“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,Ah’m boun’ fo’ the lan’ o’ Canaan.”
“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,Ah’m boun’ fo’ the lan’ o’ Canaan.”
“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,Ah’m boun’ fo’ the lan’ o’ Canaan.”
“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,
Ah’m boun’ fo’ the lan’ o’ Canaan.”
They sang, and their voices were sweet. William Freeland, sitting on the veranda, took his pipe from between his teeth and smiled at his mother.
“I always say there’s nothing like darkies singing—nothing. Some of our folks have really beautiful voices. Listen to that!” The master of Freelands spoke with real pride.
Inside the house old Caleb fussed with the curtains. He felt a trembling inside of him. That dear, young voice out there in the dusk:
“Ah thought Ah heared them sayThere was lions in the wayI don’ expect to stayMuch longah here.”
“Ah thought Ah heared them sayThere was lions in the wayI don’ expect to stayMuch longah here.”
“Ah thought Ah heared them sayThere was lions in the wayI don’ expect to stayMuch longah here.”
“Ah thought Ah heared them say
There was lions in the way
I don’ expect to stay
Much longah here.”
The buoyant refrain—all the voices singing triumphantly:
“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,Not much longah here!”
“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,Not much longah here!”
“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,Not much longah here!”
“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,
Not much longah here!”
“Crazy fools!” whispered Caleb. “Singin’ lak dat!”
Singing for all the world to know!He wanted to warn them. He shook his head. Caleb had been young once, too. And he had dreamed of freedom. He was old now. He would die a slave. He shuffled back to the pantry. Shut in there he could no longer hear the singing.
Two days before the appointed time Sandy withdrew. He could not go off and leave his wife. They pleaded with him.
“You young ones go! You make good life. I stay now!”
John was the most visibly shaken. John whose little Susan had wept several times of late because of his moody silences and bad temper. After saying that nothing could change his mind or intention he walked away stiffly.
Then Sandy confessed that he had had a dream, a bad dream.
“About us?” Frederick asked the question, his heart heavy. This was bad, coming from Sandy. And Sandy spoke, his voice low and troubled.
“I dream I roused from sleep by strange noises, noises of a swarm of angry birds that passed—a roar like a coming gale over the tops of the trees. I look up. I see you, Frederick, in the claws of a great bird. And there was lots of birds, all colors and all sizes. They pecked at you. Passing over me, the birds flew southwest. I watched until they was clean out of sight.” He was silent.
Frederick drew a long breath.
“And they took me with them?”
“Yes.”
Frederick did not meet his eyes. He stiffened his back.
“It was just a dream, Sandy. Look, we’re worried and jumpy. That’s all. Hen, that’s right—don’t you think? What’s a little dream?”
Henry spoke with unaccustomed firmness.
“Ain’t no little ole dream gonna stopme!”
Frederick gripped his arm, thankful for Henry’s strength and determination. He keenly felt the responsibility of the undertaking. If they failed it would be his fault. He wished Sandy had not told him the dream.
The day dawned. Frederick went out to the field earlier than usual. He had to be busy. At breakfast Henry broke one of the precious cups. He was roundly berated by Old Missus. Her son said nothing. Henry had been more clumsy than usual lately.
The morning dragged. Frederick had been spreading manure for what seemed to him an eternity when—for no apparent reason at all—he experienced a sudden blinding presentiment.
“We’ve failed!”
It was as if a hundred eyes were watching him—as if all his intentions were plainly written in the sky. A few minutes after this, the long, low, distant notes of the horn summoned the workers from the field to the noon-day meal. Frederick wanted nothing to eat. He looked around probing the landscape for some reason for the awful certainty in his mind. He shook himself. He pressed the back of his hand hard against his mouth.
As he crossed the field he saw William Freeland come out of the house and go toward the barn. He came nearer, and the long graveled driveway was in full view. And so he saw the four men on horseback turn into the drive and approach the house. Then he saw two blacks whom he could not identify walking behind. One of them seemed to be tied!
Something has happened! We’ve been betrayed!
No need to run now.He came on, cutting across the front yard; he climbed over the low hedge and was stooping to pass under the rotting rose trellis as one horseman, far in the lead and riding very rapidly, reached the house. It was the tobacco planter, Mr. William Hamilton. The horseman pulled his horse to an abrupt stop and hailed Frederick.
“Hey, boy! Where’s your master?”
Even in this bitter moment of defeat some perverse imp inside Frederick forced him to reply, speaking very politely, “Mr. Freeland, sir, just went to the barn.”
