Freedom Stone

by Jeffrey Kluger

  Lillie had been hornet-mad at Cal since the moment he hobbled out to the lineup this morning. She’d known as soon as she’d seen him that he’d hurt himself doing something he wasn’t supposed to do—and that anything he told the overseer about it would be a lie. Cal’s fibs and mischief always seemed to tangle up other people, and today Lillie was the one who got caught. Her anger only grew greater as she strode to Nelly and George’s, and when she got there, she was pleased to see that the door was open a crack. That spared her the courtesy of having to knock, which spared her the business of waiting to be invited inside. Instead, she simply swung the door open with a bang.

  “What was you thinkin’, boy?” she barked at Cal, echoing Mama’s words without planning to. Cal was lying on his narrow bed, his melon of a foot propped up on a small sack of potatoes.

  “Lillie!” Nelly cried, leaping up and bringing her hand to her heart. “You gave me a terrible fright!”

  “What’s your business here, child?” George demanded. “You shouldn’t come burstin’ in like that!”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Nelly, Mr. George,” Lillie said, immediately regretting startling the pair. They were not old people, but they weren’t young, either, and they had enough worries looking after Cal without Lillie upsetting them further. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

  “But you did all the same,” George said sternly. “What is it you want?”

  “I come to talk to him,” Lillie said, turning to face Cal, who avoided her gaze. “Come to ask him what he was doin’ last night and how he busted up his foot.”

  “He was at Bingham Woods,” Nelly said. “And he got hurt dancin’ with you. Ain’t that what you said?”

  “It is.”

  “Weren’t it the truth?”

  “Truth enough for the overseer,” Lillie said, “and lie enough to get me whipped if I got caught for tellin’ it. The true truth is somethin’ else.” She stepped to the edge of Cal’s bed and stood directly in front of him. “Ain’t it?” she asked.

  Cal didn’t answer.

  “Boy,” Nelly said, “what is she talkin’ about?”

  “Nothin’,” Cal grumbled.

  “It don’t seem like nothin’,” Nelly persisted.

  “I said it’s nothin’.”

  “Tell me, Cal,” Nelly said.

  “It’s nothin’!” Cal snapped.

  His tone was sharp, angry, not at all the tone he would dare use if Nelly were his true mama, and it took her by surprise. That, it seemed, was enough for George, who had had his fill of trouble for one day—particularly trouble that came from Cal.

  “Boy!” George snapped. “This here woman is the person what looks after you, and you’ll treat her like a mama even if she ain’t. And I’m the person what looks after her, and you’ll talk to me like I’m a papa. Now, you answer the questions what been put to you or I’ll paddle you like a papa too!”

  Cal mumbled something that was impossible to understand.

  “What did you say?” George said.

  “I said yes, sir,” Cal answered.

  “Now where was you last night?”

  “I was at the dance,” Cal said. George took a step toward him. “Truth!” Cal said, raising his hand as if taking a pledge. He lowered his eyes. “And then I was runnin’.”

  Nelly gasped and covered her mouth. George and Lillie remained standing. Cal looked mournfully at all three of them; then he told his story. It was true, he confessed, that he’d tried to escape last night, and it was true that he ran with Benjy and Cupit. The three boys came to Bingham Woods dressed for the dance like everyone else, but they kept mostly to themselves, waiting until the whiskey got passed around. They reckoned that the overseers and slave drivers would help themselves to the drink and that while they were busy with the jugs, they’d likely take their eyes off the slaves. As soon as that happened, Cal, Benjy and Cupit began edging away from the clearing and toward the tree line. As soon as all the whip men were looking completely the other way, they plunged into the woods.

  Benjy and Cupit, with their stronger legs and quicker strides, had promised not to let Cal fall behind, and for a little while, they made good on that—helping the younger boy over rocks and through tangles. But as the woods got darker and the tangles got thicker, it became so hard for any of the boys to keep their footing that it was all they could do to look after themselves. Before long, Cal began slipping back.

