CECIL MACLEOD TOOK THE BLACK PIPE FROM HIS mouth and gave a long sigh. Sweat oozed from his ghostly brow as the yellow flames danced in the wood stove and poured out heat. It was two weeks now since his plan had misfired and he was still beside himself with anger. Lydia was still a free woman and still very much alive. He flung the Certificates of Freedom on the counter and cursed them. On the plantation, there had been an acceptable order: the master, the foreman, the overseer and then slave. That he understood. Slaves were property, like horses. You could do with them as you pleased. They had no choice but to follow orders.
Here Negroes were petitioning the court for rights and some were finding justice. He didn’t agree with the judge for awarding payments to a slave for lost wages or that the Harding woman should be able to have her master jailed for beating her. Yes, times were changing. And Lydia—she was changing, too, going from being a submissive slave to a demanding fool, a woman of confidence now, bold and thinking herself smart.
Cecil plunked himself on a stool, inhaling hard on his pipe several times. Money was scarce in Port Roseway. Another long winter lay ahead. His missus was unhappy, wanting to return home. The supply ships were late again and he was struggling to get the necessary goods and supplies for the store. There was little to count on in a new colony. There was no guarantee of making money—people were resorting to all kinds of tricks to save their cash, such as lying about their incomes to claim rations from the King’s Bounty. He jumped from the stool and stretched his short legs. The pile of belongings people had traded for goods lay in heaps on the floor. Amid the fancy shoes, patterned dishes and books, he grabbed up a sword belt, an Indian basket, a dictionary, a violin, only to throw them back into the heap. Who needed such things when food was scarce? Who could pay for any of it?
These were desperate times and so Cecil had turned to slave trading on the side. He had a keen sense of who the runaways were—they had a different walk, a scared look, always slinking down inside oversized clothes. Ridding the colony of intruders and troublemakers would be a profitable service. The meeting with Boll weevil had been brief. Cecil presented him with the names of several Birchtowners he suspected of not holding certificates, adding Lydia and Sarah Redmond to the list. The plan they devised was simple. Boll weevil was to round them all up, book their passage on a local schooner owned by his friend, Harold Lambston, and take them down to Boston where an agent would pay handsomely for the cargo, selling them in turn to former masters or at auction. Cecil and Boll weevil would split the profit fifty-fifty when Boll weevil returned.
“Such a supply of goods at hand,” they had joked. But Cecil was not laughing now. He shook his head at the man’s ability to botch such an easy job. He would try one more time. Without their certificates, Lydia and Sarah were vulnerable. It was inconceivable that a simple-minded woman like Lydia could outsmart Boll weevil. No, he could not let that happen again. He would give the man a second chance, but if that fool could not get it right this time, he would take matters into his own hands. Lydia might outsmart Boll weevil, but she would not dupe him.
He scratched his head and thumped the counter. Could he trust Boll weevil to return with his share of the profits? He figured it was worth the risk and besides, they were old friends. Two men cut from the same cloth. He sat back in his chair and thought about what it would mean if the old woman did not keep her mouth shut. He spit in a bucket near the counter. The devil would surely dance when disgrace fell upon him. He’d be the laughingstock of Port Roseway. They would call him “the father of Negroes,” and to be called that would make him an outcast. He twisted his fingers deep inside his grey whiskers. There were others in the same boat, but they would hide behind their fine names. And stick together in condemning him. He had to shelter his missus from disgrace and protect himself from the hateful hornet’s nest Lydia could stir.
Cecil added more water and coffee to grounds in the pot that had been brewing for several days on the stove. After it boiled hard, he filled a giant mug scarred with pasty stains, sat back in the wide chair by the heat and gulped the black brew like it was his last. This whole business—the threat of old secrets and his wickedness exposed—had brought him sleepless nights and great agony of mind. The audacity of Lydia to refer to the off-breeds as “their children” incited him more and he heaved the empty mug against the far wall, watching as several dishes fell to the dusty floor and shattered.
Her boy was in Birchtown alright. He had seen him several times, knew him from watching him grow up on the plantation. There was not a chance Lydia could pick him out of the crowd, there were so many mulattos. Maybe he did care for that one the Redmonds raised. She had the backing of old money and her husband’s good naval name. As far as he knew, no one ever mentioned her background. Such a disclosure would ruin not just him, but also one of Port Roseway’s most prominent families.