Hamilton’s whip jerked in his hand, but he did not bring it down on Frederick. He wheeled about in a flurry of gravel and rode offtoward the stables. By this time the other three had come up, and Frederick saw that they were constables.
He burst into the kitchen, heedless of Aunt Lou’s wrath. But the kitchen was quiet with an ominous stillness. Only John was there, his back to the room, looking out the window. He turned quickly, and Frederick saw his quivering face. They grasped each other by the hand and stood together, waiting.
The outside door opened a second time, admitting Master Freeland. His eyes were glinting steel in a grim face. His voice was harsh.
“So, here you are!” He was looking at Frederick. “Go outside! These men want to question you.”
“He ain’t done nothin’, Massa William.” There was panic in John’s appeal.
“Shut up!” Freeland shoved Frederick toward the door.
As he stepped outside, two constables seized him.
“What do you want? Why do you take me?”
A blow in the mouth cut his lip. They twisted his arm, throwing him to the ground.
Hamilton, standing beside his horse, pointed to John, who had followed Frederick to the door.
“That one, too. Take him!” He held a rifle in his hand.
John cried out when they seized him.
All this was taking place just outside the kitchen door, some distance from the barns and outhouses. Motionless black figures could be seen. Now a kind of hushed wail was heard.
Henry, running with Sandy behind him, was coming from the barn. A constable met him, a heavy gun at his side. He carried a rope. Hamilton had pointed to Henry, nodding his head.
“Tie him!”
“Cross your hands!” ordered the constable. Henry was panting. He did not speak at once. In that moment he had seen everything. Then, looking straight at the man in front of him, he said, “I won’t!”
They were all taken by surprise. The master of Freelands stared at a Henry he had never seen before. The constable sputtered.
“Why you black ——! You won’t cross your hands!” He reached for his revolver.
“Henry!” His master’s voice cracked.
And Henry looked at him and said, with added emphasis, “No! I won’t!”
The three constables now cocked their revolvers, surrounded him. Mr. Hamilton was agitated. He also drew his rifle.
“By God, Freeland, he’s dangerous!”
William Freeland could say nothing. Iron bands seemed to be choking him.Henry!That clumsy, silly slave had grown a foot.
“Shoot me! Shoot me and be damned! I won’t be tied!”
And at the moment of saying it, with the guns at his breast, Henry quickly raised his arms and dashed the weapons from their hands, sending them flying in all directions.
In the confusion which followed Frederick managed to get near John.
“The pass?” he asked. “Do you have the pass?”
“It’s burned. I put it in the stove.”
“Good!” This much evidence was gone, anyway.
Henry fought like a tiger. Inside the house, Old Missus heard the uproar and came out back.
“Henry! Henry! They’re killing Henry!” she shrieked. Her son rushed to her, trying to explain. She pushed him away. “Stop them! Stop those ruffians!”
Finally they had Henry overpowered. As he lay on the ground trussed and bleeding, Frederick and John, helpless though they were, stood accused in their own eyes because they too had not resisted. John cried bitterly, in futile rage. Frederick stood rigid, every breath a separate stab of pain. Mrs. Freeland, her own eyes wet, tried to comfort John.
“Don’t, Johnny. I know it’s all a mistake. We’ll fix it. We’ll get you and Henry out of it!”
They took Sandy, whose black face remained unfathomable. Then the tobacco planter spoke.
“Perhaps now we’d better make a search for those passes we understand Captain Auld’s boy has written for them.”
Freeland was almost vehement, insisting that they be taken immediately to the jail and there carefully examined. To himself he said that his mother’s outburst had unnerved him. He wanted to get the whole business over and done with—get it out of his sight.
As they stood, securely bound, ready to start toward St. Michaels, the mistress came out with her hands full of biscuits which she divided between John and Henry, ignoring both Sandy and Frederick. And as they started around the house she pointed her bony finger at Frederick.
“It’s you! You yellow devil!” she called out after him. “You putit in their heads to run away! John and Henry are good boys. You did it! You long-legged, yellow devil!”
At the look which Frederick turned on her, she screamed in mingled wrath and fright and went in, slamming the door.
The constables fastened them with long ropes to the horses. Now Frederick recognized the two dark forms he had seen from a distance as Handy and a boy owned by Mr. Hamilton. Handy had slipped off that morning to hide their supplies near the canoe. This boy had somehow become involved. Maybe Handy had solicited his aid—maybe that was what happened. Frederick turned the possibility over inside his aching head. The boy had been beaten. His shirt hung in stained utters. Under the watchful eyes they gave no sign of knowing each other. They waited while the horses pawed restlessly, kicking up sharp bits of gravel into their faces.