  “Cal!” Benjy hissed into the darkness behind him once or twice.

  “I’m all right,” Cal hissed back, not meaning it but knowing the other boys might not be able to fight their way back to him even if they tried, making it likelier they’d all get caught.

  “Cal!” Cupit called once or twice more from a greater distance, now barely audible.

  “I said I’m fine,” Cal answered. “Keep goin’, I’ll catch up!”

  It was at that moment that Cal encountered the log or the rock or the short, hollow stump that caught the tip of his foot and held it fast, even as the speed of his tumbling run continued to carry him forward and to the side, wrenching his ankle with a violence that made it feel as if the very cords that held his foot to his leg were being stretched to the point of breaking. He collapsed in pain and grabbed the foot but pulled in his lips and bit them hard to prevent himself from screaming. For long moments, Cal lay that way, listening to his panting breath and pounding heart and then, when they had quieted enough, to the woods around him. There was no sound at all of the other boys’ footsteps. They’d either heard him tell them to keep going or they hadn’t, but in any event they’d gone. Behind him, he could faintly make out the distant sound of slave voices and juba music from the dance that now felt like it was a whole world away.

  Cal struggled up on his one good foot and painfully hopped his way back to the party, falling again and again, but mindful of the fact that he had to get where he was going before the wagons returned to Greenfog and left him behind entirely. Finally, he reached the clearing at Bingham Woods and hid himself until the slave drivers weren’t looking and he could brush himself clean of dirt and leaves. Then he rejoined the party but sat silently off to the side, as if he’d eaten his fill and danced too much and now only wanted to go home to his bed.

  Cal finished his tale and hung his head, and Lillie, Nelly and George stood silently.

  “Do you know where them other boys was goin’?” George asked at last.

  “No,” Cal answered. “And that’s the truth. They wouldn’t tell me. Said I should just follow them.”

  “They won’t get far,” George said. “They don’t know the woods, not like the trackers.”

  “When will they catch them?” Lillie asked.

  “Soon.”

  “What’ll they do to them?”

  “They’ll flog them, maybe till they kill them—leastways Cupit. Benjy’s bigger; he’ll fetch more at sale.”

  “They can’t kill Cupit!” Cal cried, looking up. “Master won’t let ’em break his property!”

  “Master’s happy to break one slave if’n he thinks it’ll keep the others in line,” George said. “Either way, they’s both gone—one to the slave trader, one to the grave.” Cal stared at George with his eyes wide. George looked back at him coolly. “You shoulda knowed all this, son,” he said. “And now you does.”

  Lillie looked at George and considered the terrible things he’d just said—and the equally terrible things he hadn’t. It was true that Cupit would likely be flogged to his death; it was also true that before he died they’d try to make him tell how he’d planned his run. With the whip across his back, he’d surely mention Cal—which meant Cal himself would feel the lash too.

  Even before Lillie got up this morning, she knew she had one more visit to make today. Now that visit was more important than ever.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  IT WAS BETT, OF COURSE, Lillie had to go see, though even as she was running there, she knew she shouldn’t. The day had passed fast, what with her and
Plato not having left the cabin until the middle of the afternoon. Now it would not be long before the long shadows of late day gave way to the full dark of evening. Plato was surely back from playing by now, and if Lillie didn’t make it home soon too, Mama would turn cross all over again.

  What’s more, it was Sunday—the quietest day of the week for Bett, and the one she had told Lillie she enjoyed the most. At this hour, she would just be getting ready for a long stroll about the edges of the plantation and would then return for the small supper she’d make herself as the sun set over the fields. Lillie knew she would be disturbing the old woman’s peace—and knew all the same that she had no choice.

  “Bett!” she cried as she approached the cabin. “Bett!”

  She got no response but could see the light of a lantern in the window. She took the two little steps that led into the house at a single bound and opened the door without knocking. It occurred to her—fleetingly—that this was the second time today she’d been so rude, but she pushed the thought out of her head. Bett was bending over her stove and poking at a pot. She turned to Lillie and, unlike Nelly, did not seem startled by her sudden, noisy arrival.

