October 28, 1729
Annapolis, Maryland
Mallie, Derby, and Ellery spent the night in the basement of an inn. The following morning, just as they and Bradnox and Cassie were stepping into the street, a man came running up to the planter.
“Mr. Bradnox,” the man said, “we’re holding your runaways in the gaol. Choptank Indians captured them on the eastern shore.”
Bradnox seemed delighted. “You bring me good luck,” he told Cassie, kissing her hand. “If my runaways had been caught by white men, I’d be out four hundred pounds of tobacco. As it is, the reward will be two matchcoats. I shall have to get you a gift.” He escorted Cassie back to the comfort of the inn and left Titus to load the rest onto a cart. Mallie wrapped herself tightly in the blanket, wishing she could lean against Derby for warmth, but the boy’s scowl repelled her.
It wasn’t long before Bradnox and the messenger returned, leading two men—one white and one black—both in leg shackles and iron collars. Mallie was struck with a realization: it had been weeks since she had gone so much as a day without seeing someone in fetters. Bradnox and Cassie climbed up next to the cart driver, and they were off. Before leaving Annapolis, they stopped to buy shoes for the new servants and cloth to make them clothes. Mallie’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the Irish linen, calamanco, and wool flannel meant for her, thrilled at the idea of having new clothes and shoes for the first time in her life. Maybe there wasn’t anything to fear, she thought. Maybe, if she worked hard, her master would ask her to stay after her time was up.
The wagoner took the cart west, on a road lined by hickories, dogwoods, and beeches, until they reached a landing on the Patuxent River. Everyone climbed aboard a bateau, and Bradnox and Titus each grabbed a setting pole and pushed, skillfully avoiding dead tree trunks that jutted straight out of the water close to the shore. Trees lined both riverbanks, making a dense wall that at times seemed to close in on them. Mallie spied with delight great blue herons and snowy egrets perched on branches that hung far over the river. A deafening honking sound made her look up; a massive flock of geese flew overhead. They stopped in the early afternoon at a spot where the riverbank was bare and about six feet wide. Bradnox took Cassie in his arms, gently set her down on the bank, and spread out a blanket for them. Mallie hiked up her skirts, and Titus helped her step into the cold, crystal-clear water. She sat on the bank, and while Titus handed the convicts salted fish and a yellow-colored bread, she ogled the feast of apples, cured ham, pickled cauliflower, and pound cake that Cassie produced from a basket. Mallie sniffed the unfamiliar yellow bread and took a bite. Her eyes lit up; it was unlike anything she had ever tasted before, and it was good.
“Corn pone,” Titus said, grinning.
She watched hungrily as Cassie cut an apple in three, the fruit’s clear nectar dripping down the girl’s palm, and was surprised when Cassie handed her one wedge and the other two to Derby and Ellery. Mallie ate her wedge in two bites and could not help but eye the pound cake. Incredibly, Cassie offered her a slice. Mallie reached for the cake and looked at Bradnox with a wide smile of gratefulness. His glacial eyes made her hand freeze midair.
“They’re here to pay for their crimes, Cassie, not to be pampered,” he said. Mallie immediately pulled back her hand, mortified.
“Andrew,” Cassie said softly, “she’s just a child.” The planter didn’t reply. Cassie extended her hand, offering the cake as if Mallie were a shy chipmunk. Mallie shook her head, feeling Bradnox’s glare on her. Her throat tightened. He had been generous enough by buying her shoes and cloth; he had been generous by buying her. And she had pushed things too far by thinking she deserved anything more than that. Cassie’s intentions were good, but Bradnox was right: Mallie was here to pay for her crimes, and she would. She would redeem herself.
#
The bateau reached Prosperity late in the afternoon. Titus stepped off onto a small dock and walked up a sloping hill, accompanying Cassie, then returned with a horse and another man, his face weathered by the sun, his bleached hair tied in a queue.
“This is Jason, my overseer,” Bradnox said.
