Freedom

by Catherine Johnson

  I sat down against the wall. My mouth was drier than a bowl of ashes. On the windowsill the grapes looked fat and juicy, but I knew better than to try and take anything of Mr Bird’s. I had, after all, lost a finger when I was small and hungry. I had reached out for a piece of banana the parrot had dropped. Quick as a flash it had pecked it off. Snapped right through the bone with that heavy black beak. Even then I knew better than to cry out and risk a blow from the old mistress, so I just ran back to our hut and cried and cried. That bird was the devil with feathers.

  I shut my eyes, defeated. If only I had waited with Mr Furman, if only I had not told that boy my name! Now I’d never be able to earn any money and buy Mamma’s or Martha’s freedom. I wouldn’t even be able to buy my own the way Mr Equiano had done. Nor fight in a war to earn it neither, like Mr Furman or his night-soil friend. I turned my face away from the window and cursed my own foolishness.

  Then I felt something in my pocket. It was the orange Frances had given me at the trial. It was a little battered and bruised but I took it out of my pocket and peeled it with my fingers. Tasting it felt like a celebration. I was wasting time and energy feeling sorry for myself. I allowed myself just half of the squashed segments – I might need the others later – and thought about how I could get out. I would not give up yet.

  The door was locked, although whether it was a key or a bolt on the outside I could not tell. Either way, getting down the house by the servants’ staircase would be impossible without being discovered. Somehow I would have to get past that bird.

  A sudden knock at the door made me jump out of my skin.

  “Nathaniel? Nat!” It was Mary Lee.

  Mr Bird squawked and I tried to shush him. When that didn’t work I threw him a precious segment of my orange.

  “Listen!” Mary sounded excited. “I saw Mr Furman on the way back from church. I made sure to tell him you were here. You are not forgotten!”

  “They have the parrot guarding me.” I leant against the door. “If I open the window or try to climb down, he will raise the alarm.”

  “Won’t he just fly away?” Mary asked.

  I sighed. “Mr Bird came out of his egg the day the old mistress was born.” I lowered my voice. “Sometimes I think she can see what that parrot sees, hear what it hears…” I looked at it. It was still watching me.

  “You must not give up hope! Mr Furman has found Henry, and between us all we will make a plan.” I heard her get up quickly.

  “Tell me!” I felt a rush of relief. They had found Henry! I was not forgotten.

  “I have to go. I will be back but I have to work. The party for the duke and duchess is this evening and Cook is making all kinds of dainties.”

  “The plan?” I cut in. “Is there a key for the door?”

  “Missis Palmer has it, and anyway the house is full of people!”

  “What do you think I should do then?” I said impatiently. “Climb out of the window?”

  “Yes! That’s it! The window!” I heard Mary start to go downstairs.

  “But what about Mr Bird?” I said, but I was talking to myself. I slumped against the door and watched the parrot demolish the orange segment. I imagined he could go to work just like that on my eyeballs if I got too close.

  How could I get past him? Trouble was I couldn’t even look out of the window with that parrot in the way. And even if I did, I knew I was four floors up. If there was any justice, I thought, that creature would drop down dead.

  Perhaps if I could climb down as far as the garden wall… No, it would still be too high to jump safely to the ground. I would break my arm or leg, wouldn’t I?

  Outside I could hear comings and goings in the garden as the servants prepared for the party, but I dared not get close enough to the window to look.

  Mr Bird sat himself down in a patch of sunshine and ruffled his feathers, cleaned them through with his beak and turned round. Was he going to sleep? But the parrot only shook itself. “Horrid boy! Horrid boy!” he said, his head bobbing up and down.

  “Mr Bird, shush now.” I tried talking to it as if it were a particularly ugly baby. My tone of voice did not seem to work. It only shouted louder.

  “Bones and blood! Horrid boy!”

  Back home, in Barratt Hall, Betsy would throw a cover – it was an old curtain – over his cage. She said the nasty-minded bird thought the darkness meant night had come, and would stop his noise. What if I waited until it fell asleep, and threw my jacket over it? Then I could wrap the parrot tight, and kept its beak closed up. So I took off my jacket and sat down as near as I dared. But time passed and it was me that dozed.