  “Lillie,” Bett said evenly, as if the girl had been spending the whole day with her and had simply stepped outside for a moment to fetch some water, “ain’t this late for you to be about?”

  “I reckon it is,” Lillie answered, catching her breath and closing the door behind her.

  “Your mama will be cross if you ain’t back before dark,’specially after everything that happened today.” As always, Bett was not required to be at the slave lineup, but word went around the plantation fast, and by now she would have been told about everything that had happened.

  “It was terrible,” Lillie said. “I ain’t never seen the overseer like that.”

  “I know, child. I could hear the shoutin’ and poundin’ from here. And then there was all that screamin’ from a child.”

  “Cal,” Lillie said.

  “Did he run?” Bett asked the question, but she looked as if she knew the answer already.

  “He tried to—with two other boys.”

  “Benjy and Cupit,” Bett guessed.

  Lillie nodded.

  “And they’s still gone,” Bett said, more to herself than to Lillie. “It’ll go hard on ’em when they’s caught; hard on Cal too.”

  “I know,” Lillie said.

  Bett now changed her tone slightly—to one that was just a tick brighter. “And what about the business you was doin’ last night? You did some runnin’ of your own, I expect.”

  Despite her worry over Cal, Lillie beamed at the mention of that. The wondrous memory of her run through the darkness under the charm of the bread had been pushed to the side of her thoughts since morning, but now it came pouring back.

  “I did, I did!” she said. “It was wonderful!”

  “Like you was floatin’,” Bett said knowledgeably.

  “Just like it.”

  “But you never got tired.”

  “Not a lick!”

  “Good. You take care o’ that matter you had to tend to at Orchard Hill?”

  Lillie nodded. “Kept my promise to Henry jus’ like I said I would. Now he’s got to keep his.”

  She reached into the small pocket in the front of her dress and carefully withdrew the letter she’d worked so hard to write. She looked at it proudly and Bett held her hand out for it, but Lillie instead stepped to the table and laid it down carefully. She smoothed it with both hands and only then stood aside. Bett picked it up, regarded the printing on the envelope, then took out the letter and looked at it. She could not read a word of it. Lillie worried that it might embarrass Bett to be shown up by a child who could not only read but could fill up a page with such wonderful print. But Bett was long since past such vanities.

  “That’s fine writin’, child,” she said. “As fine as I ever seen.” Bett slid the letter carefully back into the envelope. “You gonna need some wax to seal it.”

  “Henry said he’d tend to that,” Lillie answered.

  “You gonna need a stamp too.”

  “Henry said he’d pay for that.”

  “Then all you need is to get it into his hands so’s he can mail it,” Bett said as she laid the letter back down on the table. She spoke as if she knew that was the very reason Lillie had come to see her, and of course it was.

  “Can you help me?” Lillie asked. “Can you go back to Bluffton?”

  “I only just been there. My flour and such ain’t nearly all gone.”

  Lillie’s spirits sank. She hadn’t considered that problem, but of course it was true. Bett was allowed to travel only when she had to, and from the look of the still-bulging bags of supplies near her work counter, that would be a while.

  “How soon till they’s all done?” Lillie asked.

  “Not soon enough—weeks,” Bett answered.

  “But we ain’t got weeks! There ain’t no tellin’ when that slave appraiser’s gonna come for Plato!”

  “I know that,” Bett said, “but I don’t think there’s no help for it.”

  “There has to be!” Lillie said.

  Bett looked thoughtful. “Maybe there is a way,” she said. “I reckon if my supplies got ruined, we’d have to go to Bluffton as early as tomorrow.”

  “But they ain’t ruined—are they?”

  “How do they look to you?” Bett asked, gesturing toward the bags.

  Lillie went to them, opened them up and peered inside. They looked and smelled fresh. “They’s fine,” she said dourly. “And there’s plenty of ’em too.”

