Freedom Bound (11 page)

Charlotte knew how to handle a knife. After her brothers
had gone off to war and there had been nobody else to help
Papa on the farm, she had learned to slaughter hogs. A grisly
business, but she could do it. With a good knife in her hand,
she was the equal of any alligator. That's what she told herself.

AFTERNOON IN THE
swamp. But under the trees it felt like
twilight—an eerie, green twilight. The cypresses were hung
with moss like torn curtains. Vines thick as tree trunks grew
from tree to tree. Little animals skittered under the brush.

Charlotte hoped she was walking in the right direction.
With the dense canopy hiding the sun, it was hard to be certain that she was heading north, the direction the boat had
gone. But where was the boat? Where were Rufus, Billy and
Abner? Where was the cave?

Maybe this was a wild goose chase and she might as well
give up. But she couldn't give up, knowing what fate awaited
Nick unless she rescued him. At least she was following a
path, she thought. A path always leads somewhere. There's
no such thing as a path to nowhere. And since this one
seemed to lead in the right direction, she would follow
wherever it took her and hope for the best.

A yellow snake with black stripes undulated across the
path. It was a very long snake—seven feet at least—and she
waited for it to complete its crossing. As the snake finally
disappeared into the undergrowth, her eye caught a fleeting
movement between the trees, an indistinct figure too upright
to be an animal. A rustle of leaves made her ears prick. She
fought down panic. To run would serve no purpose. Better
to maintain a steady pace and keep a good grip on her knife.

From the prickling in the back of her neck she sensed
more than saw that someone was shadowing her, moving at
her speed while taking care to remain concealed. It isn't a
robber, she told herself, because a robber would have no reason to delay. A robber could leap out to attack her any time
he felt like it. So the person shadowing her must have a different motive.

They kept on like this for half a mile before the idea came
into her mind that she might not be the only one afraid.
Perhaps the unseen person wanted to talk to her but lacked
the courage to bring matters to a head. In that case, it was up
to her.

And so she stopped, faced the tangled mass of green
growth, and said, “Who is thee?”

Silence.

“I know somebody's in there. Thee has no need to hide
from me.”

The leaves parted. A face peered out. Charlotte saw black
skin pitted with smallpox scars, a pair of wide-set dark eyes,
and a tangled mop of black hair.

“Jammy?”

The face disappeared into the foliage.

“Please come out. If thee is Jammy, Phoebe has told me
all about thee.”

A boy emerged as if stepping through a green wall. He
was thin and wiry, about the same height as Charlotte. He
wore no shoes or shirt. His breeches were torn. Insect bites
covered his exposed skin.

“Who are you?” the boy asked. “How come you know
Phoebe?”

“I'm Charlotte Schyler.”

“Charlotte's a girl's name.”

“Yes.” As she pulled off her hat, a curly lock of her hair fell
loose and bounced gently on her forehead.

He looked at her more closely. “Saints alive! You
are
a
girl!” He paused. “Ain't you the girl I seen going into Miz
Doughty's house?”

“That's where I live. I was there the night the slave catchers
came.”

“They caught Phoebe, didn't they?”

“Yes.”

“What's gonna happen to her now?”

“She's free. I'll tell you about it. It's good news . . . at least
it's good about Phoebe.”

As Charlotte's words poured forth, she forgot about “plain
speech” and dropped all pretence of being a Quaker. She
told Jammy how Nick had bought Phoebe in order to set her
free, and how ruffians had seized him and carried him off.

When she came to the end, he said, “So Phoebe's free and
they're together—Phoebe and the baby.”

“At Mrs. Doughty's house, but not hiding in the cellar.”

“And you think your man is somewhere in this swamp?”

“I'm sure of it. At the inn where I slept last night I recognized two men who'd been watching Nick at the slave auction. I heard them talking about a prisoner they had chained
in a cave. From the things they said, I knew it was Nick.”

“There's a cave not far from here. White folks lived there
for a spell. After they left, I was thinkin' of using it myself.
Then I saw some different white men go in there.”

“What did they look like?”

“Like white men. There were two of them. One was
wearin' a coonskin hat and the other—”

“Yes! Those are the men. Did you see them today?”

“No. Yesterday.”

Suddenly Jammy lifted his head like a startled deer sniffing the breeze. “Somebody's comin'!” Grabbing her arm, he
pulled her off the path and into the tangle of vines and trees.
“Get down!”

