An Unconditional Freedom

by Alyssa Cole

  “Truly?” Janeta asked, whipping her head toward Daniel.

  He nodded grimly. “There is a war of words playing out away from these blood-soaked battles and it’s just as important. Which side can gain the most sympathy from the European public, or inspire the most fear? Which side can make themselves seem like the best dog to pick in the fight?

  “Words have meaning, Janeta. They are perhaps the most valuable weapon in our society. Have you never wondered why slaves are denied access to education, why it is illegal for them to be taught to read and write?”

  “Because it gives them ideas they shouldn’t have,” she said automatically, then shot him a wary look. “That’s what they say, at least.”

  “Words provide knowledge, and knowledge provides power,” Daniel said. He remembered one of the very few enjoyable memories from during his enslavement—him crouched in the middle of one of the wooden shacks, tracing letters into the dust on the ground as a group of children stood around him. The joy of the children as he spelled out each of their names and they realized that their name was a word, with substance and heft. That they were something substantial.

  Liz. Thomas. Carl. Winnie.

  His good memory crumbled away at that last name, and nausea roiled his belly and crept up his throat.

  Winnie stood humming in the shade, a stick in her hand as she traced something into the packed clay. Daniel saw this from the corner of his eye but was too focused on the pain in his back and the work he was forced to do despite it. His brain was a haze of anger and despair. It was why he didn’t give a second thought to the scratching motion of Winnie’s stick until Finnegan the overseer rode up on his horse and grabbed the girl’s thin wrist.

  She looked up at Finnegan in shocked fear, her pleasant hum catching in her throat.

  “Who taught you them letters, girl?”

  Winnie frantically scrubbed at the dirt with her bare foot. “Ain’t no letters, Mr. Finnegan!”

  “You think a little pickaninny gonna know how to read and write when I can’t?” Finnegan lifted her into the air, shaking her small, thin body back and forth. “That ain’t for you. You gonna learn that ain’t for you.”

  He whirled on his horse and headed toward the whipping post as Winne’s mother pushed past Daniel screaming. “No! She don’t know no letters, sah! Who would teach her that? Who?”

  “What does this have to do with the Europeans?” Janeta asked, pulling Daniel’s thoughts back from the awful, dark place they’d returned to. The path to that memory was worn deep in his mind, and the wheels of his thoughts slipped into the groove of it with the slightest urging. It was much more difficult to pull himself free from that rut.

  “This country has always used words as weapons that only certain of its citizens could wield,” he said eventually. He was glad Janeta hadn’t pressed as he composed himself. “ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident.’ ‘Liberty and justice for all.’ ‘All men are created equal.’ These phrases were all forged in the fires of tyranny, honed into blades by the lies of the Founding Fathers. These words have all been used to perpetuate evil.”

  He relished the way she startled as she bit into her toast, dropping crumbs down the front of her dress. Her brows were drawn as she chewed and regarded him, and finally she swallowed. “Evil? Are these not the foundation of America, of the Union we are sworn to protect?”

  He rolled his eyes at her.

  “I didn’t swear the Four L’s,” he said. “Loyalty, Legacy, Life, and Lincoln. More words that mean nothing in the end.”

  “Then what do you believe in?” she asked. There was no judgment in her tone; she seemed truly curious.

  Nothing.

  “What is there to believe in?” He’d had enough of people trying to persuade him that there was good in the world; there was only what could and could not be tolerated, and what must be done to stop the latter.

  “There are thousands of men fighting and dying to defend those words you think so little of,” she pointed out.

  “Exactly!” Daniel paused, just long enough to collect himself. “Such is the power of words used with malicious, manipulative intent. They are the cause of our present turmoil. When the Founding Fathers put quill to parchment and scrawled ‘all men are created equal’ they codified this country as a shining beacon of hope in the world. On paper. In reality, the same men who signed that document went back to their homes and were greeted by their slaves. Slaves to cook for them. Slaves to clean for them. Slaves to fuck.”

