Chapter Four
Frederick comes to a dead end
William Freeland, master of Freelands, gave his rein the slightest tug as he rode between the huge stone columns. It was good to be alone and let all memory of the Tilghmans drain from his mind, including Delia’s girlish laughter. He was glad the Christmas was over. Now he could have peace.
Just inside the wrought-iron gates, where the graveled drive was guarded by a stately sycamore, the big mare came to a quivering pause. She knew this was where her master wished to stop. From this spot the old dwelling far up the drive, with tulip poplars huddled around it, was imposing.
It was a good house, built in the good old days when Maryland boasted noble blood. Beside the winding staircase of the wide hall hung a painting of Eleanor, daughter of Benedict Calvert, sixth Lord Baltimore. William Freeland was not a Calvert; but the families had been close friends, and the lovely Eleanor had danced in those halls. That was before Maryland had broken her ties with England. For a long time there were those who regretted the day Maryland signed the Articles of Confederation; but when ambitious neighbors crowded their boundaries, loyal Marylanders rallied round; and in 1785 William Freeland’s father, Clive Freeland, had gone to Mount Vernon to contest Virginia’s claim to the Potomac. He had spoken eloquently, and Alexander Hamilton had accompanied the young man home. There Hamilton had been received by Clive’s charming bride, had rested and relaxed and, under the spell of Freelands, had talked of his own coral-strewn, sun-drenched home in the Caribbeans.
In those days the manor house sat in the midst of a gently rolling green. Spreading trees towered above precise box borders; turfed walkways, bordered with beds of delicate tea-roses, crossed each other at right angles; Cherokee rose-vines climbed the garden walls; and wisteria, tumbling over the veranda, showed bright against the whitewashed bricks, joined with pink crêpe myrtle by the door and flowed out toward the white-blossomed magnolias in the yard. The elegant, swarthy Hamilton lingered, putting off his return to New York as long as he could. He told them how he hated that city’s crooked, dirty streets and shrill-voiced shopkeepers.
All this was fifty years ago. The great estate had been sold off in small lots. On the small plantation that was left, the outhouses were tumbling down, moss hung too low on the trees, the hedges needed trimming and bare places showed in the lawn. Everything needed a coat of paint. Slowly but surely the place was consuming itself, as each year bugs ate into the tobacco crop.
“It will last out our time.” More than that consideration did not concern the present master of Freelands.
There was a faint wild fragrance of sweet shrub in the air—the smell of spring. It was the first day of January, but he knew that plowing must be got under way. Spring would be early. He sighed. Undoubtedly, things would have been very different had his elder brother lived. For Clive, Jr., had had will and energy. He would have seen to it that the slaves did their work. He would have made the crops pay. Clive had been a fighter. In fact, Clive had been killed in a drunken brawl. The whole thing had been hushed up, and young William sent off to Europe. For several years they spoke of him as “studying abroad.” Actually, William did learn a great deal. He met lots of people who became less queer as the days and months passed. He ran into Byron in Italy.
A cable from his mother had brought him hurrying back home. His father was dead when he arrived.
Everything seemed to have shrunk. For a little while he was appalled by what he saw and heard. Then gradually the world outside fell away. His half-hearted attempts to change things seemed silly. He had forgotten how easy life could be in Maryland.
Now he looked at the substantial old house. Someone was opening the second-floor shutters. That meant his mother was getting up. He smiled, thinking how like the house she was—untouched, unmarred, unshaken by the passing years. At seventy she was magnificent—the real master of Freelands. He bowed to her every wish, except one. Here he shook his head and laughed softly. At forty, he remained unmarried.
His mother could not understand that the choice young bits of femininity which she paraded before him amused, but did not intrigue, him. So carefully guarding their pale skin against the sun, so daintily lifting billowing flowered skirts, so demure, waiting behind their veils in their rose gardens. He knew too well the temper and petty shrewishness that lurked behind their soft curls. In some cases there would be brains, too, but brains lying dormant. None of them could hold a candle to his mother! He would tell her so, stooping to kiss her ear.
The mare pawed restlessly. Someone was whistling just outside the gate. Freeland drew up closer to the low wall. It was a black who had sat down on the stump beside the road. He was pulling on a shoe. The other shoe lay on the ground beside him. Apparently he had been walking along the sandy road in his bare feet. Freeland chuckled. Just like a nigger! Give them a good pair of shoes, and the minute your back’s turned they take them off. Don’t give them shoes, and they say they can’t work. This fellow was undoubtedly turning in at Freelands and didn’t want to appear barefoot.
