Copper Sun

  Amari glanced up at the large woman and shook her head ruefully. Prayers? What good have they done? Then she pulled herself back to the reality that faced her. It was hard to hate what the whites had done and be thankful to Polly and this white woman in the same moment. “I be grateful for your help, ma’am,” Amari managed to say. “Your kindness make me much happy.”

  Visibly pleased, Fiona showed them the bundles she had brought from the house. The first was a pile of clothes. “My Peggy, God rest her soul, left this world one year past. She died of the fever. About the age of you gals, she was.” She paused.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Polly said. “You must miss her. We have all lost loved ones as well.”

  “Yes, I suppose you have,” Fiona replied. “Well, you need fresh clothes—those you have on are filthy and torn. Put these on.”

  Fiona gave the girls two simple dresses, one of blue calico and the other of brown flannel. Each dress was well worn. She had also brought bonnets, aprons, and shoes. Polly changed quickly.

  Amari took her time. She slowly peeled off the ragged shift she wore. Fiona gasped as she saw the ugly welts on Amari’s back.

  “Oh my goodness, child. What happened to your back?”

  “Whip, ma’am,” Amari said simply.

  “You must have been extremely disobedient,” Fiona exclaimed.

  Amari looked up with daggers in her eyes, but she remembered the danger they were in and struggled to make her face emotionless. “My massa thought so, ma’am,” she said quietly.

  “Is that a brand on your back?” Fiona continued. She reached over and touched the raised and blackened letter on Amari’s shoulder. Amari flinched. Full of shame, Amari wished the woman would drop the subject. “We brand our cattle, of course, but I’ve never bothered to check to see if any of our slaves carry brands. Is that a common practice, dearie?”

  “Yes’m,” Amari mumbled. It was hard not to explode.

  “Well, there’s nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse,” Fiona said philosophically. She glanced one last time at Amari’s back before she slipped on the brown dress, then hurried over to Tidbit. Fiona handed him a fresh shirt and a clean pair of breeches.

  “What should we do now, Miss Fiona?” Polly asked.

  “You running north?” Fiona asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Amari replied. “South.”

  “Why?” Fiona asked, looking perplexed.

  “Freedom,” Amari replied. “Place call Fort Mose.”

  “That’s in Spanish territory,” Fiona told them. “Your journey is one I would not take.”

  “All we know be dead and gone,” Amari tried to explain. “Only left be hope and dreams.” She thought sadly of Besa and angrily of their dreams.

  Fiona nodded. “My father brought us to this country for freedom, but he died doing it. My Patrick works hard for our freedom, and still death found us. Hope and dreams are all any of us have.” She wiped away a tear.

  Again Amari wondered how a slave owner could speak so strongly about freedom.

  “How far to Spanish territory?” Polly asked after a moment’s silence.

  “I do not rightly know. But it is too far to walk. I’m giving you all this wagon, lass,” she said to Polly.

  “What will your husband say?” Polly asked in alarm.

  “I’ll tell him thieves came in and took it while he was out a-hunting!” Fiona replied with a laugh. “Serves him right for staying away for so long. I’ll tell him they took off heading north.”

  “I know the horse is valuable,” Polly added. “We are very grateful.” She reached into the sack that Dr. Hoskins had given them, looked briefly at Amari as if to make sure she agreed, then offered Fiona the coins.

  “Thank you, ma’am. You be so kind,” Amari added quietly.

  Fiona quickly tucked the coins into one of her large pockets. “Big Brownie is old and ’bout to die. Better to die on a journey than in a barn, I say. He may get you where you need to go.”

  Tidbit ran to her and hugged her. “You nice like my mama. Soft like my mama.”

  Fiona nodded and her eyes welled up. “You children get going. May the good Lord take a liking to you, but not too soon! Here’s a bit of food—oranges and biscuits and a little salt pork.” She lifted the bundle and put it beneath the wagon seat.

  “Thank you for everything, Miss Fiona,” Polly said. “Should we travel on the main road?”

  “You drive the wagon, lass. Can you pretend to be a mistress?”