  She jumped again at the curse and Daniel felt a bit of shame, but not much. It was the truth—he would not be abashed by it. He would not soften that reality, either. Not after what he had seen. Not with so much at stake in the journey before them.

  “But they’d written those words, shared them with the world like a new religion,” he continued. “They’d fooled everyone, including themselves. Their words held more weight than their actions, and provided them sanctuary from the truth of themselves.”

  She was no longer eating. Simply staring at him. It bothered him, that earnest confusion.

  “Take you, for example. Mulatto is the word they’d use to describe you. Why do you suppose that is?”

  Her cheeks went dusky pink, as if he’d slapped her.

  “It’s a means of classification,” she said sharply.

  “It’s a means of control,” he corrected. “We all know what it means. Because these aren’t categories, they are hierarchies, and while none of us Negroes have it good, they damn sure try to make us think some of us deserve better. Which means some of us deserve worse. Above all, it means they get to decide and we get to suffer those decisions. So. Now you see the power of one little word?”

  Her mouth was thin from her lips being pressed together. She nodded.

  “Now imagine columns and columns of words in the British press about the insufferable North, forcing their will on the poor, proud Southerners. All the South wants is its freedom. Isn’t that noble?”

  He could hear the anger in his voice, feel it calcifying in his veins as if he were turning to stone and could smash the world to bits just to be done with this farce.

  “And the gall of it? The gall? Is that what the British, so proud of their abolition, say, ‘Oh, but of course they will free the slaves once the war is over.’”

  Janeta was quiet. “Maybe they really believe this. It’s possible, is it not?”

  Daniel resisted the urge to knock her plate from the table in frustration. He wouldn’t, ever, but the dark thoughts came unbidden as they always did.

  “If such a thing were possible, why did this war start? Why was Lincoln’s Proclamation such an affront to Southern sensibilities? And if they were to win, how would they manage having to pay the slaves they now count as property?” He shook his head at her ridiculous question. “It’s like a farmer saying he’ll begin to pay his sheep for the wool they produce—there is no profit in it. Slavery has made many a white man rich and has made existence easier for many a poor one. Such benefits will not be laid down willingly.”

  “Perhaps this is true,” she said. She squinted, as if turning a thought over in her mind. “The idea of freedom from tyranny is a strong one, in this country and back home in Cuba, where they seek freedom from Spain while using slaves in every aspect of life. It seems that it’s quite easy for a man to justify why his particular circumstances require freedom while others require shackles—either real or those in the form of laws of subjugation.”

  Daniel had been ready to continue arguing his views—he had examples lined up, ready to use as sharp points to push her away from him. He didn’t know how to respond to her agreement and expansion of his ideas without seeming unnecessarily friendly, so he simply grunted.

  She downed the rest of her coffee, her gaze dropping away from his. “What is our mission?” she asked.

  “I was told you speak Russian.” Dyson had marveled over the fact. Daniel had wondered why Sanchez hadn’t been interrogated as to wh
y and how.

  Her gaze did turn to his then, sparking with interest. “Ya nem-nogo govoryu po russki.” She preened a little before continuing. “I had a Russian tutor as a child. She was supposed to be teaching me French, but I convinced her to teach me her language, too. I think she only agreed because she was so hungry for someone to speak to, which is why I understand more than I can speak.”

  She’d been rich enough to have people brought into her home expressly to educate her. Interesting.

  “Excellent. Then you’re well prepared for our task, and that’s all you need to know. We’ll gather provisions and head out soon.”

  He expected her to demand more information as he downed the last of his tea and stood, but instead she nodded. When she looked up at him, determination shone in her eyes.

  “I know you aren’t happy about working with me, but you seem to be a brave and honorable detective, and I am glad to have been paired with you. I hope that we can do our part, together, to end this war.”

  Daniel would not be swayed. He would not acknowledge the warm sensation in his chest, though his tea had long since gone cold. She was a nuisance to be tolerated, and he wouldn’t allow himself to see her as anything else.

