A light appeared through the boards of the bin.
“It’s me,” Hannah said. “She’s gone.”
The light was set on the ground, then there was a fumbling of a key in the padlock. The bin door opened and Hannah peered in.
“I brought you some things. Here.” She handed me a chamber pot, a blanket, and a mug of water. “T’ain’t right to lock you away with nothing. You ain’t an animal.”
“Let me go, please,” I pleaded. But before I could say anything further or reach for her, she had slammed down the door and shot home the lock again.
“I’ll be back by dawn and check on you then,” she said. “Try to sleep.”
“Please, Hannah!” I cried. “Please, I beg of you!”
Her footsteps flew up the stairs and the door slammed. I thought I heard a sob, but perhaps I didn’t.
The bees overtook me then. As evening moved into night, they ate through me and hived up inside my brainpan with a loud buzz, their wings beating me into submission. Someone whimpered and cried and it must have been me, but it mattered not for I was already dead. It was only a few days, hours perhaps, until my heart would stop beating, in truth, and the bees would fly off to haunt someone else.
And then came the sound of a distant roar, like a lion just sprung from a trap.
The bees paused and I froze, waiting. No one was home except for Lady Seymour, and she was not capable of making noise.
The roar came again. I cocked my head and listened. It did not come from the street nor the house above. It was not cannon fire. ’Twas inside me. A thought, thunderous loud.
Ruth was alive.
Alive, in Charleston. In South Carolina, not on a ship, not on an island.
Alive in a town I can walk to.
My toes wiggled in my sturdy black shoes and my legs itched. I lay flat as I could on the bumpy mound of potatoes and kicked once at the boards of the bin. My heavy shoes made a terrible loud noise on the wood. I stopped, counted to one hundred.
There came no sound from overhead, no commotion out on the street.
I kicked again, at the same spot. The potatoes under me shifted and the mug of water overturned. I kicked a third time. The boards did not move at all. I cursed the carpenter who had built this tomb.
There has to be a way out.
I kicked, stomped, slammed. I raged and screamed and fought. Nothing happened.
I stopped, wiped the sweat from my face, and closed my eyes.
Think.
The bin stood a little taller than Ruth, and was as long in both directions as it was tall. I reached up to touch the boards above my head. They were rough-hewn, put together with cold nails. My fingertips traced the length of each board, feeling along the splinters and the knots in the wood. The top was as solid as a brick wall, each nail fastened tight. I fought back the panic that rose in my throat and tested the strength of each board that ran from the top down the sides. All strong, all sound.
Think. Remember.
When Ruth and I slept down here, the far corner of the cellar went muddy in a heavy rain. Maybe the damp had eaten at the boards. I moved over to that corner of the bin and scooped the potatoes out of the way, heaping them behind me. I sat back and put my feet on each board in turn and pushed.
The third board I tried gave way a little. So did the next two.
I moved the potato heap so I could best lean against it and push with my legs. I kicked. There was a quiet crack.
I kicked again and leaned forward to feel the boards. The one had a piece chipped off where the wood was rotted through, the other had a long split in it. I leaned back and took a deep breath, then kicked and kicked with all my strength until the wood broke and flew into the dark.
I took the stairs two at a time and paused before I entered the kitchen. The house was still silent. I hurried down the hall, past the grandfather clock, and up the stairs to the drawing room. I needed a map and had a mind to steal a pass, too, if I could.
I threw some wood on the fire, lit a candle from the flames, and carried it to the long dining table covered with maps and countless papers. I lit the rest of the candles on the table as if preparing for a feast, then searched through the papers, throwing those that were useless to me to the floor.
Finally I found a small map that showed the colonies from Massachusetts down to Georgia. The distance from Rhode Island to New York was the same as the tip of my little finger to the first knuckle under it. From New York to Charleston stretched all the way down my fingers to the palm.
The crackling firewood startled me. I glanced up. There was a movement over the hearth and for an instant, my heart caught in my throat.
