The Price of Freedom

by Every, Donna

  Richard couldn't help himself, he asked, "How much would you sell Deborah for?"

  His uncle looked at him sharply and said, "She's not for sale. Or for bedding," he reminded him. Richard nodded his assent.

  He needed to put the girl from his mind. The last thing he wanted was to incur his uncle's displeasure while he was staying there.

  Sarah bent over the wash tub and rubbed the bar of soap against the collar of the white shirt. The pile of clothes she had washed already was growing and her back was aching from bending over the tub while her hands were raw from the soap.

  It was a relief to dip the clothes in tubs of cold, clean water before wringing them out and dropping them into another tub to take them to the drying yard.

  She knew that the mistress assigned this task to her because it was one of the hardest jobs that a house slave had to do but at least it allowed her to work outside and enjoy the beautiful day. She would treat her hands afterwards with lanolin to soothe them and soften the skin.

  She called the stable boy to carry the tub to the drying yard where some lines were strung up to dry the clothes. Fortunately at that time of the year, the breeze was brisk and the clothes would dry quickly.

  After hanging up the wet clothes she went to the bath house to collect the towels that needed to be washed for that week. Emptying out the water from the last washing she poured fresh water in the tub and submerged the towels. Looking up she was relieved to see Sally coming out to help her after finishing her own chores in the house.

  "I'm glad to see you Sally. My back is hurting real bad." With that she straightened up and arched her back to ease the pain.

  "I know that this work does break your back," she sympathized. "They don't care how hard it is when they change their clothes every day and we have to wash them."

  "Washing day is the hardest day of the week!" agreed Sarah. "I can't wait to see my bed tonight. I going to pick up the sheets I washed this morning to make room for these towels."

  Sarah was walking from the drying yard to the house with her arms full of sheets when Richard and his uncle rode into the yard heading towards the stable.

  "Sarah," his uncle called. "Come to my room tonight."

  "Yes, master Thomas," she said lowering her head demurely as she saw that he was with the nephew. She groaned silently to herself. The last thing she wanted was to go to the master tonight. She was so tired and her back was hurting badly, but could she tell the master that? After all he owned her and she was there for his use, no matter how she felt.

  So this was Sarah, Richard observed. He could see where Deborah got her beauty from, although his uncle had contributed as well. Her skin was the color of milky coffee and though he couldn't see her figure behind the sheets she carried he had no doubt that she would be well formed. His uncle certainly has good taste in slave women.

  He wondered how his aunt felt about her husband blatantly sharing his bed with his mistress under the same roof as her.

  "So is that how you do it, uncle? Just tell them to come to your room?"

  "Well yes, my boy."

  "What if they’re not willing?"

  "Not willing? They're slaves, they don’t have any choice. But any man worth his salt can encourage them to be willing once they get there," he added with a knowing laugh as they handed the reins of the horses over to the stable boy.

  Richard was amazed at all he had seen so far. If his uncle's life was any indication, the large plantation owners in Barbados lived like lords; no expense was spared to make life on the island easy and no desire was left unsatisfied.

  He recognized how easy it would be to adopt the life of the Barbadian planter. Would he want to leave when it was time to go back to Carolina?

  Dinner was a more elaborate affair that night. Richard was once again disappointed to see that Deborah was absent and he wondered if it was by her own choice or whether his aunt had deliberately arranged it.

  It was probably just as well, he thought, as he cut into his succulent baked pork which was accompanied by chicken, cassava cakes, fried plantain, sweet potato and a large assortment of vegetables. His uncle had opened a bottle of fine French brandy and poured him a generous glass.

  "What did you think of the plantation, Richard?" asked his aunt.

  "It's beautiful and I can see that it’s extremely well run."

  "Yes it is. It's one of the best in the island," she boasted. "We'll have to throw a party to introduce you to some of our friends from other plantations."

  "We'll help you plan it," his cousins said excitedly. They didn't say much in his presence and he assumed that they were still a bit shy around him.

  "The women will use any excuse to throw a party," his uncle complained good-naturedly, “but it will be good for you to meet some of the other planters and settlers on the island.”

  "We can have another one to celebrate the end of the crop," his aunt continued.

  "Yes but we still have the harvesting and boiling to get through," his uncle reminded her. "We may need to borrow a couple of girls from the house to help this year and Jethro too. We need all hands to help out during harvest," he told Richard.

  "Well I'll certainly do my part. Just tell me what you want me to do," offered Richard.

  "Thank you, son. I'll definitely take you up on that." Thomas already liked Richard a great deal. He wished that William was more like him.

  The combination of the sumptuous meal and the brandy made him wonderfully content and having had that hunger satisfied, he began to wonder how he could discreetly arrange to have the other dealt with. He couldn't just invite Hattie to his room with his aunt there. How was he to do it?

  "Richard, join me in my office so that we can plan tomorrow. Ladies excuse us." His uncle rose and Richard did the same, asking the ladies to excuse him as well.

