18

In January 1777, everybody was talking about the war. Thousands of slaves were joining the Redcoats, the name the Colonials had given the British because their uniforms were red coats with white shirts and trousers. And the British were winning. The new Congress decided to draft men for service. Even though everybody said Britain was winning, most of the newly formed states still didn’t send in their quota of men. In June of that year, a town meeting was called in the name of the government and the people of Massachusetts.

Josiah was there. He told us a committee, which included Theodore Sedgwick, was picked to set up plans to draft men for the Continental Army. At that meeting they voted to add a bonus to that given by the government to men drafted from their state. However, they did not make plans to draft Africans, slave or free.

Bett was happy to have Josiah with her when many of the women whom she often saw in the town complained that their men were away at war. She knew that they envied her not only for having Josiah around but also for being fairly well fed, clothed, and in a decent house. And she carried herself in such a way that they never knew that she was a slave owning nothing, not even her own life.

Her happiness did not last long. Things became so bad with the Continental Army, Massachusetts was asked to contribute fifteen battalions. The men upstairs said that, with 67,000 men in the state at that time, they would comply. This did not include slaves. Those efforts didn’t count for much. Battles were still being won by the British. The capitol in Pennsylvania fell, and in December of 1777 General Varnum asked for permission to organize a battalion of slaves.

I remember the day word came. We had not celebrated a good Christmas since the Boston Tea Party and were looking forward to a small get-together on that New Year’s Day. Just three days before the new year, word came that some slaves and free Africans were being recruited in Sheffield. This upset Bett very much. She heard the master telling his friends that black men would never be treated as equals in battle. If they were captured they could not be exchanged as equal prisoners of war. Never would the British exchange a white soldier for a black one.

“What will they do with the blacks?” one of his friends asked.

“Sell them to plantation owners in Barbados.”

“Is that true?”

The master laughed. “Whether it’s true or not, it will make many a one of them think twice before trying to get freedom through the army. They are paying owners for their slaves, but I’ll not let one of mine go at any price.”

All slaves knew that to be sold off to Barbados and to southern plantation owners was a fate worse than death. Bett was determined that Josiah would not hear of the recruitment. However, Josiah did hear and told Bett he was going. Alarmed, she told him what the master had said. “Do you want to be shipped off to Barbados?”

“I hope you don’t believe everything you hear upstairs in that house. I hear things, too. The British aren’t afraid of us. They have many of us fighting on their side. It’s your master who is worried about what will happen to him if slaves are armed. And what will happen if slaves left behind get ideas about freedom. I can earn twenty pounds and gain one hundred acres of land if I join that battalion. Massachusetts will give me a bonus of another twenty pounds. I’m going.”

Bett said nothing. She helped him pack an extra coat, two warm shirts, homespun underclothes, and a pair of leather trousers.

Many of the slaves and free Africans gathered to say good-bye. Just as he was leaving, Bett gave him a warm blanket that she had been given for the last child she delivered. She and Little Bett walked with him down the road. I wanted so badly to go that last mile, but I knew they needed those moments together, alone.

Word spread that Zach Mullen, along with some men from other farms, had gone off to fight for the British who promised them freedom. One day Zach showed up, saying he had been sent back when his officer found out that he was from the Ashleys’ place. The master threatened to beat him.

I was working in the field the day Zach returned. The field supervisor sent for the master. What would happen to Zach? I wondered. I was so afraid that the master would whip him within an inch of his life. Pretending to go about my work as usual, I was doing more listening.

“Didn’t you know you wouldn’t get far?” the master asked. “I should give you the whipping of your life.” He fingered the whip that he held in his hand.

Zach stood with his head up, his hands clenched in fists behind his back. He breathed heavily in the silence, not moving his eyes from the master’s face.

“Go to work,” the master finally said.

Why had the master backed down? Could he have been afraid Zach would run away and try fighting with the Colonials and Indians? Was Zach ready to take on the master? Maybe the master was just glad he had his slave back.

When Josiah had been gone for a while and the war was still being lost, Brom went to the master and asked to be sold to the slave battalion. A fair price was being offered, as high as four hundred pounds. The master had paid only forty for Brom. The master told Brom he was worth far more than four hundred pounds to him. There was a shortage of men to tend cattle and work flax. He was needed here to help win the war.

Brom told me he asked, “But will I be free when the war is over?”

The master answered, “Only if you become a soldier in the army is freedom guaranteed.”

For days Brom moved around like a man with no reason to live. He talked about running away to join the British. Zach warned him against that. He had learned the hard way. Ashley’s place was too well known and the British wanted to have friends in the area whether they won or lost.

