Freedom Bound by Jean Rae Baxter Page A

repeated in a mocking tone. “Noble sentiments . . . for a slave. So when Jammy
returns to rescue the damsel in distress, they’ll put a rope
around his neck.”
    â€œDamn shame. I’m sorry for Lewis,” said his companion.
“He told me the boy’s a first-rate hand with horses. A good
stable groom is hard to find. But Lewis has to make an
example of him or we’ll end up with a full-scale slave revolt.
At least they got back the girl.”
    â€œThe Morleys aren’t keeping her, though,” said the gentleman in the blue coat. “I met Lewis this morning on his way
to the Royal Gazette office to place an advertisement. The
wench will be sold at auction next week.”
    â€œI’m not surprised they’ve decided to sell her,” said the
other. “Lewis’ wife Abby told my wife months ago that the
girl was giving her a lot of trouble. This was even before thatawkward business of the baby. Abby said the girl is too clever
for her own good. A couple of years ago, the Morleys hired
her out to a Quaker woman who taught her to read and
write. That’s what spoiled her.”
    â€œQuite right,” said the gentleman in blue. “A slave’s no
good once he gets a little learning into his head. Turns him
into a troublemaker. Best thing the Morleys can do with the
girl is sell her.”
    â€œThose Quakers are a serious problem we need to deal
with,” said the gentleman in the green coat. “For all their
peaceful ways, they’re a threat to society. If our slaves someday rise up against us, the Quakers will have our blood on
their hands.”
    Now Charlotte had some real news. Jammy was a fugitive.
Phoebe had been returned to her owners and was about to
be sold.
    Tightening her arms around her bundle, she set off for
Stoll’s Alley.

Chapter 9

    THE HARBOUR WIND whipped at her back. It had started to
rain, and the muck underfoot was slippery. Peering around
the edge of her bundle, she looked for solid footing where
there was none. She just hoped she could get back to Stoll’s
Alley without taking a tumble.
    It was not to be. Stepping around a pile of horse manure,
she skidded and landed on her backside. For a moment she
simply sat there, the bundle still in her arms. Well, she
thought, it’s a good thing I’m carrying dirty laundry instead
of clean.
    A stout man wearing a tricorn hat walked by, looking away
in an obvious pretence that he did not see her. Charlotte wasstill sitting on the muddy roadway when she noticed someone coming from across the street. He stopped in front of
her.
    â€œAllow me to help you.”
    He spoke with a Mohawk Valley accent, not the drawn-out South Carolina drawl. Charlotte recognized more than
just the accent. She knew the voice. Looking up, she saw a
red coat with white cross belts, and above the coat the familiar face of her friend Elijah Cobman, formerly of the King’s
Royal Regiment of New York, the Royal Greens.
    Their eyes met. His jaw dropped.
    â€œCharlotte!”
    â€œOh, Elijah!” She felt as overwhelmed as if her guardian
angel had appeared before her, totally forgetting that she did
not want to encounter anyone she knew. But Elijah was different—a friend with whom she had shared danger and
hardship.
    â€œAre you hurt?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    He held out his hand to help her.
    â€œPlease. Just take the bundle. Then I can get up on my
own.”
    He took it from her and held it while she struggled to her
feet. The bundle was only slightly splashed with muck; Charlotte’s gown was a mess.
    Elijah stared at her in a dazed sort of way. “What are you
doing here? When I saw you on Carleton Island three monthsago, you never breathed a word about going to Charleston,
even when I told you the army might send me back down
south.”
    â€œThree months ago, I hadn’t the least idea. I got a letter
from Nick just a few days after you left. In his