  Polly hesitated. “Yes, ma’am. I think I can do that.”

  “If anyone stops you, tell them these two are your slaves. If you think there is danger, hide them under the straw.”

  Polly nodded.

  “Travel by night and follow the road south. I’ve never been that far, but I hear tell that it goes straight through Georgia Colony to the end of the world—Spanish territory.”

  They climbed into the small wagon—Polly holding the reins of the old horse, Amari sitting next to her on the seat. Tidbit sat in the back on the hay. Dusk was approaching.

  “May your feet bring you to where your heart is. Godspeed,” Fiona called as they waved. “Godspeed.”

  Amari looked back once for Besa, but he did not appear. She shed no tears. Besa was now a memory, tucked away with all the rest of the things she had lost.

  Hushpuppy bounded into the back of the wagon into Tidbit’s arms just as they pulled onto the road. The moon shone brightly that night, and Amari decided it was lighting a path to her future.

  PART TEN

  POLLY

  38. THE SPANISH SOLDIER

  WITH THE WAGON, THEY MADE REMARKABLE TIME. What might have taken them three or four days walking, they covered in one evening, rolling not exactly smoothly over the bumpy, rutted road, but thankfully. Old Brownie seemed to have regained a bit of his youthful energy, neighing and shaking his mane at the start of each evening’s travel.

  Polly chuckled to herself as she remembered a horse her father had once owned. Old Fart, he had called it because the horse had had a terrible problem with flatulence. He eventually sold it to a farmer he didn’t like. “One fart deserves another!” her father had joked, making up funny horse stories, complete with vividly descriptive sound effects, all to amuse Polly. Her mother had frowned with mild disapproval at first, but eventually, the three of them ended up laughing uproariously in front of the hearth that whole evening. Those were the times she missed—not the days of hunger or rats or sickness, but the warmth of the fire when her family laughed.

  “What do you miss most about your mother, Amari?” she asked as they rumbled down the road in the starlight.

  Amari was silent for a moment, then she said, “Seem like no matter what I ask her, she always got the right answer. Sure be nice to talk to her one time.”

  Polly nodded in understanding. “My father wasn’t perfect,” she admitted, “but my mother truly loved him. She would light up like a lantern when he walked into a room.” She paused. “At the end, she was in severe pain, but she was so brave, never complaining, only worrying about what would happen to me.”

  Amari pulled the reins so the horse would step around a branch on the road. “I never seen my mama scared, never seen her not know what to do.” She breathed deeply of the night air. “Even the night she die, she fight like a lion.”

  “You know, you’re brave as well, Amari. Your mother would be proud of you,” Polly said honestly. “Your belief in Fort Mose, along with your strength and courage, is what has brought us this far.”

  Amari shook her head. “I be scared all the time,” she admitted. “I never be brave as lion like my mama.”

  Polly looked up at the sparkling night. “I think of my mother at night as we travel,” she told Amari. “It helps.” Amari glanced at the sky and smiled as if the thought was comforting.

  “What about my mama?” Tidbit asked then. “I wanna go back home.”

  Amari and Polly both hugged him. “We gotta find new home,
” Amari told him. “Your mama want you to be big boy. You know she love you, even if she can’t be with you.” Tidbit seemed unconvinced. He put his thumb in his mouth and leaned against Amari.

  By day they still hid as best they could, sleeping under the wagon and praying they would not be discovered. There had been no sign of Clay.

  Polly noticed that Amari seemed to be having trouble sleeping. One afternoon when Amari woke with a start, covered with sweat, Polly told her quietly, “You must think of your young man as dead, Amari. I am so sorry.”

  Amari nodded her head in agreement. “Maybe been better if I not see Besa like that.”

  “Maybe it was a good thing,” Polly suggested quietly. “Perhaps it will give you strength to go on.”

  “Make me feel sick inside,” Amari told her. “And angry, too.”

  Polly traced a pattern with her finger in the dirt. “You know, I never really knew any black people before I came to Mr. Derby’s place. I mean, everybody had slaves, of course, but I never actually thought about them. And I certainly never had a black friend before,” she admitted.

