Chapter Four
Frederick comes to a dead end
William Freeland, master of Freelands, gave his rein the slightest tug as he rode between the huge stone columns. It was good to be alone and let all memory of the Tilghmans drain from his mind, including Delia’s girlish laughter. He was glad the Christmas was over. Now he could have peace.
Just inside the wrought-iron gates, where the graveled drive was guarded by a stately sycamore, the big mare came to a quivering pause. She knew this was where her master wished to stop. From this spot the old dwelling far up the drive, with tulip poplars huddled around it, was imposing.
It was a good house, built in the good old days when Maryland boasted noble blood. Beside the winding staircase of the wide hall hung a painting of Eleanor, daughter of Benedict Calvert, sixth Lord Baltimore. William Freeland was not a Calvert; but the families had been close friends, and the lovely Eleanor had danced in those halls. That was before Maryland had broken her ties with England. For a long time there were those who regretted the day Maryland signed the Articles of Confederation; but when ambitious neighbors crowded their boundaries, loyal Marylanders rallied round; and in 1785 William Freeland’s father, Clive Freeland, had gone to Mount Vernon to contest Virginia’s claim to the Potomac. He had spoken eloquently, and Alexander Hamilton had accompanied the young man home. There Hamilton had been received by Clive’s charming bride, had rested and relaxed and, under the spell of Freelands, had talked of his own coral-strewn, sun-drenched home in the Caribbeans.
In those days the manor house sat in the midst of a gently rolling green. Spreading trees towered above precise box borders; turfed walkways, bordered with beds of delicate tea-roses, crossed each otherat right angles; Cherokee rose-vines climbed the garden walls; and wisteria, tumbling over the veranda, showed bright against the whitewashed bricks, joined with pink crêpe myrtle by the door and flowed out toward the white-blossomed magnolias in the yard. The elegant, swarthy Hamilton lingered, putting off his return to New York as long as he could. He told them how he hated that city’s crooked, dirty streets and shrill-voiced shopkeepers.
All this was fifty years ago. The great estate had been sold off in small lots. On the small plantation that was left, the outhouses were tumbling down, moss hung too low on the trees, the hedges needed trimming and bare places showed in the lawn. Everything needed a coat of paint. Slowly but surely the place was consuming itself, as each year bugs ate into the tobacco crop.
“It will last out our time.” More than that consideration did not concern the present master of Freelands.
There was a faint wild fragrance of sweet shrub in the air—the smell of spring. It was the first day of January, but he knew that plowing must be got under way. Spring would be early. He sighed. Undoubtedly, things would have been very different had his elder brother lived. For Clive, Jr., had had will and energy. He would have seen to it that the slaves did their work. He would have made the crops pay. Clive had been a fighter. In fact, Clive had been killed in a drunken brawl. The whole thing had been hushed up, and young William sent off to Europe. For several years they spoke of him as “studying abroad.” Actually, William did learn a great deal. He met lots of people who became less queer as the days and months passed. He ran into Byron in Italy.
A cable from his mother had brought him hurrying back home. His father was dead when he arrived.
Everything seemed to have shrunk. For a little while he was appalled by what he saw and heard. Then gradually the world outside fell away. His half-hearted attempts to change things seemed silly. He had forgotten how easy life could be in Maryland.
Now he looked at the substantial old house. Someone was opening the second-floor shutters. That meant his mother was getting up. He smiled, thinking how like the house she was—untouched, unmarred, unshaken by the passing years. At seventy she was magnificent—the real master of Freelands. He bowed to her every wish, except one. Here he shook his head and laughed softly. At forty, he remained unmarried.
His mother could not understand that the choice young bits of femininity which she paraded before him amused, but did not intrigue, him. So carefully guarding their pale skin against the sun, so daintily lifting billowing flowered skirts, so demure, waiting behind their veils in their rose gardens. He knew too well the temper and petty shrewishness that lurked behind their soft curls. In some cases there would be brains, too, but brains lying dormant. None of them could hold a candle to his mother! He would tell her so, stooping to kiss her ear.
The mare pawed restlessly. Someone was whistling just outside the gate. Freeland drew up closer to the low wall. It was a black who had sat down on the stump beside the road. He was pulling on a shoe. The other shoe lay on the ground beside him. Apparently he had been walking along the sandy road in his bare feet. Freeland chuckled. Just like a nigger! Give them a good pair of shoes, and the minute your back’s turned they take them off. Don’t give them shoes, and they say they can’t work. This fellow was undoubtedly turning in at Freelands and didn’t want to appear barefoot.
