Freedom Bound (14 page)

THEY WALKED HAND-IN-HAND
to Stoll's Alley through the
quiet streets. At the front door, Charlotte took her house key
from her satchel. They tiptoed inside, not wanting to waken
the household.

Nick struck a spark with his flint and steel to make a fire
in the front room fireplace. Charlotte lit a candle. By its light
Nick read the bill of lading. He read both front and back.

“It seems that Lewis Morley isn't the upstanding citizen
everyone thought him.”

“I never thought he was upstanding. Look how treated
Phoebe. How upstanding was that?”

“It's his public reputation, not his private morals that I'm
talking about. Everyone thinks he's a loyal subject of King
George.” Nick tapped the bill of lading with his finger.
“Don't say a word about this to anyone.”

“Not to Phoebe? Not to Jammy?”

“Not to anyone. In the morning I'll show this paper to
Southern Command.”

“When you've done that, may I tell Phoebe and Jammy.”

“No, my dear. There must be absolute secrecy. If word
leaks out, the people involved may simply disappear. They'll
escape before they can be caught. Morley's an important
man. He may not be the only important man to have a hand
in this. We know supply wagons reach General Greene's
army and Francis Marion's swamp dodgers in the interior.
Some wagons go all the way to George Washington's forces
in Virginia.”

“Why doesn't the army intercept them?”

“Southern Command's troops are spread too thin. Besides
that, there are hundreds of rebel sympathizers ready to turn
a blind eye, even when they have an idea what's happening.
Wagons load in the middle of the night. We don't know who
the suppliers or the organizers are.” His finger tapped the
paper again. “This is the only breakthrough there's been.

“First thing tomorrow, as soon as I've bathed and changed
my clothes, I'll visit a locksmith to remove the rest of the
hardware. I mustn't attract attention when I take in this
paper. Even at Southern Command there may be traitors.
There's more than one Benedict Arnold in this world.”

“I know about Benedict Arnold. Everybody despises him,
even though he's on our side.”

“Arnold's not on anybody's side but his own. He's been a
schemer all his life. He schemed to win George Washington's
support to make him Commander of West Point. As soon as
he took command, he started negotiations to hand it over to
the British for twenty thousand pounds.”

“That's a fortune!”

“If the plot had succeeded, he'd be a very wealthy man,
and Britain would be winning the war.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“I am sure. Here's why. In the North, the British commander General Clinton has an army of thousands of soldiers. In the South, General Cornwallis has thousands more.
But they can't function as an effective fighting force as long
as George Washington's troops hold the territory in between.
West Point is a strategic location on the Hudson River. If
England held West Point, Clinton and Cornwallis would be
able to unite their forces in a single campaign.”

“Is Morley as dangerous as Benedict Arnold?”

“There's no telling how dangerous he is. I'm sure he's not
acting alone. What if there's a conspiracy to hand over
Charleston to the rebels?” Nick looked at the bill of lading
again. “This is the most important document I've ever held
in my hands, even during the years I was a courier. Sweetheart, I'll tell Southern Command that you found it. This
makes you some kind of hero.”

“I didn't do anything except pick up a piece of paper,” she
said modestly, though secretly thrilled at the idea of being
recognized as a heroine.

Nick stretched. “I can do nothing until morning. We might
as well get some sleep.”

“I'm too excited to sleep,” Charlotte said as she dragged
their mattresses onto the front room rug. “Can't I just give a
hint that Jammy won't be a hunted man much longer?”

“Not even the smallest hint.” Nick stretched out on his
mattress. “Don't breathe a word of this to anyone.”

At daybreak Noah woke them, crying to be fed.

Charlotte and Nick waited to give Phoebe enough time to
take care of him, and then a little longer until they heard
Mrs. Doughty's footsteps on the stairs.

