The Cape Blomidon had returned from the North Atlantic two days earlier and Reece had visited her at Mrs. Cunningham’s. She could see that he was torn when he told her he was leaving again, going back to Carolina to try and find the Redmond midwife, Rose. For how long, he hadn’t been able to say. Sarah lay quietly thinking of how she had pinned her hopes on marriage instead of herself. He was a part of her life, not the whole of it, but his leaving—it had felt as though her world had collapsed without any warning.
Now her thoughts turned to the morning ahead, of assisting Colonel Black at the new school. Imagine the children of Birchtown gathering and partaking in the thing denied them for so long. The idea still felt peculiar. She wondered how the folks in Roseway would take the news. Buildings had been burned down for less. She let out a sigh and tossed about under the heavy coats.
The cabin was just beginning to warm when Sarah rose and dressed, taking a moment to twirl in her flowered dress and admire the black leather boots with brass buckles—all donations from the missionaries. How different from the tattered rags of the little slave girl in Carolina, she thought. She draped a coat around her shoulders and sat at the table. Grandmother, anxious to create a special look for the occasion, was already standing with the bone-handled brush in hand.
“It’s a very special day for this family. Now, hold that head still, Sarah.” The thick hands clasped the sides of her head and pulled it back until her neck stretched like a goose.
Sarah was happy to let the old woman deal with the task, but it was her non-stop comments that irritated her so. Sarah interrupted her by saying, “You have to hurry this morning. I cannot be late.” Then with a mindful mumble, she said, “I am past braids.”
“I see you are not past giving Lydia orders.”
Sarah wrestled with mixed feelings. Having a respectable job gave her a measure of pride, yet she worried. It was Colonel Black’s smile. In it dwelled something sinister that had sown the seeds of mistrust. At the same time, she was flattered to have his attention. Not that it mattered, for her heart belonged to Reece and one day he would return to claim it.
“Hush now, Child. Hush now. You are right. You are too old for braids. You are ready for a Lydia look this special day.” With that, the old woman broke into a long flow of broken lines from one of her hymns. Grandmother seemed unusually happy.
Sarah sat as still as she could. Her long mass of curly hair did not slow Grandmother’s hands. She greased her palms and rubbed them through the hair to make it shine. All the while, she kept shifting Sarah’s head up and down and from side to side. With her pipe stuck to her bottom lip, Lydia worked her magic. She wrapped a twisted roll once around Sarah’s head and fastened it with a beautiful mother-of-pearl clip. It was a thing of beauty, a gift to Sarah from her Carolina odds and ends.
“If Fortune was here, he would burst with pride, and your mama, too. Who would have thought this day would ever come? It is a blessed day. Oh, sweet chariots.” She looked down at Sarah and laughed. “There you go, peach blossom. You are ready for the colonel.” Then catching herself, she added, “And the children. You best hurry. Your lunch is waiting on the table.”
It was a long walk in the fierce cold. All around the snow lay in a thick covering over Birchtown. The school building was a small wooden structure with a pitched roof and four glass windows. The men of Birchtown had done a fine job. Inside she found the room crowded and noisy. The worn desks were of various sizes and arranged in neat rows. The shelves along the back wall displayed an assortment of donated books from the Associates.
The date on the chalkboard said March 2, 1785. She stood in the midst of it all: the smell of new wood and paint, books, desks, screams, chatter and laughter. Colonel Black greeted her, then read aloud her duties from a list. He gave three piercing rings of a brass bell to signal the start of school.
From her chair beside the colonel’s desk, Sarah saw among the oldest students the familiar faces of her neighbour’s children: Mary Browne, Stewart Jones and Priscilla Haywood’s little sister, Bella. Colonel Black checked his pocket watch. The noise coming from the youngest children, to her left, was like a gaggle of wild cackling geese. Snatching a long rod, he struck the desk and screamed, “Come to order!” Then, ever so gently, he said, “Good morning, dear students,” and they said, “Good morning, Sir.”
