“The past does not matter,” Eben said. “Tomorrow does. We should all go with Curzon.”
“Oh, no,” warned Benny Edwards. “We weren’t invited.”
“What if those ruffians come after him again?” Eben asked. “We’ll be his escort of safety. While he talks to the congressmen, we’ll wait in the kitchen. Think about it: the kitchen that feeds visitors from Congress. Don’t you think there might be a few crumbs there for lads like us?”
“Not to mention a proper floor and chairs to sit upon,” Silvenus said.
“No!” I said firmly. “I go alone.”
“He’s right,” Greenlaw said. “There’s a reason he was the only fellow invited.”
Eben and Silvenus both sighed deeply.
“You want to wear my boots?” Benny asked. “My feet are closest to yours in size.”
“Thank you, but no,” I said. “I’d rather have Faulkner’s.”
Faulkner lifted a tattered shoe into the air. “A walk that far will be the death of them.”
“If that happens, I shall be sure to shame the congressmen into finding you another pair,” I promised. “Your shoes are closest to what most fellows have. I aim to show them the real Valley Forge. Is there any flour left? I want to cook up some firecake for them to eat with their tea.”
They roared with laughter, and I finally relaxed, having succeeded in diverting their questions for the moment.
That night the fellows stacked on the bunks above and below me snored and itched through all the hours of darkness. The wind blew through the cracks in the walls; the fire hissed and popped. I watched the light and shadows chase each other across the floor and pondered my course of action.
Bellingham was overly fond of two phrases: “This tea is cold” and “Everything is trade.” He always claimed that all of the issues of the world can be boiled down to a bargain sealed between two people. I didn’t have much to bargain with, but I had little choice. We’d be stuck in camp for months yet, plenty of time for John Burns to get up to more mischief.
I hit upon my plan just as the rat-a-tat-tat of the brigade drummers signaled the new day.
CHAPTER XXXII
Friday, February 13, 1778
FIRST THE WANT OF A WAITER, AS I SHALL HAVE TO LEAVE THE ONE I NOW HAVE, & IN MY ABSENCE FROM CAMP THERE ‘L BE NO ONE TO TAKE CARE OF MY TENT & CLOTHES.
—LIEUTENANT ISAAC GUION, SECOND CONTINENTAL ARTILLERY, LETTER TO COLONEL JOHN LAMB ABOUT HIS NEED FOR A SERVANT
THE COLD ONCE AGAIN KEPT EVERYONE indoors. Smoke from a thousand chimneys climbed into the sky and settled there beneath the clouds. The snow had turned the frozen horse carcasses near the artillery camp from frightful skin-covered skeletons into padded humps of wool. The Grand Parade was a white ocean crosshatched by trails. A few fellows dashed here and there, but mostly I was alone with my thoughts and the sound of Faulkner’s shoes flapping with every step I took.
I shifted the rock I’d heated for the journey from my left hand to my right and reviewed my plan, sure of its success. A dozen paces later, I moved the rock back to my right hand, confident my plan would fail. My journey continued thus as my feet went cold, then burning hot, then so numb, I had to look at the ground to be certain I was stepping proper.
Beyond the rows of huts of the Life Guard lay the stone house where the general lived and directed the business of the war. There were plenty of soldiers and officers hurrying around headquarters, despite the frost in the air. The artisan workshops on the far side of the Valley Creek bridge were noisy with the sounds of blacksmith hammers, saws cutting, and the ping-ping of tinsmith’s tools.
I did not see any of the washerwomen or dames who sewed for the army, but their long skirts had left smooth trails in the snow. Some of their children had been recently at play, for I passed a small brigade of snowmen formed by tiny hands. One of the snow figures had suffered a dreadful amputation. I stopped to repair his arm by sticking the twig back into his round body.
I checked to make sure his arm was in the right place and thought suddenly of Ruth, Isabel’s little sister, who delighted in play like no other and could see only the good and cheerful side of life. With my finger, I drew a face on the snowman’s head and made him smile. My stone had lost its heat, so I volunteered its service as a large button on the snowman’s chest.
I walked on.