  “We’ll see if you even make it to this evening, Sanchez,” he said. “Then we can talk about ending wars.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Janeta was starting to regret not having asked Dyson to be paired with someone else, as Daniel had suggested. Anyone else.

  It was their second day of travel and Daniel was not an ideal companion, to say the least. When she’d finally asked where they were going, he’d responded “south” and stalked ahead of her. He hadn’t spoken much besides that, apart from pressing her to keep up with his pace and muttering under his breath when she wanted to stop and rest.

  She’d been taken aback; he had no problem talking to her at the camp, even if he hadn’t been exactly friendly. Despite his brusqueness, he’d spoken to her as his equal, something she’d rarely experienced. It wasn’t that people usually spoke down to her, but there was always a sense of underlying amusement. As if she were being tolerated. Daniel had indulged no such pretense, but even in his rudeness he had treated her as if he thought her wise enough to consider and act on the information he was sharing with her. He’d warned her off from working with him, but within that warning had been a choice. Janeta had been spoiled, spoiled beyond the wildest dreams of most of the people she’d met on the trek from Palatka to Illinois, but choice? That had never really factored into her life. She did what she knew others wanted of her, and while there were a million small decisions in those actions, the choice had never felt like hers.

  She’d thought something exceedingly silly as they’d set off on their journey—she’d thought they might become friends. She was intrigued by him, and not just because he held information she’d need to pass on. She wanted to discuss his ideas about his country, which had made her think about the condition of her own. She wanted to see if perhaps she might make him smile, which had nothing to do with why she had joined the Loyal League.

  Have you forgotten your mission already? Have you forgotten Papi?

  Papi.

  When Daniel had asked her what she knew of the Europeans, she’d tried to think of the discussions she’d overheard between her father and his friends before the Northerners had arrived. They’d spoken of losing income, and the news from Spain. They’d argued whether independence, after the insurrection in Haiti that rid it of France, might come to Cuba, too, and if so, by whose hands and at what cost.

  “And what will these darkies do once they are free?” Papi had asked loudly, his voice echoing in the parlor. Mrs. Perez, seated beside Janeta on the couches where the women were gathered, had stiffened awkwardly and looked away from her. Janeta had turned to Mrs. Rodriguez on her other side and struck up a conversation about gloves, having noticed the young woman glancing admiringly at hers.

  And now here she was with Daniel, who refused to speak of gloves or any other topic with her apart from the occasional command to hurry. Janeta had begun talking aloud to herself after what felt like hours of walking in tense silence, repeating phrases in Spanish in the hopes that that would spark Daniel’s interest since he seemed like a man who liked to know things. She’d also vented her annoyance at him.

  “Yo soy Daniel. I want to talk to Janeta, but a devil has cursed me. I’ve been forced to pretend to be stubborn and rude until the curse is broken.”

  Daniel had finally turned an angry glare at her and shushed her, and she’d quieted with a scowl.

  “Are we almost south, Cumberland?” she finally asked in English, when his silent, brooding tension and long stride had pushed her to her very limits. She knew she shouldn’t show her pique, or risk having him question her commitment, but she thought even the staunchest Unionist might be aggravated in her shoes. She stopped and refused to take another step forward.

  “Too tired to go on?” He didn’t slow his pace. “We’ve barely begun this journey. I told you—”

  “I’ve been keeping up quite well, even though you’ve made no allowance for my skirts,” Janeta bit out. “Perhaps we can switch clothing if you find my speed unsatisfactory.”

  Daniel stopped with a huff of frustration and looked down at her, and for a moment she thought he might very well make the trade. He seemed to be piecing something together in his mind; his gaze was active, searching.

  “Why didn’t you mention this the several times I’ve admonished you for your slow pace?” he asked.