A ghost?
The firelight brightened. No, not a ghost. I had caught sight of myself in the large mirror that hung over the mantel.
I could scarce recognize me.
My hands fumbled for a candle. I moved to the mirror, guarding the flame, and lit the oil lamps that were set into the wall. The mirror caught the light and reflected it back at me.
I leaned in.
In truth, it seemed I was looking at a stranger who lived beyond the glass. My face was thinner than I remembered and longer from brow to chin. My nose and mouth recollected Momma’s, but the set of the eyes, those came from Poppa. As I stared, their two faces came forth and drifted back, until I could see only me.
I turned my head to the side a bit and studied the brand on my face; for the first time, studied it hard: the capital I that proclaimed my insolent manners and crimes. I leaned closer to the mirror. The letter was a pink ribbon embroidered on my skin.
I touched it, smooth and warm, flesh made into silk.
The scars on Poppa’s cheek had been three lines across his cheek, carved with a sharp blade. He was proud of his marks. In the country of his ancestors, they made him into a man.
I traced the I with my fingertip.
This is my country mark. I did not ask for it, but I would carry it as Poppa carried his. It made me his daughter. It made me strong.
I took a step back, seeing near my whole self in the mirror. I pushed back my shoulders and raised my chin, my back straight as an arrow.
This mark stands for Isabel.
The clock struck eleven and made me jump. I had much to do and little time.
The fastest way off the island was a boat, much as the thought made me tremble. I searched through the sea of papers on the table until I found a chart of the tides. I ran my finger down the columns. Huzzah! The tide would not turn against me for a few hours.
I lacked only a pass. Colonel Hawkins had been in the habit of keeping them locked in the chest in the library, but he had become sloppy and overworked since the rebel victories. I opened the drawers of the secretary table and looked through the large boxes of official papers.
There!
I grabbed the paper and dashed to a small side table for a quill and bottle of ink. I crowded the candles in close together to give me enough light, took a deep breath to steady my hand, and dipped the quill. I took a second breath and bent over to fill in the empty bits of the pass:
New-York, _________________ , 1777.
I wrote in 18th, January in the blank space. It had been some time since I wrote out letters. The J wobbled and the r appeared to be an n. I set down the quill, wiped my damp hands on my skirt, and picked it up again.
This is to Certify, to whomsoever it may concern, That the Bearer hereof ________
That was where I had to write my name. I scratched out Isabel and stopped.
I was not a Lockton. Nor a Finch. Isabel Rhode Island? That would not do. Isabel Cuffe, after Poppa, or Isabel Dinah, after Momma?
I closed my eyes and thought of home; the smell of fresh-cut hay and the taste of raspberries. Robins chasing bugs in the bean patch. Setting worms to work at the base of the corn plants. Showing Ruth what was weed and what was flower …
I opened my eyes, dipped the quill, and wrote out my true name: Isabel Gardener, being a Free Negro,
has the Commandant’s Permission to pass from this Garrison to whatever place she may think proper.
It was signed with lots of fancy titles that belonged to the colonel and the commandant, and the King Himself. I wished that there would have been space for Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte of Great Britain, to sign it too. She and me shared a birthday now, for I was reborn as Isabel Gardener and that paper proved it.
Chapter XLIV
Saturday, January 18, 1777
THAT THE QUESTION WAS NOT WHETHER, BY A
DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE, WE SHOULD MAKE
OURSELVES WHAT WE ARE NOT; BUT WHETHER WE
SHOULD DECLARE A FACT WHICH ALREADY EXISTS …
–THOMAS JEFFERSON ABOUT THE WRITING OF
THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
I folded the map and pass, blew out the candles, and crept down the stairs. I took the scissors out of the sewing basket in the kitchen and snipped the threads of the hem of my cloak. I opened the map flat, inserted it between the lining and the woolen layer, then quick resewed the hem.