The lessons began with the issuing of the first of many orders. Sarah chuckled silently. He was very much the colonel issuing orders to his troops: “There will be no cursing and no fighting, no lateness, no liquor, no loose comments and no talking back. Cleanliness will be the order of the day.”
Frost nipped at Sarah’s toes and fingers and she wished the new pot-bellied stove would provide more heat. She listened as Colonel Black stated, “A strong Methodist education will serve you well. There are three important qualities a former slave needs to survive in this new land: dedication, discipline and determination.” He instructed the children to repeat the three qualities twice. Then he said, “These qualities will assist you in the attainment of perfection and in pleasing the Almighty God.”
It was obvious to Sarah that the lofty words and high ideals confused the students, but their smiles blazed like golden flames nonetheless. Colonel Black turned to Sarah, put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. His glance was flirtatious and his voice soft as he said, “Please assist me with the next task, Miss Sarah.”
She followed as he strode up and down the aisles handing out worn Bibles and hornbooks consisting of two sheets of thick, rough paper. A thin sheet of transparent horn protected each sheet. One page contained the alphabet and the other, the Lord’s Prayer. The pages fastened to a wooden tablet with a handle.
Time was a long yawn. Sarah envisioned countless days and months of scripture, recitations and prayers. Already she disliked the colonel, whose long stares and touching felt uncomfortable and indecent.
Lunchtime came as a welcome blessing. She and Colonel Black discussed Fortune’s upcoming trial. He assured her that he was doing what he could in meetings with the magistrates over the growing list of charges against Birchtowners, many of which he said were just plain foolish. Sarah devoured a piece of bread filled with molasses and a small leg of chicken. The food was good. After lunch, she led an embroidery lesson with the girls. Lots of cotton fabric, coloured threads, needles, scissors, tweezers and frames. The colonel struggled with meagre supplies for the boys to learn woodworking. Through the clamour, the children’s eagerness was a pleasant surprise.
All went well and when the day ended, she was more than happy to accept Colonel Black’s offer of a drive home. They made their way down a snowy country lane in his grand carriage. Sarah smiled, imagining herself a well-to-do woman touring the countryside. She glanced at the colonel. He was all of the things the gossips had said—dashing, showy, smart—and yet she saw another side of him that was demanding, impatient and rigid. As they further discussed her father’s fate, she sensed that he had a genuine concern for him. Perhaps Grandmother was right about the colonel. He was a man trying to rise above the squalor and move the community forward.
They were nearing the cabin when the colonel slowed the gelding and stopped the carriage. He reached for Sarah’s hand and looked at her for a long time, then said, “I hope you enjoyed your work, Sarah. This has been quite a remarkable day, one for history.”
“Yes it has, Sir,” she said, careful to avoid his eyes. He was facing her now, edging closer until his breath was warm against her cold cheek. “Your embroidery lesson went well.” Leaning still closer, he said, “I admire your skills, Sarah.”
Feeling flushed and unsure of herself, she thanked him awkwardly.
“Are you spoken for, Sarah?” Colonel Black asked.
She hesitated. She thought about Reece. “No, Sir.”
“I’m surprised.” he said. “Then you are fair game.”
“Fair game, Sir?”
She was not sure what to think. His tone was kind and caring, but shallow and crafty too. She moved to the edge of the seat. He reached and pulled her to him and attempted to press his mouth on hers. She was quick and she gave him a strong heave with her elbow, pushing him back. She stared directly into eyes. “You have no right!” she screamed. “I am not your girl.”
“I meant no harm,” he stammered, regaining his composure quickly.
“Colonel Black, I am a free Negro woman and I am not for the taking.”
“I lost myself, Sarah. Please understand. I don’t know what came over me.”
Sarah spoke sharply. “I thought you were different, a man with fine manners.”
“I apologize. Men have to learn new ways. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please, let this be our little secret. I could lose my position, my good name. Please understand—your smile encouraged me.”
