Chains (28 page)

The sun rose bright the next day, catching in the icicles that hung from the eaves and jumping off the snow like a mirror. The linens pegged out on the line were froze stiff as wood and covered in a lacework of ice. The clouds scuttled away and the sun blazed, turning the yard into a garden of jewels.

Ruth would love this. If we were free and at home in Rhode Island and these were our sheets and our laundry lines and our snow, she'd dance like an angel.

The pictures in my brainpan caught me by surprise. I could not clear them away. She'd clap her hands at the sight of the frozen laundry, she'd twirl in the spinning swirls of snow that lifted in the breeze, she'd plunge her hands into the bushes to pluck off the diamonds. She would do all these things and laugh and …

The wind tossed a handful of snow in my face and washed it all away.

Ruth would not see this. Never.

I dried my face. Why was I thinking of Ruth? I'd worked hard to pack her away from my mind, along with the thoughts of Momma and Poppa and the life Ruth and I were promised. Didn't help to ponder things that were forever
gone. It only made a body restless and fill up with bees all wanting to sting something.

I kicked at the new snow. It rose up, a sparkling diamond breeze fit for a queen.

'Twas Lady Seymour who did it. Her with her begging forgiveness for not buying me and telling me I'd have been a good slave for her. Her with her wet eyes and skeleton hands. Did she never think about setting me free? That would be a fine question to ask. 'Course, there was no sense to asking it because her mouth didn't work anymore.

I carried the big laundry basket out to the sheets. I'd have to hang them in the kitchen else they wouldn't dry till spring.

Another picture hung itself in my mind, the poetry book in the stationer's shop. The one I'd been afraid to read. Miss Phillis Wheatley went free when her master released her. 'Twas on account of her fame, Momma said. Master Wheatley looked the fool for keeping a poetical genius enslaved in his household.

I'd heard of other slaves who bought their freedom, folks who were given their Sunday afternoons to work for themselves, who saved their pennies and farthings for years and years until they had piled up the hundred and fifty or two hundred pounds to buy their body and soul from their master. If I had Sunday afternoons free, I'd figure a way to earn my pennies. I could sew or hire out to scrub stables. I'd even clean the cells of the Bridewell, like that guard asked.

I took a long stick from the pile of kindling wood.

It would never happen. Madam would not allow it.

She was set on keeping my arms and legs dancing to her tune and my soul bound in her chains.

I pulled the stick back and cracked it against the side of the frozen bed linen. The ice shattered and fell to the ground, tinkling like pieces of falling stars.

WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT,
THAT ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL, THAT THEY
ARE ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR WITH CERTAIN
UNALIENABLE RIGHTS, THAT AMONG THESE ARE LIFE,
LIBERTY AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
–DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE OF
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Doctor Dastuge visited Lady Seymour each morning and eve. She could nod her head yes and shake it no to his questions; yes, she knew who she was; no, she had no sensation in her feet nor her hands. She could barely chew milk-soaked bread and sip broth. Her mind had not gone soft, tho'. Her eyes blazed bright in her skull and followed me as I moved around the room, and when the doctor and Madam talked, she listened in right close. Plainly said, she was as much a prisoner in her broken body as Curzon was in his cell.

Madam's seamstress came near as frequent as the doctor. The birthday ball gown had a scarlet red underskirt topped with a short gown of Royal Navy blue, embroidered with gold. The hairdresser and Madam spent hours consulting
prints of fashionable ladies in Paris so that they could design a suitable hairstyle. I was not privy to the details, but I heard Madam talking about jewels made of paste that would sit in her curls. She also wanted a small British flag to fly atop her locks, but the hairdresser talked her out of it.

Hannah and Mary talked about the ball every waking minute. I'm sure even the Queen herself would have grown tired of hearing about it. At noon, the guns at the Battery, which the British had taken to calling Fort George, would fire a royal salute. An hour later, the warships in the harbor would blast a response. At six o'clock, the guests would arrive at the ball, with trumpets playing and drums beating a welcome. The dancing would last until midnight, when the fireworks would explode over the harbor. After that, the banquet would begin.