  Bett nodded and waved Lillie out of the way. She stepped to the bags, scooped out several cups’ worth of flour, salt and cornmeal and set them aside. Then, she turned to her stove and picked up a large pot of water that she appeared to have used earlier for boiling. Bits of turnip or potato skin still floated on top. She lifted the pot with both hands and grunted with the effort—then emptied the water into the flour and cornmeal sacks. Lillie’s mouth opened.

  “They still look fine to you?” Bett asked. “Terrible accident, spillin’ water like that. By tomorrow morning there oughta be so much mold growin’ in those sacks, they’ll both be spoiled. The Missus herself could see we needed to go fetch more.”

  “Bett ...,” Lillie said, stunned at what the old woman had just done. Bett had spent her life tending her ovens and making her breads, and Lillie had never seen her waste a lick of food if she could help it, nor abide anyone who would. Now she had ruined a month’s worth of eating. She started to speak, but Bett spoke first.

  “If you gonna go free, girl, you gonna have to move fast,” she said, slipping Lillie’s letter into her apron pocket. Then she turned to the flour, salt and cornmeal she had set aside on the counter. “Meantime, why don’t I bake up somethin’ nice and see if I can’t slow down them slave catchers goin’ after them boys.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  THE MOOD IN THE Big House had been growing darker all day—ever since the overseer had knocked early in the morning to tell the Master that the two slave boys were gone. Sarabeth had not even been awake at the time, but soon enough, she had heard screaming from the slave cabins and her father storming out the front door to see what the commotion was. By the time he returned, he was angry and red-faced, and he spent much of the day that way, scolding the children, snapping at the house slaves and stomping out to the front porch, where he’d stand with his fists on his hips, waiting for Mr. Willis or one of the slave catchers to appear with the happy news that the runaways had been found.

  That news did not come by the end of the morning, nor by the afternoon, nor by late in the day when the shadows were starting to grow long. Sarabeth knew that good slave catchers with good hounds could hunt at night, so she was hopeful as the dinner hour approached that the day might yet end well. But the dinner hour came and went, and dinner itself was a sour affair. She and Cody and their mother barely tasted their food, and the Mast
er did not touch his at all, drumming his fingers on the table and snapping the cover of his pocket watch open and closed as he checked the time minute by minute.

  Finally, shortly before nine o’clock, when Sarabeth was in her room preparing for bed, there was a knock on the front door. Cody was already asleep in his own bedroom and did not hear it, but Sarabeth threw on her dressing gown, hurried out of her bedroom and tiptoed down the great staircase of the house, stopping just at the point at which she could peek down at the front door but where nobody standing there would be likely to look back up and see her. Her father and mother hurried across the entry hall and opened the door wide. A slave catcher was standing there.

  Slave catchers, in Sarabeth’s experience, always looked dirty, but the one at the door tonight seemed especially so. His face was streaked with mud and soil, and his trousers were prickly with brambles and bits of twig. He looked like a man who’d been galloping through the woods but had spent as much time being tossed off his horse as riding it. He spoke quietly to the Master and Missus, his hat in his hands in front of him, and the Master answered him in low, angry tones. Sarabeth could not make out what the men were saying, but she could see the back of her father’s neck reddening. Finally, he erupted at the man.

  “I’m not paying you to lose those boys!” he shouted. “I’m paying you to catch them!”

  “And we had ’em,” the man protested, his own voice rising some. “The hounds smelled ’em, the men heard ’em. Even the horses knew we was close.”

  “And?” the Master barked.

  “And then they was gone,” the catcher answered meekly. “Boys can be quick—quick as rabbits, these ones, I guess.”

  “And boys can be caught! It shouldn’t take a dozen of you to find two small slaves! Now take your men and your animals and go do what you were hired to do!”

  “Can’t, sir,” the man answered, and now he seemed to shrink into himself, as if he feared the Master would strike him at what he had to say next. “Horses won’t go.”