THE RAIN STOPPED AND THE EASTERN HORIZON SETTLED into long streams of pink sky above the fields where Sarah was picking cotton. Out of nowhere sounded the call of a blaring bugle announcing the Patriots’ charge. Suddenly, Goose Creek filled with the exploding echoes of cannons. Fumes from gunpowder and smoke swallowed the air. Sarah cut short her picking and dropped her bag on the ground. She ran as fast as her legs would go to the quarters. Standing on the step for a moment, she watched soldiers plunder everything they could find: pots, utensils, bedding, equipment, horses, cattle, feed and hay. As streaks of blue, white and gold dashed in and out of the stables, barns and Big House, panic claimed her and her heart skipped a beat.
Inside the hut, Sarah found Grandmother grabbing up the few treasures she had hidden under her bunk—a small wooden box, papers, some coloured head rags, pipes and shoes. Sarah got her counting stick, a bone-handled hairbrush and ribbons and they tied the things in blankets.
The next minute, a loud shot and bone-chilling screams cut through the troubled air. Outside the quarters, Sarah and Grandmother watched as flames shot from the Big House windows. Missy Redmond and her daughter, Margaret, left the grounds in a carriage with several soldiers riding beside them. Two soldiers carried Master Redmond’s bloody body from the Big House veranda and dumped him in the woods not far from the house.
Grandmother started to sob—a reaction that puzzled Sarah. Slaves were not so fond of their masters they would grieve so openly, so deeply. It was as though she had suffered the pain of the bullet herself. Sarah had no time to ponder dark secrets all mixed up in the crumbling house.
“They had no right to kill Master Redmond,” Sarah blurted.
“It was done out of hatred,” Grandmother said.
“What will they do with Missy Redmond and Margaret?”
“Hand them over to the British, I expect. That was the promise.”
“And us?”
“I don’t know,” Grandmother said. “I don’t know.”
Danger hung on the evening air. The two women were jittery and anxious. Sarah watched Cecil MacLeod, his wife and Boll weevil Carter come from around the charred stable and flee into the woods in a wagon loaded with goods.
The soldiers set fire to the barns, the stables and the storehouses. Only the slave quarters remained.
“Grandmother,” Sarah said, “The fire has set us free. Master Redmond is gone. We have no master.”
There was not a moment left to think. The thick air filled with screams of slaves hustling in and out of the quarters. “Run. Run. The soldiers are coming.”
It was a wild run. They scattered unarmed like frightened squirrels into the night. Crouching in the river reeds, cowering, Grandmother, Prince and Beulah squatted beside Sarah. They watched the soldiers move about. “Take the Loyalist slaves to Charles Town for evacuation!” their captain directed.
Sarah strained to smother her gasping as the old woman’s body trembled and her prayer became a series of mumbles. “Dear Father, show us mercy … Deliver us … Amen.”
So many soldiers raced along the river’s edge, their eyes searching, searching. How they sniffed about like wild dogs yearning for a feast of flesh. Sarah ducked lower but the soldiers foraged with muskets and bayonets until they found their reward. Despite the captain’s strict orders to hold their fire, the soldiers discharged their guns on any slaves who dared try and escape.
“Twelve miles to Charles Town. Move along. March.” They left the dead, feeble and injured behind, ignoring their pitiful cries, leaving them without any means to survive.
A long, dry road stretched ahead. Two lines, thirty-five slaves in total. They marched, their heads down, some shoeless and ragged. Sarah fell into step. She dared not speak, but she worried over what would become of them in Charles Town. Would they be set free or forced to work on another plantation? Perhaps the soldiers would shoot them as they had Master Redmond and the other slaves.
The moon hid. The wagons squawked. The slaves moaned. In the torch light, Sarah watched Brodie motion to his brother Bill with a nod that said, “Join me in an escape.” Bill turned his head away, but for a second something stirred in Sarah … the idea of an escape intrigued her. The thought came late, for just as she was thinking it, Brodie turned and ran. In a patch of hickory to the left of the road, a small musket ball lodged between his shoulders and he was felled like a deer. Sarah cringed with revulsion and shock. It could have been her lying in the woods.
She marched on, the future a huge, grey, worrisome space. Everything she had ever known was gone. Five miles along, the parade halted. Ahead lay a small clearing surrounded by trees and bushes. One of the soldiers said, “The men are exhausted, Sir. We’ve been on the road for days with little time to rest.”
The captain answered, “We will make camp here and take a break before going into Charles Town.”