There was no way under heaven that Madam would survive six hours of dancing without having something to eat.

I finished reading
Common Sense
the night before the ball. The bookseller was right; the words were dangerous, every one of them. I ought throw it in the fire but could not bring myself to do it. Mr. Paine knew how to stir up the pot; he went right after the King and attacked the crown on his head.

I laid down one long road of a sentence in my remembery: “For all men being originally equals, no one by birth could have a right to set up his own family in perpetual preference to all others for ever.” Way I saw it, Mr. Paine was saying all people were the same, that no one deserved a crown or was born to be higher than another. That's why America could make its own freedom.

'Twas a wonder the book did not explode into flames in my hands.

I buried it back in its hidey-hole and laid myself down to sleep.

My eyes would not close. My thoughts were churned up like muddy water, with dangerous eels thrashing through it.

If an entire nation could seek its freedom, why not a girl? And if a girl was to seek her freedom, how could she do such a fool-headed thing? Especially a girl trapped in New York? Best thing would be to break into the desk of a British commander, steal a pass and forge her name and his name on it, and act free.

And pigs were likely to fly, too.

Plus, that girl seeking freedom would have to walk.

She could walk the mile from Wall Street to the north edge of the city. But then she'd run into the guards stationed there. She'd have to sneak past them and not get shot. Then she'd have eleven miles of running to the north edge of the island. If she took the Greenwich Road or the Post Road, she'd likely be captured by one in need of a slave or in need of the reward paid for a healthy runaway. If she stuck to the woods that ran up the center of the island, she could be et by a bear or drowned in a swamp. If angels guided her safe through the woods and she made the north edge, she'd have to get past the guards watching over King's Bridge, where New York Island touched the rest of America.

I rolled over, my back to the fire. That girl could more likely grab hold of the feet of a passing crow and bid him fly her to safety. Better yet, sprout her own wings.

The only path left was across the water. A girl like that could not swim and did not own a boat, not to mention the river currents were fast and the crossing would be noted
by someone who would raise a ruckus and then the soldiers would line up like a firing squad and shoot that girl dead in the water. They wouldn't even bury her proper, just let the water take the boat and the body and both would be consumed by sea monsters.

I fell asleep cursing them that planted the city of New York on an island.

My dawn visits up the Commons had become the most ordinary of errands. Madam never woke early enough to note my absence, and the soldierwives were so grateful to avoid the chore, they never told. Curzon had grown terrible thin and was still feverish, but his leg had healed up, and he greeted me at the window every day. After I left the prison, I'd fetch the water and head back to Wall Street, passing by the Golden Hill Tavern in case Captain Morse needed me, which he never, ever did.

So when the captain signaled me from the tavern porch the next morning, I was surprised. I had not seen him for weeks, not since the news of the rebel victory at Trenton.

“Good day, Just Sal,” he said with a sleepy smile. “How do you fare?”

“Good enough, sir,” I said. “Is something amiss?”

He winced and pulled his coat tighter. “Nothing grave, no news of battle or a prisoner exchange.”

I waited while he sought the words.

“I'm in need of a favor,” he finally said. “It's of no worldly import, but it is a matter of honor for me.”

“Sir?”

“I must repay a debt, Just Sal. I wagered Captain William Farrar that the British would not dare hold this ridiculous
birthday celebration. It's a slap in the face to the people who are starving.”

“Yes, sir.”

He frowned and kicked at a stone poking up from the half-frozen mud. “But I'm proven wrong, aren't I? Thousands of pounds are being wasted and so I owe my friend, Captain Farrar, a penny. A gentleman always pays his debts promptly, be they large or small.”

I was confuddled. “And you want that I should …”

He threw up his hands in frustration. “The British have confined all American officers to their lodging houses today.”