Sarah looked at him for a long time. Her words were sharp. “A man who preys on young women does not need any encouragement. His instincts are those of a dog.”
Colonel Black turned his face from hers, wearing his shame like a heavy coat.
Lydia was standing in the doorway when the carriage arrived at the cabin. Her head bobbed back and forth like a piece of cork in water. She was hoping the colonel would come in and sit for a spell. To her surprise, he waved his hand and was quickly away. The broad smile left her face. Later, when supper was over, Grandmother grilled Sarah about every detail of the day, probing deep, knowing something was amiss. Sarah held back, sensing Grandmother’s intuition at work. The last thing she wanted was one of the old woman’s sermons. To satisfy her, she said, “It was a wonderful day. The children were eager to learn and it was not at all what I expected.”
Sarah watched as Grandmother stood warming herself by the fire. It came to her that there were many things to learn in this new place and the old woman’s words were beginning to make sense.
Later that evening, deep under the quilts and coats, she wondered about Colonel Black. All that insisting that others have the holy virtue of discipline, yet he could not apply it to himself. A man so polished and trusted, but oh, like the jewellery the poor women were wearing of glass and paste, he too was a fake.
Twenty-two
SHERIFF ANGUS BEAUFORD STOOD BEFORE JUSTICE Nicholas Moody and read the following request:
Port Roseway, March 10, 1785
Justice Nicholas Moody,
I ask your favourable permission to solicit the release of Fortune Redmond from his present confinement. I am content that he had no part in the crime of murder against Mr. Cecil MacLeod, on the ninth January 1785, nor in the attempted robbery of goods from Mr. MacLeod’s store. It is my belief that he himself fell victim to a crime and that he went to Sheriff Beauford with honest intentions to declare the truth of his situation. I am content that he is an admirable Negro and a good citizen of Birchtown, having fought in the King’s army. I am, with due submission, Gentlemen,
Your most obedient Honourable servant,
Birchtown Magistrate
Colonel Septimus Black
As the Birchtown magistrate, Colonel Black had intervened in Fortune’s case by petitioning Justice Moody, just as he had promised. The Redmonds were grateful for his interest in the case, while his efforts brought him renewed respect in Birchtown.
Fortune sat to their right, his legs in irons and his hands in chains. He was thin, unshaven and his face was drawn. He did not look at his mother or daughter, but kept his eyes fixed on the magistrate. Lydia, Sarah and Enos listened intently as the sheriff read Colonel Black’s letter. When Sheriff Beauford reached the part stating Fortune served in the king’s army, the Judge’s eyes widened and he nodded his head in support.
Outside the courthouse, the small gathering of black and white citizens swelled, soon spreading out across the yard and down the road. Raw emotions charged the air as opinions seesawed back and forth.
One man said, “That Negro killed Cecil. We don’t need to wait to convict him.”
Another shouted, “We would be murderers if we did not wait for justice.”
A tall woman in a floppy bonnet screamed, “We have enough proof.”
“We need to hear his side.”
“You know Negroes never tell the truth.”
“He fought for the king and that alone makes him a good man.”
“I say we are getting soft on the Negroes and this proves we need more laws to keep them in line.”
Neither side gained enough strength to take the lead. It was not quite a mob, but all it would take was one forceful speaker, a shepherd, and the majority would fall into step, march to one beat like a herd of sheep.
Beulah kept her eyes fixed on the door to the courthouse. She could not bring herself to enter. She was listening to all the remarks and growing nervous. She kept her ears tuned for trouble. It was not until she heard ol’ Brown say that if the judge found Fortune guilty and Fortune would be found swinging from a tree, did she realize the horror of the situation. She moved back to the fringe, and then further until the loud chatter became a muffle.
Margaret Cunningham placed her hand on Beulah’s shoulder. “Any word on how this is going?”
“No, Ma’am. The magistrate arrived but an hour ago.”
“Did Lydia make it? Is she inside?”