Sarah could barely move her feet. Her grimy clothes stuck to her back. Her aunt and uncle leaned like bent willows. Grandmother drooped from exhaustion and thirst. One of the soldiers approached her, pointed his musket and barked, “Stand up tall, old slave woman.” A wide grin strained his face. Sarah’s heart went still. Grandmother’s eyes held the eyes of the soldier. “Better not get too close,” she gasped. “I still got the fever from the pox. It took a lot of folks to the Glory Land.”
The soldier’s grin faded. He shouted, “Stay away from the old woman. Had smallpox.” Sarah laughed quietly. She was cunning, that old woman. No doubt about it.
Sarah was amazed by the noise and activity that filled the camp. Chains and leg-irons rattled as the soldiers secured the slaves. Hammers pounded the soil to erect tents for the officers. Soldiers secured the livestock and guarded their spoils. The stench of scorched beef tainted the air. Owls screeched, whippoorwills called and neither Sarah nor Grandmother could rest. They kept watch throughout the night, huddled together for protection.
With morning came a meal of hard biscuits, beef and tea so strong it looked like molasses. With the sun climbing over the horizon, the weary soldiers screamed and cussed as they readied their loads and unchained their captives.
It was a slow trek across a once-beautiful countryside. War had spread its ugly hand over Carolina, seeding a bitter hatred. It left a long red trail of stubborn resisters. Everywhere, bodies lay blood-soaked, some with holes as large as melons. Rancid odours smothered the thick heat. Sarah wondered if the price for freedom was always blood. She wondered if her papa had paid the price.
When the band of slaves reached Charles Town, it greeted them not only with unsightly rubble and confusion, but also beautiful stately homes and buildings that mesmerized Sarah. They camped on the side of the road with the free Negroes, military men and white Loyalists. They lined the torn-up roads and docks at the Charles Town port, receiving rations from the British. Even though she was tired and often hungry, Sarah rejoiced in her new freedom, wandering about and marvelling at new things. This alone boosted her spirits. At night, she stretched out on the grass and felt almost weightless—a bag of fluffy cotton. As she gazed at the stars, she imagined a glorious fate. If preacher was right, freed slaves went to the Promised Land where all their needs were met.
Two weeks dragged by. In that time most of the white Loyalists had sailed on, leaving the rest in a cloud of worry. Then, finally, a British Red Coat hung an announcement on a lone, charred tree. Steppin’ John, the Redmond blacksmith, stared at the notice. Beside him stood a tall young slave.
“Look here,” Steppin’ John shouted, rallying the scruffy flock with his bullish yells. “It says we will be taken to Manhattan, New York, on February 12, 1783, and from there to a British settlement.” Then he added, “That’s in another week. The ships will be coming soon. May the good Lord be with us.”
“New York.” Sarah choked back the words. Her heart was numb. Where on earth was New York? She wondered how far it was from Carolina.
The young slave looked out at the crowd and shouted, “The British have promised Steppin’ John more blankets, food and water. Remember to carry your belongings with you at all times.”
Sarah could not turn her eyes from the young man. He was muscular like most slaves, maybe eighteen, and fair with golden skin like the wheat in the fields. His eyes flashed as he spoke. The curve of his jaw was like her father’s—square with a fat round ball for a chin. A new and glorious feeling rose from the pit of her stomach, a feeling so profound that in the midst of all that commotion she felt warm and lightheaded. The slave shifted uneasily. As he scanned the crowd, marvelling at such a number, their eyes met for an instant and, to her surprise, he smiled. Sarah wondered if they would go to the same settlement.
THE SHIP CARRYING THE EX-SLAVES FROM CHARLES TOWN crawled up the mouth of the Hudson River amid hundreds of sailing ships and men-of-war. At the huge city of Manhattan, Sarah and her family disembarked, joining the thousands of Negroes who relied on British provisions. They slept in parks and roamed the Negro areas or stayed on the docks while awaiting send-off to a British settlement.
Companies of British soldiers were everywhere. Sarah ignored Grandmother’s advice to stay put and roamed up and down the long wharf and nearby streets focusing on her one task—finding her father. She was cautious, very cautious, keeping her eyes open for slave masters and hunters roving about to reclaim runaways without certificates. Those with their master’s brand on their foreheads, arms or necks had no choice but to go with their rightful owners. Sarah saw men seized who produced certificates, only to have them torn up and be led away in shackles. She could not look in their faces. Such a short taste of freedom, she thought. She moved like a cat among the buildings, wondering if her father, perhaps out of uniform or without a certificate, went back to Charles Town in chains as well. In her prayers, she pleaded for a sighting. After days of searching, her prayers went unanswered.