“Robert and Scipio!” Jason exclaimed, smirking, his hand on a flintlock pistol in his waistband. “I was heartbroken, thinking I would never see you again. You’ll have to tell me how far you got this time.”
Titus carried Mallie in his arms, Derby and Ellery mounted the horse, and they went up a sloping path cut through a meadow thick with tall grasses and wildflowers. The sun had disappeared over the horizon. Mallie breathed in the clean herbal scents. There were wide horizons and green, open spaces; an owl hooted and insects hummed, and from the north the wind carried the sound of a horn, signaling the end of the working day for the field hands. The sky and clouds glowed orange and lilac. Mallie had never felt lonelier. At the top of the path, occupying an elevated hill, she saw a two-story house. The group rounded the house and headed for another, smaller two-floor building. A covered walkway connected the two structures. When Bradnox opened the door, two women sitting in front of the hearth stood hastily. Titus stepped inside with Mallie, and she realized they were in a kitchen. Bradnox introduced the new servants to Polly, the cook, and Margaret, the housekeeper.
“Margaret,” Bradnox said before walking out, “bring us milk and biscuits.”
“Sit,” Polly said to Derby and Ellery, gesturing to two chairs around the table. “You sit here, doll,” she said to Mallie, patting the seat of the chair she’d been using. When Mallie sat, she glanced up at Polly; she seemed about Lizzie’s age, with kind, nickel-colored eyes. “Dear me!” Polly exclaimed when her eyes met Mallie’s. “Margaret, come see!”
“Well, I never!” Margaret murmured, leaning down to take a close look. An old scar above her left eye had practically replaced her eyebrow, but her expression and voice were warm.
“I think they’re quite lovely,” Polly chirped. Mallie frowned, unsure if Polly was teasing her, and wishing she could disappear. When Margaret left with the supper Bradnox had ordered, Polly produced a loaf of corn bread and a pitcher of apple cider. As she handed Mallie a mug, Mallie recognized a T branded on her thumb. After eating, Mallie, Derby, and Ellery followed the cook to the kitchen yard, a courtyard ringed by a garden, a milk house, a washhouse for the laundry, a henhouse, a carpenter’s workshop, and a smokehouse. They walked to the south side of the yard to the privies, and Mallie took a couple of steps back to confirm that she had seen what she thought she had: on the other side of a fence, a few feet away, was a whipping post. She thought of Bradnox’s refined presence and demeanor and was confused; a whipping post seemed out of place.
Back in the kitchen, Polly took two pine knots—resin-saturated sticks of pinewood—lit them in the hearth, and inserted each one into a clay holder. Sooty black smoke curled up from their bright flames. Using iron tongs she took four stones from the hearth and wrapped them individually in linen rags. “That’ll keep yer warm while yer fall asleep.” She handed them out, took one for herself, and grabbed a pine knot. “Ellery and Mallie, come upstairs. Derby, wait here.”
In the women’s quarters, a layer of straw and four woven pallets were laid out in front of a small and rather inefficient fireplace. Margaret, snoring softly, was cocooned in a blanket on a fifth pallet. A pine knot atop a stand on a table under a shuttered window illuminated three rickety chairs—the only furniture in the room. Rags were stuffed into spots on the walls where the clay between the logs had crumbled. A few tattered items of clothing hung from nails on the walls, and in a corner sat a chipped chamber pot. Polly rummaged through one of two baskets and pulled out used but clean clothes, gave Mallie a shift to sleep in, and sent Ellery to the kitchen with two pallets, linen sheets, and patched-up wool blankets. Polly chuckled at the sight of Mallie, the shift’s sleeves hanging several inches over her hands, the hem dragging on the floor. This shift, unlike any Mallie had ever seen or worn, had an opening from the back of the collar to the waist, which Polly closed with laces. The cook spread sheets and blankets on a pallet, and Mallie curled up and watched sleepily as Polly changed into another shift. Her eyes popped wide open: Polly’s bare back was covered in a crisscrossed pattern of thick, raised scars.