Next I dressed myself in all of my clothing: two shifts and two skirts, my cloak, shawl, and the blanket from my pallet. I took a basket from a high shelf and loaded it with bread, hard cheese, and a piece of dried beef I cut from the slab that hung in the pantry. As I put the beef back, I studied the loose board in the back of the pantry. I pried it up and removed the lead piece from the king’s statue and my cloth packet of seeds. After some consideration, I took out Common Sense, too, and stuck all of it in the pocket I wore under my skirt, alongside the false pass.
I walked down the hall, reached for the handle of the front door, and stopped. Lady Seymour lay in the silent parlor. I doubted anyone had thought to put wood on the fire for her. That was my chore.
No, not anymore. I was quit of this place. I reached again for the handle.
But she was alone, old, and maybe freezing.
It would take only an instant.
I stepped into the parlor. Lady Seymour lay in her bed, her eyes closed, the covers barely moving. Her fire was near burned down to ash. I quick added logs and blew on the coals until small flames jumped up and bit into the wood. She wouldn’t die of the cold this night, not on my account.
I was halfway to the door when I saw her silk reticule hung from the back of a chair. There were coins in that bag, coins that would help a girl set on walking to South Carolina. But that was stealing from somebody who had showed me kindness. But she stood by when Ruth was taken, and she returned me to Madam. But taking her money was still stealing.
’Twas wrong, but I swallowed hard, opened the bag, and removed the coin purse from the bottom. When I hung it back on the chair, Lady Seymour’s eyes were open and following me. The question on her face was plain.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “She’s made up her mind to sell me.”
She nodded once.
“I built up the fire. Would you like some water?”
She nodded again. I poured a cup of water from the pitcher and held it to her dry lips. She swallowed a little, but the rest spilled down her face. I set down the cup and wiped away the water.
“I have to go. Please forgive me.”
Lady Seymour cut her eyes at her husband’s small portrait on the bedside table, then to the coin purse that weighed down my hand. She gave a sharp nod of the head, one side of her mouth turned up in a smile.
“I’ll put the money back,” I said. “Forgive me.”
She shook her head from side to side, her mouth moving with trapped words.
“I can keep it?”
Another nod and another pointed stare at her husband.
“Because I rescued his picture?”
She nodded again, and a tear slipped down her cheek.
“Well, then, ma’am, I’m happy to take it.”
As I set the coin purse in my pocket, she opened her mouth and a small sound escaped.
“Did you say something, Lady Seymour?” I leaned in close, though it scared me, for the smell of death hung over that bed like a fog.
Her lips moved again, forming her last word to me, a whisper almost too faint to hear.
“Run.”
I opened the front door of the Lockton mansion and looked up the street and down. Not a soul in sight.
I picked up the basket, tightened the blanket across my shoulders, and stepped over the threshold. I closed the door behind me, walked down the front steps, and turned west.
My plan was simple and foolhardy: steal a rowboat, cross the river to Jersey, and walk to Charleston. I was counting on the commotion of the Queen’s ball to distract folks. If I could get to the boat in time, the tide would help pull me away from New York.
At the first corner, my feet stopped. This was where I turned north most mornings to head up to the Bridewell.
I urged my feet west, toward the wharf. They did not listen.
My remembery called up the feel of being locked in the stocks, of my face being burnt, of him watching me from across the courtyard; him watching out for me. ’Twas Curzon who made sure I survived. ’Twas he who had been my steadfast friend since the day they brought me here.
I couldn’t. It would be hard enough to sneak past two armies and not get stolen again by someone who would tear up my pass. And I didn’t even have a pass for him, how to explain that? No, I couldn’t. I looked west, toward the river, then north, then west again. No—not couldn’t. I shouldn’t. But I had to.
I had a debt to pay.
“Good evening, sir,” I said, holding out my basket to the huge soldier, Fisher, who opened the door to the Bridewell guardhouse.