The noise of the workshops and the bustle of headquarters were soon swallowed by the falling snow. I stepped cautious as I could, but finally, the last bits of cord holding together the left shoe of Hugh Faulkner snapped. After that, I walked one hundred paces with the remaining shoe on my right foot, then one hundred paces wearing it on the left. I carried the pieces of the dead shoe in my pockets. If Silvenus could not find a way to stitch it together again, we might boil the leather in a soup one night.
Then again, if my plan worked, my friends would never dine on shoe soup again.
Moore Hall was three times the size of headquarters, with candlelight flickering in all of the downstairs windows and smoke pouring from two massive chimneys. Chimneys so large signified hearths that were big enough to roast a pig in. I felt warmer just thinking about them.
The steps were flanked by two tall Life Guards, their noses red from the cold.
“What’s your business here?” asked one.
“Mister Bellingham requested that I report to the Committee at Camp.” I tried for a formal tone of voice, but standing with one foot naked in the snow put me at a disadvantage.
“Use the kitchen door,” he said.
I turned, walked five paces, then stopped. I was a soldier summoned by the men of Congress. That was not an errand for the back door.
I spun around and walked back to the guards. “Do all who meet with the committee enter through the back door?”
“No,” answered the fellow who had ordered me around back. “Only filthy privates who don’t know what’s good for them.”
The approach of a half dozen men on horseback prevented me from saying something stupid. The snow muffled the sound of the hooves on the road, but the harnesses jingled and the men, deep in conversation, did not stop talking to one another, even as they dismounted and tossed the reins of the horses to the guards. I stood straight and tall, as the committee members and officers stepped past me.
The last to dismount was Bellingham.
“Curzon!” he exclaimed. “Is it that late already? Come in, come in. We’ve much to discuss.”
I followed him up the steps, nodded to the guards, and closed the door behind me.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Friday, February 13, 1778
I WISH MOST SINCERELY THERE WAS NOT A SLAVE IN THE PROVINCE. IT ALLWAYS APPEARD A MOST INIQUITOUS SCHEME TO ME—FIGHT OURSELFS FOR WHAT WE ARE DAILY ROBBING AND PLUNDERING FROM THOSE WHO HAVE AS GOOD A RIGHT TO FREEDOM AS WE HAVE. YOU KNOW MY MIND UPON THIS SUBJECT.
—ABIGAIL ADAMS, WHOSE FATHER OWNED SLAVES, WRITING TO HER HUSBAND, JOHN
THE SMALL ROOM JUST BEYOND THE door was crowded with gentlemen removing their coats, scarves, and hats, then taking turns hanging them from pegs stuck in the wall. Once that was accomplished, they headed down a long hall. One fellow paused, staring at me with curiosity and addressing Bellingham.
“Are you joining us, James?” he asked.
“In a moment,” Bellingham said.
I waited for the man to depart, then started in on the speech that had kept me awake all night. “Mister Bellingham, sir, I am greatly relieved to see you alive and in such good health. I pray that your good wife also fares well and that your business has not been too severely damaged by the war.”
Bellingham’s face was somber. “Thank you for the gracious sentiments, but I fear they are of little use. Lorna died last summer, and there is nothing left of what was my trading enterprise. This war has brought me countless trials.” He gestured to my shabby clothing. “It would appear you have suffered as well. I am grateful that Providence has brought us back together.”
&nbs
p; “Indeed, sir,” I answered.
“We can talk more later.” He pointed down the hallway.
“At the far end there, you’ll find the kitchen. The cook’s name is Mistress Cook, oddly enough. Can’t create a delicacy to save her life, but she’s well practiced at feeding hordes of hungry men. She should have a hot meal waiting for you. While you’re eating, she’ll prepare a bath.” He tilted his head to the side in puzzlement. “Is something the matter?”
“I . . . sir . . .,” I stammered.
The front door opened again. More officers crowded in before I could explain. They greeted Bellingham as they shrugged off their greatcoats. The pegs on the wall were all filled, so one of them tossed his coat at me. I caught it without a thought. Before I realized what I had done, the other men had piled their coats and hats in my arms, then they, too, moved down the hall.
“Busy doings here,” Bellingham said. “We’re trying to repair the Commissary Department and restore the army to strength.”
“Bellingham!” shouted a voice down the hall.
“One moment!” he responded.
My shoeless foot stood in a wet puddle on the wood floor. “I’d be happy to eat later, sir, if the congressmen want to question me now.” I shifted the wet coats to one arm. “Is there a maid who can take these?”
