spectacles back up.

“But I love the dress Catharine gave me, I—”

“Just take a look.” That corner of a smile was beginning to twitch and look as if it were about to break out over his whole mouth.

Ann took the package from him and laid back the brown paper. Inside she found new clothes—brand-new clothes.

She fingered the crisp fabric of a starched white shirt. The newness was exciting, but the colors were disappointing. Along with the white shirt was a black wool jacket with big brass buttons. There were black leather gloves and a brand-new pair of shiny black shoes with brass buckles. At the bottom of the package,
she picked up what she expected would be the black wool skirt to go with the jacket. Instead, she found herself holding a pair of
britches.

By now Mr. Bigelow was grinning. “And here's the hat.” On her head he placed a carriage boy's black hat with a brim.

She wanted to tell him she was thoroughly enjoying the boy's book he'd loaned her, but saw no need to also dress like a boy.

“But—” she began.

“This is your new hiding place,” Mr. Bigelow said simply.

Ann gaped at the clothes she held.

“Quickly, go change and we'll work on the rest of your disguise.”

Ann climbed back into her old hiding place. Slowly, she took off the dress Catharine had given her and replaced it with the britches, black stockings, white shirt, and black jacket. She even put on the shiny new shoes. How strange, she thought— now she had two pairs of shoes, and she didn't want to wear either one of them. She climbed down the ladder, feeling very foolish and awkward.

“Very good,” said Mr. Bigelow. “Now let's see how you walk.”