#
Blair strained to open his leaden eyelids. A fireplace burned to his left, illuminating a girl about his own age, sitting on a stool to his right, looking down at him with soft brown eyes.
“Blair, do you know where you are?”
A blanket covered him, and under his hands he felt the weave of a mat. The room smelled of leather and burning wood.
“Philadelphia?”
“Yes, Jeffrey Craig’s shop. I’m Betty.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost ten o’clock. Jeffrey Craig is upstairs in his room. You’ll see him in the morning.”
Betty helped Blair sit up and rest his back against the wall. He was in a rectangular workshop, bigger than his loom room. Men’s shoes in different stages of completion hung from hooks in the ceiling, and from cords strung across a window to the left of the front door. Large, rectangular pieces of tanned leather hung on a wall. To the right of the fireplace there was a rack with lasts. Opposite all this a counter ran from the east wall almost to the middle of the room. Tools, jars, boxes, and rags were everywhere: on two shoemakers’ benches, on a narrow shelf that ran along two walls, and on additional shelving. Blair gasped; his hands jumped from his lap to the floor, as if to steady himself.
“The room is moving!” he exclaimed.
Betty chuckled. “It’s because you were at sea for weeks. It’ll pass.”
He swept his gaze around the shop, fascinated albeit disturbed by the effect, and recognized his clothes, blankets, and bags draped on two chairs arranged around the fireplace. He looked down at the shirt he wore and looked under the blanket covering his legs. Neither the shirt nor the breeches he wore were his own.
“I washed everything with lye soap to kill the lice,” Betty said, throwing more wood into the fire. “The physician who came to examine you used an ointment of stavesacre to remove the vermin from your hair, chest, and limbs.” She set a jar next to Blair. “He left this for you to do the rest.”
Blair blushed, embarrassed at having to be nursed like a baby, and astounded that he’d been oblivious to all that had happened. Betty set a mug and a wooden bowl with a wooden spoon next to him. He picked up the mug, his hands shaking like an old man’s, and spilled warm cider down his chin and onto his shirt.
“Oh no! I’ve soiled someone’s clothes.”
“Don’t worry, they were the Craigs’ former servant’s.”
“Did he fulfill his indenture? Is that why Jeffrey Craig needed someone new?”
“He died.”
Blair shivered. The dead man’s clothes felt like worms squirming on his skin. “I think I’ll change into my own.”
“They’re not dry yet.” She brought one of his shirts for him to feel; it was very damp. He sighed and turned his attention to the bowl, eyeing with suspicion one of several doughy balls bobbing in milk. He tried to bring one to his mouth, but his hand shook too much.
“Let me help,” Betty said, taking the bowl and spoon from him. Reluctantly, he let her feed him. The food was very good. In short order he had wolfed down the entire bowl and some porridge.
“May I have more?”
“You ate all the leftovers. You’ll have to wait for breakfast. And don’t ever think about taking any food from the cellar.” She pointed to a closed door next to the staircase. “They’ll miss it immediately.”
He pushed himself off the floor and sat on a chair, winded by even this small exertion. “What are those for?” he asked, pointing at two leather buckets with the name “CRAIG” painted on them, hanging from pegs on a wall.
“Fire buckets. When you hear someone ringing a bell and screaming, ‘Fire,’ grab them and run toward the smoke.”
He stood gingerly and took slow, uncertain steps to the window by the front door, shocked at how cold the room felt as soon as he stepped away from the fire, even though Betty seemed to be constantly feeding it. “Are we far from the river?”
“We’re very close.”
He pushed aside the curtains. Glowing pinpoints on first-, second-, and third-story windows pierced the inky blackness. “At home we couldna afford this,” he noted, tapping gently on the glass window. “We had oiled paper.”
“I should go to sleep,” Betty said. “You should too.”
“Where do ye sleep?”
“On the third story, on the floor at the foot of the children’s bed. That’s for you,” she said, pointing at a chamber pot next to the fireplace. She lit a candle, banked the fire, said good night, and went upstairs, the stairs squeaking under her feet.