She threw herself onto the ground. Looking out through
the leaves, she saw too late that she had dropped her hat—
the black, wide-brimmed Quaker hat—that she had been
holding in her hand. It lay in the middle of the path.

At that moment, Billy and Abner came walking along the
trail. Charlotte held her breath.

It took only a moment for Billy to spot the hat and pick it
up. “Well!” he said. “What have we here?”

“It's the hat that young Quaker was wearing,” said Abner.

“All Quakers wear the same kind.”

“That's a fact. But you don't see many Quakers in the
swamp.”

Billy examined the hat. “Could belong to his brother. He
said his brother was huntin' here.” He paused. “Abner, there's
something fishy about this.”

Both studied the hat.

“You're right,” said Abner. “I smell a rat. What kind of a
man lets his hat fall off and don't bother to bend over to
pick it up?”

“A man in a big hurry. Maybe something was chasing
him. That would explain it. I'm gonna shove the hat in my
pack. Maybe we'll meet the owner later on. We can ask a few
questions when we give him back his hat.”

“If he's that young Quaker,” said Abner, “I hope he hasn't
stumbled on to the cave. He might do that, lookin' for his
brother.”

“If he's at the cave,” said Billy, “we'll have to deal with him
too.”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Abner.
“Let's get moving. The day's nearly done.”

“We would've been there four hours ago,” Billy grumbled,
“if the boat hadn't gone aground. Four hours wasted towing
it through the marsh! I said three men was too many.”

“Never mind. We'll pay our visit, then get back to Rufus
and the boat.”

Charlotte and Jammy, both lying flat on their stomach,
exchanged a glance.

When the men were out of earshot, she said, “Those are
the two men I was talking about, the ones holding Nick.
Rufus is the man who carried them away in a rowboat. I
wonder where he is now?”

“The water's gone down too much to reach the cave by
boat. Most likely they left it by a creek or inlet where the
water's deeper. And that Rufus fellow is stayin' with the
boat.”

“How far is it to the cave.”

“'Bout one mile further 'long this path.”

“It would be safer for us to take a different path.”

“There ain't no other path to the cave.” He paused to
scratch a mosquito bite. “If you don't mind gators, we can go
through the bog.”

Charlotte
did
mind gators, but she saw no alternative.

“Can we reach the cave before dark?”

“I figure we can.”

“Let's go.”

Jammy led her down a slope into the swampiest kind of
swamp. With every step, her boots sank into the muck, and
she lifted her foot with a squelchy, slurping sound.

They sloshed on without speaking. The air was full of flying insects. Slapping and sweating, they trudged along. It
felt like hours before they reached firmer ground.

They had just crossed a creek, using the trunk of a fallen
cypress tree as a bridge, when Charlotte caught sight of a
cabin almost hidden in the trees. It stood in shallow water, a
small log cabin with a cedar-shake roof. Saplings crowded
close to the walls on all four sides. The stumps of larger,
felled trees were sticking out of the water.

Could this be the abandoned cabin Elijah had told her
about? If it was, he might be in its loft at this very moment,
peering out at them through a chink in the logs.

She stopped in her tracks. “That cabin . . . does anyone use
it?”

“I never seen nobody there.”

“Can we have a look?”

“If we waste time, we ain't gonna get to the cave before
dark.” He gave her arm a pull.

He was right. This was no time to stop and explain about
Elijah. She gave the cabin one last glance as Jammy led her
away.

“
THERE'S THE CAVE
.”

Jammy pointed to an outcropping of rock facing them
from the far side of a creek. The outcropping ran as a low
ridge as far as Charlotte could see. At its base the receding
water had left broken branches, uprooted saplings, and
masses of waterweed strewn on the muddy bank, everything
coated with ooze.

The cave entrance was a cleft in the rock about two feet
wide, five feet high, with an overhang projecting above.
When the creek was in full flood, the base of the cave must
have been under water. It was not under water now. Boot
prints in the mud showed that two men had recently gone
inside.

Charlotte and Jammy crouched in the brush on their side
of the creek. There was still plenty of daylight, though the
sun was low in the west.

“Those men are in the cave right now,” Charlotte whispered. “I wonder if they'll stay all night.”

“Not if a friend with a boat is waitin' for them. They'll
want to join him before dark.”

“I'll cross the creek,” she said, “and crawl up to the cave
mouth so I can hear what's happening inside.”

She edged her way to the creek bank and scrambled down
its muddy side. The water, now tamely within its banks, was
neither deep nor fast. Danger lay only in being seen. As
quickly as she could, she waded to the other side.

