Chasing Freedom

by Gloria Ann Wesley

“The hurt will never leave. It holds me back sometimes. I cannot let anything come between me and my child. I don’t want to upset her with things I might say or do. At least I can see her and feel her kindness. I had five and I only know what happened to three of them.”

  “I know it’s painful, but when you let it out, the weight will fall from your shoulders.”

  Lydia stared into Fortune’s eyes. Let the truth out, he was saying, but she was the one who felt cornered. She wanted to pounce like a cat and swallow up all the misery. Her silence was long and weary, but in the end, she knew Fortune was right. It was time to lay her burden down. “I suppose I’ve carried this long enough.” Her admission felt awkward. “I must speak with her first. It will not be easy to bring this up. Lord knows if she has any idea of her background.” The old woman smiled and relaxed a little.

  “Well, when you’re ready, Mama, I’m here and the Lord knows I won’t judge you or anyone else for no good reason.”

  “That business can wait. We got bigger troubles, Fortune. The sheriff found Cecil but there’s been no word of Boll weevil. He must still be in the cellar. What are we going to do about that? We were part of it. We got to do what’s right.”

  “I know. I could not sleep. I worried all night over what happened.”

  “We can’t leave Boll weevil in the cellar. He could die.”

  “Worse, if they find him, he could say I killed Cecil and that I tried to kill him.”

  “Oh, sweet chariots. Oh my, yes. A devil such as that does not know truth. His tongue always waits to give birth to a lie. He would do anything to save himself, but the Lord looks to us to do what is right, even if Boll weevil is a sinner. We cannot leave him there, though he gladly would have left us.”

  “If I report this, it’s going to catch me up in a whole lot of trouble. They will never believe a Negro. Never.”

  “What if he’s dead? Then what?”

  “They could still connect me to the murders.”

  “How could that be?”

  “Everyone knows he tried to kidnap you and Sarah. They might think I wanted revenge. The wagon was full of goods. They might think Cecil caught me robbing the store and I killed him.”

  Lydia’s eyes glazed over. She fell on her knees right there on the floor and went into wild praying. She kept it up for a long time. When finally she got up, she said, “The Lord is good. You do what your heart tells you to do, Fortune. The Lord will protect his own.”

  SHERIFF ANGUS BEAUFORD USHERED FORTUNE INTO A SMALL office at the House of Corrections. “Take a seat,” he said, moving over to a large desk strewn with papers, worn books and tobacco. He sat tall in his chair looking at Fortune, meeting the man’s eyes with a frown.

  “What brings you here, Redmond?”

  “I have some information regarding the death of Cecil MacLeod.”

  “How did you come by this news? Gossip, I suppose. That’s all you Negroes do.”

  “I was there at Mr. MacLeod’s store … when it happened.”

  Sheriff Beauford rapped his white knuckles lightly on the oak desk. “Well, well, is that right? It is such a tragedy. A Birchtown Negro by the name of Sam stopped by to bring me the news earlier this morning. He saw the loaded wagon and grew suspicious, knowing at that hour in the morning Cecil would not be at the store. He glanced through the open door and saw the body on the floor.” Sheriff Beauford was staring at Fortune, watching him shift uneasily in his chair. “I hated to tell Cecil’s wife, Annie, the news. I took her with me when I went out to the store this morning.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It was a gruesome job, identifying the body, but what else could I do?”

  “It must have been hard for her, Sir.”

  “Yes. Yes it was. It appears Cecil had quite a struggle. His face was bruised and swollen. There was one deep stab wound to the chest. The wagon from the livery was outside the store. Sure was peculiar how it was loaded with supplies and left behind. Looks like a robbery gone wrong. The Negroes are getting desperate. They’ll do you in for no reason.”

  Fortune could feel trouble in the air. He wished he had stayed away, but his sense of duty had gotten the best of him.