Blair realized that for the first time ever, he would sleep all alone. An entirely unfamiliar feeling overwhelmed him: homesickness. He took deep breaths and still felt as if he were suffocating. The house creaked and groaned. A group of men stumbled through the alley, their voices and laughter strident with the obliviousness of alcohol. He applied the ointment of stavesacre to his private parts, and then fatigue overcame him.
At midnight, the sounds of Betty and the Craigs stirring from their first sleep woke him up. A dog barked and howled, and dozens of others joined in. Blair moaned. After about an hour, things quieted down again. Then, a baby began to cry.
#
October 29, 1729
Water dripped on Mallie’s nose, startling her awake. The stone had grown cold against her belly. Moonlight seeping through cracks on the walls showed Margaret placing a bucket under a leaky spot next to the door. Three additional buckets were scattered about the room; drops hit the bottom of the buckets with a monotonous sound.
“Scoot, child,” Margaret said, taking another bucket and placing it where Mallie’s head had been. Mallie listened to the drip-drip-drip until a rooster crowed and Polly told her to get up and dress.
“Do yer think yer could empty this in the privies?” Polly asked, handing her the chamber pot.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Call me Polly, luv.”
Mallie could see her breath when she stepped outside. It had stopped raining, but the sky was overcast and gray. Her shoes sank into the damp earth and made sucking sounds as she walked. She could feel mud and water seeping in through the soles, and she shivered. A flock of chestnut-colored chickens pecking at the ground parted as she passed. She reached the privies—averting her eyes from the whipping post—emptied the chamber pot, and hurried back. Derby, Ellery, and Margaret were sitting at the kitchen table.
“Sit, luv,” Polly said, indicating a chair next to Derby, who looked as miserable as ever. A woman—a younger version of Margaret—walked in.
Margaret rushed to her, gave her a long hug, and whispered something in her ear. She released her embrace and turned to the new servants. “This is my daughter, Rhoda.” She held the woman’s hand, and her chin quivered. “Her indenture ends today, and she can leave the plantation.”
Rhoda smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes.
“Happy birthday,” Polly said, hugging the woman.
“Thank you, Polly.”
Ellery looked at Margaret and Rhoda, puzzled. “When was she bought?” he finally asked.
“She was born here,” Margaret said. “I was serving my term for Mr. Bradnox’s father when I had her. Because of it I was given two additional years, and she had to remain a servant until she turned thirty-one. When my term expired, I couldn’t go. Watching her grow was no punishment—it was a blessing.”
“So ye’re both leaving!” Ellery exclaimed with a smile. Rhoda’s eyes welled up.
“Men bring nothing but trouble, don’t you know, Mr. Baylor?” Margaret sighed. “I fell in love, had a son, and just like that I was a servant again, for seven years. He’s eleven, and won’t be free until he turns thirty-one. So, here we are.”
Ellery’s lips moved silently, the thumb on his right hand touching the other four fingers one by one, as if performing calculations. “But yor two additional years had expired when yor son was born; yer were no longer serving a term. Why did yer get another seven years?”
“His father is a slave.”
“Oh,” Ellery said, his eyes wide in surprise.
Mallie gaped at Margaret, in awe of her motherly devotion.
“When are yer leaving, Rhoda?” Polly asked while she served a breakfast of corn mush and boiled eggs.
“Next month, when Mr. Bradnox goes to Annapolis.”
“Where will yer go?”
Rhoda shrugged. “I don’t know. Everywhere.”
“Polly, when does your term end?” Ellery asked.
“In a bit less than eight years. It would end sooner, but I ran away once.” The faint sound of a horn came in from the north. “That’s the field hands’ call ter work, and mine ter prepare the Bradnoxes’ breakfast.”