Fisher grunted and yawned. “Wot’s your business here? It’s going on midnight.”
I prayed that the Lord and Momma would forgive the river of lies about to flow from my mouth. “Colonel Hawkins sent me, sir, to clean the cells. As you suggested.”
The guard stepped inside and I followed him. He sat heavily in a chair and drank from a mug on the table. “Terrible late to be cleaning cells.”
“The colonel got wind of a prison inspector arriving.”
“Nobody told me,” he growled.
I swallowed hard. Should I flee and give up on this senseless plot?
He spat into the fire. “But they don’t tell me nuffink. Wot’s in the basket?”
Food to keep me alive for a week, I thought. “Help yourself,” I said.
He pawed through it, took out a soft roll and stuffed half of it in his mouth. “Mebbe I should ask the colonel.”
I thought quick as I could. “Yessir. Of course. He’s at the Queen’s ball.”
Fisher winced. “Best not disturb that. All right.” He stood slow and reached for the key ring and a lantern on the wall. “But don’t be asking me to help. Cleaning the cells ain’t my job.”
I took the key. “Yes, sir.”
“Wheelbarrow’s in the hall,” he said. “Once you’ve filled it, roll it back here, and I’ll let you out so’s you can throw the muck and filth in the pit.” He yawned. “Mind yer breathing.”
I turned. “Pardon?”
“Prisoners been dropping dead like flies. Fever.”
The men in the first cell were mostly sleeping, or dying, or dead. None of them had the strength to do more than stare at me in the weak lantern light. I gagged and gagged again as I carried out overflowing chamber pots, and forced myself to take a blanket from a corpse.
Hurry! I screamed inside. Hurry or it will be too late!
Fisher looked up and chuckled as I passed back through the guardhouse with the barrow. I pitched the filth into the pit behind the prison and prayed it was not going atop any corpses. Before I went back inside, I cleaned off my hands in a snow bank. My teeth rattled with the cold.
“No fun, is it?” the guard asked as I passed through again. He pulled at the blanket around his shoulders. “Hurry up, now. I need me sleep.”
“Yes, sir.” I wiped my hands on my skirt. “Almost done, sir.”
I di
d not open the door to the second cell, nor the third. I set the lantern in the wheelbarrow, pushed it down the hall to the fourth door on the right, and held my breath as I unlocked it.
The stench was overpowering—men unwashed for months and puke and muck and rot that was eating living flesh. Two dozen pairs of eyes watched me, burning in skull-like faces. No one spoke. I stepped inside and held the lantern higher. The faces were new to me, men and boys who had been moved in here after Curzon’s original companions died.
“Where’s Mister Dibdin?” I asked in a small voice.
“Died this morning,” croaked a man. “Everyone’s dying.”
“What about the slave boy?”
He pointed to a corner.
Curzon lay insensible, his skin burning with fever, his eyes rolled up into his head. I called his name and pinched him, but he did not look my way nor speak a word.
He’ll be soon dead. Leave him and run.
A weight settled on my shoulders like a cloak of iron. I bent close to his ear. “Shhhh,” I whispered.
A blast of cannon fire sounded from the Battery, more royal celebrations. A few men looked to the window.
“He’s dead.” I stood up. “Can someone help me with the body?”
No one moved.
“Then I shall do it myself.”
I grabbed Curzon under his armpits and dragged him across the floor and out the door. It took no effort at all to load him into the wheelbarrow. He weighed hardly more than a large sack of potatoes or a full butter churn. I dashed back into the cell, snatched his hat out of the shaking hands of a man who was putting it on his own head, grabbed the lantern, and closed and locked the cell door.
I could not ponder the fate of the rest of the men. Some things were not to be borne.
Before I pushed him down the hall and into the guardhouse, I covered Curzon with the filthy blanket I’d stolen from the first cell. “You’re dead,” I hissed to him. “No noise.”
Chains Page 23
