Freedom Bound Page 6

  “Mrs. Perkins says she’ll keep the baby for an hour. That will give us time to talk. Where shall we go?” She looked around. The street was full of wagons, horses and pedestrians. “There must be someplace quiet.”

  “St. Michael’s Church.”

  “We’d disturb people who go there to pray.”

  “I meant the burial ground. It’s quiet, and we wouldn’t disturb the folks resting there.”

  “I reckon not. They’re beyond caring.”

  A few minutes’ walk brought them to the corner of Meeting Street and Broad Street. Elijah unlatched the iron gate to St. Michael’s burial ground. Within the brick walls, stone and wooden markers were ranged in rows. Charlotte and Elijah stopped beside a gravestone whose incised letters told them that Eleazor Thomas, his wife Matilda and their eight children were now released from the cares of this world.

  Elijah stood with one hand on the gravestone, regarding her from under the brim of his forage cap. The whites of his eyes were veined with red. He didn’t sleep last night, she thought. There was a nick on his chin, showing that he had recently shaved, and it reminded her that he was no longer a boy, but a young man sixteen years old.

  On their families’ long trek north from the Mohawk Valley to Carleton Island, Elijah had been a partial replacement for the brothers she had lost. Like them, he became a soldier; at thirteen he put on the uniform of the Royal Greens.

  She spoke softly. “What is the problem, Elijah?”

  He kept his eyes on hers. “It began with our defeat at the Battle of Kings Mountain.” He spoke firmly, as if he had rehearsed what he planned to say. “That’s when I realized that we were bound to lose the war. The more I thought about it, the more I questioned why more men should throw away their lives. I went north to Carleton Island, hoping the army would keep me there as a member of the Fort Haldimand garrison. I thought that if I could just wait out the rest of the war, everything would be fine.

  “But they sent me back down south. I’ve been in Charleston a month, and in three days my regiment is off to the backcountry to defend Fort Ninety-Six. But I can’t do it. I’ve had enough.”

  “You’re a soldier. You’ve been in battle before.”

  He did not seem to hear her.

  “There was one other man in barracks, Sergeant Malcolm, who felt the same way I did. We didn’t talk much, he being higher in rank. Even if we’d been equal, there are things soldiers don’t talk about. He was a sharpshooter, too. One day he said to me, ‘At the beginning of the war, I saw a target whenever I took aim. Now I see a man.’ The day after he told me that, he deserted. They captured him heading west into Cherokee country and brought him back.

  “After the court martial, we blindfolded him and made him drop to his knees. Then we shot him. We shot him four times before he was dead.” Elijah looked away. “I’d rather be shot myself than take part in another execution.”

  “What can you do?”

  “The same as Sergeant Malcolm did. Just hope for a better outcome. I know a place to hide, an abandoned cabin. I found it by accident while reconnoitring before the siege. It’s in the swamp about ten miles northwest of Charleston.”

  “Whoever would be so foolish as to build a cabin in a swamp?”

  “A newcomer who knew no better. In summer, the flood plain is solid ground. It would look like a good place to clear land for a farm. The settler couldn’t have known what happens in late winter, when the creeks overflow their banks. When I saw the cabin—that was in April—it was a foot deep in black water. But there’s a loft you can reach by a ladder. That’s where I plan to hide. The fighting can’t last much longer. General Cornwallis will have to give up.”

  “Elijah, what makes you think nobody will look for you there?”

  “I doubt anyone knows about the cabin. It’s hidden by trees. From the look of the place, nobody’s been there for years. The swamp is crawling with alligators.”

  “You say it’s just ten miles from Charleston. Wouldn’t you be safer farther away?”

  “Southern Command has better things to do than send a platoon to search for one runaway private. If the war ends soon, there be no more need to hide. If it doesn’t, I’ll move on.”

  “How will you live while you wait?”

  “I’ll stuff my cartridge cases with hardtack biscuits. In the swamp, I can set snares. On the ridges there are deer and turkeys. I’ll have plenty of time to fashion a bow and some arrows.”