An hour later, Mallie, Derby, and Ellery followed Margaret to the main house, their shoes splish-sploshing in the puddles on the brick walkway, rainwater dripping down the edges of the roof above. They wiped their feet on a folded length of linen before going in through the back door into a passage, at the end of which Mallie could see the front door. “Mr. Bradnox sleeps in the parlor,” Margaret said, pointing to a closed door on their left, past a set of stairs leading to the upper floor. She stopped at an open door on the right. “This is the hall.”
“Come in, Margaret.” Bradnox stood in front of a fireplace. Cassie sat to his left, smiling. The optimism that warmed Mallie when she saw her was tamped down at the sight of another, slightly older, displeased-looking girl sitting to the planter’s right. He introduced her as Miss Abigail, his sister.
“You have two days to recover from your journey,” Bradnox began. “Derby, you’ll then move to the field workers’ quarters. Ellery, you’ll sleep in the stable to be close to the workshop, and you’ll eat with the women, unless you’re working in the fields. Mallie, you’ll help Polly and Margaret. When Rhoda leaves, you’ll take her place and will alternate nights between Miss Cassie and Miss Abigail’s room, except for Sunday nights, when you’ll sleep in the women’s quarters.”
Mallie tried to catch Abigail’s eyes, hoping she would smile like Cassie, but the girl slumped in her chair. “Margaret, have Polly wash that awful smell off of her.”
“Yes, Miss Abigail.”
“Your terms of servitude began the day I bought you,” Bradnox continued. “You cannot travel more than ten miles from here without a pass written by me.”
The image of Polly’s scarred back flashed in Mallie’s mind.
“If you run away, time will be added to your term, ten days for each day of absence. If you’re foolish enough to run, I will find you, just like I found Robert and Scipio. Margaret, how many people have successfully escaped since my father bought you?”
“None, sir.”
Bradnox sat at a table and waved a hand in Mallie’s direction. “Bring her closer.” Margaret placed a hand on Mallie’s back and gently pushed her forward. Bradnox opened up a commonplace book to a blank page, took a sander, sprinkled pounce on the page, and dipped a quill in the inkwell. Margaret set a measuring rod behind Mallie’s heels.
“Four feet one inch,” she announced, and Bradnox scribbled. He studied Mallie from head to toe, looking for identifying characteristics, and wrote some more. Then he repeated the procedure with Derby and Ellery.
“You can take them back to the kitchen, Margaret,” Bradnox said. “At the end of the workday bring them to the whipping post for Robert and Scipio’s punishment.”
In the washhouse, Polly stripped Mallie down and had her step into the large copper laundry pot. She could not stop thinking of the upcoming whipping. Maybe she could pretend to be ill when the time came, she thought as Polly poured warm water over her and began to scrub.
#
Blair woke up to Betty coming down the stairs carrying two chamber pots, feeling every bit as tired as he had the previous day.
“Good morning,” she said brightly. “How do you feel?”
“Good morning. I feel better,” he replied, not wanting to come across as a sourpuss.
While she stoked the fire, he walked to the front window and pulled aside the curtains. Outside, an alley stretched to his left and right. It was as if the cottages in Lisburn had been tipped on their ends: the houses were three stories high, with narrow facades. Signs hung above some doors. Several lots remained empty. He took his own chamber pot and followed Betty through a rear door to a courtyard. He watched in amazement as she approached a strange metal device and filled a bucket halfway with water.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You never saw a water pump?”
“No. Where’s the water coming from?”
Betty thought for a moment and chuckled. “I never wondered about that. There must be wells under the city, because there are pumps everywhere.”
They stood in line with other servants and slaves behind a privy, and Betty introduced him. They emptied their chamber pots in the privy, rinsed them, and washed their hands at the pump before going back inside.
“How old are the Craigs’ bairns?” Blair asked after swallowing a mouthful of porridge. His hand was still too shaky to hold a spoon, so he had resorted to drinking straight from the bowl.
“Grace is three, Nancy is five, and Prudence is fifteen,” Betty replied, stirring her porridge. “Baby Ewan is one.”