When Charlotte opened the door to the kitchen, there was
Mrs. Doughty pouring flour into a big, yellow mixing bowl.
Over by the window, Phoebe sat with Noah at her breast.
Phoebe and Mrs. Doughty looked up. Their eyes opened
wide.

Phoebe gave a shriek. “You're back. You found Nick!”

“God be thanked!” There was a tremble in Mrs. Doughty's
voice and a smile on her face. “Nick looks like a man of
mud, and thee's no better.”

“I dredged him from the very depths of the swamp,” said
Charlotte. “Unluckily, it cost me your husband's hat.”

“Do not trouble thee about a hat. I thank the Lord for thy
safe return. We'll eat breakfast, and then set up the bathtub.”

“No breakfast for me,” said Nick. “But I need a bath. It's
important that I report to Headquarters as soon as I can.”

“There's water in the rain barrel for two baths,” said Mrs.
Doughty.

While Nick was fetching the water, Charlotte set up the
tin hipbath and the wicker privacy screen in the kitchen. As
soon as he returned, he disappeared behind the screen with
a full bucket of water, not taking time to warm it over the
fire.

While Nick was taking a bath on one side of the screen
and Mrs. Doughty was cooking grits on the other, Patience,
Charity and Joseph came down the stairs. Now there were
eight people, including the baby, in the small kitchen. They
made so much confusion that there might as well have been
eighteen. Charlotte shepherded the little Doughtys into the
front room.

In a few minutes Phoebe joined them, leaving Noah in his
cradle. As soon as she had shut the door, she asked, “Did you
see Jammy?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Has he been here?”

“No.” She stared hard at Charlotte. “You have seen him,
haven't you?”

“Yes. In the swamp.”

Before Charlotte or Phoebe had a chance to say more,
Nick emerged from the kitchen clean-shaven, his freshly
washed hair tied at the back with a black ribbon bow. He
wore a blue coat and grey breeches with gleaming brass knee
buckles. He would have looked very smart if there hadn't
been a slave collar around his neck and a hand bolt clamping one wrist.

“Apart from the hardware,” said Charlotte, “you look like
a new man.”

When he took a step toward her, she took a step back,
holding out her hands palm forward to fend him off. “Don't
touch me! I'm too dirty!”

He kissed her anyway. “I'm off to the locksmith, and then
straight to Headquarters.”

“The locksmith may mistake you for an escaped convict.”

“He won't. He knows me too well, and he knows I work
for Southern Command. It's part of a locksmith's profession
to be discreet. He won't even ask about the collar and hand
bolt.”

Nick crossed the room to the front door. With his hand
on the latch, he said, “I'll be back as soon as I can, but there's
no telling how long this will take.”

He left her then, shutting the door behind him.

Gone again. It was absurd to fear for his safety every
moment he was out of her sight. But she remembered what
happened the last time they parted. He had said he would
see her “in an hour or two.” And look what happened!

“Miss Charlotte . . .” Phoebe's voice broke in upon her
thoughts. “If Jammy was coming here, I can think of only
one thing that would stop him.” She took a deep breath.
“Slave catchers.”

Charlotte looked away. She could think of one other unattractive possibility. However, Jammy was far more likely to
be captured by slave catchers than eaten by an alligator.

Phoebe's voice trembled. “Mrs. Doughty told me there
was a reward.”

“Yes. It was advertised in the
Royal Gazette
. Twenty
pounds. Payable if Jammy was delivered to the workhouse.”

“Do you think Jammy may be imprisoned in the workhouse?”

“Yes.”

Charlotte's thoughts raced.

Jammy had started out for Charleston three days ago. If
slave catchers caught him, it would have been yesterday,
maybe the day before. How much time normally passed
between capture and execution? How long would it take for
Southern Command to act upon Nick's information? Jammy might be dead before the truth about Lewis Morley's
activities came to light. Much good a General Birch certificate would do him then!

From the kitchen came Mrs. Doughty's voice: “Breakfast
is ready.”

