Mallie lay in the fetal position on her mat, sobbing. A hulking worker named Cole had been ordered to take her to the courthouse to testify, and to return her to the ropewalk the second she was finished. He was now standing guard outside the door. Clara and Lydia had been wonderful to her since her return and, in spite of Chisholm’s orders to put her to work, had left her alone. A cold blast gave her goose bumps as the door opened.
“I’ll teach that Clara to follow my orders,” Chisholm snarled. “Get up and gather your things!”
Mallie glowered at him but did as she was told. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
“Speak again and I’ll slap your mouth shut.”
By the time they reached an inn on the south side of Walnut Street, next to Dock Creek, Mallie was soaked, Chisholm having refused her the shelter of his umbrella the entire way. Inside the inn’s dining room, a man waited at a table.
“Mr. Fagan,” Chisholm said, taking a seat while he made Mallie stand, “this is the girl I’m selling.”
Mallie caught her breath. Bray had done it! She shuddered, more from the thrill of it than the cold.
“It should be easy to find a buyer, don’t you think?” Chisholm asked.
“Not if she dies.” Fagan called a barmaid over. “Elise, get a towel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So,” Fagan said, returning to the transaction at hand, “the schooner leaves next Sunday for South Carolina.”
Mallie stared at the agent, her happiness curdling into alarm; she had thought she’d be sold to someone in Philadelphia. Elise returned with a towel, but Mallie was too dazed to take it.
“My dear,” Chisholm said with soppiness as Elise took it upon herself to dry Mallie, “you’ll love working on a rice plantation.”
#
“You should eat something,” Elise said, her big black eyes full of concern.
“I’m not hungry,” Mallie muttered, curled up in the sawdust on the floor of the inn’s basement.
“I made it myself. It’s really good.”
Something in Elise’s kind voice made Mallie sit up. She accepted the beef stew that the girl offered and tried a spoonful. It was delicious.
“Your cooking is better than mine,” Mallie said, meaning it. Elise smiled. “Can I ask you for a favor?”
#
Blair was practically hanging from the pillory, his legs no longer capable of holding him up. The drenched bandage around his forehead had slipped down over his eyes; the stitches on his wound were taut against his waterlogged skin. He felt a hand lift the bandage from his eyes. He blinked, failing to recognize the very nervous-looking girl who stood before him.
“Are you Blair?”
“Aye.”
“Mallie sent me.”
From the moment Elise began conveying Mallie’s message until she finished, a scorching ire made Blair impervious to the cold. Chisholm had followed up on his threat. Elise spoke as fast as she could and immediately turned to leave.
“Come back!” Blair yelled. The girl kept walking. “Come back, please!” he yelled again, but the girl was gone. He remembered Samuel Shipboy’s dejection on the ship when they were headed for Pennsylvania—how, once he had lost Christy, he had lost the will to live. He understood now.
He felt a dry blanket being draped on him. It was Bray, doing an appalling job of hiding how rattled he was by Blair’s condition. A girl stepped forward and held a flask to Blair’s lips; a warm, silky ribbon of hot cider glided down his throat.
“This is Lotte,” Bray said, “my servant girl.”
As soon as Blair had downed the entire flask, he blurted out, “Chisholm’s sending Mallie to South Carolina!”
“South Carolina?” Bray asked, incredulous. “Why do you think this?”
“Mallie sent me a message with a servant girl from the inn she’s being kept in.”
“Here I was with the good news that the judges had ordered Chisholm to sell her. The merry-begotten scoundrel!” Bray pressed the heel of his palms against his temples. His defeated look did not give Blair any encouragement. “What inn is she in?” he finally asked. Blair told him, and Bray fell deep in thought.
“I need to get to Perth Amboy right away,” Bray said.
“What?” Blair asked, confused.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find you as soon as I get back.”
No sooner had Bray and his servant girl left than the clerk appeared and snatched the blanket off Blair.
“That’s enough of people bringing you food and drink and blankets,” the clerk said, holding down his cocked hat against the wind and throwing the blanket over his shoulder. Blair stared after the clerk as he made his way back into the courthouse. He looked around, feeling as if he were floating, everything out of focus. And for the first time since landing in Philadelphia, he cried. The dam burst and seven years came gushing forth, wave after wave of hopelessness tearing and slashing his heart and mind.
#
Blair reached for his forehead and felt a cool, damp cloth. “Where am I?”
