A Place Called Freedom (28 page)

“The horses are comfortably settled,” Jay said with an air of satisfaction.

Lizzie could not resist a retort. “They’re better off than the human beings!”

“Ah, that reminds me,” said Jay. “Bone, there’s a convict in the hold called Sidney Lennox. Have his irons struck and put him in a cabin, please.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“Why is Lennox with us?” Lizzie said, aghast.

“He was convicted of receiving stolen goods. But the family has made use of him in the past and we can’t abandon him. He might die in the hold.”

“Oh, Jay!” Lizzie cried in dismay. “He’s such a bad man!”

“On the contrary, he’s quite useful.”

Lizzie turned away. She had rejoiced to be leaving Lennox behind in England. What bad luck that he too had been transported. Would Jay never escape from his malign influence?

Bone said: “The tide’s on the turn, Mr. Jamisson. Captain will be impatient to weigh anchor.”

“My compliments to the captain, and tell him to carry on.”

They all climbed the ladder.

A few minutes later Lizzie and Jay stood in the bows as the ship began to move downriver on the tide. A fresh evening breeze buffeted Lizzie’s cheeks. As the dome of St. Paul slipped below the skyline of warehouses she said: “I wonder if we’ll ever see London again.”

III

Virginia

26

M
ACK LAY IN THE HOLD OF THE
R
OSEBUD
, shaking with fever. He felt like an animal: filthy, nearly naked, chained and helpless. He could hardly stand upright but his mind was clear enough. He vowed he would never again allow anyone to put iron fetters on him. He would fight, try to escape, and hope they killed him rather than suffer this degradation again.

An excited cry from on deck penetrated the hold: “Soundings at thirty-five fathoms, Captain—sand and reeds!”

A cheer went up from the crew. Peg said: “What’s a fathom?”

“Six feet of water,” Mack said with weary relief. “It means we’re approaching land.”

He had often felt he would not make it. Twenty-five of the prisoners had died at sea. They had not starved: it seemed that Lizzie, who had not reappeared below decks, had nevertheless kept her promise and ensured they had enough to eat and drink. But the drinking water had been foul and the diet of salt meat and bread unhealthily monotonous, and all the convicts had been violently ill with the type of sickness that was called sometimes hospital fever and sometimes jail fever. Mad Barney had been the first to die of it: the old went quickest.

Disease was not the only cause of death. Five people had been killed in one dreadful storm, when the prisoners had been tossed around the hold, helplessly injuring themselves and others with their iron chains.

Peg had always been thin but now she looked as if she were made of sticks. Cora had aged. Even in the half dark of the hold Mack could see that her hair was falling out, her face was drawn, and her once voluptuous body was scraggy and disfigured with sores. Mack was just glad they were still alive.

Some time later he heard another sounding: “Eighteen fathoms and white sand.” Next time it was thirteen fathoms and shells; and then, at last, the cry: “Land ho!”

Despite his weakness Mack longed to go on deck. This is America, he thought. I’ve crossed the world to the far side, and I’m still alive; I wish I could see America.

That night the
Rosebud
anchored in calm waters. The seaman who brought the prisoners’ rations of salt pork and foul water was one of the more friendly crew members. His name was Ezekiel Bell. He was disfigured—he had lost one ear, he was completely bald and he had a huge goiter like a hen’s egg on his neck—and he was ironically known as Beau Bell. He told them they were off Cape Henry, near the town of Hampton in Virginia.

Next day the ship remained at anchor. Mack wondered angrily what was prolonging their voyage. Someone must have gone ashore for supplies, because that night there came from the galley a mouthwatering smell of fresh meat roasting. It tortured the prisoners and gave Mack stomach cramps.

“Mack, what happens when we get to Virginia?” Peg asked.

“We’ll be sold, and have to work for whoever buys us,” he replied.

“Will we be sold together?”

He knew there was little chance of it, but he did not say so. “We might be,” he said. “Let’s hope for the best.”

There was a silence while Peg took that in. When she spoke again her voice was frightened. “Who will buy us?”

“Farmers, planters, housewives … anyone who needs workers and wants them cheap.”

“Someone might want all three of us.”

Who would want a coal miner and two thieves? Mack said: “Or perhaps we might be bought by people who live close together.”

“What work will we do?”

“Anything we’re told to, I suppose: farm work, cleaning, building …”

“We’ll be just like slaves.”

“But only for seven years.”

“Seven years,” she said dismally. “I’ll be grown-up!”