Safe so far! Charlotte crawled to a pile of flotsam a yard
from the cave mouth, lay down with her body pressed
against the outcropping, and wriggled into the mess of broken branches and soggy waterweed. Finally, she pulled over
herself a leafy branch that covered her completely. Wet and
muddy, she hoped that she blended right in with the debris.

She strained to listen to the voices coming from within
the cave.

“You must have been lonesome, sittin' here all by yourself
just waitin' for us to pay you a visit.” That was Billy.

Nick made no answer that Charlotte could hear.

“Might as well tell us now,” said Abner, “'cause sooner or
later you're gonna anyway. You'll save yourself a heap of pain
by giving us the names of those Tory traitors before we have
to squeeze them out of you.”

“Think about it,” said Billy. “If you make us come back
tomorrow, we'll stake you out on a hill of fire ants. There's a
big nest nearby, just over the ridge. Imagine those little
devils crawling all over you. Under your clothes, in your
ears, up your nose.”

“I don't know any names.” Nick sounded very tired.

“Yes, you do,” said Abner. “You rode all around the backcountry talking to people.”

“I can tell you nothing.”

“We're wasting our time,” said Billy. “Let's go join Rufus
before it's too dark to find our way back to the boat. We'll
have better luck tomorrow.”

“You're right. Rufus is waiting.”

Their voices came closer. Charlotte held her breath.

“Pleasant dreams,” Billy snickered as he left the cave.

“He'll talk,” said Abner, following close behind. “Fire ants
never fail.”

Billy giggled. “By sunset tomorrow, the planter's son will
be hanging from a tree, and you and I will be in Jacksonboro
with a list of names as long as your arm.”

That's what you think, Charlotte said to herself.

She did not let out her breath until she heard them splashing across the creek. When they were out of earshot, she
pushed off from her body the mess of debris that had covered her. Rising to her feet, she glanced down at her clothes.
Both the grey coat and long black vest were now the same
shade of brown muck.

The sun was setting when she beckoned to Jammy—or at
least she beckoned in the general direction of where he was
hiding.

He rose from the brush, also as muddy as a fresh-pulled
turnip, and waded across the creek to join her. “Do you want
me to go inside with you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “We need a lookout. I don't think
those men will be back tonight, but just in case . . .”

She entered the cave alone.

The stench struck her first. At bottom there was the sour
reek of swamp water. Mixed with it was a sickening, sweetish odour of rot and decay. For half a minute she paused, her
nose adjusting to the foul air and her eyes to the darkness.
She took another step, stooping to keep from bumping her
head. When she could see clearly, the sight made her gasp.

There was Nick, sitting slumped and motionless. Around
his neck was a metal slave collar. Stretching from the collar
to a pin driven into the cave wall was a chain no more than
a yard long. Hand bolts cuffed his wrists behind his back.
On his ankles were shackles joined by a ten-inch chain. The
way his manacles held him, there was no way he could lie
down.

He sat facing sideways, and at first did not see her enter
the cave. But perhaps he noticed the shadow she cast with
the light behind her, for after a moment he turned his head
in her direction.

She said, “Nick. It's me. Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?” A wheezing sound came from his throat.
“Touch me. I want to be sure you're real.”

Kneeling beside him, she pressed her cheek to his. “I'm
real.”

“I didn't think anyone would know where to look for me.”

“Captain Braemar came to tell me what happened. He
thought you'd been taken into the swamp.” She pulled the file
from her satchel. “Mrs. Doughty gave me this. She thought
I might need it.” She rubbed her thumb along the file.
“Where shall I start?”

“With the handbolts. But first, give me water if you have
any.”

She pulled the flask from her satchel and held it to his
lips. He drank with great thirsty gulps.

“I have food, too,” she said. “Bread and cheese.”

“I'm not hungry.”

She put away the flask and picked up the file.

The handbolts consisted off two iron cuffs joined by a
thick iron bar. The bar was double the thickness of either
cuff.

“I'll begin with the cuff on your right wrist,” said Charlotte. “Then you'll have one hand completely free.”

Scritch
,
scritch
, the file rasped.

“Did you come alone?” Nick asked.

“No. By good luck I found Phoebe's friend Jammy. He's
been hiding in the swamp, and he knew about the cave.”

“Where's he now?”

“Outside. Keeping watch.”

As her file ground away at the metal cuff, she told Nick
about her night at the inn and how she recognized the two
men who had been watching him at the slave auction.

