Freedom Bound (8 page)

BACK IN THE
Mohawk Valley, Charlotte had gone with her
father and brothers to many auctions at the Johnstown sales
barn. It had not bothered her to see a farmer pull back a
horse's lips to check its teeth or run his hands up and down
its legs. But to see these same actions performed on men and
women made her ashamed to be white.

She tightened her grip on Nick's arm. “Those people are
being treated like livestock.”

“They
are
livestock. It makes me sick.”

The slaves to be auctioned were separated by sex, lined up
in order of height, and chained together with their ankles
shackled. The women were to the left of the platform, and
the men to the right. There were six women and nine men
— a small auction, as Nick had said.

From the list handed to Nick at the door, Charlotte quickly learned which slave was Phoebe.

Number 3. Wench. Phoebe. Age 15. House servant.
Skilled seamstress. Expert at embroidery and lace
making.

So this was Noah's mother, the girl whom Mrs. Doughty had
taught to read and write. Phoebe must have felt Charlotte
staring at her, for she turned and met Charlotte's eyes in a
steady gaze. Charlotte looked away, embarrassed to be caught
behaving like a prospective buyer previewing the merchandise.

“She's very pretty,” Nick said.

“Right now, she likely wishes she weren't. The way men
are looking at her, I'm sure it's not lace and embroidery they
have in mind.”

There were about sixty white people attending the auction. All of them, except two men, were looking at the slaves.
Those two men were staring at Nick.

They stood side by side, leaning against one of the pillars
of the Exchange. Both wore buckskin jackets, leather
breeches, and thick high boots. One had a coonskin cap on
his head, and the other a broad-brimmed hat with a flat top.
The man with the coonskin cap had an aquiline nose that
stood out like a beak beyond his receding chin. The man with
the hat had bushy eyebrows and small eyes that squinted
when he talked. He was talking now, leaning his head toward his companion as they stared at Nick. The man in the
coonskin cap frowned and shook his head.

Charlotte nudged Nick. “Do those fellows know you?
They're watching you.”

Nick did not turn his head. “I noticed them already.
They're Over Mountain men from the backcountry. They
likely think they recognize me, but they're not sure. Ignore
them. Don't let them see you've noticed them.” He took her
arm. “Keep your eyes on the stage. The sale is about to begin.”

The auctioneer stepped onto the platform. He was a
sweaty-faced bald man, wearing a linsey-woolsey shirt with
a red neckerchief. A thin young fellow who appeared to be
his assistant removed the chain from the ankle ring of the
tallest woman and dragged her by the elbow onto the platform. The woman's ebony skin shone as if it had been oiled.
With her broad shoulders and muscular arms, she was a picture of health and strength.

“Who'll start the bidding at twenty pounds for this fine
field worker? She knows rice growing like the back of her
hand. Never been sick a day in her life. Thirty years old and
in her prime. Let's hear twenty pounds.”

“Fifteen!” a man shouted.

The bidding went up quickly, one pound at a time. The
new owner paid twenty-five and looked pleased as he led
her away.

The next woman brought onto the platform was older,
perhaps forty. She had a sinewy look, with knotted muscles,
and skin marked by smallpox scars.

“This one don't look so pretty,” the auctioneer admitted.
“But those pock marks prove she's already had the sickness.
So she ain't going to up and die next time there's an epidemic. And look at those broad hips. Good breeding hips.
She's had eight children, and never lost a one.”

“She's old,” a man shouted. “Ready for the knacker!”

Apparently most buyers agreed. This woman went for ten
pounds.

Phoebe was next. Slender and only five feet tall, she wore
a simple gown of brown homespun. It was a cheap gown,
but on Phoebe it did not look cheap. There was a natural
grace to her bearing that nothing could diminish—not even
the brass collar around her neck. She held her head high.
But from the way her eyes blinked, Charlotte suspected that
she was close to tears.

Holding Phoebe by both shoulders, the auctioneer's assistant turned her around to display her from all angles. Hoots
and whistles made clear that the men present appreciated
what they saw.

The auctioneer began, “Now here's a pretty little wench.
Not strong enough for heavy work,” he snickered, “but she's
good for other things. Who'll start the bidding at twenty
pounds?”

A man standing next to Charlotte, on the other side from
Nick, gave a wink as he remarked to the man with him,
“That's Lewis Morley's slave girl. His wife won't have her in
the house.”