“Where are ye from? Ye sound neither Irish nor English.”
“I was born here.”
“Where are yer parents?”
“My mother died. My father . . .” She shrugged.
“Oh. Yer not indentured, then?”
“I am. I was born a servant because my mother was indentured when she had me, but in two years I’ll be eighteen and free, and I’ll marry Johannes.” Her eyes glimmered. “He works in a shipyard, and he’ll also be free then.”
They finished breakfast without saying much else. When Betty went outside to sweep the front steps, Blair followed her, eager to be outdoors, although he had to lean on the building for support.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a strange contraption attached to the Craigs’ second-floor window. A metal rod jutted out from the bottom of the window frame, at the end of which were three small rectangular mirrors.
“A busybody,” Betty said. “You use them to see who’s at your door, for safety, or—if you tilt them—who’s at your neighbor’s, for gossip.” Blair smirked, amused. When Betty finished sweeping, he sat on the steps until three journeymen arrived.
“Are you the new servant?” asked one.
“Aye,” Blair said, standing up. “I’m Blair Eakins.”
“Bartholomew, Derrick, Virgil,” the journeyman said, pointing at his companions and himself.
“You look freshly arrived, which is to say, you look nearly dead,” said Bartholomew.
“Pay no mind, lad,” said Derrick. “Nothing that good eating won’t fix.”
“Don’t expect that in this house,” Virgil whispered.
“Are you all coming in to work?” asked Craig, opening the door. Blair followed the journeymen back into the shop. Two of the men sat under a window on one side of the room, the third under a window on the opposite side, rolling up their sleeves. The cordwainer’s dress was different from the day before: he wore slippers and a leather apron, his sleeves were rolled, and the bottoms of his breeches legs were unbuttoned. Next to him was a plump woman, who seemed somewhat older than he.
“This is my wife, Tacey Craig,” Craig said.
“Pleased tae meet ye, Tacey Craig,” Blair said.
“Pleased to meet thee, Blair Eakins,” she said, looking warily at him as he firmly grasped the back of a chair with both hands.
“I assume this is the first time thee has been indentured?” Craig asked.
“Aye.” There won’t be a second time, Blair wanted to say.
“There are some simple but important rules thee must follow. Thee shall live and sleep in this workshop and never go upstairs. Thee can’t fornicate, nor marry without my consent, purchase liquor, visit taverns, or trade with others.” Blair noticed all three journeymen smirk. “And thee must work a full day. After the workday is finished, thee may go out but must return by nine, before the doors are bolted. First Day is thy day off. If thee runs away, five days for every day of absence will be added to thy indenture, as will the costs of capturing thee. Never stoke the fireplace; only Betty and I do that. Don’t light any candles without my permission, and don’t touch any tools or materials, anything at all on my shelves, ever, unless I tell thee to. Thee will run errands, such as going to the tanner. My wife will accompany thee to market once, and after that thee will go by thyself twice a week. Obey me and be industrious, and all will be well.”
After the lecture, Craig’s wife returned upstairs. Craig took down a wooden box from a shelf. “I’m going to teach thee to make wax. Roll your sleeves and sit down.” Blair plunked down on a chair facing Craig, in front of the hearth. The cordwainer took a chunk of pine rosin and some pine pitch and dropped both in a small pot over the fire. The sharp smell of pine made Blair sneeze. When the rosin and pitch melted, Craig put tallow in the pot and mixed the ingredients together with a long wooden spoon. He poured the hot mixture into a larger pot full of cold water, dipped his hand in, and spun the wax until it had cooled down enough to be handled. He scooped it out and pulled and kneaded until it turned amber. Then he rolled it into a ball. “Now make one,” he said.
Blair opened the wooden box, recalling the amounts of rosin and pitch used. With shaky hands, he repeated the steps Craig had demonstrated. He could feel the cordwainer’s eyes drilling into him. He was swishing the wax in the water when a loud stampede of feet clattered down the staircase. He looked up and saw what he deduced were Craig’s two eldest daughters, each with a hornbook in hand. The girls stared at him, intrigued.