She kept on filing until her fingers cramped. Then she
stretched them, pulled them to ease the joints, and started
again. A blister formed in the groove between her thumb
and index finger. When the blister broke, the raw skin was
too sore for her to press as hard as needed.

“I'll ask Jammy to take over,” she said.

“How much progress have you made?”

She ran her fingers around the cuff. “It's too dark to see,
but I can feel a groove.”

When Jammy took over, Charlotte stationed herself outside the cave to keep watch. Her knees drawn up to her chin
and her hands wrapped around her shins, she stared into
the darkness, listening to the animal sounds from the swamp
and to the
scritch
,
scritch
of the file in the cave behind her.

Jammy was filing twice as fast as she could. Though not
very big, he was strong—all sinew and bone. His hands
must be hard from his work in the stable.

After a while, when she remembered that she had not
eaten since morning, she took the bread and cheese from her
satchel. She ate a little, and then went inside to offer some to
Nick and Jammy. Jammy stopped work long enough to wolf
down his portion. Nick still wanted only water.

He's sick, she thought as she again held her flask to his
mouth. Who wouldn't be, after being tied up in a stinking
cave, half the time sitting in cold water?

“I'm nearly through this cuff,” said Jammy as he picked
up the file again.

“I'm staying in the cave with you,” Charlotte said. “We
don't need a sentry this late.”

A few minutes later Jammy announced, “That's it! His
right hand is free. What next?”

Nick raised his hand shakily to the metal slave collar
around his neck. “This.”

“It would take too long to file through the collar,” said
Charlotte. “Just cut the chain that attaches it to the wall.”

Crouching at Nick's side in the darkness, she took his right
hand in hers. “Your skin feels like ice.” While Jammy set to
work with the file, Charlotte rubbed Nick's hand and his arm.

“You're a ministering angel,” he said. “My blood's starting
to circulate. As soon as we're out of here, I'll be fine.”

Jammy worked all night. After cutting through the chain
that attached Nick's neck collar to the wall, he severed the
chain that linked his shackles.

At sunrise they emerged from the cave. By the light of
dawn Charlotte saw the pallor of Nick's skin and the redness
of his eyes. With the collar around his neck, the iron cuff
and hand bolts attached to his left wrist, and the shackles on
his ankles trailing links of chain, Nick still wore the instruments of his ordeal.

Soon his captors would return. When they found Nick
gone, they would search for him. Only in Charleston could
he be safe. But Charleston was ten miles away, and he was
too weak to walk that far. Charlotte saw only one solution.

“Jammy, will you take us back to that abandoned cabin so
Nick can rest?”

“He can't rest there. The floor's under water.”

“I think there's a loft. A friend told me about an abandoned cabin with a loft you can reach by a ladder. If that's
the cabin he meant, we can hide in the loft. It will be dry.
Can you find that cabin again?”

“Sure thing, Miss Charlotte.”

As they started walking, Charlotte did not like the look of
the deep prints their feet were making in the mud. But after
a time, when they went through a flooded region where they
would leave no tracks, she felt safer.

They came upon the cabin suddenly. It was in a little hollow,
with trees crowding all around. If there ever had been glass
in the single window, it was there no longer. The door was
open, hanging by one hinge.

Charlotte stepped inside. The water reached her ankles.

A brick fireplace, its hearth submerged, took up the entire
end wall. In size, the cabin was about eight feet by ten. This
could have been a snug little home, she thought, if the settler hadn't built it on the floodplain.

Nick looked doubtful. “Is this it?”

“I'm not sure.” She looked up. “I expected to see a trap
door that would open to the loft. But this ceiling has boards
all the way across.”

“I see one feature that's unusual,” said Nick.

“What's that?”

“The moulding around the walls, right under the ceiling.
Somebody went to a lot of trouble to trim that wood.” Faced
with a challenge, Nick seemed to come to life. “Maybe the
moulding's not for decoration. It may serve as a ledge to support boards that aren't nailed in place. Let's see if we can
find a couple.”

The ceiling was only a foot above Nick's head. Raising his
free hand, he pushed hard at the board directly over him. It
didn't move.

“Not that one,” he said.

Starting with the boards closest to the door, he worked his
way to the other end of the cabin. The second-to-last board
lifted when he pushed. The last one did the same.

“There!” he said. “If we shove those two loose boards out
of the way, we have our entrance.”

“There's no ladder,” said Charlotte.

“We don't need a ladder. I'll give you and Jammy a boost
up.”