  “I’ll never forget how you learned to hunt with a bow and arrow.”

  “Nor shall I.”

  “It was after we left the Mohawk Valley, when we were camped beside Oneida Lake. I was watching when that young warrior, Okwaho, tied a dead squirrel high up in a pine tree. He made you shoot and shoot until finally you hit it.”

  “And then he took me deer hunting.” Elijah smiled. “I haven’t used a bow and arrow for three years. I reckon I still can . . . after a bit of practice.”

  “When will you leave?” Charlotte asked.

  “Tonight.”

  “That soon?” She saw that there was no way she could dissuade him. All he had needed from her was a listening ear. “People who care about you should be able to find you.”

  “Who cares about me?”

  She laid her hand upon his arm. “I do. You and I have been friends for a long time.”

  “Through thick and thin.” He nodded. “All right. I’ll tell you as best I can. Follow the broad way north out of Charleston. The first three roads branch to the left, then there’s one to the right. That’s the road to take. It skirts the swamp. There are plenty of trails leading in. I can’t be clearer than that.”

  She withdrew her hand. “Unless there’s an urgent reason, I won’t tell a soul.”

  They left the graveyard together. He went into the church instead of walking back along Meeting Street with her.

  A long, hard road lies ahead for him, she thought. Who knows what he’ll find at the end?

  Chapter 11

  AS THE DAY WORE ON, a feeling of dread settled over Charlotte. She feared for Elijah’s safety, because it seemed likely that if soldiers on his own side did not capture him, then the rebels would. She feared for him in other ways as well. Even if he reached the abandoned cabin, an alligator-infested swamp was not a good place to spend months alone in hiding. In such a situation, his melancholy might deepen to despair.

  Her fears for Elijah spread like a contagion. For three years she had tried not to worry about Nick, telling herself over and over how resourceful he was, how skilled in the wilderness, how clever at avoiding capture. But by the end of that one day, her powers of self-persuasion had drained away.

  That night, lying on her cot in the kitchen, she fretted and stewed, counting the days until the end of February, struggling to remember the exact words of Nick’s letter. She could expect him before the end of February, couldn’t she? How much before?

  Maybe Mrs. Knightly had news of him. Perhaps there was even a letter from Nick waiting for her at the officers’ quarters. Charlotte had been in Charleston for nearly a week. It was time to find out. She would do it tomorrow. In between picking up the day’s load of dirty clothes and taking Noah for his second feeding, there would be enough time.

  Having made up her mind, she was at last able to sleep.

  The next afternoon she took her new gown and bonnet and a white lawn kerchief from her trunk. It was fine for an old friend like Elijah to see her wearing shabby old clothes, but for a visit to the officers’ quarters she must look like a lady. She dressed carefully, knotting the kerchief on her bosom. Finally she put on the handsome blue cloak that she had bought in Quebec before embarking for Charleston.

  There was no looking glass in the house, for Mrs. Doughty would never have owned such an aid to vanity. But Charlotte knew that this afternoon no one would think she was the poor white helper of a washerwoman.

  When she arrived at the officers’ quarters, Mrs. Knightly greeted her with smiles and the t
iniest dip of a curtsey, which Charlotte returned.

  Today Mrs. Knightly wore green silk, and a cap trimmed with fine lace. “Well, I declare!” she said. “You’re just in time for afternoon tea.”

  She and Charlotte sat down on the upholstered settee in the common room and waited for a slave to bring their refreshments.

  “I hoped there might be news about Nick,” Charlotte began.

  “Alas. There’s nothing about him or from him. But I’m so glad you dropped by. I’ve been worried about you ever since Posy told me that a cutpurse robbed you of your pocket. Why, that’s terrible! Was there much money in it?”

  “Every penny I owned.”

  “I ought to have done something to help you, but lately I’ve been so terribly busy.” As she raised her hand to her brow, the emerald on her slender finger flashed green fire. “To think what a pickle my husband has landed you in!”

  “Colonel Knightly can hardly be blamed for the loss of my pocket.”