“At the ropewalk,” Edan said.
Blair sat up with a jolt. “But I’m soiled!” Immediately he was overtaken by a violent fit of coughing.
“That’s a nice churchyard cough, that is,” someone commented.
“Shut yer bone box, James,” Edan said, and he gently laid Blair down. “I changed ye into clean clothes.”
“Oh, Edan . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“It’s awricht.”
“I need tae see Mallie,” Blair wheezed.
“It’s nine o’clock, ye have a fever, and when ye breathe, it sounds like wagon wheels on gravel. Ye’re no going anywhere.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow, maybe.” Edan removed the cloth—now hot—from Blair’s forehead, and rinsed and wrung it before reapplying it.
The fever had worsened by morning, and Clara and Lydia took turns watching over Blair until it finally receded and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“I’m giving you one more day, and then I’m putting you back to work,” Chisholm told him. “Cole will make sure you don’t leave the grounds until Sunday.”
Blair ground his teeth as Cole placed a chair next to the door and sat down. When Clara came in and set his breakfast on the floor next to him, Blair whispered, “Mallie is at the inn on Dock. Please go tell her I promise I’ll be there at daybreak on Sunday.” Clara said nothing, but Blair was sure she winked.
#
Clara stood nervously outside the inn on Dock. Knowing Mallie was somewhere inside, but not knowing how to reach her, was maddening. A side door opened up and a girl came out, holding a cat. She placed the cat on the ground, and the animal happily sauntered off.
“Good morning,” Clara said, approaching the girl.
“Good morning.”
“Can you help me? A friend of mine is in there, and I need to talk to her.”
The girl looked at Clara for a moment, doubtful. “Mallie?”
“How did you know?”
“She’s the only servant being kept here waiting to be taken away.”
“Where is she being taken away?”
“South Carolina.”
Cursed Chisholm, Clara thought.
“She asked me to take a message to someone at the pillory,” the girl whispered. “I almost got caught by my master.”
“I have a message from that same man. Can I see her, please?”
The girl shook her head. “I’m sorry; I really am. I’m afraid my master will paddle me if he catches us. But I’ll give her your message.”
Clara sighed. “Tell her Clara came, and Blair promises he’ll come see her as soon as the sun rises on Sunday.”
#
November 6, 1736
At a table in the inn’s dining room, Mallie sat next to Chisholm and Fagan, who was drawing up some papers. Facing her was another man.
“Mr. Sweeting,” Fagan said, “please sign here.”
Mallie’s heart pounded.
“Congratulations, sir,” Chisholm said as he shook Sweeting’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. May strong winds tomorrow deliver you safely to Jamaica.”
Jamaica? Mallie felt as if a heavy fist had landed between her shoulder blades.
“Goodbye, Mallie.” Chisholm patted her head before walking out, but she hardly even noticed. She knew nothing of South Carolina, but the slaves in Maryland had talked about Jamaica like it was hell. Worse, she knew it was very, very far away.
“Mr. Sweeting,” Fagan offered, “I can take her to the basement.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sweeting replied. “We’re spending the night at an inn on King, close to the wharf where our ship is docked. I’ve arranged for a cart to take us there.”
“No!”
Mallie’s outburst startled both men. She looked from one to the other. Tell them the truth; tell them someone is coming to say farewell. But then she thought, Don’t trust them; they’ll tell Chisholm and he’ll punish Clara and Blair, and Elise will also be in trouble. Again, she argued with herself. But I won’t see him till 1739!
“What is it, Mallie?” Sweeting asked.
“Nothing.” She forced her face into a blank expression.
She followed her new master out into the street and climbed into the box of the cart. As they made their way to the Delaware, she replayed in her mind the last time she had seen Blair in the courthouse. The image of him in shackles was not, however, how she wanted to remember him. So she erased that picture and thought of the time they had waded into the Schuylkill and he had found a baby turtle. He seemed to glow under the sun, and that glow had begun to rouse her from her despondency. She thought of his laughter, and those times after they had made love, when his wolfish hunger had been momentarily sated and he would turn into an almost fragile cub. If she never saw him again, that was how she would remember him: as the man who had taught her she was, after all, a creature worthy of being truly loved.
