Freedom's Price

by Michaela MacColl

  Eliza felt the heft of the key in her palm. “Why do I need this?” Eliza asked, clutching the heavy key in her palm.

  “Miss Charlotte’s orders,” Sadie answered. “Miss Sofia isn’t allowed out by herself. It’s your job to keep her inside.”

  “She’s a prisoner?” Eliza asked. Her head was spinning. This morning she had woken up in a cell, but now she was the jailer. She wished she had a moment to stop and think, but Sadie was turning the doorknob.

  She gave Eliza a shove through the open door. “Miss Charlotte’s orders,” she said. “And lock the door behind you.”

  CHAPTER Seventeen

  THE CURTAINS WERE DRAWN AND THE ROOM WAS TOO DIM TO make out anything or anyone. Eliza stumbled inside, stretching her hands in front of her. The smell of old woman, past meals, and a neglected chamber pot hit Eliza like a smack on the nose.

  “Who’s there?” The quavering voice came from the opposite side of the room.

  “Miss Sofia,” Sadie called from the hall. “This here’s Eliza.”

  “Get out!” Miss Sofia screeched. “I want to be alone!”

  “Sadie, don’t leave me!”

  “Good luck, Eliza!” Sadie pulled the door shut. “Don’t forget to lock the door.”

  Sadie’s footsteps on the stairs faded away. Eliza was alone. She put the key in the door but didn’t lock it. Like home, she thought. Another unlocked cell. Her eyes scanned the darkened room. Where was Miss Sofia hiding? What if she snuck up behind Eliza and struck her? Eliza whirled around, but she couldn’t see a thing.

  “Are you still there?” the woman called out. “I have a pistol and I know how to use it.”

  “Don’t shoot me!” Eliza cried. She backed up until her spine was pressed against the door. Her body was rigid, braced against a bullet. No one had said anything about a gun!

  “Why shouldn’t I?” the voice demanded. “You want to lock me away like the rest of them.”

  “I’m not like that,” Eliza insisted. “I hate being locked up.”

  “I heard the key in the door,” the voice accused.

  “I was told to do that,” Eliza answered, “but I didn’t lock it.”

  “You disobeyed Charlotte’s orders?” There was a new note in the woman’s voice—curiosity.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Eliza said with a gulp. “But I’m going to lock the door if I decide you’re crazy.”

  A short burst of surprised laughter echoed in the dark room. Eliza’s body relaxed a little.

  “Do you really have a pistol?” Eliza asked.

  “Yes, so you’d best answer my questions,” the voice ordered.

  “Why don’t we let in some light,” Eliza suggested. The old woman didn’t protest. Eliza moved past the bed, stubbing her toe on a rocking chair and bumping into a table. To ease the sharp pain, she hummed as she crossed to the window and pulled the curtains aside. The window faced east, and the morning sun struck the darkness away.

  When she turned to take in her new home, Eliza saw a huge bed that took up half the room. Miss Sofia looked like a doll, sitting upright in that enormous bed. Her back hardly touched the pillows. She was the oldest woman Eliza had ever seen. The wrinkles on her face looked like a fine white porcelain cup had been shattered and then glued together. Her robe was held closed by one hand at the neck and the other hand stroked a pistol.

  Miss Sofia blinked against the light, peering at Eliza. “You’re a Negro!” she exclaimed.

  Eliza narrowed her eyes. “So?”

  “I’ve told Charlotte I don’t want any of her slaves.”

  “Why not?” Eliza couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice.

  “Slavery is an abomination,” Miss Sofia pronounced.

  Eliza felt the knot in her stomach dissolve like a piece of hard candy on the tongue. “You’re an abolitionist?”

  “All the Charlesses are!” Miss Sofia went on. “So leave now, and tell Charlotte I will not have you or any other slave.” A glint appeared in the old woman’s eyes, and she fingered the gun.

  Eliza placed her hands on her hips and grinned. “I’m not a slave, I was born free. Miss Charlotte hired me to look after you.”

  “Hired you, did she?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Sofia smiled slowly, slid the pistol under her pillow, and patted the bed. “Where did my niece find you, Eliza?” Miss Sofia asked.

  “My pa used to be one of Miss Charlotte’s slaves.”

