Chasing Freedom

by Gloria Ann Wesley

  “We must let our spirits fly.”

  “You are a wise one, for sure, but watch yourself, Sarah Redmond.”

  SARAH STOOD IN THE WINDOW WAITING FOR GEORGE Washington Brindle to arrive. She dazzled like the beautiful crimson clover in the fields of Carolina in the red dress, ready for the dance at ol’ Brown’s shack.

  “You and that Fortune make a fine pair of roaming owls. Your late hours fill me with worry.”

  “Stop worrying. We have the right to a little merrymaking.”

  “Oh Lord, you know the law forbids such a thing. Some of these folks get a little crazy in the head when they get that poison in their bellies.”

  “You don’t find the law unfair, only applying to Negroes? Everyone else can have a good time. Roseway has enough ale houses for three colonies.” Sarah turned away from the window. She stood for a moment with her eyes mashed together and her teeth clenched. Then, like an angry cat, she growled, “The law makes no sense. It assumes that drunken Negroes will act differently than drunken white men. We are no more shameful or brutal than they are. Such laws make us out to be the brutes and to further separate us.”

  “Chile, I hate the laws, they are not fair. We must continue to fight against them, but all I am saying is that for now, you watch yourself. Your name is all you got. Remember that.”

  Sarah held her tongue. She had heard Grandmother’s sermons so many times before. She thought about Colonel Black. The old woman had a point, but she needed to stand her ground. “There’s no need for you to worry. Besides, George will watch out for me.”

  “And who will be watching out for George? You have a lot to learn, Girlie.” The old woman had had enough. She sighed and said, “Lord, put some sense in that chile’s head.”

  Day or night, there was always a good time at ol’ Brown’s place. The laws strictly forbid Negroes from gathering to dance and drink. Frolicking they called it. Ol’ Brown said he was just waiting for the sheriff to poke his nose through his door. He was a free man, and that was that. He did not fight in the white man’s war to end up treated like he was the enemy.

  When Sarah and George arrived, the party was well under way. Ol’ Brown sat in his usual spot, to the left of the open door, with his Winchester Flintlock across his knees. Already fights and arguments were filling the yard around his shack, but ol’ Brown just sat back and watched, content as long as they kept it outside. Sarah saw two men boxing, two others pushing each other and three women screaming back and forth.

  Sarah looked at ol’ Brown, who sported a Pioneer jacket, beat-up and filthy now, along with a raggedy shirt and breeches. Ol’ Brown was a leech of sorts. He knew nothing of earning an honest living—partly because he lost a leg during the war, but mainly because he did not have an honest twitch in his body. Sarah found him amusing. Grandmother did not. She called him “Half-penny Brown” because, in her estimation, he fell short of a whole penny. It was hard for Sarah to refrain from calling him that when she greeted him. “Hello, Mr. Brown,” she giggled.

  A smile burst across his grubby face. “Jambo, Miss Sarah.”

  The thick ether from Brown’s foul brew hovered in the air. George dropped two shillings into the small keg on the floor beside the chair. There was always music: washboards, spoons, homemade violins and banjos. And Brown always had a pot on. Tonight was no exception. The steam from the tripe drifted throughout the shack. Getting on midnight, he would drop some vegetables in and when it was ready for the eating, his yell would fill the room: “Grab a plate!” That was the one kindness ol’ Brown seemed to possess—that and looking after his Flintlock. It sparkled, even in the dim light.

  Tonight, Rod was drawing his bow across his hand-made fiddle, stirring up the dust. The rickety boards trembled as the crowd stepped wildly. Sarah made her way through the clamour to a group of people standing near the stove ol’ Brown had constructed. In their midst was Medley, the Birchtown handyman who could not find a woman in the whole of the colony desperate enough to be his wife. Priscilla Haywood was the one currently slapping his advances away. Spotting Sarah, she ducked under Medley’s arm and headed in her direction.