“Why?”

“They fear we might mount an insurrection while they are dancing minuets and gorging on stuffed goose. They have a point; the ball would provide the perfect cover for a surprise attack if Washington were nearby. So I am prevented from making good on my bet to William, and he is prevented from coming round to collect his due. 'Tis a small matter of honor, to be sure, but when in reduced circumstances, these things take on greater weight, don't you think?”

Still confuddled, I nodded my head. “Yes, sir.”

“Good! Then you'll do it!”

“Do what?”

“Take the penny to William with my salutations. It will give him a good laugh. He lives on Chapel Street, a house with red shutters on the corner of Warren. Say you'll do it for me, Just Sal, and the next penny I earn goes into your pocket, upon my word.”

Madam would be wig-deep in preparations for the ball all day. The soldierwives would too, for they belonged to the army of servants who would work at the birthday dinner. Lady Seymour required only a warm fire and occasional
help with the teacup. A walk up to Warren Street on a sunny day such as this would be most welcome.

“Happy to help, Captain,” I said.

The roar of cannon shook the kitchen just after midday and made me near jump out of my skin. I dropped the turnip I was peeling and it rolled across the floor.

“What was that?” I asked, clutching the table. “Are we under attack?”

Hannah laughed and used the poker to push the logs to the back of the hearth. “No, you goose. That's the royal salute for Her Majesty.”

Mary pressed the hot iron against the apron on the table. “Do you figure they might need us early?”

“The major said five o'clock,” Hannah said. “Gives us time to finish up here.”

“Will you get to see the dancing?” I asked.

“Nah,” Mary said. “They'll be too busy running us ragged setting up the dinner. But they've promised to feed us good.” She picked up the apron and studied it for wrinkles. “I wish my mother could see this; me, serving at a Queen's Birthday Ball.”

“Too bad your mother is on the other side of the globe with Her Majesty,” Hannah said.

“They'll both be tragical late to the party.” Mary giggled.

Madam sent a note to her friend Jane Drinkwater, who agreed to bring her collection of necklaces and the latest gossip to tea. The news caused Madam to send the soldierwives
pawing through the attic for a gown she had not worn yet this year. Hannah sent me to fetch more water, which I did with great pleasure and a short detour.

The houses on Warren Street were a mix; some were modest, two or three were rather grand, with arches over the windows and fancy boot scrapers by the front door. The trees and fences in the neighborhood had all been cut down for firewood. It made the corner of Warren and Chapel looked underdressed.

I went round the back of the house with the red shutters, knocked on the door, and explained my errand to a maid, who fetched Captain Farrar for me, a horse-faced man with an easy laugh.

“Good Captain Morse is indeed a gentleman,” he said as I presented him with the coin. “And you're the girl who carries messages to his men in Bridewell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My lads are locked up in the old sugarhouse,” he said, his smile fading. “The ones still alive.” He stood there caught up in silence and his own thoughts.

I tried to think of a polite way to take my leave but could not find the proper words. The breeze came from the south and carried a salt tang with it. Although snow lay about and everyone was wrapped deep in their clothing, the appearance of the clouds made a body know deep down that spring was stirring.

“Yes, sir,” I finally said. “Begging pardon, but I must be on my way.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, his eyes still distant.

I walked down the path to Warren Street and stopped
when I heard him call me. “Sal, wait there a moment!”

I stood a while longer, watching the clouds and scolding myself for mixing in with the affairs of gentlemen and their honor. Several carriages containing bundled-up ladies and serious-looking officers passed along the street, pulled by shaggy-coated horses. Most folks took no more notice of me than they would a cartman selling oysters or a vagabond from Canvastown.

Just as I set my mind to leave, Captain Farrar came back out. “Give this to Morse, please,” he said as he handed me the note. “He'll know what to do.”

I studied the folded paper and made bold. “Another wager, sir?”

Another carriage passed on the street, the horses clip-clopping slow.