“Phoebe,” Charlotte said calmly, “the first thing to do is to
find Jammy. If he's being held at the workhouse, we must
find a way to get him released.”

“There is no way.” Phoebe began to weep. “You know that.
He's run away three times.”

Charlotte grabbed Phoebe's hands. She wanted to say,
But
there is a way!
Already she realized that this would be the
hardest secret she'd ever had to keep.

“
I'VE NEVER BEEN
inside the workhouse,” Phoebe said, “but
Jammy has. He told me about it. Mr. Morley paid the warden a shilling for his correction. They took him into the
whipping room, where the walls are two-feet thick and filled
with sand to muffle the screaming.” Phoebe's lower lip trembled. “There was a crane, with a pulley. The warden chained
Jammy's feet to bolts in the floor. Men hoisted the crane
until his body was so stretched out he thought he'd be
pulled apart. And then they beat him.”

“I've never been there either,” said Charlotte, “and it's not
a place I want to go. But if Jammy is imprisoned there, the
sooner we know, the better.”

Phoebe wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “If
they've taken Jammy there, I don't know any way you can
free him. The only person who could do that is Mr. Morley.”

“Let's cross that bridge when we come to it,” Charlotte said,
wishing she could at least hint that Mr. Morley would soon
lose his rights over Jammy. “The first thing is to find out if
Jammy's there. And if he isn't there, where is he?”

Not voicing her fear that Jammy might already be dead,
Charlotte settled her good blue cloak about her shoulders. “I
don't know when I'll be back. There's laundry to deliver, so
if you could—”

“But I can't. I still don't have a certificate that says I'm free.
I won't be able to get one until I have that deed of manumission from the lawyer. If I go out on the street, the slave
patrol might pick me up if I'm not with a white person.
Then you might be looking for me at the workhouse, too.”

“Oh,” Charlotte muttered, “I should have remembered.”
What a world we live in! she thought. It's not only unjust, it's
ridiculous.

It was a long walk from Stoll's Alley to the workhouse, which
was located in the northwest part of Charleston. As she
turned from Church Street onto Queen Street, Charlotte
could see it from blocks away, its great bulk looming above
the surrounding buildings. With its massive towers and
barred windows, the workhouse matched her idea of an
ogre's castle—a place of torment, darkness, and danger.
Behind the building, a brick wall enclosed the workhouse
yard, where the gallows were erected. The gallows stood taller
than the wall.

The building's proper name was the House of Correction.
Charlotte did not know why everyone called it the workhouse. No one imprisoned there ever did any work. They
were sent to the workhouse for punishment, which was politely called “correction.” It was just for black people. Every
level of offense committed by a black person—from running
away to murder—was dealt with there.

She knew that white offenders had a courthouse of their
own as well as prisons of their own. And the rules were different.

The street was filled with people. The closer she came to
the workhouse, the more the crowd grew. Charlotte was jostled and bumped. Through the slit in the skirt of her gown
she kept a tight hold on her pocket.

When they reached the building, she let herself be carried
along by the crowd. There was a crush of people pushing and
shoving in their hurry to enter. No doubt something important was about to happen in that stern, forbidding place.
Everything seemed ominous. She thought of Jammy and felt
afraid.

The crowd forged ahead through a pair of open doors into
an entrance hall, and then up a wide staircase into another
hall, where a set of double doors stood open. Everyone was
jostling and shoving to get into the room beyond those doors.

At the entrance, Charlotte hesitated. By her sudden stop
she caused the man behind her to bump her shoulder rather
hard.

“Beg your pardon, Miss,” he said.

The man's companion was speaking to him. Charlotte's
ears caught one sentence: “I'm interested in hearing what
Lewis Morley will say.”

Lewis Morley! What would he say about
what
? It must
have something to do with Jammy. The man whom Charlotte had overheard obviously expected Mr. Morley to be
present. But would he be? Nick had taken the bill of lading
to Southern Command two hours ago. A lot could happen
in two hours. Mr. Morley might be a prisoner in the Provost
Dungeon by now.