  I woke with a jolt. I had dreamed I was on the top yardarm of The Brave Venture. Henry was telling me not to look down, but then I was falling, like a stone towards the deck.

  I was desperately thirsty. I was so far gone that I was thinking of trying to sip at Mr Bird’s water, but he was staring at me with his beady eyes, as far from sleep as ever. There was so much noise in the house and outside in the garden that I did not hear anyone coming up the stairs so when Mary knocked on the door again I jumped. So did Mr Bird, of course, flapping and squawking. I fished in my pocket for the rest of the orange but I had squashed it in my sleep.

  “Shhhh! Shhh!” I said, willing the bird to quiet. I tried singing the tune that Thomas used to sing sometimes; “Long time, I no see Li-za,” I sang. “Water come a me eye…”

  “Are you singing?” Mary whispered through the door. “I cannot stay, I have so many pots and pans to wash and scour my hands will be rubbed raw. But Mr Furman will be in the mews with a wagon at nine o’clock!”

  “The mews?” I said. “But how…”

  “He says you will find a way. And I say you will too. Here –” she pushed something under the door – a knife she must have taken from the kitchen – “I think those windows might be hard to open,” she said. “Don’t be late!” Then she was gone again, and all I could hear were the sounds of activity down in the garden, and a band striking up some dance tunes. I thought it sounded quite beautiful. I wondered who the Duke and Duchess of Mistleton’s daughter was, and what she was like. Poor girl, having to spend her life in a kind of feather-bedded slavery married to the young master, hundreds of miles away from home.

  Outside the church clock struck for six o’clock. I had three hours to find my way out of this room. I picked up the knife and turned it over in my hand. I had people that cared about me, not just Mamma and Martha and Thomas, but friends here. Mary and Mr Furman, and Henry too. And what could the Barratts do to me if I tried to run? Take my eye? Kill me? What was better? A short death, or a long one in a cane field under the shadow of the whip?

  I looked at Mr Bird, I was still holding the knife. It was a shame, I thought, that it wasn’t sharper. We stared hard at each other. I forced myself not to look away. Mr Bird opened its horrible beak and I saw its tongue, like a dried-up blackened worm. I still did not look away. I would find a way to get to open that window, even if I had to lose another finger.

  It blinked.

  I smiled.

  “Mr Bird,” I said aloud. “You will not win.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  I spent the next couple of hours searching through the furniture again. But after what seemed like ages all I had found was a couple of old paintings of sad men and sadder women, and a pair of broken chairs. Nothing, I thought, of any use… But then, finally, inside an old drawer, a canvas dustsheet. I was so happy I almost danced across the attic. The dustsheet was big and heavy enough to wrap up Mr Bird and stop his beak or claws getting anywhere near me. I imagined wrapping the parrot tight and sticking him with the knife. I would have to be quick, wouldn’t he scream all the louder half-dead? The knife was small and not so sharp. Would it work? Could I do it? Kill a living thing. I had no choice. It was going to be all or nothing.

  Time seemed to slow. The bell chimed for eight, and as the sky darkened the parrot quietened. I watched him ruffle his
feathers and turn around, as if looking for a comfortable spot to roost. But when I shot my hand out to take one of his grapes, he squawked louder and louder, snapping his beak at me until I backed away. I stayed still, held my breath, waiting for the sound of someone on the stairs coming up to see what the bother was. But after some minutes there was nothing.

  I tried the door one last time, sliding the knife in the gap and trying to trick the lock. But it would not move. The window was my only way out. I paced the room, trying to think… I would have to be out of that window before the hour was up. What if I was late? What if Mr Furman left in the wagon before I could find a way down?