As Freeland mounted his big mare, the tobacco planter pointed at Sandy.
“Is that one of your own niggers?”
“No,” the master of Freelands shook his head. “I hire him from a man named Groomes, over in Easton.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I hate to lose the best carpenter we’ve had in a long time.”
“I’ve seen him somewhere before.” Hamilton looked thoughtful. “Believe he’s the one they call a voodoo.” Freeland shrugged his shoulders, settling himself firmly in the saddle. Hamilton continued, his voice grim. “Best keep an eye on him.”
“Don’t tell me you take stock in nigger black magic!” Freeland mocked him.
It was Hamilton’s turn to shrug his shoulders, as his ungracious host headed the procession down the drive and out into the highway.
Inside the house old Caleb straightened the worn, brocaded curtains, his stiff fingers shaking. He felt old and useless. Upstairs Susan sought to muffle her sobs in Old Missus’ feather bolster, heedless of the fact that she was staining the fine linen slip. The children down in the slave quarters were very still, hardly breathing.
Easter was in the air. The sun shone bright and warm. Folks were thinking about the holiday, and overseers were relaxed. In the fields, slaves leaned on their hoes and watched them go by—five white men, their hats pulled low, their shirts open at the neck, riding on horses; and behind them, jerking, grotesque figures, pulled by the horses, dust blinding and choking them, their bare feet stumbling over rocks andraising a cloud of dust, their bare heads covered with sweat and grime.
Frederick, fastened with Henry to the same horse, pulled hard on the rope, endeavoring to slacken the pace. He knew what torture Henry was enduring. The constable, noticing this tugging, lashed out once with his whip. Then he chose to ignore the matter. It was a long, hot drive to the Easton jail, and the constable was in no particular hurry.
Henry managed to get his breath. The mistress had made them loose one of his hands. In this free hand he still clinched his biscuits. Now, looking gratefully at Frederick, he gasped, “The pass! What shall I do with my pass?”
Frederick answered immediately. “Eat it with your biscuit!”
A moment later Henry had managed to slip the piece of paper into his mouth. He chewed well on the biscuit and swallowed with a gulp. Then he grinned, a trickle of blood starting from his cut lip.
The word went round from one bound figure to another, “Swallow your pass! Own nothing! Know nothing.”
Though their plans had leaked out—somehow, some way—their confidence in each other was unshaken. Somebody had made a mistake, but they were resolved to succeed or fail together.
By the time they reached the outskirts of St. Michaels it was clear that the news had gone on ahead.
A bunch of runaway niggers! Fair sport on a Saturday afternoon. The “insurrection”—the word stumbled off their tongues—had been started by that “Auld boy,” the “smart nigger.”
“A bad un!”
“Ought to be hanged!” They laughed and ordered another drink of burning whiskey.Wish something would happen in this God-forsaken hole!
The procession stopped first at Captain Auld’s. The Captain was loud in his cries of denunciation.
“Done everything for this boy, everything! I promise you he’ll be punished—I’ll take all the hide off him! I’ll break every bone in his body!”
He was reminded that Frederick and the others were already in the hands of the law. Beyond a shadow of doubt they would be punished. At this the Captain calmed down. Here was a horse of another color. Frederick washisproperty. His slow mind began to revolve. He dared not offend either Mr. Freeland or Mr. Hamilton. He had nostomach for losing a valuable piece of property to anything as vague and unrewarding as “the law.” He fixed a stern eye on Frederick—noting the thick broad shoulders and long legs.
“What have you done, you ungrateful rascal?”
“Nothin’, Massa, nothin’, nothin’, nothin’! The whistle blowed, I come in to eat—an’ they took me! They took me!”
Frederick’s mind also had been working. He was resolved to throw the burden of proof upon his accusers. He could see that the passion of his outcry now had its effect. The Captain grunted with satisfaction. He asked the gentlemen for more details. Just exactly whathadthe boy done?
Of course, no single pass was found on them. All six of the accused said the same thing—they had been going about their work as usual. They had not the slightest idea why they had been arrested. Handy explained in great detail how he had been sent over to Mr. Hamilton’s place by Aunt Lou. He was returning from that errand. The Hamilton boy had been down on the beach mending a net. Their protestations of innocence were loud and voluble. Too voluble, each master thought to himself. But he did not put his thoughts into words. It would never do to admit that they were being outwitted by a bunch of sniveling darkies.