He was standing up now, brushing himself off carefully. A likely looking youngster, well built. Freeland wondered where he belonged. He wasn’t black, rather that warm rich brown that indicated mixed blood.
“Bad blood,” his mother always called it. And she would have rapped her son smartly with her cane had he questioned the verdict. Why should he? It would seem that the Atlantic Ocean produced some queer alchemical changes in bloods. In Europe “mixed blood” was, well, just mixed blood. Everybody knew that swarthy complexions in the south of France, in Spain, in Italy, indicated mixed blood. Over here things were different. Certainly there was nothing about slavery to improve stock. He had seen enough to know that.
He suspected that his mother had doubts and suspicions which she did not voice. Her feverish anxiety to get him safely married didn’t fool him. He shrugged his shoulders. She need not worry. He knew men who blandly sold off their own flesh and blood. He rubbed elbows with them at the tobacco market, but he never invited them to his table.
In the road Frederick stood looking at the gates a moment. They were swung back, so he had no hesitancy about entering; but he had never seen such large gates before. He touched the iron trimmings. Close by a horse neighed. Frederick turned and knew it must be themaster sitting there so easily on the big red mare. He jerked off his hat and bowed.
“Well, boy, what do you want?” The voice was pleasant.
“I’m Captain Auld’s boy, sir. He sent me to work.”
Freeland studied the brown face. This young darky was unusual; such speech was seldom heard on the Eastern Shore. He asked another question.
“Where are you from, boy?”
Frederick hesitated. It was hardly likely that his master had told his prospective employer about the year at Covey’s. Had he heard from some other source? That would be a bad start. He temporized.
“I walked over from St. Michaels just now, sir.”
“Must have got an early start. We haven’t had breakfast here yet.”
The master slid easily to the ground, tossing the reins in the boy’s direction. “Come along!”
He had not the faintest idea what this was all about. But things had a way of clearing up in time. He started walking up the driveway toward the house. Frederick followed with the horse.
“Did you bring a note?” Freeland asked the question over his shoulder.
“No, sir. Captain Auld just told me to get along.”
Who the devil is Captain Auld? Oh, he remembered,St. Michaels—yes. Had said he could send him some help this spring, a good strong hand. Now what would poor trash like Auld be doing with a slave like this? He spoke his thoughts aloud, impatiently.
“You’re not a field hand! What do you know about tobacco?”
Frederick’s heart missed a beat. He didn’t want him; didn’t like his looks! He saw the big gates of Freelands—this lovely place—swinging shut behind him. He swallowed.
“I—I can do a good day’s work. I mighty strong.”
Freeland flipped a leaf from a bush with his riding crop before he spoke.
“You weren’t raised up at St. Michaels, and you’re no field hand. Don’t lie to me, boy!” He turned and looked Frederick full in the face. The boy stopped but did not flinch. Nor did he drop his eyes in confusion. After all, the explanation was simple.
“When I was little, Old Marse sent me to Baltimore to look after his grandson, Tommy. I was raised up there.”
“I see. Who’s your folks?”
The answer came promptly. “Colonel Lloyd’s my folks, sir.”
“Oh!”
So that was it! Colonel Edward Lloyd—one of the really great places in Talbot County—secluded, far from all thoroughfares of travel and commerce, sufficient unto itself. Colonel Lloyd had transported his products to Baltimore in his own vessels. Every man and boy on board, except the captain, had been owned by him as his property. The plantation had its own blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers and coopers—all slaves—all “Colonel Lloyd’s folks.” Freeland’s mother had known dashing Sally Lloyd, the Colonel’s eldest daughter. They had sailed together in the sloop called theSally Lloyd. Yes, the old master was dead now. Naturally many of the slaves had been sold. He was in luck.
They had reached the house. Freeland mounted the veranda steps. He did not look around. His words were almost gruff.
“Go on round back. Sandy’ll take care of you.”
He disappeared, leaving Frederick’s “Yessir” hanging in the air.
Frederick patted the mare’s neck and whispered in her ear, “It’s all right, old girl. Let’s go find Sandy!”