  “Oh, but I’ve heard what happened after that. My husband should not have sent you to lodge with somebody who keeps a cellar full of escaped slaves. Everybody’s talking about it. I declare, from now on you won’t find many of us offering that Quaker woman a helping hand.”

  “She’s a good person,” Charlotte said firmly, “and now she has the slave girl’s baby as well as her own children to support.”

  “Well, she ought to send that baby right back to the people who own him.”

  “They don’t want him.” Charlotte wondered if Mrs. Knightly was aware of who the baby’s father was, but decided not to pursue that subject.

  At that moment, the tea arrived, borne on a silver tray by a black woman. Charlotte wondered what she thought of this conversation, for she must have heard the last few words. Her expression revealed nothing.

  The nut bread was delicious, and the little iced cakes were the sweetest Charlotte had tasted in a long time. She felt uncomfortable to be waited on by a slave—but not uncomfortable enough to turn down a second slice of nut bread and another cake.

  Mrs. Knightly had no news about the progress of the war. It was her practice, she said, to ignore military matters. At the moment, she was busy organizing a ball. The best of Charleston society would be invited. If some of her guests were rebel sympathizers, she was prepared to look the other way.

  Charlotte’s attention wandered while Mrs. Knightly was describing her new ball gown. As soon as they had finished their tea, she politely took her leave.

  “Do drop in any time.” Mrs. Knightly clasped Charlotte’s hand as she bade her goodbye. “Who knows when a message might arrive from the backcountry?”

  “Thank you. I shall.”

  Maybe next week there’d be a message, Charlotte thought as she stepped outside into the fresh breeze blowing from the harbour. She felt as if she had made an escape. Although Mrs. Knightly had been most cordial, Charlotte was not at ease in the elegant surroundings of the officers’ quarters. Thinking it over, she wasn’t sorry that Nick’s room had been reassigned to someone else. Despite its drabness, she preferred the simplicity of Mrs. Doughty’s modest home.

  She walked down the brick pathway to the gate and had just put her hand upon the latch, when through the wrought-iron grille she saw a hand reach for the latch on the street side. It was a large hand with bony knuckles. It was a masculine hand that she knew very well.

  Charlotte raised her eyes, and there stood Nick. He was smiling at her through the gate. He took off his tricorn hat, and his fair hair shone like gold in the afternoon sun.

  For a moment she stood blinking in a dazed sort of way, too astonished to utter a word. Letting go of the latch, she took a few steps back to let him swing the gate open and come through.

  “I’m back.” Restoring his hat to his head, he held out his arms.

  “I didn’t expect . . .” she babbled.

  “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  Then joy beyond expression welled up within her. They hugged and kissed and hugged some more. Leaning into him, she felt his heart beating. Then he released her and held her by the shoulders, beaming at her as if she were the most beautiful girl in the world. At that moment, she knew she was.

  She wanted to say, “I love you.” But her throat closed up. She felt tears well in her eyes. Then, as if a dam had burst, the tears flowed, rolling down her cheeks. But though she was crying, she was laughing too, and suddenly floating in a warm cloud of happiness.

  At that moment the bells of St. Michael’s Church began to chime most joyously. And though she knew that they were merely announcing that it was four o’clock, she felt in her heart that they were ringing for her and Nick.

  Chapter 12

  “I RETURNED ONLY an hour ago,” Nick said after the sound of the bells had faded. “As soon as I’d made my report to Headquarters, I hastened here.” His arm was about her shoulders as he steered her toward the door, clearly intending to take her back into the house she had just left. “For weeks I worried about you, thinking of your ship arriving and you finding me gone. But I’ve just been talking with Ralph Braemar, and he assures me that he met you, brought you here, and delivered my letter.”

  “He did. Captain Braemar was a great help.”

  “And you’ve made yourself at home. God be thanked that you found a warm welcome.”

  She stopped, turned to face him.

  “Nick, I’m not living here.”

  “You don’t live here?” His face looked blank.

  “After you left for the backcountry, they gave your room to somebody else and put your things in storage.”