  Sheriff Beauford sensed his discomfort. He stood up and looked out the window. The snow was light and it covered the dirty banks with a fresh white layer. “Hunger is causing so many crimes that I’m losing track, but none as brutal as this. Only a Negro could do such an evil thing,” Beauford said. “Isaac Haywood’s death proves that. But this, to stab a good citizen of Port Roseway.” Now he was staring at Fortune. “What can you tell me about this crime? What happened out there?”

  Fortune paused. He would have to choose his words carefully. A nerve moved up and down the side of his face as he chewed away on the inside of his jaw. How much of the story could he tell without putting himself and his loved ones in danger? Thick drops of perspiration gathered on his brow. He sat still, his back straight, staring at a spot on the wall beyond Sheriff Beauford. Even now, he felt condemned. Misgivings tormented him. He despised the way a Negro had to suffer the contempt of the law. It had all seemed clear earlier when he felt compelled to visit the sheriff. As he sat across from the man now, cold eyes staring at him, he became unravelled.

  “Well, sir,” he began, sitting up taller in his chair, “I went to Mr. MacLeod’s store, as he asked.” Fortune held the sheriff’s eyes. “He told me to come by because he had a job for me.”

  “What type of job?”

  “He said he wanted to add a small piece to his store.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday morning, Sir. When I got there, I did not see any lumber, so I asked what his plan was, thinking he did not need me. He said to check with a man standing near the back of the store. He said to ask him when the lumber would be arriving. I recognized the man right off. It was Boll weevil, the slave catcher.”

  “Yes. Go on. You Negroes dawdle so. What did he say?”

  “When I asked where the lumber was, he didn’t answer. That is when he and Mr. MacLeod grabbed me, Sir. I tried to get away, but they overpowered me and the two of them took me down into the root cellar. They tied me up and put an old rag around my mouth.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No, Sir. They had already captured my mother, Lydia Redmond. She was there, tied up in the cellar. Later, my daughter, Sarah, was put with us in the basement.”

  “What was the purpose of taking the three of you captive? You are free citizens according to the law.”

  “Well, Sir, I heard Mr. MacLeod and Boll weevil talking above us. As you know, they are rounding up Negroes and shipping them south. There is good money in it. I heard them talking about taking us to Port Roseway, then putting us on a boat for Boston.”

  “Nevertheless, why you Redmonds? You folks have a decent name hereabouts. It is common knowledge that you were a soldier. Your mother and daughter have their certificates. You were not among the Negroes we wanted deported. Something is not adding up.” He shook his head. “There’s more to the story, I believe.” He stretched back in his chair now, lit his pipe and blew perfect rings of smoke.

  The sheriff’s questions made Fortune jittery. He knew a piece of the story was missing, but he could only tell what he knew and all he knew was how it happened. He continued with caution, knowing that his presence during the murder would be suspicious, his role, a foregone conclusion. He was dealing with the lives of two white men. He did not know quite how to tell what happened without bringing trouble to himself.

  His story unfolded slowly. He told how the two men had an intense argument, how he heard the howl and the thud on the floor, heard the wagon leave, then return. He believed that it was Boll weevil making the trips in and out of the store. He was very careful not to accuse the man of stealing or murder.

  The sheriff’s hostile frown affirmed Fortune’s fears. He took his time, weighed his
thoughts carefully, considering all the ins and outs before speaking. He told the sheriff that Boll weevil tripped on the cellar steps and tumbled down onto the frozen floor, and that once they managed to get themselves free they tied Boll weevil up and left him in the cellar.

  Sheriff Beauford studied Fortune closely. He twisted in his chair and mulled over the story. These Negroes, they act like children when caught, bend under pressure. It must be the weak blood in them, he thought. He was going to have to satisfy the townsfolk who wanted a taste of blood and he knew it. Not everyone would believe this man.

  Fortune scratched his head, “Well, Sir, to tell the truth, all I could think of was getting my family out of there as fast as I could.”

  “Yes, I suppose. I can understand your fear, but the question is: Was he injured? Was he alive when you left the store? Answer the question, man.”

  “He groaned and passed out, Sir. I believe he is alive. I can’t say for sure.”