From the road the big house and its tangled yard made a charming picture of sleepy tranquility. But “round back” all was bustling activity. “The Christmas” was over. Aunt Lou had emphasized the fact in no uncertain terms.
“Yo black scamps clean up all dis hyear trash!”
Rakes, brooms, mops and wheelbarrows were whisking. There were sleepy groans and smart cuffs. Already one round bottom had been spanked. Everybody knew New Year’s was a day to start thingsright. Aunt Lou’s standards and authority were unquestioned. Mis’ Betsy would be coming along soon. And Lawd help if everything wasn’t spick and span by then! ’Course Master William was already up and out on that mare of hissen. But nobody minded Master William too much. Though he could lay it on if he got mad! Most of the time he didn’t pay no ’tention to nothin’—not a thing.
Then came a strange nigger leading Master William’s horse.Well!The young ones stopped and stared, finger in mouth. Susan, shaking a rug out of an upstairs window, nearly pitched down into the yard. John and Handy regarded the intruder with eager interest. Sandy turned and just looked at him.
Frederick’s pulse raced, but he made no sign of recognition either.
Then “voodoo” Sandy smiled, and everybody relaxed.So!
In the high wainscoted dining room young Henry was serving breakfast. Old Caleb always served dinner—and even breakfast when there were guests—but Henry was in training under the eye of his mistress. Polished silver, gleaming white linen and sparkling glasses—all the accoutrements of fine living were there. A slight woman in a soft black silk dress with an ivory-colored collar, sat across from Master William. Her hair was white, but her blue-veined hands had not been worn by the years and her eyes remained bright and critical. The mistress of Freelands had not aged; she had withered.
“Henry!” She rapped the table with her spoon. “Be careful there! How many times have I told you not to use those cups for breakfast?”
“Please, Mis’ Betsy.” Henry’s tone was plaintive. “’Tain’t none of mah fault. Caleb set ’em out, ma’m. They was sittin’ right hyear on tha sideboard.”
“Stop whining, Henry!” Her son seldom spoke with such impatience. Mrs. Freeland glanced at him sharply.
“Yessah, Massa William, but—” began Henry.
“He’s quite right, Mother,” Freeland interrupted. “Caleb served coffee to the Tilghmans before they left. I had a cup myself.”
“I’m glad of that.” The cups were forgotten. “I had no idea they were leaving so early. I should have been up to see my guests off.”
“No need at all, Mother. I accompanied the carriage a good piece down the road. They’ll make it back to Richmond in no time.”
“It was nice having them for the holidays.” She tasted her coffee critically.
Mornings were pleasant in this room. The canary, hanging beside the window, caught the gleam of sunshine on its cage and burst into song. Some place out back a child laughed. The mistress suppressed a sigh. It would be a black child. Her son lounged so easily in his chair. She bit her lips.
“I never thought Delia Tilghman would grow up to be such a charming young lady.” She spoke casually. “She’s really lovely.”
“She is, indeed, Mother,” her son assented; but at his smile she looked away.
“I reckon Caleb better wash these cups himself.” Her eyes grew indulgent as they rested on Henry. He shuffled his feet as she added, “Henry here was probably out skylarking all night.”
“Yes,ma’m.” Henry gave a wide grin before vanishing kitchen-ward.
His master’s snort was emphatic. “Henry probably slept twelve hours last night. The silly ass!”
“Really, William, I do not understand your attitude toward our own people. Henry was born right here at Freelands.”
He laughed and took another hot biscuit.
“Which undoubtedly should make him less an ass. But does it?” At his mother’s stricken look he was contrite. “Forgive me, Mother, but I’ve just found much better material for you to work on, worthy of your efforts.”
“What are you talking about?”
Henry had returned with golden-brown baked apples, swimming in thick syrup.
“Henry,” Freeland said, “step out back and fetch in that new boy.” Henry’s eyes widened, but he did not move. “Run along! You’ll see him.”
Henry disappeared, moving faster than was his wont. Freeland smiled at his mother.
“I took on a new boy this morning. You’ll like him.”
Mrs. Freeland was incredulous. “You bought a boy this morning?”
“I’m hiring this fellow from a peckawood over at St. Michaels.” His mother’s sniff was audible. “But he’s really one of Colonel Lloyd’s people.”
“Oh! That’s different. Should be good stock.”
“Unquestionably. I’d like to buy him.”