  Mr Bird was quiet again. Outside I could hear the music and the party. A woman’s laugh made the parrot look up and cock his head. I waited for Mr Bird to settle again and put the knife in my right hand, ready. Then when his head finally fell down upon his chest I held the canvas up in both my hands and shook it out, very quietly. Slowly, slowly, I tiptoed closer to the window. A floorboard creaked. I froze, still as stone. Mr Bird did not move. My heart was hammering in my chest. I crept nearer, nearer, then took my chance. I threw the sheet on top of him, used my weight to hold it tight. I felt the bird jolt awake, struggle to open its wings, felt its hard beak try and tear through the canvas. Its leathery claws scrabbled to get free. I took the knife. I was about to do it, when the clock outside began to strike the hour. I hesitated, wrapped the bird tighter. I could barely hear its muffled squawks, its rustling wings. If it was quiet it wasn’t a threat, surely?

  I weighted down the struggling canvas parcel with a couple of paintings and an old chair, and quickly ran the knife around the window frame. It swung open and a warm night breeze tickled my cheek. Here was freedom, mine to take. I looked down. The garden seemed far away. Could I do this? The wall of the house was flat and smooth but to my right was a drainpipe, I would have to reach it, climb down as far as the top of the garden wall… Then, as long as none of the party guests saw me, I might be able to inch along to the mews. I swallowed. I had no idea how I would get down from the wall into the mews without breaking one or both of my legs, but I decided I would find out when I got there. Wasn’t the main thing to get out before anyone realized I had gone? Broken bones would heal.

  I sat backwards on the windowsill, but the drainpipe was still far out of my reach. I would have to stand on the windowsill and reach across to grab it. I swallowed. Then I had another idea. I took off my jacket and tore off my shirt. I could use it as a kind of rope, looping it around the pipe to steady myself. But I still had to reach it. I took off my boots and hung them around my neck: bare feet on brick would be better.

  I took a breath, stepped out on to the sill. For a moment I wished I could become one of those birds, just leap off and fly away. Back home, in Jamaica, the folk who came off the boats always wanted to fly back to their country, to some part of Africa: Bonny or Coromantee or Benin. I, being born on Jamaica, wanted only to fly back there. To Mount Vernon and Mamma, and then to the Maroon Country up in the mountains.

  But if I fell now, there would be no going anywhere.

  I reached across, stretched my hand as far as I could go and felt the pipe. I had no grip, I needed some foothold. A loose stone skittered off the windowsill and fell all the way down into the garden. My insides turned over. I retreated to the windowsill. Henry would have been across that gap in an instant, down the pipe and along the wall by now, shouting up at me that I was a landlubber.

  I sat on the windowsill again. Perhaps if I was sitting, I could reach out and get my shirt, now twisted into a rope behind the pipe. I leant out. Still not close enough. I needed to stretch a little more, just a little…

  I fell.

  For the shortest second I was holding nothing and it felt as if my heart had stopped. Then both my hands and all my nine fingers reached for that pipe and clung on for dear life.

  My heart was pounding now, so loud I could hear nothing else. I gripped tightly and passed my shirt behind the pipe. Braced my two feet either side. I almost laughed with relief as I began to edge down. It was as easy to walk down the side of the building this way as it was to take a walk round the garden square! Henry would have been proud. I passed the third-floor window and the second. In the garden below, some of the guests were in the summer house: pale dresses and coats, shining hair, smiles and laughter. The windows were thrown open and in the glass panes I could see the flickering reflection of candlelight. There in a cream dress was the old mistress, deep in conversation with a white-wigged gentleman.

  I was glad then I hadn’t stuck Mr Bird with my knife. He was only a parrot, not a part of her at all.

  At last, I reached the wall that divided the Barratt’s house from their neighbours. I held my breath until I reached the back wall – and then I almost cried out, for there down below in the mews was a wagon! My heart leapt like a flying fish and I thanked Mary and God and Mamma and Henry who must all be looking after me!

  Then I smelled it. The wagon was the night-soil cart, full to the brim with the most unpleasant of human leavings. But at that moment I did not care. It would make my landing soft, and though my jacket might be past cleaning, I would not. I would be free and I would be alive. I swung both legs on to the mews side of the wall.

  Sitting beside Mr Colley, Mr Furman looked up and caught my eye. The bottom half of his face was wrapped in a neckerchief, probably to keep out the smell. I grinned. I smelled only freedom.

