I was in heavy mood as I walked home, but when I turned the corner into Sassafras Street I saw something that momentarily drove my problems from my mind: our house was finished. In the weeks I had been away in Barbados the builders had moved on apace, and now the structure stood proud: a fine clapboard house of three storeys, with balconies on the upper floors, a shopfront on the street and a workshop extending behind.
“Jos!”
Sarah had seen me and came running. She wore a dirty apron and as usual her hair was escaping its cap. She stared at my face. “Did someone hit thee?”
“Bumped into the privy in the dark,” I said, and she giggled. She walked with me, chattering: “We have moved in, and Betty and I are together, and Mam is very happy now we can wash and cook properly – and we have two cats to keep down the mice…”
My mother came out of the house, saw me, and called to Sarah to fetch my father from the bookshop. I put down my bag inside the gate. My mother hugged me. I lied again about my injury, and fended off her questions about Barbados. “Show me the house,” I said, as my father appeared. I dreaded telling them my news. The new house could come first.
My parents and I went in, with Sarah tagging along behind us, through the side entrance into the kitchen and pantry, then upstairs into a spacious room. I saw how pleased my mother was with this new home. She made an expansive movement of her arms as if to display it: “This is the parlour. The balconies face south-west so we catch the afternoon sun. The chairs and settle were made by the woodturner on Fourth Street; he is skilled and reasonable—”
At that moment we heard footsteps on the stairs and Betty burst into the room and asked, “Jos! Why hast thou brought such a big bag? Hast thou come to stay?”
They all looked at me – and I realized that my mother had sensed all along that something was wrong.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve come home.”
I could not meet my father’s eye.
My mother turned to Betty. “Go and mind the shop. Thy father is busy.”
“Oh, Mam!”
“Now, Betty! And take Sarah with thee.”
Betty scowled and turned away, and I heard her stomping down the stairs.
“Sit down, Jos,” my father said. “Tell us what has happened.”
He and my mother sat side by side on the settle, while I sat opposite them on a bench. It reminded me uncomfortably of our confrontation last year, in London, when I had come home drunk and bloody. But this was worse – much worse.
I told them the story at length, beginning with our voyage to Barbados and ending with what I had done and how I had been dismissed from George Bainbrigg’s service. They listened in silence. Occasionally, especially when I spoke of Patience and how she had been dragged screaming from the counting house, I saw the shock and distress that I had felt at the time reflected in their eyes. But when I described how I had taken my master’s keys and gone to free Antony, my father shook his head and screwed up his face as if – too late – to try and prevent me.
I looked directly at him. “So I have lost another apprenticeship,” I said.
I knew I had failed him utterly. And I thought I could bear his anger, but I dreaded his contempt.
He said nothing at first. The two of them sat in silence, heads bowed, as Friends should do when strong feelings tempt them to speak angrily.
When he looked up he surprised me by asking, “What has happened to the young man – the Negro?”
“I left him in the woods, not far from the forge. I told him to lie low awhile. George Bainbrigg doesn’t know I took him into the forest. He thinks I just set him free.”
“We heard the bells, husband, remember?” my mother said. “There was a hue and cry, but I was busy and didn’t pay much attention. Oh, I fear they’ll catch him!”
“They will, and he will suffer for it.” My father’s expression was grim. “But that is what happens when people are made slaves. How can they not try to escape?” He turned to me. “I would probably have done the same as thee.”
For a moment I thought I had misheard him. Then my mother took his hand in hers and said, “Yes, thou would, husband. I know thou would.”
I looked from one to the other of them. “You don’t think I did wrong?”
“Oh, certainly thou did wrong,” my father said. “Thou hast probably done the young man no favour, for he will be caught and punished. And thou betrayed thy master’s trust and injured his business. That is unforgivable and I am not surprised George Bainbrigg has dismissed thee. I wish thou had not acted in that way. If thou had given it more thought—”
“There was no time to think!”
He sighed. “No. I understand that. And thou’rt young, and rash. I would have done the same at thy age. Thou acted out of fellow-feeling and out of thy understanding that to enslave a man is a greater wrong.”
“Yes,” I said. I felt a cloud lifting. He understood, after all. We were not far apart, as I’d feared; we were father and son, and thought alike.
“I will talk to George Bainbrigg,” my father said. “And no doubt the meeting – the elders – will consider this matter. It may be resolved, and thou back in work again.”
“He will not relent. He blames me for turning Kate against him.”
“Was she involved in this?” His voice was sharp.
“She knew what I was going to do.”
My parents exchanged a glance.
“No wonder he was angry,” my father said.