“I'd be happy to take her off his hands,” said his companion. “But if I arrived home with that girl, my wife wouldn't
let
me
in the house.”

Good! Charlotte thought, grateful for anything that might
discourage bidding. If enough husbands were equally afraid
of their wives, Phoebe's price might stay low enough for
Nick to afford her.

Nick opened the bidding. “Fifteen pounds.”

“Sixteen.” The voice came from further back in the crowd.
Turning to look, Charlotte saw a young man who was leaning forward slightly, an eager look on his face. His ill-fitting
dark brown coat looked slightly threadbare, and his white
cravat needed to be pressed.

“Seventeen,” Nick countered.

The young man hesitated. “Eighteen.”

“Nineteen.”

Charlotte's eyes did not leave the young man's face. His
throat moved. He gulped.

“Do I hear twenty pounds?” the auctioneer's voice boomed.

“Twenty,” the young man's voice was a frightened squawk.

He can't afford it, Charlotte thought.

“Twenty-one,” said Nick.

She heard the confidence in his voice.

“The bid is twenty-one pounds,” said the auctioneer. “Do
I hear twenty-two?”

He did not.

“Going once at twenty-one pounds.” A pause. “Going
twice.” Another pause. He was giving the young man time to
reconsider. “Going three times.”

The young man shook his head, defeated.

Nick and Charlotte exchanged a smile. Then Nick stepped
up to the platform and offered Phoebe his hand to help her
down. Turning her head away, she rejected his courtesy. He
had to take her by the arm to lead her toward the table where
the auctioneer's clerk was settling business.

The Over Mountain men were watching Nick.

The next slave to be put on the platform was a mulatto
woman. She had a baby in her arms and a little boy peeping
out from behind her skirts. As the crowd swarmed forward
to examine the trio, Charlotte approached the table where
Nick stood counting out coins under the watchful eyes of
slave market officials.

Nick looked up as Charlotte reached the table.

“Here you are. Good.” He handed her a tiny brass key.
“This unlocks her collar. Take her to Mrs. Doughty's house.
I'll see you there in an hour or two. I have to sign some papers here, and then go to the lawyer's office to give instructions for the deed of manumission.”

Phoebe's eyes swept from Nick's face to Charlotte's and
back again. Her lips moved, softly repeating the syllables:
“man-you-mis-sion.” She looked stunned.

She understands, Charlotte thought as she stepped up to
her. But it must be hard for her to believe what's happening.

“My name is Charlotte Schyler. That's my husband Nick.
We lodge with Mrs. Doughty. When we reach her house,
we'll get rid of that collar.” She put the key into her pocket,
took Phoebe's hand, and led her away. Phoebe said not a
word.

When they had walked half a block and the auctioneer's
voice no longer reached them, Charlotte stopped. Still holding Phoebe's hand, she said, “Now let me explain.”

But before she could, Phoebe said, “Miss Charlotte, I
already know about you. Mrs. Doughty came down to the
cellar to tell me a young lady, name of Charlotte, would be
staying in the house. She said I mustn't let my baby cry. You
weren't supposed to know we were there.”

“I heard him cry just once, but I had no idea what was
going on . . . even when that slave catcher dragged you out
the door.”

“The slave catchers followed Jammy right into the house.
There were two of them. As soon as Jammy had the trap
door open, one came right down into the cellar to grab me
and drag me out. Jammy got away. I never knew what happened to Noah.”

“The slave catchers didn't touch him. Noah's fine. He's still
at Mrs. Doughty's house. In ten minutes, you'll be with him
again.”

But it took only five minutes, because now it was Phoebe
leading Charlotte, and she fairly dragged her along.

AS SOON AS PHOEBE
was inside the door, Patience, Charity
and Joseph ran to her and threw their arms around her knees.
“Phoebe, Phoebe!” they squealed. With pats and kisses, she
embraced all three, but scarcely seemed to see them. A baby's
cry came from the kitchen, and in a moment Mrs. Doughty
appeared.

She hugged Phoebe. “Noah's just started to fuss. I was
preparing sugar water to give him when I heard thee at the
door. His cradle's in the kitchen.”

Before Phoebe could rush to him, Charlotte caught her
arm. “One thing first.”

Phoebe stood motionless while Charlotte inserted the
little key into the lock at the back of the metal collar. The
clasp opened with a click. Spreading the two halves open on
their hinge, Charlotte slipped the collar from Phoebe's neck.