The old lady’s eyes had grown reminiscent. She shook her head.
“I wonder if that fine old place is going to pieces. How sad that the Colonel died without a son.”
The door behind her was shoved open noisily, admitting Henry who breathed as if he had been running.
“Hyear he is!” he blurted out.
Frederick stopped on the threshold. The room made him hold his breath—sunlight reflected on rich colors and pouring through the singing of a little bird. He wanted to stoop down to see if his shoes carried any tiny speck of sand or dust. He must step softly on the beautiful floor.
“Come in, boy!”
The man’s voice was kind. Mrs. Freeland turned with a jerk and stared keenly at the new acquisition. She noted at once his color, or lack of color. That meant—the thought was rigorously checked. Who was this boy her son had picked up in St. Michaels? Why this sudden interest in buying the half-grown buck? She spoke brusquely.
“Come here!”
He drew near, walking quietly but firmly, and bowed. Under her merciless scrutiny he neither shuffled his feet nor lowered his eyes. It was the master who broke the silence.
“Well, Mother—”
She waved him to silence with a peremptory gesture.
“Do you have a name?” she questioned.
“My name is Frederick, ma’m.” His words were respectfully low and distinct.
The man nodded his head in approval. His mother did not move for a moment. When she spoke there was a harsh grating in her voice.
“Who gave you such a name?”
Frederick was conscious of something tightening inside of him. His name always surprised people. He had come to wish that he did know how he got it. From his grandmother? His mother? His father? In Baltimore he and Tommy had talked about it. Then the young master had said to his little slave, “Aw, fiddlesticks! What difference does it make? That’s your name, ain’t it? Just tell ’em!”
“Answer me, boy!” this frightening old lady was saying.
His back stiffened and he said in the same respectful tone, “Frederick is my name, ma’m.”
She struck him, hard, with her cane. The master pushed back his chair and half rose.
“Mother!”
“Impudence!” Her eyes blazed. “Get out of my sight!”
Frederick backed away. He dare not run, he dare not answer. He would not cower. He had no need of asking how he had offended her. He had the fierce satisfaction of knowing. “Impudence” could be committed by a slave in a hundred different ways—a look, a word, a gesture. It was an unpardonable crime. He knew he was guilty. Henry had backed to the wall, eyes popping, mouth open.
Now William Freeland was on his feet. He spoke to Henry rather than to Frederick, and his voice was hard.
“Take him out back. I’ll come along in a moment.”
Frederick had a crazy impulse to laugh at Henry’s face as he came toward him. The lumbering dark fellow was heavier, perhaps a year or two older, but in a fair fight Frederick knew he could outmarch him. There was no question of resistance in his mind now, however. The timid way Henry took his arm was silly.
The moment the door had closed behind them, Henry’s entire demeanor changed.
“Look-a-hyear, boy,” he whispered, dropping Frederick’s arm, “ain’t you dat crazy nigger what whopped a white man?”
Frederick shrugged his shoulders. His tiny spurt of exaltation had passed. He felt sick.
“Iamcrazy.” His words were a groan.
“I knowed it!” exulted Henry. “I knowed it! Come on out to tha barn. I gotta tell tha others.” There was no suggestion of whine in his voice, nor was his head cocked to one side.
At Henry’s silent arm-wavings they gathered round—the numerous yard boys and men working in the stables and barns. Frederick dropped on an empty box, but Henry delivered a dramatic account of what had just occurred. They kept their voices low, and when Handy slapped his knee and laughed out loud, John whirled on him.
“Shut yo’ big mouth! Wanta bring tha house down on us?”
“Standin’ up to Ole Missus!”
“Lawd! Lawd! She’ll skin you!”
They looked at him admiringly. Only Sandy shook his head. “Not good!” was his only comment.
And Frederick, sitting there on the empty box, agreed with Sandy.
Mrs. Freeland’s cane slipped to the floor as the door closed behind the two slaves. Her hand was shaking. Her son was puzzled as he bent to pick up the cane.
“Mother, you have upset yourself. I’m so sorry. But I declare I don’t see why.”
The small white head jerked up.
“You don’t! So this is your idea of better material. That—That mongrel!” Her words were vehement.
“Oh, Mother! For heaven’s sake!” The scene he had witnessed suddenly took on meaning. Was “bad blood” getting to be an obsession with her?
“Strutting in here with his airs and impudence!”