  “Well, well. It’s Sarah, though in that get-up should I call you Missy Sarah, the Queen of Birchtown?” Priscilla’s taunting was loud. Rod stopped playing. Heads turned for the show. Folks had grown accustomed to watching the feuds of Birchtown and so they stood back with their ears alert for any signs of a showdown. All eyes focused on the pair.

  Priscilla smirked, “I see Grandma has let you out again tonight.”

  “I let myself out, thank you.”

  “Are you sure that the old woman is not hiding around the corner, ready to yank you home by the hair?”

  “You should worry about your own hair.” Sarah smoothed down the front of her wide red dress. She looked at Priscilla, gave her the once over, then cut her eyes. “At least I do not look like yesterday’s news.”

  “You know, Miss Teacher, this is not New York.”

  “And what would you know about New York?”

  “New York has a lot of women in red dresses. I know they’re not school teachers.”

  The place swelled with laughter.

  “Don’t be jealous, Priscilla. Your ugly dress matches your ugly spirit.”

  “Same old Sarah, always quick with words.”

  “Well, there’s nothing quick about you Priscilla.”

  The laughter turned into a roar this time. Ol’ Brown let out a yell from his chair by the door. “None of dat foolish talk. You can take that one-upping somewhere else. Do you hear me in there? First thing you’ll be in a fight and me place gets all broke up.” He let a shot go from the Flintlock up through the ceiling. Dirt fell from the sod roof onto the floor. The place fell into dead silence.

  Sarah moved on. Having gotten one up was good enough for her. George reached out with a cup of liquor. She hesitated, then took a sip of the horrible concoction. At first, her lips tingled and her throat burned. The brew slid down into her stomach and set her gut on fire. For an instant, her vision blurred. She handed the cup back to George. “Wicked, wicked, foul stuff,” she said. “How can anyone drink such poison? Who knows what ol’ Brown puts in this stuff? It could kill us.”

  “It will loosen you up,” George laughed.

  “And mess us up,” Sarah added. She could see that there was a sickening power in liquor by the way it took hold of the people. It would not control her. She passed the cup back to George. It was the music and dancing that lifted her spirits, not the liquor. She followed George to the middle of the floor. They were shoulder to shoulder with the crowd. Rod played a wild, jubilant kind of music, making it up as he went. Music made the dancers come alive. Made them want to step and whirl. Made them feel free from the world with nothing holding them back. Sarah created new steps and twirled in her red dress. The music picked up in tempo. This was living, she thought. It had been hard to survive without music and it felt good to hear it now.

  Midnight was fast approaching and the pot would soon be ready. Sarah made her way to the bench by the back wall. A man in a white ruffled shirt and brown waistcoat approached her. His hazelnut skin glistened in the dull light and his smile astounded her.

  “Hello, Sarah,” he said, extending a hand. “I inquired,” he said when Sarah looked at him, puzzled.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “You are striking in your red dress.”

  “Thank you,” she said and in a sugary tone asked, “And your name?”

  “Thomas Cooper.”

  “And where are you from, Thomas Cooper?”

  “Philadelphia, born the son of free Negroes.”

  “Free?”

  “Never free. A Negro is a Negro. The laws that applied to the slaves applied to us as well. For awhile, I was indentured to old Mr. Brunhoff who taught me to read and write and how to keep ledgers. A good man
from Germany. Then I worked for my father, importing and exporting goods to Barbados and Jamaica until the war started. Our business closed and so I left.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “In New York, I heard about Nova Scotia. I thought it would be a good place to find work, but the poverty is the worse I’ve seen.”

  “So you won’t be staying.”

  “I’m leaving for Halifax, then going back to New York.”

  “I guess there’s not much here to offer anyone, but I plan to start a business. A tailor’s shop.”

  “A tailor’s shop. Hmmm … And are you spoken for, Miss Sarah?”

  Sarah managed a half-smile, “I thought I was.”

  “Which means?”

  “It’s not working out the way I expected.”

  “What happened? What did you expect?”

  “I had big dreams. I was looking forward to settling down, but sometimes dreams do not work out. It has been four months since he went away and I’m doubtful that he’s going to return.”