  Then I heard it. A screeching and a squawking and a flapping of wings. “Blood! Bones and blood!”

  Mr Bird had freed himself.

  I felt the air from his wings as he launched himself from the window. I looked down into the garden and spotted the old mistress. I could see the glint in her eye even from here. I jumped.

  I thought I would retch, my eyes stung and my hands scrabbled for the edge of the wagon, for some kind of grip before the night soil went over my face and down into my throat. I spluttered.

  “Go!” I yelled, and the wagon jolted into life.

  Then the door to the garden opened and the old mistress came hurrying across the cobbles, Mr Bird now on her shoulder screeching the alarm. Behind her was the young master, all pale blue satin coat and embroidered waistcoat.

  “Footman!” he called and I was terrified again. “Get the boy!”

  “Faster!” I yelled.

  Then I had an idea. The cart was four sided, with a flap at the back that could be pinned up – to keep the soil in – or let down. The young master strode towards the cart, the old mistress picked up her skirts and scampered forward. I swear I had never seen her move so fast in all my life. As they came close their faces screwed up, no doubt with the smell. I seemed almost to have forgotten. At that moment, it could have been hibiscus, or orange blossom.

  I pulled out the pins, first one side of the cart, then the other. Another jolt as the driver flicked the horses into a trot and the young master broke into a run, I gripped the front of the cart and watched as the night soil slid out of the back, spraying all over the young master’s fine suit. Then I laughed out loud as the old mistress shrieked, her shoes slipping in the filth. She waved her arms like a windmill to steady herself, before going over on her bottom, head back in the road, wig falling off. The young master turned back to help her. He put out a stinking, wet hand to pull her up – and fell over too.

  As the wagon turned out of the mews at full speed my last sight of them was of mother and son sitting in the road, covered from head to foot in human filth. I had never felt so happy in my whole life.

  CHAPTER

  11

  The smell did not leave me for the next month, but I did not care. I was free, and away from the city. Not like those poor souls on the Zong, or the other slaves I had grown up with at Barratt Hall.

  My first night of freedom is still so clear to me. Mr Colley drove us as fast as his poor horse would go, all across town in the dark, straight to The Cat and Mutton in the docks. Henry was watching for us o
utside the inn.

  “Nat! As I live and breathe!” Henry ran forward to hug me but stopped in his tracks as he saw I was covered in human filth. He laughed. “You do smell to heaven of all that’s rank and rotten! But I am so glad to see you I will shake your hand anyway.”

  Henry took us round the back of the pub to a room where I washed and changed into some of his clothes.

  “You are lucky to have found me,” Henry said, as he led me into the main room. “I am sailing at the end of the week.”

  My heart sank a little then. But that night I ate and drank heartily. Mr Furman too, and we watched him dance and play the violin – Mary Lee was right, he could make the ship on his hat roll and sway exactly like a real three-master.

  I had so much pork pie and good beer that my stomach stretched so full I could barely move. My head rang with the dancing tunes, and even though I still smelled of the night-soil cart I fell asleep by the side of the fire.

  In the morning, the noise of the breeze making the ropes and sails on the river snap woke me early. I found myself in a bed under a roof made of thatch.

  For a tiny moment I forgot myself. I was terrified and did not know where I was. Then I remembered. I was free.

  I stayed in The Cat and Mutton for a few days, just in case – although Henry agreed it would be better for me to get out of the city, one way or another. Then, on the third day of my freedom, Mr Furman returned with a new coat and breeches, a gift from the Sons of Africa. I was very grateful. The coat was wool and well made, the best I’d ever had, and a fine shade of blue like the sky back home before a storm. I put it on straight away.

  “Now, Nathaniel,” Mr Furman said sitting down at one of the inn’s large wooden tables, “I have a proposal for you.” He took out a letter. “This is from Mary.”

  He began to read. Up until then I had been thinking about going to sea with Henry, perhaps working a ship as a free man. I knew I was happier on land, but beggars could not always be choosers. Now though, as Mr Furman spelled out another, different future, I was so happy I almost wept.