  “You’re Dred Scott’s daughter!” Miss Sofia jabbed a finger toward Eliza as if she had placed Eliza on a map in her mind. “I didn’t realize you were quite this old.”

  “My ma would be pleased to hear that,” Eliza said.

  Miss Sofia’s eyes stayed on Eliza’s face. “I’m sure she would. So you’re a freedom litigant. Where do you live?”

  Eliza closed her eyes as she answered, “In the jail.”

  “The jail?” Miss Sofia’s voice was like spitting nails. “How despicable to punish people for trying to get what’s owed them under the law.”

  Eliza couldn’t speak past the sudden lump in her throat. Sometimes she forgot how much her parents had risked; she wished she’d been more grateful.

  “Sit down. I want to hear about the case. Is Charlotte still paying for your lawyer?”

  “I think so.” Eliza perched on the edge of the feather mattress. Her body sank at least six inches—she’d never felt anything so soft. She could imagine the fun she and Lizzie would have jumping on it. She couldn’t think of Lizzie now; she’d only start to cry. “But I’ve never understood why.”

  “Poor Charlotte feels guilty, of course. She knows slavery is terrible, but she can’t live without the comfortable life the slaves make for her. She’s misguided, but for all that she’s a decent woman.” Miss Sofia fixed a beady eye on Eliza. “Don’t repeat that!”

  Eliza nodded solemnly. She was beginning to like Miss Sofia.

  “She does treat her slaves well,” Eliza offered, although it went against her grain to defend a slave owner, even one as kind as Miss Charlotte.

  Miss Sofia snorted. “If she cares about her slaves, she should free them. The family can afford it.”

  “I’m grateful she’s helping us,” Eliza admitted. “But why is it a secret?”

  “She doesn’t want her fancy friends to know,” Miss Sofia confided. “Your owner, Mrs. Emerson, was born a Sanford, one of the most powerful families in the city.”

  “I’ve met Frank Sanford.” Eliza’s voice came out in a squeak.

  “The black sheep of the family—even though he’s barely twenty. I hear he wants to go west with my idiot grandnephew, Mark, if only they had the money.”

  “You know a lot for someone who doesn’t leave her room.”

  “I hear a lot.” Miss Sofia lifted her eyebrows, inviting Eliza to be in on the secret. “Especially if voices are raised.”

  “Miss Charlotte and Mark.” Eliza wasn’t guessing.

  “You’ve heard them too?”

  “When I do the laundry in the garden.”

  Miss Sofia jabbed at Eliza with a claw-like finger. “That was you, singing!”

  Her eyes fixed on Miss Sofia’s gnarled hand, Eliza answered, “Yes, that was me.”

  “I take back what I said about Charlotte. She did right by me when she found you.” Suddenly, Miss Sofia fell back against the pillows. “Sing me a song.”

  Eliza thought for a moment and began to sing one of her favorites. Best of all, she had heard that it was written by a woman.

  Wild roved an Indian girl,

  Bright Alfarata,

  Where sweep the waters

  Of the blue Juniata!

  Swift as an antelope

  Through the forest going,

  Loose were her jetty locks,

  In many tresses flowing.

  Gay was the mountain song

  Of bright Alfarata,

  Where sweep the waters

  Of the blue Juniata.

  “Strong and
true my arrows are,

  In my painted quiver,

  Swift goes my light canoe

  Adown the rapid river.”

  “I like that song,” Miss Sofia said with a satisfied sigh. She was snoring softly before Eliza finished the final stanza.

  Eliza pushed herself off the bed and looked around the room. She’d already noticed its plainness and wondered if that was Miss Sofia’s choice or Miss Charlotte’s. There was a carpet on the floor, with a pattern of big roses like the one in the parlor, but this carpet had faded in the bright sun and had bald patches. Eliza sniffed. The smell wasn’t so overpowering now that her nose had gotten used to it, but the room still felt musty. Eliza threw open the window and breathed deeply.

  The room looked out on the garden, with a view of the alley behind it. It was drizzling, and the cool breeze carried a dampness that revived her. Miss Sofia stirred in her bed but didn’t wake. Eliza noticed a layer of dust on the table and lint and grime in every corner. Well, if Ma had taught her anything, it was how to clean.