“I’ll confess he is a little cocky.” Then he sought to mollify her. “He’s probably been spoilt. I told you he was from Colonel Lloyd’s place. He’s not just a common hand.”
She managed to control the trembling of her lips.I must not fight with William.She pressed back her tears and got to her feet.
“Keep him, if you like. He looks strong. Only I will not have him in the house.”
She started across the floor, her cane muffled by the rug. In the hallway she turned.
“I don’t like him. A nigger who looks you straight in the eye is dangerous. Send Tessie to me!” The keys hanging at her side rattled.
She ascended the stairs, the cane taps growing fainter.
“I’ll be damned!” He spoke the words under his breath, looking after her. Then, returning to the room, he reached for his pipe. Standing there, he crushed the bits of dried tobacco leaf into its bowl. “Wonder if the old girl’s right.”
He sat a while smoking before he went out back. He forgot about Tessie.
The folks in the yard were surprised when Frederick was sent to the fields. Obviously he had been considered for houseboy. Then, after he offended Old Missus, they thought he would go scuttling. But, after a time, Master William came stomping into the yard. He wore his high boots and he carried his riding crop. In a loud voice he asked where that boy was hiding. One little pickaninny began to whimper. Everybody thought that boy was going to get it. But he came right on out of the barn. The master just stood there, waiting, drawing the whip through his hands. He didn’t say anything until the boy was quite close. Then he spoke so low they couldn’t hear.
“Do you want to work on my place?”
Frederick was so surprised by the question that he barely managed to gasp, “Oh, yes, sir! I do, sir!”
The master’s next words were louder.
“Then get down to the bottom tract.” He pointed with his whip. “And hurry!” he almost shouted.
Without another word the boy streaked off across the field. Master William yelled for his horse and went riding lickety-split after him. The yard folks stared:Well!
Some of the boys tried to console Frederick that evening. They considered field work low drudgery and held themselves aloof from the “fiel’ han’s.” But Frederick considered himself fortunate. He liked Mr. Freeland, liked the way he had told an older worker to show him, liked the way he had gone off, leaving them together.
He found he was to bunk over the stable with Sandy and John. John was Henry’s brother, but Henry slept in the house where he could answer a summons. Handy occupied a cabin with his mother and sister. Before Frederick went to sleep that first night he knew allthere was to know about these four, who were to be his closest friends. Sandy, though still owned by Mr. Grooms, had been hired out for the season as usual to Mr. Freeland. He told Frederick that his wife Noma was well. He spent every Sunday with her as always. Some Sunday, he promised, he would take Frederick to see her. The mother of John and Handy had died while they were quite young. They had never been away from Freelands, and were curious about what went on “outside.”
Never had Frederick enjoyed such congenial companionship. The slaves at Freelands had all they wanted to eat; they were not driven with a lash; they had time to do many things for themselves. Aunt Lou was an exacting overseer, but Aunt Lou could be outwitted. After his grueling labor at Covey’s, Frederick’s duties seemed very light indeed. He was still a field hand, but he preferred work in the open to any service which would bring him under the eyes of the Old Missus. Since he had no business in the house or out front, he could stay out of her sight. Once in a while he would look up to find Master William watching him at work, but he seldom said anything.
Frederick was growing large and strong and began to take pride in the fact that he could do as much hard work as the older men. The workers competed frequently among themselves, measuring each other’s strength. But slaves were too wise to keep it up long enough to produce an extraordinary day’s work. They reasoned that if a large quantity of work were done in one day and it became known to the master, he might ask the same amount every day. Even at Freelands this thought was enough to bring them to a dead halt in the middle of a close race.
The evenings grew longer and more pleasant, and Frederick’s dreams for the future might have faded. But now he found himself talking more and more earnestly to his friends. Henry and John were remarkably bright and intelligent, when they wished to be. Neither could read.
“If I only had myColumbian Orator!”
He told them how he lost his precious book and how he had learned to read it. Perhaps such a book could be found.
“What’s in a book?” they asked.
Frederick told them everything he knew—about stories he and Tommy had read together, spelling books, newspapers he had filched in Baltimore, how men wrote down their deeds and thoughts, about things happening in other places, how once white men fought a war,and a speech one of the boys had learned from theColumbian Orator—a speech that said “Give me liberty or give me death!”