  “There’s no telling how he is. There’s a good chance he’s dead.” His head bobbed up and down, taking stock of the information. He finally said, “I was out there earlier, never thought about checking the cellar. This calls for another trip to the store. There is a chance the man is still alive.”

  “I hope you are right, Sir.”

  “You had better pray that the man is dead, Fortune.”

  “Why would I wish such a thing, Sir?”

  “Can’t you see that if he’s alive, he will not admit to anything? He will happily pin the murder and theft on you. There will be folks, perhaps many, who will choose his word over yours. If he is alive, they will rally to his lies. If he is dead, they will have to weigh the evidence without his influence and judge for themselves. That is where your chances lie. It could go either way. It’s all in the way the dog’s tail wags. But from what you have said, he likely didn’t sustain deadly injuries. You are trapped.”

  “You could be right, Sir.”

  Sheriff Beauford liked that response. The case would be easy. He would set Fortune up now by pretending to be sympathetic, take his side to help him relax and then wait for the confession. His false smile and mellow tone were soothing. “Boll weevil was just following orders to get the riffraff out of here. He could try to link the murder and the theft to you, condemning you in the process. To avoid more heartache and rattling this good community further, you may as well confess and I suggest you plead for sympathy. Begging may be your best option.”

  “But I didn’t take anything. The goods are still in the wagon.”

  “True, true.” Sheriff Beauford laid his head in his hands and stared at the inkbottle on the corner of his desk. “There’s a lot at stake here. However, I will tell you this: If folks have to make a choice between you and that thug, they will choose the thug. There are folks here who will stick by their own, regardless. Do you understand?”

  “I thought I could earn a little money by doing honest work for Mr. MacLeod. I hate killing, even during war. I would sure as heck hate it now, unless I had to protect myself. And I hate a thief. I have never laid my hand on something with the intention of stealing it, even though I had to do without food and clothes, even the land promised to me. I never took anything that did not belong to me. I ain’t that kind of man, Sir. I am not a murderer and I’m not a thief.”

  “Better be careful speaking thoughts like that in such a tone, Fortune. It could be dangerous. Folks don’t appreciate hearing you people express yourselves forcefully.”

  “It is a horrible crime, but it was not my doing and folks need to know that.”

  “All this talk is not going to do us any good.” The sheriff grabbed his hat and coat. “I have to get back out to the store and see what has happened to Boll weevil. Either way, this will lead to an uproar. Prepare yourself.”

  “Do you want me to go with you, Sir?”

  “No. No. You will have to remain here in leg irons. You are now a suspect.”

  “A suspect? There’s no proof I did anything.”

  “Folks will question why I let you go when they get wind of this.”

  “For how long, Sir?” Somewhere in the back of Fortune’s mind, he had seen this coming, but foolishly, he dared to hope that the sheriff, once he knew the full story, would let him go free. Disappointment blanketed his face and his head fell to his chest.

  “I can’t say. It will be some time before a decision can be made in this case.” He injected a thimble of compassion in his tone. “I’ll have to keep you in custody until Justice Moody makes his way here for the Spring Session. We shall see what happens when I meet with him privately. I dare say that he may lean towards a trial, though it is not the practice with Negroes. Most prefer a quick sentencing and a good hanging.”

  The overpowering fear made Fortune queasy. He asked, “Could you stop by my place, Sir, and pass the news to my mother?”

  “I will do that.”

  AFTER HIS BUSINESS AT THE STORE, SHERIFF BEAUFORD TOOK the long way around to Lydia Redmond’s cabin, passing by the maze of crude shacks, questioning why Negroes stayed in such shanties and misery, not wanting to better themselves. He did not look forward to the task of informing Lydia of her son’s arrest. Such weeping and screaming the Negro women get on with, as though the world is about to end. He would be glad when his role in the matter had ended, for it was one crime after another in these parts and a thankless job for the sheriff. Arresting Fortune would make his job a lot easier and quell any uprising. Then the decisions were all up to the court. He didn’t want a riot or a lynching on his hands.