They were taken to the county jail and locked up. It was a ramshackle, old affair. A good wind coming in from the bay could have knocked it over, and a very small fire would have wiped it out in short order. But it was prison enough for the six. Henry, John, and Frederick were placed in one cell and Sandy, the Hamilton boy, and Handy in another. They had plenty of space, since the cells really were rooms of the building. They were fed immediately and were left completely alone throughout the night. They were thankful for this respite.
Early Easter morning they were at them—a swarm of slave-traders and agents of slave-traders who, hearing of the “catch” in the county jail at Easton, hurried over to ascertain if the masters wanted to rid themselves of dangerous “troublemakers.” Good bargains could often be picked up under such circumstances. Rebellious slaves were usually strong and vigorous. Properly manacled, they were rendered helpless. And there was a demand for them on the great plantations where they were beginning to grow enormous crops of cotton. Word had gone out that these captured slaves were young and in unusually good condition.
The sheriff willingly obliged the traders. So they fell upon the prisoners like a bunch of vultures, feeling their arms and legs, shaking them by the shoulders to see if they were sound and healthy, making them jump up and down on one foot, examining their teeth, examining their testicles.
“This one, now,”—the trader was “going over” Frederick—“he’d go fine with a piece I picked up last week. She’s swellin’ with heat. They’d make a litter!”
The two men laughed.
“How’d you like to go with me, buck boy?” He kicked him lightly.
Frederick, his rage choking him, did not answer.
“Um—no tongue,” the second trader grunted.
“Look at his eyes!” the first man said. “If I had ’im, I’d cut the devil out of him pretty quick!”
This went on for several days, with no further questions nor any beatings. The suspense was terrible. The dream of freedom faded.
Then one afternoon the master of Freelands appeared with Mr. Hamilton and took away all the prisoners except Frederick. They were going back with no further punishment. Old Missus had persuaded her son that this was the just and correct course.
“Nobody’s to blame but that hired boy! Bring our folks home!”
He talked it over with Hamilton. For want of an alternative, he assented.
Freeland could not have explained to himself why he allowed them to tell Frederick goodbye. All that his mother had said about him had been proven true. Hewasdangerous. He was certain that this boy, standing there so quietly, had planned an escape for his slaves. How many were involved and where were they going? Why should they wish to leave Freelands? They had far less to worry them than the master had—a shelter over their heads, clothing, food. His mother nursed them when they were sick. Their work was not heavy. He would have liked to ask this boy some questions.
It was evident that the others did not want to go. Henry clung to Frederick’s arm, his big, ugly face working. He heard Sandy, who seldom spoke, say, “Big tree bow in the wind. Big tree stand!”
“I will not be forgettin’!” Frederick answered.
They went away then and climbed into the waiting wagon. They were going back in state—riding with one of Mr. Hamilton’s men driving the mules. The masters were on horseback. Frederick, standingbeside the barred window, saw them wave as the wagon turned into the road.
Alone in the prison Frederick gave way to complete misery. He felt certain now that he was doomed to the ever-dreaded Georgia, Louisiana, or Alabama. They would be coming for him now, to take him “down the river.” Even in his despair he was glad that the others were not going with him. At least they were no worse off than before their heads had been filled with dreams of freedom. And now they could read. Eventually they would get away. But he was too young to derive much comfort from this thought—too young and too much alive.
A long week passed, and then to Frederick’s joyful relief Captain Auld came for his boy. In a loud voice he told the sheriff that he was sending him off to Alabama to a friend of his.
The sheriff looked at Frederick. Pity a clean-looking hand like that couldn’t behave himself! He spat out a fresh cud of tobacco. It had lost its taste.
Frederick’s heart fell, but obediently he went with his master. The next several days went by in comparative idleness on the Auld place just outside St. Michaels. Frederick’s stature with the other slaves had grown. By them he was treated as an honored guest, and in this he found some comfort. But the Alabama friend did not put in an appearance, and finally Captain Auld announced that he had decided to send him back to Baltimore again, to live with his brother Hugh. He told Frederick that he wanted him to learn a trade, and that if he behaved himself properly he might emancipate him in time.
Frederick could hardly believe his ears. The morning came when they went into St. Michaels, and there he was placed in the custody of the captain of a small clipper. They set sail over the waters of the Chesapeake Bay toward Baltimore.