  Amari looked away. “Sometime I hate white people,” she admitted softly. “I never hate before I be a slave.” She stretched her arms. “I never even see white person until they attack my village. It be hard to have hate feeling and like feeling at same time.”

  Polly said, “I understand, Amari.”

  Amari looked at Polly and said shyly, “I think now I have friend with pale skin.”

  Polly replied quietly, “For certain you do.”

  Amari looked into Polly’s eyes. “If we gets to Fort Mose, you gonna stay?”

  Polly didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. I have not thought about it deeply. I truly have no place else to go.”

  Amari shrugged. “I never go back to my land,” she said, her voice plaintive. “But this be land of white people. Maybe you find a place for you.”

  “Maybe,” Polly replied thoughtfully.

  Amari put her head in her hands and rocked. Finally, her voice full of anguish, she revealed her concerns. “Maybe nothing be there, Polly. Maybe it be no good place. Maybe Besa right and we be catched.”

  “And maybe he is wrong, and you and Tidbit will be forever free!” Polly said firmly. “You told Fiona that Tidbit is yours. He is your child now, Amari. He needs you to be strong.”

  “Maybe I not be strong enough to be a mother,” Amari said doubtfully.

  Polly smiled and looked at the sleeping child. “You would die for that child.”

  “Yes, for sure,” Amari admitted. “In my village all women be mothers to all the children. Maybe Tidbit belong to both of us,” Amari said.

  Tidbit opened his eyes and grinned. “Tidbit belong to Tidbit!” he said cheerfully. Amari’s sad mood seemed to lift as she and Polly tickled him. Even when they played and laughed, however, they did it quietly, always watchful of footsteps or danger, always fearful of the return of Clay.

  The land in southern Georgia lay vastly undeveloped, with fewer and fewer settlements of farmers. Amari did see in the distance, however, occasional garrisons of soldiers the farther south they traveled.

  “Those soldiers make me nervous,” Polly whispered to Amari, not wanting Tidbit to hear.

  “Soldiers carry guns,” Amari said, remembering the men who had attacked her village. “That not be good.”

  “Let’s be extra quiet tonight,” Polly suggested.

  The moon hid behind the clouds, and the night shadows played tricks on Amari’s imagination. She kept looking behind her. Nevertheless, they drove their little wagon carefully and slowly down the deserted path that night. It seemed to shout their location as it managed to hit every bump and hollow in the road.

  They’d traveled for several hours without saying a word when, without warning, a shadowy body appeared about ten feet in front of them. “Halt, who goes there?” the male voice called out shakily.

  Polly thought immediately of Clay—perhaps he had found them once more. Amari clutched Tidbit to her, and Polly grasped her arm. She was not sure if the man had seen them. To get so close and then be captured!

  The voice spoke again. “¡Pare! Halt! I mean, stop, I mean ¡Pare!” The footsteps moved unsteadily. “If you mean me harm or if you be un fantasma—a ghost—go away!” Whoever had been speaking fell silent.

  “What should we do?” whispered Polly.

  “Run!” Amari whispered back. “Leave the wagon!”

  The two girls climbed down to the road, motioning to Tidbit to jump. But Tidbit, instead of silently slipping from the wagon, shouted, “Who be that, Amari?”

  The shadowy voice on the road roared. Tidbit screamed. Polly’s heart sank. She knew they were captured. But the person on the road didn’t grab either of the girls—he reached out and snatched Tidbit from Amari.

  Tidbit protested loudly and wriggled to get free. Then the voice yelped in pain, and suddenly Tidbit was back on the ground. Amari grabbed him back close to her.

  “He bit me!” a man’s voice whined. Polly relaxed a bit. It wasn’t Clay’s voice and, when she thought about it, not even a threatening voice.

  Polly headed toward the man, then stopped. Hushpuppy barked hysterically. The silence of the night completely destroyed, they all stood there on the road like actors in a play, each waiting for the other’s next move.

  Polly spoke first. “Are you drunk?” she asked, trying to understand the man’s unusual behavior.