  “But Ralph told me . . .”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I lodge with the widow Doughty, in Stoll’s Alley. And I have to go there right now.”

  The bells that had rung so joyously only a minute earlier also reminded her that it would soon be time for Noah’s feeding.

  Nick showed no sign of moving from where he stood.

  “Mrs. Doughty? I know her. I went to Quaker meetings a few times.”

  “She told me. But now I really must go back. I can tell you everything on our way.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “I have to take a baby to his wet nurse.”

  “You what?”

  “I’m not the only homeless person Mrs. Doughty has taken in. When I arrived, she was already hiding a runaway slave girl with a baby.”

  “It sounds as though she’s carrying on her husband’s work.”

  “Those were the very words she used when I first came to her home. ‘I carry on my husband’s work,’ she said. I didn’t know then what she meant.”

  “Brave woman—after what happened to him.”

  “She doesn’t seem to worry about danger. Putting food on the table is her main concern. She takes in laundry, and I do the fetching and carrying for her. It’s also my task to take the baby to his wet nurse twice a day.”

  “Can’t his mother provide milk for him?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “She’s gone. Slave catchers caught her but left the baby.”

  “A great deal seems to have happened,” Nick said, “since I left.”

  Charlotte placed her hand in the crook of his arm, and they set off.

  They found Mrs. Doughty sitting in the front room with the baby on her lap. Patience, Charity and Joseph were playing on the rag rug with painted wooden animals: a pig, a cow, a horse.

  Mrs. Doughty gave a gasp when she saw Nick, and then she smiled. “I prayed for thy safe return, but did not expect so quick an answer to my prayers.”

  “Nor did I expect to return so soon.”

  Charlotte sat down on the wooden settle, where Nick joined her. He took his seat awkwardly, his big frame seeming too large for the small room. Patience and Charity stopped playing and stared at him. Joseph crept to Mrs. Doughty’s side and leaned against her knee.

  “Thank you for your prayers,” Nick said, “and for
taking Charlotte into your home. Now I must beg you to make room for me while I try to find lodgings where we can be together.”

  “Thee is welcome here for as long as thee remains in Charleston, for I doubt thee can find any other place to lodge.”

  “I know that all too well. Before I was sent to the backcountry, my work was to help Loyalist refugees. The Civilian Department tries to find shelter for the homeless—the sort of help that the Society of Friends provides for its members . . . and for others.” He paused, looking at the baby.

  Noah whimpered.

  “He’s hungry,” said Charlotte.

  “I found him a wet nurse,” said Mrs. Doughty, “but he isn’t getting enough milk.”

  The whimper became a wail. Noah’s tiny fist waved in the air.

  “He’s trying to put his fingers in his mouth,” Charlotte said. “He does that when he’s desperate.” She stood up and lifted the baby from Mrs. Doughty’s lap. “I’ll take him to Friend Perkins now.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Nick.

  Noah gave a mighty howl.

  “His lungs are big enough,” Nick observed.

  “He’ll stop crying as soon as we’re walking,” said Charlotte. “Whenever I take him outside, he knows he’ll soon be fed.”

  As Charlotte promised, Noah’s crying ceased almost as soon as they were out the door. “He needs his mother,” Charlotte said. “But I don’t think he’ll ever see her again.”

  “How did Mrs. Doughty happen to take them in? Was it something the Quakers arranged?”

  “No. The girl—her name is Phoebe—lived with the Doughtys for eight months a couple of years ago.”

  “She must be the girl that Mrs. Doughty taught to read and write.”

  “The very same. She belongs to Lewis Morley. He’s the baby’s father.” Charlotte kept her voice very matter-of-fact.

  “Ah. One of those situations.”

  “Phoebe knew that Mrs. Morley wanted the baby out of the house. She decided to escape with him before he was taken from her. She asked her friend Jammy, the stable groom, to help her. They ran away together, with the baby. Jammy hasn’t yet been captured. But Phoebe was caught. She’s to be sold at next week’s slave auction. It’s a hopeless situation.”