  “Would it have made a difference?” Janeta scoffed. She didn’t suppress the shake in her voice that revealed her anger, as she usually would have. She didn’t make her tone sweet and cajoling. She had been traveling for weeks now, even if she’d only been with Daniel for a couple of days, and she was exhausted. “In my experience, men don’t particularly care if a woman gives them reason why she can or cannot do something. Truly, I should be the one asking why you didn’t question how I was faring. Aren’t you the master detective?”

  “I should have asked,” he said, his gaze darting past her and to the side. He wouldn’t even give her his full attention.

  Janeta wasn’t used to declaring her dismay like this, without artifice. It felt wrong, but being relentlessly ignored had left her nerves jangling. “Oh, we both know why you didn’t ask. You were setting me up for failure because you don’t want me around.”

  He made a harrumphing sound and wiped the sweat from his face. “You’re half right. I don’t want you here, and with good reason—I’ve made no show of hiding that. But that’s not why I’ve been pushing you.” He seemed to fold in on himself a bit somehow, even though he still towered over her. “Traversing these woods isn’t safe. Illinois is a Union state, but cruelty to people of our race doesn’t acknowledge the Mason–Dixon.”

  It was strange for Janeta to be included in that our. Yes, it was the basis of her entry into the Loyal League, allowing her to spy for Henry, but she still thought of her fellow detectives as them. She had always been a Sanchez, first and foremost. She was lighter than her mother, though still very much morenita, but few people had ever equated her with the slaves. Not to her face at least. She’d been admonished for noticing their similarity herself as a child. She’d been told she was different.

  She remembered the first time Henry had kissed her; he’d pulled back, stroking her face and staring at her as if she were a treasure he’d discovered.

  “You’re so different from all these silly girls chasing after me with their parasols and pale skin,” he’d drawled, running his fingertips over the brown skin of her knuckles. “You’re special. And now you’re mine.”

  In the moment, it had felt wonderful to be claimed by someone, to be told she was special for the very thing she’d always been instructed to ignore and dismiss. Henry’s attentions had made her feel superior in a way “you’re not like the slaves” never had. He touched her like she was sacred, rhapsodized about her cur
ls and her coloring—he reveled in everything that embarrassed her older sisters about her, the things her mother had tried to teach her to downplay. Because of that Janeta had overlooked things about Henry that were obvious to her now—had ignored the natural instincts that had helped her win the confidence of Rebel and detective alike.

  She’d believed his honeyed words—believed them because she had wanted Henry’s affection so desperately—but she was beginning to see they had coated an ugly truth.

  She’d traveled enough now to know that she was not special—despite the supposed stricter rules against whites and Negroes interacting in the States, she’d seen men and women who looked to be of the same mixed racial background as her. Women like her were no rarity. She’d seen people who were as light as Papi working the fields in rags. She’d also learned enough of the US to begin to understand why Henry had claimed her body but had given her no ring or token of his supposed love.

  “We have our forged passes,” Janeta said to Daniel. This was no time to think of Henry, beyond the fact that she needed him to free her father. “If anyone stops us, there should not be a problem.” She pulled her canteen from her sack, taking advantage of their pause to refresh herself. Her feet ached, her legs shook, and she was ready to keel over from fatigue, but she wouldn’t have him know that.

  “I had my free papers when I was taken,” he said grimly, “and they were real. In a country where you need papers to show you’re free, where you need some white man’s signature to walk the land of a nation that the sweat and blood of your people has pushed into prosperity, your life rests on the balance of whether the person who sees those papers decides to imbue them with any power. America is a nation without honor, that it would allow its people to be treated in this way.”

  There was something in his words, and in his behavior now that she was paying attention and not sulking over being ill-treated, that made her throat go rough.

  His body was tense, and it had been since they’d left the Loyal League camp. She’d attributed it to his annoyance with her, but she now realized she’d made the same mistake she had with Henry—she was fitting Daniel’s behavior to the frame she’d made for it. She’d wanted to believe Henry had loved her, so she’d stretched his behavior to that particular frame like canvas for needlepoint. She’d decided Daniel’s behavior could only be motivated by his distaste for her, but there was something more.