Brom did not try to join the British. He refused to eat. He drank little water, but Bett forced him to drink her tea. Still he grew thinner and thinner and looked terrible. Bett and I pleaded with him to come to his senses and not kill himself. One day Bett said to him, “Have you forgotten Olubunmi and her wisdom? She always told us, in our heart and soul, to say yes to living; say no to bondage and nobody can keep you a slave. Brom, tiigaade!”

Little by little he got better. Maybe he understood something Olubunmi and my sister, too, fully understood that I was still unable to grasp.

Several months went by. We heard no word from Josiah. Bett lost weight. She did not sleep well, and the work on her place suffered. Little Bett missed her daddy and kept asking when he would come home. We had no idea whether he had been able to find his way to General Varnum’s line to join the slave battalion. We waited.

One evening, the sun was red on the horizon. The first star of the evening hung low in the sky. We were still working in the field when Little John came running, waving a letter. He was out of breath. “It’s from Josiah.”

Bett was so excited, I think she didn’t realize, as she hurriedly opened the letter, that she couldn’t read. She hugged the pages as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Here, let me read it for you,” Little John said.

“Not here. I must prepare myself. I must sit down.” He hadn’t been in our quarters since he was a small boy. Now, as a young man, he seemed out of place sitting on the floor. Bett sat in our one chair, I on the bed. We listened as Josiah’s voice rolled over us.

Bett, Dear Wife:

I have been in Newport, Rhode Island, for about three days now, waiting to leave here for Pennsylvania. This state is in ruins. Their rich dairy farms are destroyed; the source of their wealth, the trade in slaves, thanks goodness, is totally wiped out. The British blockade is complete.

There are many Africans here. I have been fortunate to meet a few. One is a Miss Obour Tanner. At her home I met a well-known woman who writes poetry that has been read by many, here and abroad. Her name is Phillis Wheatley. She read some of her poems. I was thrilled, for it made clear why we must join in this fight against what she called tyranny. You would love her, a beautiful person with a gift one can hardly believe.

They still don’t want us to be allowed to fight. I think the owners of slaves are willing to lose the war rather than part with their property. But, as a free man, I have been signed up and should join General Varnum in his all-black battalion before long.

So far I am well, but I can see that war is not good for the mind. I now understand your not wanting me to go. But remember, I will be home and take you away from there to one hundred acres of our land, and we will begin a new life with Ayisha and Aissa.

God be with you and ours until I see you again.

Your husband, Josiah Freeman.

When John had finished reading the letter, he carefully folded it and handed it to Bett and quietly left.

“The mistress will hear about this. Will you let her read your letter?” I asked.

“The mistress is never out of your mind, is she? Why would she want to read my letter?”

“Why does she want to own us? Will you let her read it?”

“No.”

I took the letter and pushed it in between planks in the wall so that it could not be seen. “You can’t read, so what reason is there to keep a letter?”

The next few days we went about our work with a sense of relief, knowing Josiah was now with the army. With Little Bett now seven years old and in the kitchen helping Nance and doing the chores that were once mine, I spent more time in the fields. Late evenings we worked at Bett’s place and planted crops there. Little Bett was calm, an even-tempered child like her mother, and did not often raise the mistress’s ire.

Early one morning as we were about to go to the master’s field, the mistress summoned Bett. I went ahead. The sun was already giving a warning of a hot day. My long dress was not at all comfortable in this work. I often thought how nice it would be if we could wear pants. Men had everything made easier for them. If I were a man, I thought, I’d be in Boston where the ships come and go. Far away from this place—gone to where Baaba and Yaaye came from.

I had not seen Bett until she was right upon me. I knew she was angry and upset. “Now what?” I asked.

“John told about the letter. The mistress said she’d waited for me to come and tell her, or the master, about it. Why hadn’t I come?”

“Why did John tell?”

“He had to. I don’t blame John. I knew he’d tell. And I told her that with John’s telling, there was no need for me.”

“Was she angry?”

“She’s always angry. She demanded to see the letter. I told her I didn’t have it. She ranted and raged and said I had better get it and bring it to her or I would be severely punished. Then, Aissa, I remembered what you’d said. ‘I can’t read,’ I said, ‘so why would I keep a letter?’ She called me a liar and said she would find it. ‘Get to the field!’ she shouted. So I’m here.”

I was frightened for Bett. What would the mistress do? I wondered.

That night when we went to our room, we found it in shambles. The mattress was off the bed, covers scattered all about. Our belongings were all over the room. Bett’s herbs were spilled, all mixed together. I had never known feelings of such humiliation and shame. I looked at Bett and for the first time our eyes could not hold. We both lowered our heads. I was surprised that of all the feelings that rushed over me, anger was not one. Helplessness and anger do not go together.

We did not speak but we both went to the wall. The letter was still there. We burst out laughing. We laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks. In our defeat we had won.