“I beg your pardon?” Bellingham’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Who wants to question you?”
“The men from the Congress, sir. They want to question me about the conditions for us soldiers.”
His eyes lit up and he laughed. “You didn’t think I was serious, did you? I spun that story to get you out of there. Didn’t want the other fellows to turn on you in their envy.”
“But—”
“First things first. Take those coats back to the kitchen, then eat. The cook has found some clothes for you, but you won’t have to wear them long. I’ll send a note to my tailor in York directing him to sew a suit of clothes for you that is more suitable for serving gentlemen.”
He leaned toward me and sniffed. “Exactly how long has it been since you used soap?”
I ignored the rudeness and held steady to my planned course. I would not agree to work for him without a fair wage.
“What shall be my rate of pay, sir?” I asked.
“Pay?” His brow wrinkled again.
“I know that many officers have hired soldiers to be their manservants, but I do not know what they are paid.”
“Ah.” He grasped his hands behind his back and stared at my bare foot before looking me straight in the eye. “Curzon,” he said softly, “I own you.”
“Not any longer.” I let the officers’ coats fall to the ground. “You agreed I’d be free when my first enlistment expired. That was more than a year ago.”
“My circumstances have changed,” he said.
“That does not concern me.”
His eyes widened at my tone. “I will forgive that unfortunate impudence out of respect for the service you’ve shown our country. But that will be the last of it.” He paused and lowered his voice. “I did say that I would one day free you, but that day has not yet come. The war has complicated everything for me.”
I thought of all I had endured—battle, prison, starvation, thirst, sickness, and cold—and I chuckled at his complications. I could not help myself.
“Stop that at once,” he demanded.
I laughed again, for he had become so small and so small-minded, he could not begin to understand how much had changed between us. “I won’t serve you, not for pay, not for anything. However, you still owe me my signing bonus.” I stuck out my hand. “Twenty pounds sterling, please. Continental money is worthless.”
Bellingham hit me across the face so hard, I flew into the coats that hung from the wall, then tripped over the coats on the floor.
“Never speak to me with that tone!” He stood over me, his fists clenched, a blue vein pulsing by his right eye. “Enough foolishness. You will eat, you will bathe, and you will do as I say.”
The ringing in my ears was so loud, I could barely hear him. I had made a grave miscalculation. There was only one thing to do.
I rose up in a fury, shoved all the coats at him, then pushed harder, so that he was driven backward, stumbling, then falling. As soon as he lost his balance, I turned, opened the door, and started running.
“Guards!” Bellingham yelled. “Seize that boy!”
CHAPTER XXXIV
Friday, February 13–Saturday, February 14, 1778
SUCH A PROCEEDING AS THIS, COMMITTED ON A DEFENCELESS STRANGER, ALMOST WORN OUT IN THE HARD SERVICE OF THE WORLD, WITHOUT ANY FOUNDATION IN REASON OR JUSTICE, WHATEVER IT MAY BE CALLED IN A CHRISTIAN LAND, WOULD IN MY NATIVE COUNTRY HAVE BEEN BRANDED AS A CRIME EQUAL TO HIGHWAY ROBBERY. BUT CAPTAIN HART WAS A WHITE GENTLEMAN, AND I A POOR AFRICAN, THEREFORE IT WAS ALL RIGHT, AND GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE BLACK DOG.
—VENTURE SMITH (BROTEER FURRO), WHO WAS KIDNAPPED FROM GUINEA AT AGE EIGHT AND EVENTUALLY BOUGHT HIS OWN FREEDOM (HIS FREE SON, CUFF, FOUGHT FOR THE PATRIOTS FOR THREE YEARS.)
THEY CAUGHT ME.
Everything was done according to the law.
I spent a day and night in the guardhouse, held prisoner alongside soldiers who’d been caught thieving, assaulting an officer, or trying to desert to the enemy. One by one, they were taken to their court-martials. Some were found innocent and didn’t return. Others came back in shock, knowing that at week’s end they’d be whipped one hundred times, two hundred fifty times, or more to pay for their crimes.
My crime? I enlisted as a free man when I was still owned by Bellingham.