“But I had to tell her – we were together, and … Dad, I need to see Kate! She must come here. We must talk—”
“Not yet,” my mother said. “Let things settle awhile.”
“I can’t! I need to see her! And Antony. I don’t know what’s happened to him. I must find out.”
“We’ll hear if he’s caught,” my mother said. “The news will be all around. Thou should sleep, Jos—”
“Sleep!” I was outraged. And yet my head and eyes, my whole body, ached for want of it.
“Let me show thee thy room. It’s not quite ready yet. We didn’t expect thee home to stay…”
I let her lead me up to the room, which I scarcely noticed, except that it was new and smelt of pine and had a bed that she quickly made up for me with clean sheets. She left me, and I lay down on the bed, thinking to close my eyes for a moment. I did not open them again until I woke in the early evening.
Sunlight was streaming in, for there were as yet no curtains and the window faced south-west. Someone had come in while I slept and put my bag down just inside the door. I rose and examined my new surroundings. The room was not unlike the one I’d had at George Bainbrigg’s house: fresh, clean, painted in pale colours. I thought of that room; imagined the bed stripped, all trace of my presence removed.
There was a knock at the door, and Betty came in.
We looked at each other.
“So thou’rt in trouble again?” she said. Then she came and put her arms around me and hugged me. “But thou did the right thing, Jos.”
I grunted. “I’ve slept all day! What news is there?”
“None. They haven’t caught him yet.”
I could see she was brimming with excitement about all that had happened.
I thought of the map I’d given Antony; tried to think where he might be. Had he somehow managed to cross the river? Would he find Patience? And if he did, what then? If he approached the house he would almost certainly be caught. My father was right: I had done him no real favour.
“Thou slept right through dinner,” Betty said. “It’ll be suppertime soon. Mam’s getting it ready.”
“I’m not hungry.”
But when my mother had set supper on the table I realized I needed to eat, and my appetite returned.
Later, as the evening darkened, I walked down to Front Street with my father to find out if there was any news of Antony. But to my relief there was none.
“He may have been recaptured already and returned to George Bainbrigg,” my father said.
This possibility filled me with anxiety. “We could walk back past their house.”
“No.” He spoke firmly. I knew he was right, and let him steer me in the opposite direction.
But it’s first-day tomorrow, I thought. They can’t stop me speaking to Kate after Meeting.
We were late for Meeting. I had overslept, and Sarah was found to have no clean kerchief to tie over her bodice. I heard my mother scolding, Sarah snivelling, and then an exchange with Betty, who exclaimed, “Am I my sister’s keeper?” and was rebuked for it.
So we arrived when almost everyone else was seated and found our usual places, a few rows back and facing the Bainbrigg household.
Kate and her father looked up as we came in and he gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. Kate looked at me with longing eyes, then turned her attention to her clasped hands in her lap. I did the same. For a long time the room was silent except for the sounds of breathing and coughing and the occasional whimper of a child. I looked up again at Kate and found her looking at me. We filled our eyes with each other. I became aware that my mother, beside me, was restless. Suddenly she stood up, and I realized she had been moved to speak.
“It is hard to be young,” she said. Her voice was abrupt, nervous. She rarely speaks in Meeting. “You are full of desires you cannot act on and ideas that sweep you away and beliefs that no one else seems to share. We need to rein in our young people, to keep them from too much contact with the world. And yet we must encourage that spirit, that challenge… We need to encourage them in their adventurousness, to see the light in them, to allow the spirit to fill them like the wind in a ship’s sail; for sometimes God speaks through children…”
She spoke a little longer, faltering somewhat, then sat down. Her face was flushed.
This was about me, I thought; I had stirred her to this. I felt she was on my side, perhaps defending me to George Bainbrigg. Others spoke – among them some visiting Friends from Maryland – but my attention strayed; I did not attend to what they said.
When the meeting ended George Bainbrigg got up and began talking to the Maryland Friends. He kept Kate firmly at his side, and she gave me a little shake of her head. But then my father began moving towards him, and he placed Kate with Isobel and Mary before turning aside to talk to my father. I was deeply anxious to know what the two of them were saying about me; but even stronger was the urge to speak to Kate – and now I had an opportunity. I took Betty’s arm and said, “Come!” and we moved quickly across the room.
I held out my hand, and Kate took it – a brief clasp: “Oh, Jos…” Then she said, “Betty!” and embraced my sister.
Isobel turned to me. “We are very sorry, Jos – Mary and I. Sorry to lose thee.” She spoke stiffly. I felt her kindness towards me, and yet I knew she must be shocked and unable to sympathize with what I had done. To her the slaves were savages, and her loyalty to her employer was absolute.