  "Tomorrow I'll take you to the far side of the plantation and into Jamestown where I have some business," said his uncle opening the door to his office.

  "Fine. I stopped in Jamestown on the way up. It has an interesting history."

  "Yes, indeed. It’s where the first settlers landed. Have another drink." His uncle poured him another large brandy. The retreat to the office was obviously more intended to drink brandy than to talk about the next day.

  Richard had heard that drinking was another pastime on the island that was greatly indulged. While he did not have a problem with having a drink he did not like the feeling of losing control which accompanied imbibing vast quantities of spirits, so he tended to be moderate in his drinking.

  "By the way, uncle, I was trying to think how best to discreetly tell Hattie to come to my room."

  His uncle laughed. "Just tell her."

  “But I cannot do so in front of the ladies,” protested Richard.

  “They are well aware of what the girls are used for, you know. But if you’re shy about it, I will take care of it for you,” assured his uncle.

  Richard was happy to allow his uncle to deal with that particular issue.

  Chapter 8

  Deborah settled down under one of the trees in her favorite spot with a sigh of contentment. It was Sunday, the day that all the slaves looked forward to, as it was their only day of rest. The house slaves alternated their days off since someone always had to be available to look after the family’s needs. There was breakfast to be prepared before they left for church and as they were to have lunch out today, only a light snack would need to be prepared for later in the evening when they returned.

  Deborah was relieved that she was not on duty today and could wash her hair. Sunday was the only day that she had the opportunity to do it and she always came out to her spot, as she thought of it, to dry it. She pulled her brush through the damp tresses, working out the tangles before she spread it over the front of her blouse for the warm sun and the brisk breeze to dry. The scrap of towel that she had draped over her shoulders did little to protect her blouse from the damp that seeped through it.

  Task finished,
she leaned back against the smooth trunk of the tree and enjoyed the view and the solitude that the spot afforded her. The sound of the wind gently disturbing the leaves was a welcome relief from the constant chatter and gossiping of the house slaves.

  Hattie was the worst. Thursday morning she had come into the kitchen late, blaming the fact that she had overslept on the nephew who had called for her the night before. Yawning and stretching contentedly she told them, with a satisfied smile, that it was very late when she left his room and that he had given her a shilling. Deborah wasn’t sure who she was more disgusted with; the nephew who was betrothed and still bedding Hattie or Hattie for thinking it a privilege to be bedded by him for a shilling.

  Picking up the book she had borrowed from the master's office she found where she had left off before and then flipped back a few pages to refresh her memory before reading on.

  Although slaves were not encouraged to read and write, the master knew that she had learned along with the girls and he had never objected. He had even consented when she had courageously broached the subject of borrowing books from his office, provided, he had said, that she was discreet.

  She soon became lost in the pages of Shakespeare’s First Folio and the final scenes of Romeo and Juliet. Before long Juliet had thrust a dagger into her breast when she discovered that her husband Romeo was dead.

  Deborah was not moved by the tragedy; in fact she was annoyed that Juliet would chose to take her life rather than live without Romeo. What sense was that? She had the one thing that Deborah desired – freedom, and she chose to end her life because of love? Did such love exist outside of plays? She had never seen it and she would probably never experience it, even if it did exist.

  Richard had declined his aunt’s offer to accompany them to church the night before. This was one day that he could laze in bed for a change and besides he had wanted to explore the grounds of the house at his leisure. Walking around to the eastern side where he had not been before, he saw in the distance a small grove of trees that appeared to be on the edge of a cliff and he was interested to see the view from there.

  He was almost upon the grove when he noticed a woman sitting under a tree reading. His heart gave a jolt of anticipation as he drew nearer and realized that it was Deborah, with her wavy brown hair released from the confines of the ever present handkerchief and falling over her shoulders to just graze the top of her breasts.

  He strolled towards her quietly and unhurriedly, not wanting to alert her to his presence before he got closer to her. He had almost succeeded when he caused a pair of wood doves to suddenly take to flight as he passed by them.

  Startled eyes swung in his direction and he noticed that she surreptitiously tried to hide the book she was reading under her skirt. She seemed undecided whether to stand up as he approached or remain seated where she could hide the book. He solved her dilemma by saying: “Don’t get up on my account.”

  Deborah did not answer. Her heart had increased its pace as soon as she saw who had invaded her private spot. As a slave she knew that she should get up but she didn’t want him to see the book and she was relieved when he took the decision away from her. What was he doing in her spot, anyway?

  He was dressed simply in a pair of well fitted breeches and a cotton shirt opened at the neck. His longish dark hair was secured at his neck with a ribbon but a few strands had come loose and swung by his ear. He really was too good looking for his own good. He looked down at her from his great height making her wish now that she had stood up. She briefly glanced at his face and found his eyes on her hair.

  His gaze made her feel suddenly vulnerable and the seclusion of the grove that was restful only minutes before now seemed threatening. Her hands began to shake and she hid them in the folds of her skirt, furious with herself for the fear that was beginning to rise in her.