“All dat in a book?” But then they noticed Master William sitting with a book. Evening were long now and warmer. The master rode only in the mornings. They saw him on the veranda, for hours at a time, sitting with a book. One day Henry made up his mind.
“I’ll git me a book!”
It was easy. Just walk into the room which was usually empty and take a book! It was his job to dust them, anyhow, so no one noticed. Henry could hardly wait for evening when Frederick would come in from the fields. Henry and John and Handy—waiting with a book. They were excited.
Frederick’s heart leaped too when he saw the book. He took it eagerly and opened to the title page. He frowned. The words were very long and hard-looking. Pictures would have made it easier, but no matter. He turned to the first page. They held their breath. Frederick was going to read.
But Frederick did not read. Letters were on the page in front of him, but something terrible had happened to them. He strained his eyes searching—searching for one single word he recognized. Had he forgotten everything? That could not be. With his mind’s eye he could see pages and words very clearly. But none of the words he remembered were here. What kind of book was this? Slowly he spelt out the title, vainly endeavoring to put the letters together into something that would make sense.
“G-a-r-g-a-n-t-u-a-e-t-p-a-n-t-a-g-r-u-e-l.” And underneath all that were the letters “R-a-b-e-l-a-i-s.”
He shook his head. Many years later, in Paris, Frederick Douglass read portions of Rabelais’Gargantua et Pantagruel. And he vividly recalled the awful sense of dismay which swept over him the first time he held a copy of this masterpiece of French literature in his hands.
They were waiting. He swallowed painfully.
“G’wan, big boy! Read!” Handy was impatient.
“I—I—” Frederick began again. “This—This book—It’s not—the one I meant. I can’t make—This book—” He stopped. John drew nearer.
“Hit’s a book, ain’t it?” He was ready to defend his brother.
“Yes, but—”
“Then read hit!”
Frederick turned several pages. It was no use. He wished theground would open and swallow him up. He forced his lips to say the words.
“I—can’t!”
They stared at him, not believing what they heard. Then they looked at each other and away quickly. They’d been taken in. He had been lying all the time.
Handy spat on the ground, disgusted.
But Henry was puzzled. Frederick looked as if he were going to be sick. He hadn’t looked like that when the old lady struck him, or when Master William came out after him with his whip. Henry shifted his weight.
“Looky, Fred! What all’s wrong wid dat book?”
Gratitude, like a cool breeze, steadied Frederick. He wet his lips.
“I don’t know, Hen. It’s all different. These funny words—Everything’s mixed up.”
“Lemme see!” Henry took the book and turned several pages. He liked the feel of the smooth paper.
“Humph!” Handy spit again.
“Huccome they’s mixed?” John’s suspicions sounded in his voice. The recklessness of desperation goaded Frederick.
“Henry, could you get another book? I—I never said I could readallthe books. Could you try another one? Could you, Henry?”
Henry sighed. He tucked the rejected book under his arm.
“Reckon.”
His brief reply brought Hand’s withering scorn.
“Yo’ gonna lose yo’ hide! Hyear me!” With this warning Handy walked away. His disappointment was bitter.
The next day stretched out unbearably. Frederick forced himself through the motions of his work while his mind went round and round in agonizing circles. Then suddenly it was time to stop, time for the evening meal, time to return to the yard. He knew Henry would be waiting with another book. His moist hands clung to his hoe, his feet seemed rooted in the cool, upturned earth. Then his legs were carrying him back.
He saw them standing behind the barn—John and Henry and, slightly removed, leaning against a tree, Handy. He went on whittling when Frederick came up. Handy’s demeanor was that of a wholly disinterested bystander. But Henry said, “I got hit—anodder one.” His tone was cautious.
Frederick took the book with hands that trembled. Handy’s knifepaused. Then Frederick gave a whoop, and Handy, dropping his stick, came running.
“The Last of the Mo-hi-cans!” read Frederick triumphantly. He didn’t know what “Mohicans” meant, but what was one small word? He turned the pages and shouted for joy. Words, words, words—beautiful, familiar faces smiled up at him! He hugged the book. He danced a jig, and they joined him, making such a disturbance that Sandy came out of the barn to see what was going on.
Sandy was their friend, so they told him—all talking together. They hid the book and went to eat, swallowing their food in great gulps. Afterward they went down to the creek, and Frederick read to them until darkness blotted out the magic of the pages. They talked, then, turning over the words, examining them.