“And I’ll be almost thirty,” Mack said. It seemed middle-aged.

“Will they beat us?”

Mack knew that the answer was yes, but he lied. “Not if we work hard and keep our mouths shut.”

“Who gets the money when we’re bought?”

“Sir George Jamisson.” The fever had tired him, and he added impatiently: “I’m sure you’ve asked me half these damn questions before.”

Peg turned away, hurt. Cora said: “She’s worried, Mack—that’s why she keeps asking the same questions.”

I’m worried too, Mack thought wretchedly.

“I don’t want to reach Virginia,” Peg said. “I want the voyage to go on forever.”

Cora laughed bitterly. “You enjoy living this way?”

“It’s like having a mother and father,” Peg said.

Cora put her arm around the child and hugged her.

They weighed anchor the following morning, and Mack could feel the ship bowling along in front of a strong favorable wind. In the evening he learned they were almost at the mouth of the Rappahannock River. Then contrary winds kept them at anchor for two wasted days before they could head upriver.

Mack’s fever abated and he was strong enough to go up on deck for one of the intermittent exercise periods; and as the ship tacked upriver he got his first sight of America.

Thick woods and cultivated fields lined both banks. At intervals there would be a jetty, a cleared stretch of bank, and a lawn rising up to a grand house. Here and there around the jetties he saw the huge barrels known as hogsheads, used for transporting tobacco: he had watched them being unloaded in the port of London, and it now struck him as remarkable that every one had survived the hazardous and violent transatlantic voyage to get there from here. Most of the people in the fields were black, he noticed. The horses and dogs looked the same as any others, but the birds perching on the ship’s rail were unfamiliar. There were lots of other vessels on the river, a few merchantmen like the
Rosebud
and many smaller craft.

That brief survey was all he saw for the next four days, but he kept the picture in his mind like a treasured souvenir as he lay in the hold: the sunshine, the people walking around in the fresh air, the woods and the lawns and the houses. The longing he felt, to get off the
Rosebud
and walk around in the open air, was so strong it was like a pain.

When at last they anchored he learned they were at Fredericksburg, their destination. The voyage had taken eight weeks.

That night the convicts got cooked food: a broth of fresh pork with Indian corn and potatoes in it, a slab of new bread, and a quart of ale. The unaccustomed rich food and strong ale made Mack feel dizzy and sick all night.

Next morning they were brought up on deck in groups of ten, and they saw Fredericksburg.

They were anchored in a muddy river with midstream islands. There was a narrow sandy beach, a strip of wooded waterfront, then a short, sharp rise to the town itself, which was built around a bluff. It looked as though a couple of hundred people might live there: it was not much bigger than Heugh, the village where Mack had been born, but it seemed a cheerful, prosperous place, with houses of wood painted white and green. On the opposite bank, a little upstream, was another town, which Mack learned was called Falmouth.

The river was crowded, with two more ships as big as the
Rosebud
, several smaller coasters, some flat-boats, and a ferry crossing between the two towns. Men worked busily all along the waterfront unloading ships, rolling barrels and carrying chests in and out of warehouses.

The prisoners were given soap and made to wash, and a barber came on board to shave the men and cut their hair. Those whose clothes were so ragged as to be indecent were given replacement garments, but their gratitude was diminished when they recognized them as having been taken from those who had died on the voyage. Mack got Mad Barney’s verminous coat: he draped it over a rail and beat it with a stick until no more lice fell out.

The captain made a list of the surviving prisoners and asked each what his trade had been at home. Some had been casual laborers or, like Cora and Peg, had never earned an honest living: they were encouraged to exaggerate or invent something. Peg was put down as a dressmaker’s apprentice, Cora as a barmaid. Mack realized it was all a belated effort to make them look attractive to buyers.

They were returned to the hold, and that afternoon two men were brought down to inspect them. They were an odd-looking pair: one wore the red coat of a British soldier over homespun breeches, the other a once fashionable yellow waistcoat with crudely sewn buckskin trousers. Despite their odd clothes they looked well fed and had the red noses of men who could afford all the liquor they wanted. Beau Bell whispered to Mack that they were “soul drivers” and explained what that meant: they would buy up groups of slaves, convicts and indentured servants and herd them up-country like sheep, to sell to remote farmers and mountain men. Mack did not like the look of them. They went away without making a purchase. Tomorrow was Race Day, Bell said: the gentry came into town from all around for the horse races. Most of the convicts would be sold by the end of the day. Then the soul drivers would offer a knockdown price for all those who remained. Mack hoped Cora and Peg did not end up in their hands.