“You'll never have to wear that again.”

Phoebe turned around, and they both eyed the thing in
Charlotte's hand as if it were a dead viper, its venom spent.
Touching her fingers to her neck, Phoebe looked as if she
were about to say something. But Noah gave another cry,
and she ran from the room.

Charlotte closed the kitchen door, leaving mother and
child together.

Facing Mrs. Doughty, Charlotte took a deep breath and
let it out with a long sigh. “Everything went as planned. Nick
will be back in an hour or two.”

“Thanks be to God!” Mrs. Doughty took her cloak from
a hook near the door. “I'm going up Meeting Street to thank
Friend Perkins and tell her that the baby is with his mother
again. I'll be back before Nick returns.”

Charlotte sat down on the rug to play with the children.
They built a fort with blocks, and then turned it into a farm,
bringing out their wooden animals to put in the barnyard.

After a while, Phoebe joined them. “Noah's asleep,” she
said as she got down on the rug and helped to turn the farm
into a castle.

Mrs. Doughty came home. She brought out her mending
bag and started darning stockings.

An hour passed.

The children tired of blocks. Charlotte told them the
story of Sleeping Beauty, followed by Rapunzel.

Another hour passed. The tall clock in its wooden case
chimed six. Having no idea how long it took to give instructions to a lawyer, Charlotte tried not to worry. But surely it
was time for Nick to return!

She helped Mrs. Doughty cook supper. When it was ready,
she could scarcely eat a bite.

Mrs. Doughty put her children to bed. After closing the
shutters, she lit a candle. It was now eight o'clock. The tall
floor clock's brass pendulum swung back and forth, catching the candlelight.

He'll come soon, Charlotte thought. The clock kept ticking.

At nine o'clock there was a knock at the door. Charlotte's
heart thudded in her chest. It couldn't be Nick. He would
have walked right in.

“Shall I go to the door?” Charlotte asked.

Mrs. Doughty nodded.

When Charlotte opened the door, she saw Captain Braemar standing there, not a trace of a smile on his face. He
bowed.

“Miss Charlotte, I have bad news.”

Her stomach lurched. “For the past couple of hours, I've
been fearing bad news.” She opened the door wider for him
to enter. “Tell me what happened.” She spoke carefully, standing rigid as a gatepost.

“Ruffians attacked Nick and carried him off.”

She wanted to scream. But that was what she must not do.
She must keep her head. Screaming would help no one.

“I can't tell you much more,” said Captain Braemar. “I
wasn't there. A mutual friend came to tell me what happened. He said half a dozen men followed Nick from the
slave market. They grabbed him right after he left the
lawyer's office. Then they tied his hands behind his back and
marched him north along King Street. That's all I know.”

“Where do you think they took him?”

“It depends who they are. I suspect somebody from the
backcountry recognized Nick as the planter's son who
turned out to be a spy. If I'm right, I think they'll take him
to the swamp for questioning. There are bands of rebels
operating in the swamp.”

“Two men were watching Nick at the slave auction. He
said they were Over Mountain men, and he thought they
recognized him. Yes. That makes sense.”

She didn't need to ask what fate awaited Nick when their
questioning was done. Her voice trembled. “What will
Southern Command do about it?”

“Nothing. Spies are on their own.”

“But Nick serves with Southern Command.”

“He's with the Civilian Department. Rules protecting
prisoners of war don't apply to him.”

He reached out for her hand. But she drew back so that
he would not discover how she trembled. “I'm sorry to bring
you such bad news.” He hesitated. “My regiment has been
ordered to the backcountry. I leave in two days to join the
defence of Fort Ninety-Six. Before I go, is there anything I
can do for you?”

“I don't think so.”

“Then I'll take my leave.”

He turned away, but before he had taken two steps, she
called out, “Just a minute, Captain Braemar. There is something you can do.”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Do you know which lawyer Nick went to?”

“Joshua Ward. I recommended him to Nick. He's our
family solicitor.”

She kept her voice steady. “When the deed giving Phoebe
her freedom has been prepared, will you pick it up for me?”

“I'm not sure he can release it. Nick may have to sign it
first. But I'll ask.”

“Thank you. You're a true friend to Nick.” She bowed.
“Captain Braemar, if you're able to obtain the deed of manumission, please give it to Phoebe if I'm not here.”

“Do you plan to be away?”

Swallowing hard, she said, “I think I must.”