  She searched the room for a broom, but there wasn’t one. She considered the door. Mark Charless might be on the other side—she was safer in here. But she wanted to do a good job to repay Miss Charlotte for her kindness. An idea popped into Eliza’s head. Dare she do it? Gingerly, she slipped her hand under Miss Sofia’s pillow. She slid the gun out. Taking it to the window, she opened the barrel. Pa had learned about guns on the frontier, and he’d shown her how they worked.

  She started to laugh. The gun wasn’t loaded. Good for Miss Sofia, she thought. She’d used the gun to scare Eliza half to death; Eliza would do the same to Mark if he made any trouble. She stuck the gun in her pocket and opened the door a crack.

  Sadie was on the stairs, polishing the banister. “I’ve been wondering about you,” she confessed. “What happened with Miss Sofia?”

  “What did you think would happen when you pushed me into a room with a crazy lady holding a gun?” Eliza snapped.

  Sadie’s mouth dropped open. “A gun? Eliza, I swear I didn’t know she had a gun. Are you all right?”

  “I am,” Eliza assured her. “Actually, the old lady’s not that bad. But her room is filthy. Where can I find a broom?”

  “It’s not our fault it’s dirty.” Sadie straightened up and glared at Eliza. “Every time we go in there, she chases us out!”

  “Well, it’s my job now,” Eliza said impatiently. “The broom?”

  After Eliza collected an armful of cleaning tools, she headed back to the room. Just as she reached Miss Sofia’s door, Mark stumbled down the steps, his breath reeking of whiskey. He blinked at Eliza with bloodshot eyes, shaking his head as though he were trying to clear his mind.

  “You! What are you doing here?” Mark mumbled, rubbing his eyes as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “Your mother hired me,” Eliza replied, her voice quaking.

  He moved between her and the door. “You’re the reason I’m trapped here,” he accused, slurring his words. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be in California by now.” Faster than she would have thought possible, he struck at her face. Eliza dodged his fist and it slammed into the wall. He cried out in pain.

  “I’ll kill you for that,” he snarled, spitting as he spoke. He started for her.

  Dropping the cleaning supplies to the floor, Eliza reached for the gun.

  CHAPTER Eighteen

  SHE PULLED THE GUN OUT OF HER POCKET AND POINTED IT AT his chest. Mark’s eyes locked on the barrel. They could both see her hand was trembling.

  “Let me pass,” Eliza demanded.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he challenged her.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. Even though she was only a young colored girl who wasn’t quite free and he was a twenty-year-old white son of a big house, she felt that he might back down. His wits were addled by alcohol, and she knew from that day on the docks he wasn’t very brave.

  Glaring at her, he stepped away, hands raised in the air.

  Her eyes fixed on him, she hugged the wall with her spine. She slid past him to Miss Sofia’s room. Thank goodness she had left it unlocked. She slipped inside, slammed the door, and turned the key. Eliza was shaking so hard she could barely stand. The gun dropped from her hand to the floor. Ma is going to kill me, she thought. Keep your head down. Be respectful. Stay safe. Eliza had broken every rule on her first day.

  Miss Sofia sat up. “Eliza?” she called. She saw Eliza by the door. “What’s going on?”

  “Aunt Sofia!” Mark pounded loudly on the door. “Let me in. She has a gun. She’s dangerous!”

  “Eliza, what’s wrong with Mark?” Miss Sofia’s eyes lit on the gun at Eliza’s feet. She felt under her pillow, then angrily asked, “Is that my gun?”

  Eliza ran to the bed and grabbed Miss Sofia’s hand. “I can explain, but please don’t let him in. He’ll hurt me.”

  “Open this door!” Mark shouted.

  “Go away, Mark,” Miss Sofia screeched. “Or I’ll have your father cut your allowance. Again!”

  Mark stopped hammering at the door. Eliza heard him trip and stumble. Then it was silent.

  Eliza slumped over Miss Sofia’s pillow, letting the cool linen draw the heat from her face.

  Miss Sofia patted her back. “Aren’t you full of surprises? You’ve been here a few hours, and you’re already drawing a gun on my grandnephew?” To Eliza’s relief, the old woman sounded more bemused than angry.