  “No estoy borracho—I am not drunk,” the man responded. “I never partake of strong spirits, but it might help, however, in this insect-infested country.” He belched. “What I am is afraid of things in the night—wolves and bears and such.”

  “And children?” Polly asked.

  “Why not? It is dark and you surprised me.”

  “He is soldier,” Amari said, her voice low.

  “Now, that is a fact,” the man replied in agreement as he stumbled on the road. “Soy un cabo en el ejército del rey—I am a corporal in the army of His Majesty King Philip V. Of course, I have never met the king, but who am I to question kings and generals?” He burped again. “Greetings to you from mi país de España—my beloved home country of Spain.”

  “You are Spanish?” Polly asked suspiciously. She wished she could speak the language.

  “And most proud of it, my dear. And missing my home mightily.” He sighed. “I am Domingo Salvador, just another lonely soldier from Madrid.”

  “So why you grab the child?” Amari asked him angrily.

  “The night frightens me. He could have been a bear. Tuve miedo—I was afraid,” the soldier admitted, seeming to cower from Amari’s words.

  “I not no bear,” Tidbit stated, sounding mildly insulted. Then he giggled.

  “What are you children doing out here a media—in the middle of the night?” the soldier asked.

  Polly replied with another question. “Where are the rest of the soldiers in your company, and why are you out here alone at night?”

  “They are asleep, but we patrol the area for English troops and runaways. Me, I would rather be home with my Maria. We had just married when I was called to this service.” He swatted at his arm. “All I have for company are los mosquitos y las memorias.” He belched once more.

  “What do you do with runaways?” Polly asked carefully.

  The soldier looked at Polly with bleary eyes. “Officially, runaways do not exist until they leave the colonies. But once they cross El Río del Santa María—the St. Marys River—we help them to St. Augustine. King Philip does not believe in slavery of any kind,” he told them proudly.

  “Which way to this river?” Amari asked warily.

  “Just two days’ journey down this road,” the soldier replied. “Why do you ask? You be fugitivos, runaways?”

  “Of course not,” Polly said. “Maybe you are intoxicated after all. I am returning to my home from a visit to my grandfather’s house.”

  The young soldier replied. “I am
sorry to have frightened you.”

  “Go back to your company, Corporal Salvador,” Polly told him, “and I will not tell my father that I saw you on the road.”

  “Oh, gracias, thank you, señorita,” the soldier replied as he smoothed out his uniform. “On the morrow I will believe you were all in mi sueño—my dream.” He then looked at Polly seriously. “Be very careful, señorita. The soldiers of the English are cruel and dangerous. The river you need to cross is not far.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Polly said, realizing he was not as simple as he looked.

  The Spanish soldier looked at the three children and smiled. “The place you seek, my children, is called Gracia Real de Santa Teresa de Mose. The English call it Fort Mose. It is two miles north of St. Augustine.”

  Sounding suspicious, Amari spoke up. “What you know ’bout that place?”

  Corporal Salvador sat down in the middle of the road. “It is muy pequeño—very small. Only about a hundred people live there—just a few families. But they own the land they work on, and ellos son libres—they are free—to do as they please,” he added quietly.

  “What are the people there like?” Polly asked.

  “Mostly freed slaves. Some white folk—mostly Spaniards, españoles. Lots of Indians from different tribes—Creek, Seminole, Cherokee—all living together. There is nothing like it en todo el mundo—in all the world.”

  “White soldiers in charge?” Amari asked.

  The Spanish soldier laughed. “Actually, no. El capitán of the fort is Francisco Menendez, a black man. He was once un esclavo—a slave.”

  Amari looked impressed.

  “Of course, I know you are not interested in this place and simply returning home to your father,” the soldier continued, “but if you should ever be in that location, you would find churches—Catholic, of course—shops, gardens, and simple homes. Lots of niños—children—as well.” He looked at Tidbit, who scooted behind Amari.

  “You are right, sir,” Polly said, continuing the pretense that none of them knew what they were actually discussing. “My father must be worried by now. I must be on my way.”