  “Then you are free, as far as I can tell.”

  Sarah smiled and she let herself enjoy the happiness overtaking her, though it troubled her that she had dismissed Reece so easily. Was she finding an excuse to abandon him? Had she just admitted that her future with Reece was becoming increasingly uncertain? For the moment, none of it seemed to matter. “I am a free woman with no obligations,” she finally said.

  The music slowed. Thomas led her to the centre of the floor. He smelled of sweet cedar wood. She felt like a million yesterdays tucked away inside a double-happiness jar. As they danced, Priscilla watched from the sidelines until she could stand it no longer, then she strolled over to the couple and with devilishness she said, “Well Sarah. With Reece away you seem to have found yourself a new sweetheart.” She laughed and said, “It must be the dress leading you astray.”

  Thomas withdrew his arms. A pained expression swept across his face. Sarah looked at Thomas, then turned and gave Priscilla a short, cold sneer before she managed to say, “No, I did not.” She turned and headed to the door.

  Outside, she stood under a huge hemlock. She was not obligated to wait for Reece, to pine away, hoping for something that might never be. She twisted her face. It was good that she left, for surely she would have taken a swipe at Priscilla and embarrassed herself and Thomas too.

  It took Thomas a second or two to come to his senses before hurrying to the door where ol’ Brown was slumped down in his makeshift chair. He was drunk, but not so drunk that his one opened eye could not follow the young women about the room or watch out for any commotion. Between the snorting and grunting, Thomas broke in with his question: “The young woman who just walked past in the red dress, which way did she go?”

  “Dat way,” ol’ Brown said, pointing to the right side of the shack.

  Even in the dark, the red dress drew Thomas’s eye. He made his way towards Sarah, thinking on what had just happened.

  “I believe you, Sarah Redmond. Please don’t be upset.”

  Thomas’s sudden appearance startled Sarah. She took a deep breath. The truth was Priscilla’s remark was a blessing. Deep inside, where all the lingering doubts held up her expectations, there was a cleansing going on. She let the remnants of past dreams fly away. She faced Thomas and, oddly, felt a deep sense of respect for this stranger. He seemed to see clearly into the nature of people and to have a few things figured out.

  “I am fine,” she said. “It’s been quite the night.” Sarah thought about Grandmother’s bad juju and was sure she felt its hold on her evaporate as she looked up at this handsome stranger and allowed her face to crinkle into a smile.

  Twenty-five

  THOMAS REMAINED IN BIRCHTOWN FOR ANOTHER TWO weeks. He and Sarah shared a joyous time: talking, laughing and dancing. His love was a healing potion, nourishing Sarah’s emptiness, leaving room in her thoughts for only him. At first, she hesitated, trying hard to maintain her feelings for Reece, trying to figure out how such a thing could happen, but this new fire and passion sought her out and devoured her.

  It may have been his smile or his confidence or the way he thought about life, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was something that happened on the evening they went to the clearing to a boxing match. The strongest Negro men in Birchtown lined up in pairs to fight each other. By the fifth round of the first fight, Thomas had turned to her and said, “Such brutality. The Negroes fight for a few coins to please this senseless crowd and the white men from Roseway who come to drink, take our women and make sport of the men who tear each other apart. We’re always for their amusement and never their equals. These men who cheer for us at night will jeer us during the day.” Without asking permission, Thomas took Sarah by the arm and said, “After coming out of slavery, we should never have to witness such brutality again.” And with that, he led her away.

  On another occasion, he stopped by the cabin and carried her buckets from the well. Instead of sitting on a stump and watching her do the wash, like most men would have done, he pitched in and helped, not giving it a second thought. She grinned, thinking of how in an instant the idea of women’s and men’s roles could change. He brought a fresh view of life. There was a lot to like about Thomas Cooper.

  On the evening before Thomas left, Sarah took out the red dress and put it on. They stood in the moonlight holding each other as though bound by some syrupy tonic. “Sarah,” he said, with her face in his hands. “You and I belong together. I have never felt so certain about anything in my life. I love you deeply. More than I could ever have imagined.”