This was the beginning. As summer came on and the long evenings stretched themselves over hours of leisure, the good news got around; and additional trusted neophytes were permitted to join them at the creek. Learning to read was now the objective. More books disappeared from the house. After Frederick slipped up in the attic and found several old school books, real progress began. Then trouble arose.
Seemed like everybody wanted to learn “tha readin’.” That, argued the select few, would not do. This certainly was not a matter for “fiel’ han’s.” Field hands, however, were stubborn in their persistence. The fact that the teacher was a field hand seemed to have erased their accustomed servility. One of them even brought in Mr. Hall’s Jake, an uncouth fellow from the neighboring plantation. They vouched for Jake’s trustworthiness, and he proved an apt pupil. Then Jake brought a friend!
Sandy counseled caution. Frederick, happy in what he was doing, was hardly aware of the mutterings. So they wrestled with their first problem in democracy.
Then, one Sunday afternoon, they were nearly caught.
It was a scorcher, late in July. The noon meal was over, and they were sitting in the shade of a big oak tree at the edge of the south meadow, ten or twelve of them under the big tree. Jake appeared, coming over the ridge that marked the boundary of Freelands. He saw them and waved, then started walking down.
“Glad I ain’t walkin’ in no hot sun.” John had just learned a new word, and he felt good. Suddenly Jake was seen to straighten up, wave both arms frantically and start running in the opposite direction.
Books were whisked out of sight, papers disappeared as if by magic. When Master William and his guest came trotting around the dump of trees, all they saw was a bunch of lazy niggers stretched out in the shade.
“Watch out, there!” Freeland’s mare shied away. With a sleepy grunt, Henry rolled over.
The guest was from Baltimore. He had been speaking vehemently for such a hot day.
“Look at that!” he burst out. “Show me a bunch of sleek, fat niggers sleeping through the day in Boston.”
The master of Freelands laughed indulgently. His guest continued.
“Those damned Abolitionists ought to come down here. Freein’ niggers! The thieving fools!” He jerked his horse’s head savagely.
William Freeland spoke in his usual, pleasant, unheated voice.
“I’d kill the first Abolitionist who set foot on my land, same as I would a mad dog.”
They rode on out of hearing.
No one moved for a long minute. Then Henry sat up abruptly.
“Where is mah book?” He jerked it from under the belly of a sweating stable boy.
Black Crunch, long, lean and hard like a hound, moved more slowly. He was thinking.
“Fred,” he asked, leaning forward, “does yo’ know whar is dat dar Boston place?”
After this, the “Sunday School” grew in numbers. There was no more talk of restricting “members.” The name was Frederick’s idea, and everybody followed the lead with complete understanding. It was well known that masters seldom raised any objection to slaves leaving the plantation for Sunday services, even when they went some distance away. So now it was possible to talk freely about the Sunday School over on Mr. Freeland’s place!
Somebody hailed William Freeland one day as he rode along.
“Hear your niggers are holding some kind of a revival, old man,” he called. “Got a good preacher?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Freeland laughed back, waving his whip. Next morning, however, he spoke to Henry.
“Oh, Henry, what’s this I hear about a revival going on?”
“Whatchu sayin’, Massa William?” Henry’s lips hung flabby. Not a trace of intelligence lighted his face.
“A revival! You know what a revival is.” Freeland tried to curb his impatience.
“Oh, yessuh!” Henry showed his teeth in a wide grin. “Yessuh, Ah knows a revival. Yes,suh!”
“Well, is there a revival going on around here?”
“Revival? Roun’ hyear?” The whites of Henry’s eyes resembled marbles.
Freeland kicked back his chair. What the hell difference did it make?
At the end of the year William Freeland rode over to St. Michaels and renewed his contract with Captain Auld for his boy’s services. He reported that the slave had worked well; he had no complaints to make. Captain Auld’s eyes glittered when he took the money. Evidently that buck was turning out all right. Another year and he’d bring a good price in the market.
The master was really touched by Frederick’s gratitude when told that he was to remain on. As a matter of fact, Frederick had been deeply worried. As the year had drawn to a close he felt he had wasted valuable time. There was much to do—plans to make and lines to be carefully laid—before he made his break for freedom.
Another Christmas and a new year. And New Year’s Day was a time to start things right. Everybody knew that!