That night there was another good meal. Mack ate it slowly and slept soundly. In the morning everyone was looking a little better: they seemed bright eyed and able to smile. Throughout the voyage their only meal had been dinner, but today they got a breakfast of porridge and molasses and a ration of rum and water.

Consequently, despite the uncertain future that faced them, it was a cheerful group that mounted the ladder out of the hold and hobbled, still chained, on deck. There was more activity on the waterfront today, with several small boats landing, numerous carts passing along the main street, and small knots of smartly dressed people lounging around, obviously taking a day off!

A fat-bellied man in a straw hat came on board accompanied by a tall, gray-haired Negro. The two of them looked over the convicts, picking out some and rejecting others. Mack soon figured that they were selecting the youngest and strongest men, and inevitably he was among the fourteen or fifteen chosen. No women or children were picked.

When the selection was finished the captain said: “Right, you lot, go with these men.”

“Where are we going?” Mack asked. They ignored him.

Peg began to cry.

Mack embraced her. He had known this was going to happen, and it broke his heart. Every adult Peg trusted had been taken from her: her mother killed by sickness, her father hanged, and now Mack sold away from her. He hugged her hard and she clung to him. “Take me with you!” she wailed.

He detached himself from her. “Try and stay with Cora, if you can,” he said.

Cora kissed him on the lips with desperate passion. It was hard to believe that he might never see her again, never again lie in bed with her and touch her body and make her gasp with pleasure. Hot tears ran down her face and into his mouth as they kissed. “Try and find us, Mack, for God’s sake,” she pleaded.

“I’ll do my best—”

“Promise me!” she insisted.

“I promise, I’ll find you.”

The fat-bellied man said: “Come on, lover boy,” and jerked Mack away from her.

He looked back over his shoulder as he was pushed down the gangway onto the wharf. Cora and Peg stood watching with their arms around one another, crying. Mack thought of his parting from Esther. I won’t fail Cora and Peg the way I failed Esther, he vowed. Then they were lost from sight.

It felt strange to put his feet on solid ground after eight weeks of having the never-ceasing movement of the sea beneath him. As he hobbled down the unpaved main street in his chains he stared about him, looking at America. The town center had a church, a market house, a pillory and a gallows. Brick and wood houses stood widely spaced along either side of the street. Sheep and chickens foraged in the muddy road. Some buildings seemed old-established but there was a raw, new look to many.

The town was thronged with people, horses, carts, and carriages, most of which must have come from the countryside all around. The women had new bonnets and ribbons, and the men wore polished boots and clean gloves. Many people’s clothes had a homemade look, even though the fabrics were costly. He overheard several people talking of races and betting odds. Virginians seemed keen on gambling.

The townspeople looked at the convicts with mild curiosity, the way they might have watched a horse canter along the street, a sight they had seen before but which continued to interest them.

The town petered out after half a mile. They waded across the river at a ford, then set off along a rough track through wooded countryside. Mack put himself next to the middle-aged Negro. “My name is Malachi McAsh,” he said. “They call me Mack.”

The man kept his eyes straight ahead but spoke in a friendly enough way. “I’m Kobe,” he said, pronouncing it to rhyme with Toby. “Kobe Tambala.”

“The fat man in the straw hat—does he own us now?”

“No. Bill Sowerby’s just the overseer. Him and me was told to go aboard the
Rosebud
and pick out the best field hands.”

“Who has bought us?”

“You ain’t exactly been
bought
.”

“What, then?”

“Mr. Jay Jamisson decided to keep you for hisself, to work on his own place, Mockjack Hall.”

“Jamisson!”

“That’s right.”

Mack was once again owned by the Jamisson family. The thought made him angry. Damn them to hell, I’ll run away again, he vowed. I will be my own man.

Kobe said: “What work did you do, before?”

“I used to be a coal miner.”

“Coal? I’ve heard tell of it. A rock that burns like wood, but hotter?”

“Aye. Trouble is, you have to go deep underground to find it. What about yourself?”

“My people were farmers in Africa. My father had a big piece of land, more than Mr. Jamisson.”

Mack was surprised: he had never thought of slaves as coming from rich families. “What kind of farm?”

“Mixed—wheat, some cattle—but no tobacco. We have a root called the yam grows out there. Never seen it here, though.”

“You speak English well.”

“I’ve been here nearly forty years.” A look of bitterness came over his face. “I was just a boy when they stole me.”