  “We’ve met before,” Eliza admitted. She pushed herself away from the bed, forcing herself to inhale and exhale slowly until she was breathing normally.

  “To meet him is to want to shoot him,” Miss Sofia agreed. “You’re going to tell me the whole story, but first give me the gun. Not that it would have done you much good . . .”

  “I knew it wasn’t loaded,” Eliza hurried to say. “I just wanted to get some cleaning supplies. I was afraid I’d run into Mr. Mark, so I borrowed it to scare him off.” She fetched the gun, and Miss Sofia slid it under her pillow.

  “Don’t leave anything out,” Miss Sofia ordered. “You can’t keep secrets from me—not if you want me to protect you.”

  For all of Miss Sofia’s enjoyment of the situation, Eliza could tell she was worried. A colored girl just didn’t point a gun at a white gentleman without consequences. She began to tell her story. And Miss Sofia was a gratifying listener, hanging on every word, prompting Eliza to go on whenever she hesitated. It was an unexpected relief to confide in someone else. When Eliza was finished, Miss Sofia leaned back against her pillows and looked toward the ceiling.

  “You seem to find trouble wherever you go,” Miss Sofia noted. “So far, you’ve run afoul of Mark, Frank Sanford, the Committee of One Hundred, and a slave catcher. Not to mention the cholera.”

  “I know,” Eliza whispered. “Ma’s going to kill me.” She paused, silently thinking Wilson would too. “What do I do now? Mark won’t forget what I did.”

  “His worst vice is alcohol,” Miss Sofia replied. “That’s your salvation. He’s probably too drunk to remember.”

  “I hope so,” Eliza said. She didn’t say it aloud, but it seemed to her that Mark blamed Eliza for his problems. He wasn’t going to forget about her presence in his own house.

  One day followed another at the Charlesses’ house. Eliza kept track by counting down the days until Wilson’s ship might come back. Eliza’s duties were easy, and she and Miss Sofia soon became fast friends. Miss Sofia taught Eliza card games, and they played poker and all fours for hours. Ma would have a fit if she knew Eliza was playing cards, but Eliza rather liked pitting her wits against the old lady’s.

  Miss Sofia’s eyesight wasn’t good, so she would sit near the window in the morning when the light was strongest, holding her embroidery hoop close to her face. Eliza would sort through the skeins of threads, holding the various colors to her skin, imagining wearing a bright yellow or a dark red—something that would look pretty with her hair ribbons. Maybe someday,
she thought. But for now, time was standing still. Every day felt like the one before, although every day that passed meant Wilson was closer to coming back to St. Louis.

  Eliza missed her family, but every few days she received a note from the jail, dictated by Ma and penned by Mr. Martin. Ma’s notes were so short that Eliza worried she was still angry. Eliza would report back that Miss Charlotte’s house was free of the disease and the job was going well.

  Most afternoons Eliza would tell Miss Sofia stories. About doing laundry on the riverbank or going to the Freedom School. In her turn, Eliza heard the story of Miss Charlotte’s wedding and how she and Mr. Charless had married against the wishes of both families.

  “All the Charlesses are abolitionists, and we don’t marry slave owners,” Miss Sofia said. “But Charlotte and Joseph were fond of each other.” Her voice soured as though treating Miss Charlotte fairly upset her stomach. “She’s made him a good wife. Except for spoiling that no-good Mark.”

  “I wish she would spoil him a little more and give him money to go away,” Eliza said. As the words left her mouth, she realized that Miss Sofia no longer felt like her charge, but more like a friend.

  Miss Sofia placed her hand over Eliza’s. “I know you wish him gone. Has he bothered you again?”

  “I’ve been careful,” Eliza answered.

  “That’s a smart girl.”

  One early morning before Miss Sofia woke up, Eliza was humming and scribbling down her song at the table. She thought the lyrics were coming along, but she was having trouble with the tune.

  I was born on the river in the pouring rain,

  And wandering is my middle name.

  As long as I live, my strength I will give

  To the river that’s never the same.

  “Dum, dum, dumedy dum,” she hummed. She shook her head in frustration. That wasn’t right. The cadence was wrong.

  “Child, what are you singing?” Miss Sofia’s sleepy voice was curious.