They heard it first in the yard, of course. Black Crunch had run away! When the horsemen came galloping up the drive not a pickaninny was in sight. Old Caleb opened the front door and bowed with his beautiful deference. But they shoved him out of the way unceremoniously, calling for the master. Old Missus sniffed the air disdainfully, standing very straight, but Master William rode off with them.
The next night all along the Eastern Shore slaves huddled, shivering in dark corners. The baying of the hounds kept some white folks awake, too. They didn’t find Black Crunch. They never found Black Crunch.
There was a hazy tension in the air. The five friends bound themselves together with a solemn oath of secrecy—Frederick, Handy, Henry, John, and Sandy. They were going together—all five. John pleaded for his sweetheart, little Susan, to be taken along; and Sandy knew the danger that threatened his wife if he left her. Though afree woman herself, she could be snatched back into bondage if he ran away. Noma knew this also. Yet the woman said simply, “Go!”
The Eastern Shore of Maryland lay very close to the free state of Pennsylvania. Escape might not appear too formidable an undertaking. Distance, however, was not the chief trouble. The nearer the lines of a slave state were to the borders of a free state, the more vigilant were the slavers. At every ferry was a guard, on every bridge sentinels, in every wood patrols and slave-hunters. Hired kidnappers also infested the borders.
Nor did reaching a free state mean freedom for the slave. Wherever caught they could be returned to slavery. And their second lot would be far worse than the first! Slaveholders constantly impressed upon their slaves the boundlessness of slave territory and their own limitless power.
Frederick and his companions had only the vaguest idea of the geography of the country. “Up North” was their objective. They had heard of Canada, they had heard of New York, they had heard of Boston. Of what lay in between they had no thoughts at all.
After many long discussions they worked out their plan for escape. On the Saturday night before the Easter holidays they would take a large canoe owned by a Mr. Hamilton, launch out into Chesapeake Bay and paddle with all their might for its head, a distance of about seventy miles. On reaching this point they would turn the canoe adrift and bend their steps toward the north star until they reached a free state.
This plan had several excellent points. On the water they had a chance of being thought fishermen, in the service of a master; hounds could not track them; and over Easter their absence might not be noted. On the other hand, in bad weather the waters of the Chesapeake are rough, and there would be danger in a canoe, of being swamped by the waves. Furthermore, the canoe would soon be missed; and, if absent slaves were suspected of having taken it, they would be pursued by some fast-sailing craft out of St. Michaels.
They prepared for one quite possible emergency. Any white man, if he pleased, was authorized to stop a Negro on any road and examine and arrest him. Many a freeman, being called upon by a pack of ruffians to show his free papers, presented them, only to have the hoodlums tear them up, seize the victim and sell him to a life of endless bondage.
The week before their intended start, Frederick wrote a pass foreach of the party, giving him permission to visit Baltimore during the Easter holidays. He signed them with the initials of William Hamilton, tobacco planter whose place edged on the bay and whose canoe they had planned to take. The pass ran after this manner:
This is to certify that I, the undersigned, have given the bearer, my servant John, full liberty to go to Baltimore to spend the Easter holidays.Near St. Michaels, Talbot Co., Md.W. H.
This is to certify that I, the undersigned, have given the bearer, my servant John, full liberty to go to Baltimore to spend the Easter holidays.
Near St. Michaels, Talbot Co., Md.W. H.
Although they were not going to Baltimore and intended to land east of North Point, in the direction they had seen the Philadelphia steamers go, these passes might be useful in the lower part of the bay, while steering toward Baltimore. These were not, however, to be shown until all other answers had failed to satisfy the inquirer. The conspirators were fully alive to the importance of being calm and self-possessed when accosted, if accosted they should be; and they more than once rehearsed to each other how they would behave under fire.
With everything figured out, the days and nights of waiting were long and tedious. Every move, every word, every look had to be carefully guarded. Uneasiness was in the air. Slaveholders were constantly looking out for the first signs of rebellion against the injustice and wrong which they were perpetrating every hour of the day. And their eyes were skilled and practiced. In many cases they were able to read, with great accuracy, the state of mind and heart of the slave through his sable face. Any mood out of the common way gave grounds for suspicion and questioning.
Yet, with the plowing over, with spring in the air and an Easter holiday drawing near, what more natural than that the slaves should sing down in their quarters—after the day’s work was over?