#
The early dawn light cast on the water mirror images of tanneries and breweries lining Dock Creek as it curled its way a few blocks into the city. Blair rested his hands on his knees as another fit of coughing roiled through him. His eyes watered and his face was red. He scanned the moored schooners and sloops, wondering which one would carry Mallie away. He heard voices, and several workers appeared from the alley adjacent to the inn.
“Elise!” he called out, crossing the street.
The girl stopped in her tracks, looking at Blair with apprehension.
“I’m here tae see Mallie.”
“Oh! You’re the man from the stocks. She was taken away last night.”
Blair’s knees went weak.
“He sold her.” Elise pointed to Fagan, who was walking out the front door. Blair ran to meet the agent.
“Sir!”
“Are you here to take my baggage?”
“No. I’m looking for Malvina Ambrose.”
“Ah, yes. She’s not in my custody anymore.”
“Where is she?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
Blair fell to his knees, right in the middle of the street. “Sir, I’m begging ye, Mallie is my whole life. Please.”
Mortified, Fagan pulled Blair to his feet. “Young man, don’t make a scene.”
“I am begging ye.” Blair was halfway to his knees again when Fagan finally relented.
“She’s being taken to Jamaica. The ship leaves this morning.”
“Who bought her? What’s the name of the ship?”
“The man is Scott Sweeting. The ship is the Elizabeth and Ann.”
Blair turned his frantic eyes to the dock.
“The ship is on the Delaware,” Fagan said.
“What wharf?”
“I have no idea.”
Blair took off. He leaped over dogs, dodged horses, zigzagged between pedestrians, and flew down the first set of stairs he found. People on the wharf stared at him with deep worry as he leaned on a barrel, hacking so violently it seemed he was convulsing. A man approached and asked if he needed help.
“Elizabeth—and—Ann,” Blair gasped, “tae Jamaica.”
“That one’s all the way down at the Arch Street Wharf. Walk leisurely, lad. Ye’ll cough out a lung.”
Blair took to his heels again. By the time he arrived at Arch Street Wharf, he felt as if he were drowning. He frantically scanned all moored ships; there was no Elizabeth and Ann. He looked out toward the anchored ships.
“What are ye looking for, lad?” a man asked.
“The Eliz—Elizabeth and—Ann.” Hack, hack, hack. “Jamaica.”
“Ye’ll have tae take another ship; that one left an hour ago.”
Blair crumpled on the wharf, unable to believe it, his chest and back aching, his face glistening with sweat. He lay on his back, despondent, until the rain drove him away. His indenture was shorter than hers, he thought as he slowly made his way to the ropewalk. He would finish his time and go looking for her. A fresh feeling of doom clawed at him when he saw Lotte—Bray’s servant—and Clara waiting at the entrance to the men’s quarters.
“Finally!” Clara exclaimed. He turned to Lotte, afraid to ask what dreadful news she might be bringing.
“Mr. Bray needs to see you immediately,” the girl said.
#
Dear Blair,
Several weeks ago I sent you a letter, letting you know I was relocating from New York to Perth Amboy. Unbeknownst to me, you had run away. Wornell Bray, my friend, has come to inform me of the predicament you’re in. I’m sending my secretary, Mr. Scott Sweeting, in an attempt to buy Mallie. If we succeed, she’ll be under my care until you finish your time. Then I’ll send her to Philadelphia. I’ll be eagerly awaiting news, praying our plan comes to fruition. Your belongings remain in my care, and whenever you send word, I’ll be glad to return them.
With my eternal gratitude,
L. Gro.
Perth Amboy, New Jersey
Blair looked up, perfectly confused. “But the agent who sold her said she was leaving for Jamaica.”
“That’s what Mr. Sweeting told Mr. Chisholm.” Bray beamed with satisfaction and raised a glass with brandy. “To our success.”
“I dinna ken what tae say. I’m afeared I’ll wake up,” Blair said, wheezing.
“And I’m afraid you’ll faint and not wake up, so do me a favor and go lie down. And try to finish your time without getting into any more trouble. If you need anything, anytime, come find me.”
Blair stepped into the muddy street. The clouds had emptied themselves; the afternoon sun streamed down onto his face and shoulders. The air had never seemed so crystal clear, the sky so open. Every street, every building shimmered with golden autumn light. He stumbled into the empty ropewalk quarters. Now that there was no need to run anywhere, from anyone, for any reason, the last scrap of strength that had kept him going drained from his body. He collapsed on his mat in a heap, rasping snores thrumming in his chest, his mouth slack, his forehead smooth.