“Don’t linger,” scolded their father. “You’ll be late for school.”
Blair returned his focus on the task at hand. When he finally cradled a ball of wax in his palm, the sense of accomplishment surprised him. Craig took the ball and unceremoniously put it in a small basket. Nervous but eager to tackle the next lesson, Blair waited. Craig handed him a book.
“Read out loud while we work,” the cordwainer ordered. Blair saw the title and bit his tongue: An Apology for the True Christian Divinity. After showing Blair where to begin, Craig took a leather stirrup—a sort of belt with a buckle—and, sitting in his chair, looped one end of the stirrup under his left foot and the other end over his knee and the shoe he was working on. Resigned, Blair set to his task. However, thoroughly bored and having hardly slept the previous night, he was constantly yawning in the middle of sentences.
“Stop!” Craig finally said, rolling his eyes. “Lie down if thee wishes to.”
Blair positioned his mat against a wall, out of everyone’s way. He had just closed his eyes when a banging noise made him jump. Virgil, hammer in hand, a large, flat stone across his lap, was pounding away on a piece of leather. The noise made it impossible to sleep, and by the time the journeyman had finished beating the leather, Blair had a headache.
#
The Craigs’ daughters returned at noon, and while the family had dinner on the second floor, Betty and Blair and the journeymen ate in the shop. Then the girls left for school again. A new customer walked in to order a pair of shoes. While Craig measured the customer’s feet, the man whistled absentmindedly. Blair seized an idea, something he was sure would entertain the cordwainer and the journeymen both, and, more importantly, something that would keep him from suffering through any more theological dissertations.
“Jeffrey Craig,” Blair said when the customer was gone, “I can sing while ye work. I once loved a lass and I loved her sae weel, that I hated all others that spoke o’ her ill—” The journeymen’s heads snapped up, eyes wide.
“Stop!” Craig commanded. Stunned, Blair went quiet, his mouth still open. “God frowns upon singing, music, and dancing. I may forgive a new customer for whistling, but I shall not have thee singing.” Blair sulked and his face burned. He was listless with boredom when the journeymen finally left and Craig went upstairs. It wasn’t long before the cordwainer came back down.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warned before going out. Almost as soon as the front door shut, Betty came down the stairs.
“Would you like to take a walk?” she asked.
“Please!”
They stepped outside just in time to see other masters, servants, and slaves exiting their respective shops, some of them carrying unlit lanterns.
“Where are they going?” Blair asked.
“Taverns, coffeehouses.”
“All o’ them?”
“Yes.”
“But servants and slaves are no allowed.”
Betty shrugged.
“Has Jeffrey Craig also gone tae a tavern?”
“Yes.”
“Quakers in Lisburn dinna drink.”
“Wet Quakers in Philadelphia do.”
They walked down the alley slowly, in the direction of the Delaware, Blair’s legs getting reacquainted with solid land, Betty listing off the names of every tenant—shipwrights, river pilots, mariners, carpenters, and potters—as they passed their houses, and the names of their servants or slaves. At Front Street, at the alley’s east end, they turned right. At the corner they went right again until they reached Second Street, and walked until they reached the alley’s opposite end. A door beneath a sign with a blue ball signaling a chandler’s shop opened, and a short, red-haired girl emerged.
“Betty!” she called out happily. Blair immediately recognized her Ulster brogue. “This is yer master’s new servant?”
“Yes, this is Blair Eakins. Blair, Alice McLean works for the chandler.”
“Pleased tae meet ye, Alice,” Blair said.
“Pleased tae meet ye.” Alice handed Betty three black candles. “I left the tallow cooking for too long but made candles anyway. Katherine Moore will no sell them. Blair, do ye wish tae come with me tae the tavern? Poor Betty canna get away on account o’ the bairn.”
“Now?” Blair asked, surprised at the invitation.
“Aye. We’ll be back afore Betty bolts the doors.”