Drained from all the uncertainty as their wait stretched from fearful days to weeks and then months, the ex-slaves grew anxious to move on. Finally, in early spring, after three months of waiting, the day of departure came.
The air was warm and humid inside a dilapidated building on the wharf. A line stretched and coiled like an enormously long black snake for several blocks. Men in long black coats and soldiers sorted through the masses. A British soldier directed Sarah and her family to a table where a man in a red and white uniform dipped a long white quill in a bottle of ink and wrote their names in a large ledger called “The Book of Negroes.”
She watched as he added all four of them to the list.
Book Three, Inspection Rolls
Brig Molly, bound 16 May 1783 for Port Roseway
Prince Redmond, 32, stout Negro man, formerly slave to Edward Redmond, Charles Town, South Carolina.
(Certificate from General Birch)
Beulah Thomkins, 26, ordinary wench, thin. Formerly slave to Edward Redmond, Charles Town, South Carolina. (Certificate from General Birch)
Lydia Redmond, 50, stout Negress. Formerly slave to Edward Redmond, Charles Town, South Carolina.
(Certificate from General Birch)
Sarah Redmond, 15, likely girl. Formerly slave to Edward Redmond, Charles Town, South Carolina; goes with grandmother, Lydia.
(Certificate from General Birch)
A man in a white wig with a long speaking trumpet startled her when he announced, “You must have your name recorded in order to board a ship.” A second man at the table assigned them to travel with a company of Black Pioneers. They each received a certificate and a ticket to board the vessel, Molly, headed to Port Roseway, Nova Scotia.
Grandmother gazed at her Certificate of Freedom for a long time. “My, my! Oh my Lord. A Certificate of Freedom.” The words kept rolling off her tongue. When Sarah received hers, she longed to be able to read it. She held it tenderly, for it was the first piece of writing she had ever held. Grandmother took both certificates, folded them into neat squares and opened her raggedy bundle, but instead of putting them in it, she searched out a long hatpin and attached them to the inside neck of her dress. Sarah saw a wide smile capture Grandmother’s face as she patted the papers tenderly. They both knew these prized papers owned their futures. To have something so valuable was not beyond their grasp.
In the early morning of June 18, 1873, Sarah, her family, other former slaves, military men, white Loyalists, slaves and servants by the thousands readied to board the transports. A man on the wharf shouted, “Thirty sails. Three thousand people.” Another said that upon landing in Port Roseway any Negroes not on their list were to be shipped back to New York. Captain Randall Smith stood on the bow of Molly awaiting the completion of his inspection. The inspector finally presented Captain Smith with a certified list of whites and Negroes: the time had come to depart.
“We are casting off for Nova Scotia,” the captain finally screamed. “All Loyalists ticketed for Molly come aboard. Negroes go below deck.”
Suddenly, Molly was pulling away. Below deck, Sarah envisioned the flapping sails as great white wings stretched across the sea. It was a slow, choppy ride at first. Soon, the voyage turned into a bad dream. Overhead, high winds howled as they lashed the sails and salt spray blasted through slits in the boards. Things rattled and rolled and hit the floor above. As Molly tossed about like an empty canister atop fifteen-foot waves, Sarah’s heart rose and fell with it. The screams of white Loyalists sent chills along her spine as she ricocheted back and forth, struggling to stay alive and keep from being sick.
On the fourth day the weather calmed. Sarah strained her eyes and neck in search of familiar faces. She found Aunt Beulah and Uncle Prince standing at the far side of the hold, clinging tightly to each other. By the fifth day, the crowded space in the ship’s belly had bloated with heat and unbearable odours. Sarah’s empty stomach heaved continually and she nibbled on bread and salt beef, only sipping the stale water. As Sarah fastened her arms around Grandmother’s shoulders, she imagined the flow of memories the old woman must have of another Atlantic voyage. There were no chains this time and neither were the men and women separated, but true feelings of horror revealed themselves on the old woman’s face.
Despite the hardship, all around, those who were not sick engaged in chatter about getting land and provisions and making a new life in the land of plenty. There, in the disgusting hole, tears of joy crept through. But this new and faraway place held little charm for Sarah when it was not of her choosing, when all it brought was much uncertainty for a former slave. Would freedom bring a return to humankind, a chance to make her own decisions, to live and breathe without fear and to one day have a family?