“Yes Ma’am. Enos drove us here and he went inside with her.”
“I’m glad of that. From what Lydia tells me, they were all victims of that terrible Boll weevil. Who knows what would have become of them?”
“That’s true, Ma’am. They are lucky to be here. Do you think the magistrate will believe Fortune?” She faced Margaret with a lump in her throat so large it felt like an apple.
“That is a good question. I have faith in Nicholas. He is a good man and an excellent magistrate.” She paused a moment, not wanting to fill Beulah with unreasonable hope. “His position on Negroes has always been fair. I know that he will do the right thing.”
“I can only believe what Mother Redmond says, that the heart of a man will always show its hand. If the magistrate is a good man, we will have Fortune back.”
“There is much to consider and not one witness. All the judge has is Fortune’s words and the sheriff’s evidence. There are no statements from Lydia or Sarah.”
“What about Boll weevil?”
“I heard that Boll weevil lost his memory and cannot recall that night.”
“I dare say that he came up with such a trick to keep from being found guilty.”
“A trick?”
Beulah moved closer to Mrs. Cunningham. She kept her voice low. “He’s a smart one. If he cannot remember, then no one will question his guilt. He wants sympathy. He knows exactly what he is doing. He’s betting that everyone will assume Fortune is guilty. If you ask me, there is not a thing wrong with that man. Anyway, it all rests on the credit of Fortune’s story.”
“That’s true. Mr. Carter thinks he is a wise fox, but do not give him too much credit. Nicholas is a far wiser man who has seen the best and the worst of the criminal mind. I dare say that thinking yourself too smart can lead to tripping yourself up.”
“I do not doubt that. I hope that Sheriff Beauford found a clue, something to help the magistrate reach a decision.”
“It won’t be long before we know. The facts are as plain as the nose on your face and, by God, I think the facts are on Fortune’s side.”
“I hope so, Ma’am, I surely do.”
Margaret hugged Beulah. “It will all go well, just you wait and see.”
In the courtroom, the heat from the wood stove filled the crowded space. Onlookers twisted and turned in their seats. Sarah could feel their anger and she moved closer to Grandmother. Her heart raced as she reached for t
he old woman’s hand and silently prayed. Grandmother squeezed her hand hard. She wished she could squeeze away all the nervous energy that was keeping her on the edge of her seat.
Justice Moody sat with an odd look of displeasure on his face. He removed his monocle, wiped it with a large white handkerchief and returned it to his face. After clearing his throat several times, he raised his gavel and struck the bench twice. Reading from some papers, he said:
On this day, the twelfth of March, seventeen hundred and eighty-five, I hereby state that the facts pertaining to this case are clear and concise. There were no witnesses to the crime, therefore my summary and judgment are as follows:
Cecil MacLeod was murdered. The murder weapon was a hunting knife. That part is clear. The weapon used to kill Mr. MacLeod was on Boll weevil Carter’s person when found in Mr. MacLeod’s cellar. Having failed to remove all of the blood from the knife handle, and having blood stains on his hands, jacket and pants at the time he was rescued, I hereby declare Boll weevil Carter to be the murderer.
He paused for a few seconds, and then continued.
An attempted robbery appeared to be in progress at the time of or following the murder. The murderer failed to leave with the stolen goods, therefore no robbery occurred. It is known hereabouts that slave catchers, such as Boll weevil Carter, were in the service of their employers or the local authorities to retrieve Negroes from this province. That fact may be connected to this horrible act of murder, but that remains to be proven.
Grandmother held Sarah, clinging to her like a frightened orphan, waiting anxiously for a decision that would either liberate or condemn their beloved Fortune.
Justice Moody discharged yet another loud snort. He raised his eyes from the page and stared at the family before he continued:
I hereby issue a warrant for the arrest of Boll weevil Carter.
Turning to Fortune, whose face was stone cold, Justice Moody forced a thin smile.
Chasing Freedom Page 13