“But we’re no allowed,” Blair whispered, glancing up nervously at the busybody.
“We wouldna tell anyone.” Alice winked. Both girls looked at him, waiting for his decision. He chewed on his lower lip. He didn’t want to get into any trouble, but if every day in the shop was to be as mind numbing as it had been today, he would go insane unless he found some diversion.
“I’m in no condition tae go tippling,” he finally said. “I’m out o’ breath after a wee walk. Maybe in a few more weeks.”
“The Penny Pot isna far,” Alice said. “But ye’re right, I felt half dead when I first arrived.”
The Penny Pot. The tavern frequented by the man who had bought Ronald! “I’m sure I’ll feel better soon.”
Betty watched longingly as Alice walked away. “She sees her sweetheart every day. I see Johannes only on Sundays.” She looked toward the cordwainer’s shop, and her shoulders slumped. “I should go back to the children and get supper ready.”
“I’ll stay outside for a spell. I’m no made for the indoors.” From the shop’s steps Blair watched children play until the twilight faded and their parents called them in. He remained outside until people started pouring back into the alley, their lanterns glowing orange. He and Betty were having supper when Craig returned. The cordwainer rested his back against the door and glared at Blair with bloodshot eyes.
“I should’ve bought a Palatine,” he said, slurring the words as he walked to the stairs. His foot missed the first tread a couple of times before he clumsily made his way up.
“Pay him no mind,” Betty said softly. “You’re better than any German.”
When Blair had bedded down for the night, he pictured himself in the cottage back in Ireland, trying to imagine every object with as much detail as possible, but the scent of leather kept shattering the image. He missed Ronald with a wretchedness he had never imagined. This may be a good poor man’s country, he thought, but it will never be home.
#
The horn signaling the end of the workday spurred Mallie to hide under her blanket, hoping to be left alone, but Margaret roused her. She trailed behind the housekeeper, Polly, Rhoda, Derby, and Ellery, dragging her feet. The black runaway was already tied to the whipping post. The white runaway, Titus, Jason, another black man, and a boy with green eyes that seemed to glow against his mahogany skin—clearly Margaret’s son—stood in a circle around the post. Mallie noticed Margaret glance from the black runaway to the boy, her eyes radiating fear. The silence seemed to grow heavier when Bradnox appeared. He rolled up his sleeves, and Jason handed him a three-foot-long plaited leather whip, tapered from the end of the handle and knotted at the tip.
“These men were gone for thirty-six days,” Bradnox said, directly addressing Mallie, Derby, and Ellery; she felt every single word was its own warning. “Robert will serve an additional three hundred and sixty days, ten for each day gone. Additionally, he will pay the fees for the days he spent in jail, the reward paid for his capture, and the pot hook.” He tapped the butt of the whip on the iron collar riveted around the white man’s neck. “But he has no money. Therefore, I’ll petition the commissioner to determine how many lashes he deserves.”
Bradnox then walked to the black man. “I’ll request that Scipio receive thirty-six lashes, the maximum allowed by law. And if he tries to run away again, I’ll have him castrated.” Everyone listened in stunned silence. Scipio shook.
“However,” Bradnox continued, “I don’t need a court’s permission to give them ten stripes each.” He adjusted his grasp on the whip as Jason placed a piece of leather between Scipio’s teeth. Mallie hid halfway behind Polly, covered her ears, and looked down. Still, the muffled cracks of the whip and grunts made her shiver. When she looked up, Scipio’s back was a mess of red slashes and rivulets. Derby and Ellery seemed ready to faint. Scipio was untied, and Robert was secured to the post. Mallie hid again behind Polly. Once the whipping was over, Titus stepped forward to loosen the rope around the man’s wrists, but Bradnox stopped him.
“Leave him there until midnight.”
“C’mon, luv,” Polly said with a strained voice, taking Mallie’s hand. “We can go now.”
I’ll never run away, Mallie promised herself later as she struggled to swallow her supper. Never.