IT WAS EARLY JULY 1785. SARAH SPENT HER TIME WORKING at Mrs. Cunningham’s, Mrs. Atkins’ and at home. There was little time to think about Thomas. She had Prince to care for and, more urgently, Grandmother, who had fallen ill. The old woman lay in bed for three days, suffering delusions that caused her to cry and, sometimes unexpectedly, erupt into fits of laughter. Peace refused to settle across her troubled brow. Sarah worried that she might have smallpox or cholera and she kept an eye on her fever. Fibby was certain it was neither. She spread a thick paste of black mustard powder, flour and hot water between two pieces of cloth and laid the poultice on Lydia’s chest. After several applications, the congestion had not loosened.
Grandmother lay on her side, her eyes wide as her raspy groans and deep breathing intensified. She called out saying, “Just a little glass of water, Sarah, and I’ll be all right.”
Sarah held the water to her parched mouth only to watch her barely swallow it. She knelt on the floor beside the bunk. There was a dullness in the old woman that was unfamiliar. Sarah searched her eyes for signs of hope. What she saw was troubling.
“What is it?” she asked. “What is troubling you? Is there something more I can do, some way to comfort you?” She wondered what was so heavy on the old woman’s mind that she could not speak it.
Grandmother forced her head up on the thin pillow and sipped a tiny bit of water. Her scratchy voice came in weak spurts, “I got to make … my peace with God. Do you hear?”
“Yes, Grandmother,” Sarah replied.
Grandmother spoke again and her words formed a plea. “Where is Fortune? Can you get your Papa, please?” The old woman spoke with an unsettling urgency. “There is something I got to tell him.”
“Papa is out at the woodpile. I’ll get him.”
After Fortune took his place in the chair beside his mother’s bed, pulling off his cap and hanging it on his knee, he said simply, “I’m here, Mama.”
The old woman turned to Fortune, squinting. She stretched upright on her elbows. “I’m so glad that you found us, Fortune.” She opened her eyes wider. Her words evened out. “I never told you this before, but you surely are a blessing and, oh Lord, I need you now, son. I got to make this journey to Glory with pride, without any regrets. I got to gather my children now. I got to try.”
Grandmother’s eyes strayed from Fortune’s face. She looked towards the light streaming through the thin canvas draping. “It is true. I was keeping things from you, waiting on the right chance. Oh the guilt and shame I felt over the loss of my children. It seemed like some evil spell stole my life.” She slowed, taking deep breaths. “I did not want the burden on no one but myself. The time has come to speak the truth … all of it.”
“You don’t have to talk about it now, Mama. Sometimes the past is best forgotten and things left alone.”
“Fortune, you have to listen to me, now. I must get it all said. I have to stop waiting on time. Time is running out.”
He brought the chair closer to the bed. The time had finally come for the telling, “the freeing of the soul,” the slaves called it. Fortune wished Reverend Ringwood was there, but he was not about to suggest that.
And so, between catching her breath and the raspy coughing, Lydia unfolded her sad story. So many births, too many to count for a breeding slave. Most of the babies had died, leaving her with five children. Boll weevil and Cecil had guarded her newborns like soldiers, one of their jobs being to decide when the children would go to sale. They would cart the babies and children off like cattle to auction. Some remained to learn skills or work the fields. She recalled how Cecil took the three light babies, saying she had no right to them.
She assured Fortune that she had kept her promise and spoken with Margaret Cunningham. It was all out in the open now, how Cecil had sold her back to Master Redmond to bring up as a Redmond. She told them too about Amelia and another son who had been taken. And when her head fell back on the pillow, with not an ounce of breath left, both Fortune and Sarah felt her sadness right to their core.
Fortune showed no evidence of surprise. Looking at his mother, he said gently, “Well. Margaret Cunningham. The secret is out at last. It all makes sense. It wasn’t hard to figure out after thinking about it. I heard the fondness in your voice when you spoke of her. One time ol’ Tally, the wood carver, told me the slaves were marking their daughters with the rings he carved. It sure did raise my curiosity when I saw Margaret’s ring, just like yours. Well, mama, I’m happy for all of us. It’s what you have prayed for, to bring your family together.”
“Here in Scotia we can put this family back together. We can know our real kin. There’s no shame in that.”
“There is no shame in that,” Fortune repeated. He paused. She had kept the secret for so long. Pride and guilt, he thought, it stole her joy all these years. If only he had found the courage to say something when he first suspected, when he wondered where the babies went, when he saw the creamy tint in Margaret Cunningham’s skin and his mother’s attention to her. No matter, you can’t change the past, but you can enjoy the moment. He kissed his mother on the cheek and grinned, “It feels good to know she’s one of us.”