  When she did not answer, he continued gently, “Come to New York with me. This life here has nothing to offer but lost dreams and misery. We can have a good life in New York. We will have a chance to grow there.”

  In the unforgiving chill of the Birchtown night, Sarah found no easy words to answer a question that demanded such quick action. Hadn’t she dreamed and longed for a better life, wanted to fly like a bird, be her own person? She looked down at the dress, admiring its showiness and defiance. Her smile grew narrow and her eyes closed. Nothing was ever clear-cut. What was holding her back? It was the timing and all the tangled bits and pieces of her life and, just as importantly, family. She could hear Thomas’s voice pleading with her to answer. It sounded far away and desperate. She opened her eyes.

  “Sarah, don’t turn away from me.” He was shaking her gently with both hands. “Come away with me. We can leave in a few days. I have enough money. We can take your things with us. I have thought about this. I have a plan.”

  Sarah did not answer. She kept staring away in the darkness. She was searching her heart, trying to grasp what was happening. She studied his eyes, not wanting to turn away from the passion in them, but she did, suddenly, uttering, “No. I can’t. It would not be right to leave. I have family here, hopes and dreams. I could say that I do not love you and put an end to this right now.” She shook her head wildly and continued, “But no, that would not be the truth.”

  “Then what is the truth? What is it, Sarah?”

  “The truth is … I care deeply for you.”

  “You love me, I know it. Say it!”

  “I do love you.”

  Thomas hung his head and stammered, “What can I say that would change your mind?”

  “I can’t say … just that I know I am where I need to be.”

  “I understand your need to stay, but I can’t stand the thought of leaving you behind. I will not try to persuade you against your will.”

  Her eyes held his and she knew what she felt was as true as the moon above, but still … Unexpected thoughts of Reece surfaced and it came to her mind how her faith in him had been dashed by his sudden leaving. She ran her fingers along the edge of the puffed sleeves of her dress, feeling the fine detailing, the expert stitching: steady and even, like she wanted her life to be. She would he
lp raise young Prince and follow her dream of becoming a tailor. If Thomas loved her so much … She wanted to scream it out loud, but it would have been selfish, and so what she said was, “Let’s not be sad. Some things are not meant to last forever. We found joy in each other’s company and maybe we should be happy with that.”

  “Perhaps. But if you should change your mind, you come to New York and find me. I will make my name known in every Negro quarter.” He reached for her hand and this time she did not push it away.

  Later that evening, she carefully folded the red dress, smoothing the wrinkles as though she were erasing the troubling lines of life. She wondered who it had belonged to, if it had been part of another romance, part of a lavish ball with handsome gentlemen. She wasn’t feeling at all like the child who needed Grandmother to speak for her or the one who needed direction and advice. She was in charge, looking out for herself. Blessings and curses, joy and sorrow, all at once, like a thunderstorm when the sun was shining. What was this mixed-up crazy life really about? Sarah had worn the red dress for perhaps the last time. She gazed at it for a long time, then gathered it up in her arms and placed it in the trunk at the foot of her bed saying, “Guard the memories this dress holds dear.” And she closed the lid.

  Twenty-six

  IT WAS EARLY JULY 1785. SARAH SPENT HER TIME WORKING at Mrs. Cunningham’s, Mrs. Atkins’ and at home. There was little time to think about Thomas. She had Prince to care for and, more urgently, Grandmother, who had fallen ill. The old woman lay in bed for three days, suffering delusions that caused her to cry and, sometimes unexpectedly, erupt into fits of laughter. Peace refused to settle across her troubled brow. Sarah worried that she might have smallpox or cholera and she kept an eye on her fever. Fibby was certain it was neither. She spread a thick paste of black mustard powder, flour and hot water between two pieces of cloth and laid the poultice on Lydia’s chest. After several applications, the congestion had not loosened.

  Grandmother lay on her side, her eyes wide as her raspy groans and deep breathing intensified. She called out saying, “Just a little glass of water, Sarah, and I’ll be all right.”