“I thank thee, Isobel,” I said. “And I wish…”
I struggled to know what to say next – but before I could speak further George Bainbrigg came towards us, clearly eager to gather up his womenfolk and be gone. He nodded to me and said a polite “good morning”, but then he turned away, and they left. I caught only a last quick glance from Kate over her shoulder.
Nevertheless, I had hope. Isobel would surely allow me to talk to Kate, even if she would not leave us alone together.
Next morning I was at the front early. A news bulletin was posted there every day, but today it still showed the “missing – runaway servant” message I’d seen before. The Frances lay at anchor in the river, and George Bainbrigg’s counting house was open and busy, but I did not venture near.
“No news?” my father asked, when I returned.
I shook my head. Perhaps, I thought, Antony had found Patience. Perhaps they were together now, somewhere hidden.
My father showed me around the bookshop and printing works. The new shop was to be at the front of the house, with a drop-down shutter to form a counter on the street, while the print works was in a separate building behind the house, with its own entrance as well as a covered passage from the kitchen.
Betty joined us as we went into the print shop.
“I’m to work here,” she said. “I’ll be the apprentice – the printer’s devil.” She wore a look of happy anticipation.
It was hard to imagine that clean, empty space filled with the sound of a press and all the bustle of a print shop. But some tables had already been moved in, and my father had brought wooden font cases with him from England and set them up. Everything else was waiting to be unpacked, except the press, which had yet to be built.
So we’d have my father, my mother who had worked as a printer in London, Betty as apprentice; and all three of them could take turns to mind the bookshop. And then there was the skilled typesetter who was coming from London. All we needed now was a man to operate the press.
“You’ll have me until I find a new employer,” I said.
The thought came to me that perhaps no other merchant would want me. Merchants talk to one another. And merchants who are Friends, who go to Meeting, are closer still; and Philadelphia was a small place. Perhaps I had lost my reputation within less than a year of my arrival in the colony. For me, it might come down to manning the press after all.
But none of these thoughts was uppermost in my mind. That was focused on Kate. As soon as we had eaten our midday dinner I went upstairs, changed into clean linen and polished my shoes. There was nothing I could do about my bruised face, but I combed my hair, brushed my beaver hat and put it on, tilting it slightly to shade my face – though not too much, for Friends are warned against the vanity of wearing brims tilted at rakish angles. When I was happy with my appearance I set off for Walnut Street.
George Bainbrigg would be out now, at his counting house or at the Society’s hall.
Isobel answered my knock. “Jos,” she said, resignedly.
From the open kitchen door came Hob, wagging his tail. He bounded towards me, pushing his head against my legs. Mary hovered in the doorway. At the sight of me she flushed red and looked anxious. I vaguely wondered why; but it was not Mary I had come for.
I glanced about. The parlour door was closed. Hadn’t Kate heard the commotion?
I straightened up and looked Isobel in the eye. “I’ve come to see Kate.”
“I’m sorry. They’ve gone. Sailed before noon.”
“Sailed?” All the bounce went out of me. “Who?”
“Those Friends from Maryland. She’s gone back with them. Her father’s orders.”
“Maryland! But – she never said! She talked to my sister yesterday. Why didn’t she tell Betty?” I was knocked hollow with shock and disbelief.
“He sprang it on us this morning.” Isobel sighed. “We scarce had time to pack her things. Her linen wasn’t ironed and ready, and I’d clothes waiting to wash for her. Men – they don’t realize…”
“When will she be back?” Why hadn’t I come this morning? What a fool I was! I’d waited, and missed her.
“I don’t know.” Isobel looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and reproach. “His friends offered. And he says the change of company will do her good.”
“The change from my company?”
“Aye.”
A silence fell.
Her face softened. “Thou’d best go, Jos. The master might call back at any time.”
So I was not welcome, even on the doorstep.
I turned to leave. The dog was still there and thought I was about to take him for a walk. He gave a little bark of anticipation.
“No, Hob.”
“I’m sorry,” said Isobel. “Mary! Hold the dog. Let Jos escape.”
I patted Hob goodbye. Mary reached to hold him; our hands brushed together, and I felt her put something – a folded piece of paper – into mine. I looked up, startled, but she had averted her face and was already taking the dog away – “C’mon, then, old dog” – and I quickly pushed the paper under the edge of my sleeve, nodded to Isobel and went out.
It was an address, scribbled in haste: “Jerome Richmond’s house at Herring Creek, Anne Arundel County, Maryland. Write to me there. I’ll write when I can. I love thee. K.”