  There would be no-one to hear her if he chose to take advantage of her out here. She hoped that Hattie was enough to satisfy his needs. She wondered if she had been to his room again last night.

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “Reading?” she repeated stalling.

  “Yes. I saw you with a book.” Deborah couldn’t deny it so she reluctantly pulled the book from under her skirt.

  “Shakespeare’s First Folio,” she disclosed. “Master Thomas allows me to borrow books from his office,” she added defensively.

  “I didn’t think you’d stolen it. Besides he told me you could read.”

  They had discussed her? Deborah wondered what they had said. She hoped Master Thomas had warned him to stay away from her.

  “So which of the plays were you reading?”

  “I just finished Romeo and Juliet,” she grudgingly admitted.

  “Ah, yes, the romantic tragedy. I saw it once in England. Were you able to understand it?” he asked.

  She immediately bristled. Just because she was a slave did he think she was lacking in understanding? How she hated his air of superiority. How superior was he when he was betrothed and yet would still bed another, even if she was a slave. His morals certainly were not superior.

  “Yes, thank you,” she answered sarcastically and immediately froze at her insolence, wondering what punishment it would bring.

  To her surprise he laughed. Richard knew that she had overstepped the bounds with her sarcasm but he admired her spirit. Just to provoke her he added, “Yes, thank you, Master Richard.”

  He was surprised to see her face blanch but he did not know that his words, so close to those that William had used before dragging her to his bed, had the power to shake Deborah and remind her of her vulnerable position.

  “Yes thank you, Master Richard,” she forced a demure tone and he was disappointed that she had backed down so easily.

  “So what did you think of Mr. Shakespeare’s play?”

  He really wanted to discuss the play with her? Deborah was immediately suspicious. Slave women and free white men did not converse, far less discuss plays. Any interaction they had was purely physical. Why was he asking her thoughts about the play? She hesitated, remembering that this was the mistress’ nephew. Would he tell the mistress that he had caught her reading the master’s books?

  Richard’s eyes roved over her face, seeing the suspicion and hesitation before she schooled her features so that her face was like a blank page. He was surprised how much he disliked that blank look which hid all her emotions.

  His eyes continued to travel the length of her hair, following it to the contours of her breasts and he had the sudden desire to run his fingers through the wild tresses and pull her close so that he could taste her temptingly full lips.

  His mouth watered as he wondered if hers would be as sweet to the taste as they looked. Desire darkened his eyes to almost black and he looked away towards the horizon as he struggled to marshal his wayward thoughts, lest he forget his promise to his uncle.

  Deborah saw him looking at her hair again and had the sudden urge to plait it and hide it under her towel. If she gave in to the urge he would know that he disturbed her and she didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. Besides she didn’t want to draw any further attention to herself.

  “I think that Juliet was a stupid girl,” she answered his question almost harshly, seeking to break the tension that was thick in the air. “She was foolish to take her own life when she was young, wealthy and free.”

  “She obviously preferred to be dead rather than live without her husband. You fault her for that?”

  “I fault her for taking her life for such a reason. Many people go on living after they lose loved ones.” She thought of the slaves whose daughter had been taken from them weeks ago and who was as good as dead to them. “But I do believe there are some things we should be willing to die for,” she added.

  “Like what?” he couldn’t help asking.

  “Freedom.” The word slipped out before she had time to think about the implications of answering so honestly.

  “You yearn
for freedom?”

  “There is no slave that does not yearn for freedom.” She immediately realized the dangerous nature of their conversion and closed her lips, determined not to say anything else. How did this man manage to make her reveal her thoughts?

  “But what would you do if you were free?” he persisted. “Where would you go? Here you have food, clothing and shelter provided for you. You have everything you need,” he reasoned.

  “Everything but freedom,” she amended, even as his questions made her search for her own answers.

  She was glad when he walked towards the edge of the cliff and gestured to the landscape asking, “Where is that?” effectively changing the subject to a safer topic.

  “It’s the East Coast of the island. Just below this cliff, the parish of St. Andrew starts and goes all the way down to the sea.”

  “Have you ever been there?” Deborah looked at him in surprise. Had he forgotten that she was a slave? What call would she have to go to the East Coast?

  “The only places I have been recently are St. Michael’s Town and Jamestown. When I was a child the girls would ask for me to be allowed to go with them when the family visited friends on other plantations but I have never been to the East Coast.”

  “You were born on the plantation?”

  Deborah became cautious again.

  “Yes.”

  Richard wanted to ask her more but he sensed that this was not a topic that she wanted to discuss. Many topics were off limits to them.

  “How old are you?”

  “Nearly eighteen.”

  “You seem a lot older,” he remarked.

  “Being a slave ages you,” Deborah was quick to return.

  “It’s not that you look old, you act older.” Deborah wondered how old he was but didn’t have the freedom to ask.

  “I’m seven years older than you, if you were wondering,” he teased.

  “I wasn’t,” she lied.