The three court-martial judges sat behind a table in a small room of the bakehouse. I stood in the center of the room, my hands shackled together, Hugh Faulkner’s remaining shoe on my left foot. Bellingham sat on a chair behind me. To the side sat Captain Russell and John Burns. A guard stood in front of the door, armed with a cudgel, a thick hickory stick that was rounded and polished at one end.
None of my friends attended.
Bellingham lied, of course. John Burns did too, painting me as a troublemaker and a malcontent who near ruined all the fellows in his company with my evil habits. When it came my turn to speak, I told of Bellingham’s promise to free me. The judges—all high-ranking officers—asked me to provide proof of the promise. I had none.
One judge sided with me. I ought be given my freedom, he said, because I chose to enlist a second time when it would have been safer for me to leave the region and go about my life. He said the Congress should pay Bellingham for his loss.
The vote was two against one. Because of my service, neither I nor Bellingham would be required to pay back the enlistment bonus I’d received in Saratoga. When the soldiers of camp finally received their pay, mine would be given to Mister Bellingham, though there was no telling when the money would arrive.
I studied the windows and doors whilst they droned on. There was no point in trying to run. Even if I was fast enough to get by the guard at the door, I would not get far. The time to flee would come, but not today.
Bellingham thanked the court in a high-flown speech that ended with an invitation to all of them to join him for dinner soon. The judges assembled their papers, pushed back from the table, and said they would soon take him up on the offer. Captain Russell led John Burns over to introduce him to the judges.
Bellingham walked past me. “Come, Curzon.”
He reached the door before he realized I was not behind him. He turned, glaring, and retraced his steps until he stood in front of me.
“You have no choice, boy,” he said low, not wanting the others in the room to notice my insurrection.
“I am free,” I said to him.
He grasped the chain that linked the shackles around my wrists to each other. “Hardly.”
I spat in his face.
The guard’s cudgel bashed my skull.
CHAPTER XXXV
Saturday, February 14, 1778
COL. JOHN E
LY WAS ORDERED TO DISMISS A NEGRO SLAVE (OWNED BY JOSEPH CRANDALL) FROM HIS REGIMENT, TO RETURN TO SAID CRANDALL; AND HIS PREMIUM, ARMS, ETC TO BE RETURNED BEFORE HIS DISMISSION.
—ACT OF THE CONNECTICUT GOVERNOR AND COUNCIL OF SAFETY, JULY 7, 1777
BELLINGHAM RODE HIS HORSE ALONGSIDE the wagon that the guard had dumped me in. I sat next to a cask of flour and a small chest of tea.
He spoke.
My ears were stopped up with snow and anger and blood.
And then we were standing in front of the back door to Moore Hall.
And the horse was gone, the wagon gone.
He reached around me. Opened the door.
And then I was sitting in a chair, before a kitchen hearth. An old cook with twisted fingers set a steaming bowl afore me. I picked up the bowl and sipped. My hands were no longer shackled together, but it felt like they were. My feet were dry, but my bones were ice.
I drank all the broth.
My head laid itself on the table and I was no longer master of my own body, of my head, of my heart, and somewhere my father was angry and I did not know how to explain. My eyes closed themselves.
I will kill Bellingham.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Saturday, February 14, 1778
THE MAN THAT SAYS SLAVES BE QUITE HAPPY IN SLAVERY—THAT THEY DON’T WANT TO BE FREE—THAT MAN IS EITHER IGNORANT OR A LYING PERSON.
—MARY PRINCE, BORN 1778, THE FIRST WOMAN TO WRITE ABOUT HER LIFE IN SLAVERY
WHEN I WOKE, THE CLOUDS WERE scurrying to cover the late-afternoon sun. The food and sleep had drained the befuddlement from my head. It hurt some when I stood up, but I could see and think clear.
A stocky lad carrying a jar and a dirty polishing rag entered the kitchen of Moore Hall. He was taller than me but not too many years older. His eyes were set far apart from each other and bulged a bit, like a frog’s. His shoes were polished, both the leather and the fat pewter buckles. Spotless white stockings fit tight to his calves. His breeches were black wool and appeared tailored to his form. He wore a tobacco-colored waistcoat over a linen shirt as white as snow, the sleeves of it rolled up so that he might work without making it dirty. Had his skin been white, I would have figgered him for a manservant, working for one of the congressmen. As his skin was as dark as mine, it was more likely that he was a slave.