The room Charlotte was entering had a dais at the back
wall, with a long table standing on the dais. There were two
water pitchers on the table, and four tumblers evenly spaced
along its length. A man in livery stood at one end of the
table. There was a closed door behind it in the back wall. In
front of the dais was a boxed-off area just big enough to
hold one person.

A dozen rows of benches took up most of the room. The
benches were packed with people. Most were men, and all
were white. The room smelled of sweat.

She took a seat in the back row, hoping not to be noticed.

After a few minutes, the man in livery announced, “All
upstanding!” At these words, everybody stood up.

Four white men now entered in single file, marched up
the aisle between the rows of benches to the table on the
dais, and took their seats facing the benches. Then everyone
sat down again. It felt a bit like church.

Three of the men at the table wore well-cut frockcoats
and ruffled shirts. The fourth man was differently garbed.
He wore a black robe with little crossed tabs for a tie, and a
long, curly white wig. In his hand he held a silver-headed
gavel, with which he now rapped on the table.

“The Magistrates and Freeholders Court is in session,” he
announced. “This morning, four slaves will be sentenced.
Correction will immediately follow.”

That man's the magistrate, Charlotte decided. The other
three are the freeholders—men of property.

“Produce the first slave,” the magistrate commanded.

The door behind the dais opened. Through the doorway
two guards entered with their prisoner between them, in
chains. It was Jammy.

Charlotte's heart began to thump with excitement. Jammy
was alive! But could she save him?

He was still barefoot and half naked, his exposed skin still
covered with mosquito bites and dried mud. Dozens of
fresh welts stood out in reddish purple lines, vivid against
the mud. His right eye was swollen shut, and his cheek was
puffy.

“Will the petitioner come forward?” the magistrate said.

Nothing happened.

“Is Lewis Morley present in the court?”

The people seated on the benches stirred and looked
about.

“Is Lewis Morley present in the court?” the magistrate repeated. Still no one stepped forward.

The magistrate banged the table with his gavel and asked
for the third time.

“Is Lewis Morley present in the court?” He waited. He
banged the table again. “We cannot proceed in the absence
of the petitioner.”

The other men at the table nodded solemnly. A buzz of
whispers rose from the benches.

A reprieve! It seemed that Jammy was safe as long as Mr.
Morley did not appear. Although he would return to the
horrors of the workhouse, he would escape hanging for the
time being. And time was on his side.

“Mr. Morley received due notice of this proceeding,” said
the magistrate. “Does anyone in the courtroom possess information to explain his absence?”

Charlotte stirred in her seat. Did Morley's absence mean
that he was already under arrest? It might mean that. It might
not. Other reasons were possible. An accident. Sudden illness. An emergency at Morley's warehouse.

Suddenly a gentleman two rows in front of Charlotte
stood up. He wore a grey frockcoat and a white periwig with
a little pigtail at the nape. “Your worship,” he said. “I represent Mr. Morley.”

The magistrate banged his gavel. “Then can you enlighten this court as to why he is not here?”

“No, Your Worship, I cannot. But I have a signed and notarized deposition prepared by Mr. Morley for presentation
in the event that the demands of business should prevent
him from attending.”

“Produce the deposition,” said the magistrate.

The man in livery took from the gentleman a folded,
sealed document. He handed it to the magistrate.

The magistrate broke the seal, unfolded the document,
and read it silently. He raised his eyes. “This appears to be in
order. The court may proceed with sentencing.”

Charlotte sat stunned. For a breathless moment she had
thought that Jammy was safe, if only for today. Now that
moment had passed. A vision came to her of Jammy mounting the scaffold, a crowd gathered to watch him die.

She rose to her feet. Everyone's eyes were upon her as she
stuck out her chin and mustered a firm voice.

“Your Worship, the sentencing must not proceed.”