  He tapped hard and fast on the door, declining Lydia’s invitation to step inside. Instead, he stood back, saying, “Your son, Fortune, asked me to come by with the news.”

  Lydia stood in silence in the doorway.

  “I found Boll weevil Carter in Cecil MacLeod’s cellar.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Is the man alright?”

  “His memory was cloudy and his behaviour so irrational, I had difficulty making sense of his story.”

  “But he’s alright.”

  “There were no injuries as far as I could tell, but he walked with a limp. He’s alive, at any rate.”

  “What did he tell you about that night, Sheriff Beauford?”

  “He kept saying something about the Negroes stealing and how they lay in wait for him.”

  “This can’t be. The Negroes rarely go out at night. Did he say who these men were?”

  “He didn’t name any names.”

  “I see,” was all Lydia said.

  “It all makes sense,” the sheriff said, tilting his head at the harshness of the woman in the doorway.

  “Will he be charged?”

  “I see no need. He had a knife, true enough, but he said the blood on the knife was his, from being attacked. His memory was grey. I think the fall down the steps scattered his mind. I took notes and let the poor soul go, for in his state he could not harm himself or anyone else.”

  Lydia could feel disgust creeping through her bones. A favoured soul, she was thinking. No matter what a white does, he is always innocent. “What have you done with Fortune, Sir?”

  “I’ll have to hold Fortune in corrections for two months.”

  “Why so long, Sir?”

  “We have to wait on the spring session of the court.”

  Sheriff Beauford nodded and mounted his horse. As he was about to leave the yard, he looked back and waved his hand. “You may visit your son between the hours of one and three.”

  Lydia made her way inside and dropped down on a chair. She wiped the sweat from her hands on her wide blue skirt. “Locked my innocent son up and let that crazy man go. No different from what we left behind.” She threw her hands up in the air and sobbed. “Oh Lord, have mercy.”

  Nineteen

 
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. SARAH BOLTED FROM A DEEP sleep and shivered in the frigid cold of February. The loud rapping on the thin wooden door awakened her. Her feet stuck to the frost on the floor as she ran to the narrow window and pulled back the heavy canvas sheeting. She blinked hard at the sight of Colonel Septimus Black and wondered what he wanted with them at this early hour. She grabbed a stiff, blue dress, petticoat and apron from a hook and dressed quickly. After washing her face in a basin of icy water, she rolled her hair up with a long ribbon and tied a kerchief over it. She hurried to the kitchen where Grandmother was folding laundry.

  Gossip about the single colonel poured through Birchtown like warm syrup. He had his admirers and, of course, his critics. Some said because of his refusal to stand up for the indentured servants when they sought his help in challenging the laws in Roseway that he sold out the Birchtowners. More than a few accused him of cheating them out of their rations. There were those who said he liked the young girls a little too much. Others thought him more of a peacock, strutting about, showing off because he was the newly named Birchtown magistrate and because he had a nice home and garden.

  Grandmother insisted he was just getting his rightful due, not unlike white folks. She dismissed the bitter gossips, saying they should feel proud that one of their own was doing so well. As head of the Black Pioneer Company, the colonel helped find work for the skilled tradesmen — the caulkers, carpenters, rope-makers, sailmakers, boat builders, millers, shoemakers, tailors, gardeners, cooks and others — by supporting the proposals from the military and magistrates of Roseway to create work. He drew up petitions to get their land surveyed. He distributed food and clothing and often kept them from a whipping by sending petitions for compassion to the magistrates.

  “Oh yes. These folks can pull you down quicker than a jackal can wrestle an antelope to the ground. Oh my, calling the poor man a traitor to his race, saying he be supporting the white folks, all for trying to raise himself and us up out of the squalor. Lord, they should look at themselves. The desperate riff raff would all steal a louse from a dog’s back, if no one be looking.” Not that Grandmother supported stealing, but she hated the gossip of sinners. She looked at him and flashed a kindly smile. After all, to sweeten the pie, he was single and book smart, just the young man for Sarah, in her estimation.