“Son, I can’t rest until I know what happened to my other children, my boy and my girl.” She looked away, her bones telling her there was only a little time left to do anything.
“Do you have any idea of what became of them?”
“The girl stayed with the Redmonds for awhile, a playmate for Margaret, and then she was sold to Mr. Pinkham. I let him do that, Fortune! Let him sell my child without a word. Oh, Lord, please forgive ol’ Lydia.”
Fortune reached for her hands and rubbed them gently. “You could not stop it. Cecil would have beaten you … or worse.”
“One day she came back to Master Redmond’s, grown, almost a woman. I wanted to mark her like I did Margaret, but there was no time for ol’ Tally to make a ring. Oh, Fortune, I pray that I will see her again!”
“I wish there was something I could do.”
Grandmother let out a long sigh. Her bedclothes were soaked and her lips dry.
According to Chance, the local healing woman, Lydia had pneumonia. How long she had to live was anyone’s guess. Each day an endless parade of well-wishers descended upon the little cabin. Margaret came to sing a round of hymns, bathe her mother and help change her gowns. She said it was strange how the tables had turned. It was her turn now to look after dear Lydia, just as the old woman had looked after her. Having dragged on for over two weeks, the sickness finally cleared, but Lydia remained weak and bedridden.
When finally she regained enough strength, Lydia called Fortune to her bedside once again. “I believe that Amelia is in Scotia. Margaret has told me she found the Pinkham name in one of the books listing the military men who came here. The Pinkhams headed to Yarmouth shortly after they arrived. Her name is likely Amelia Pinkham. This is the only lead Margaret has. I have to try to find a way to contact her and tell her this ol’ woman needs to see her one more time.”
“Don’t fret, Mama. If she is in Nova Scotia, I’ll find her. I will do my best. What about the boy? Do you know where he is?”
“I kept the boy but a short time. He looked so much like Margaret when he was born. That Cecil, I believe he knew where he was, but he would not tell me. I have searched every mulatto face in Birchtown, but I can’t say for sure that he is here.”
Fortune said, “Asking questions is trouble, but I’ll stir the pot to see what I find.”
Fortune’s eyes clouded. He stood out in the fresh air, taking a break from chopping wood, and scanned the land, thinking of how far they had come since Carolina. He was grateful. They were finally landowners. Sarah could read and write. Prince Jr. was doing fine. Mama had realized part of her dream with the reconciliation with Margaret.
For some reason, the idea of going back into the past made him anxious. Fortune picked up the axe, brought it down hard and buried it in a thick block of hardwood. His worry now was how Amelia would react to being found. Oddly, it was not just light-skinned ones who were afraid to acknowledge their mixed heritage; many Negroes were running away from their past and their families. The colony was wading in a flood of shame and frightening memories that made talking about slavery difficult. Neither did the white folks acknowledge their role in the horrible practice, though it was ingrained on their tongues and minds, like a permanent scar. They were all acting like a little time could wipe the slate clean with no side effects. It made not an ounce of sense to Fortune. It was to him like holding onto another secret of which no good or peace could come. He prayed Amelia’s reaction would not be one of the remaining barbs in his mother’s crown. Misgivings aside, Fortune vowed to honour his mother’s wish. That was all he could do — give an old woman a promise to help her make peace with herself and God.
After supper, Fortune lit a candle and placed it on the table. He looked at Sarah and said, “Can you write a letter for me?”
Sarah went to the trunk and got some paper, a quill and black ink.
“Okay, Babygirl. This letter is to go to my old friend, Fred, down in Yarmouth. We served together in the Pioneers. He worked on the Pinkham plantation, so address it to Fred Pinkham. Tell him I need a favour. Ask if he can find an Amelia Pinkham.” He scratched his head, wondering what to say next. “Write out a special message for Amelia and put it in the letter to Fred. Tell her that we have need of her … tell her that she has a very sick mama.” His words were thick and burdened with soreness. “Tell her to come to Birchtown as soon as possible. Remember to put it separate with her name on it.” He finished by saying, “I would sent it by pony express, but it might take too long. I will see if I can find a boat heading to Yarmouth in the morning and someone willing to take it.”
Fortune watched as Sarah wrote the letter. Her writing amused him. “Babygirl,” he said, “Grandma’s life has been a long journey burdened with the kind of misery we can’t even imagine, though we seen a lot. We got to send her off happy. We got to pray.” Sarah bowed her head. Fortune turned his face upward. “Sweet Lord.” he said. “The one who the pastor said delivered Moses out of Egypt, the one who delivered us up to Birchtown, I am asking for a little time to see this through, before Mama is delivered up to Glory. We put our faith in you. Amen.”