He was standing up now, brushing himself off carefully. A likely looking youngster, well built. Freeland wondered where he belonged. He wasn’t black, rather that warm rich brown that indicated mixed blood.
“Bad blood,” his mother always called it. And she would have rapped her son smartly with her cane had he questioned the verdict. Why should he? It would seem that the Atlantic Ocean produced some queer alchemical changes in bloods. In Europe “mixed blood” was, well, just mixed blood. Everybody knew that swarthy complexions in the south of France, in Spain, in Italy, indicated mixed blood. Over here things were different. Certainly there was nothing about slavery to improve stock. He had seen enough to know that.
He suspected that his mother had doubts and suspicions which she did not voice. Her feverish anxiety to get him safely married didn’t fool him. He shrugged his shoulders. She need not worry. He knew men who blandly sold off their own flesh and blood. He rubbed elbows with them at the tobacco market, but he never invited them to his table.
In the road Frederick stood looking at the gates a moment. They were swung back, so he had no hesitancy about entering; but he had never seen such large gates before. He touched the iron trimmings. Close by a horse neighed. Frederick turned and knew it must be the master sitting there so easily on the big red mare. He jerked off his hat and bowed.
“Well, boy, what do you want?” The voice was pleasant.
“I’m Captain Auld’s boy, sir. He sent me to work.”
Freeland studied the brown face. This young darky was unusual; such speech was seldom heard on the Eastern Shore. He asked another question.
“Where are you from, boy?”
Frederick hesitated. It was hardly likely that his master had told his prospective employer about the year at Covey’s. Had he heard from some other source? That would be a bad start. He temporized.
“I walked over from St. Michaels just now, sir.”
“Must have got an early start. We haven’t had breakfast here yet.”
The master slid easily to the ground, tossing the reins in the boy’s direction. “Come along!”
He had not the faintest idea what this was all about. But things had a way of clearing up in time. He started walking up the driveway toward the house. Frederick followed with the horse.
“Did you bring a note?” Freeland asked the question over his shoulder.
“No, sir. Captain Auld just told me to get along.”
Who the devil is Captain Auld? Oh, he remembered, St. Michaels—yes. Had said he could send him some help this spring, a good strong hand. Now what would poor trash like Auld be doing with a slave like this? He spoke his thoughts aloud, impatiently.
“You’re not a field hand! What do you know about tobacco?”
Frederick’s heart missed a beat. He didn’t want him; didn’t like his looks! He saw the big gates of Freelands—this lovely place—swinging shut behind him. He swallowed.
“I—I can do a good day’s work. I mighty strong.”
Freeland flipped a leaf from a bush with his riding crop before he spoke.
“You weren’t raised up at St. Michaels, and you’re no field hand. Don’t lie to me, boy!” He turned and looked Frederick full in the face. The boy stopped but did not flinch. Nor did he drop his eyes in confusion. After all, the explanation was simple.
“When I was little, Old Marse sent me to Baltimore to look after his grandson, Tommy. I was raised up there.”
“I see. Who’s your folks?”
The answer came promptly. “Colonel Lloyd’s my folks, sir.”
“Oh!”
So that was it! Colonel Edward Lloyd—one of the really great places in Talbot County—secluded, far from all thoroughfares of travel and commerce, sufficient unto itself. Colonel Lloyd had transported his products to Baltimore in his own vessels. Every man and boy on board, except the captain, had been owned by him as his property. The plantation had its own blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers and coopers—all slaves—all “Colonel Lloyd’s folks.” Freeland’s mother had known dashing Sally Lloyd, the Colonel’s eldest daughter. They had sailed together in the sloop called the Sally Lloyd. Yes, the old master was dead now. Naturally many of the slaves had been sold. He was in luck.
They had reached the house. Freeland mounted the veranda steps. He did not look around. His words were almost gruff.
“Go on round back. Sandy’ll take care of you.”
He disappeared, leaving Frederick’s “Yessir” hanging in the air.
Frederick patted the mare’s neck and whispered in her ear, “It’s all right, old girl. Let’s go find Sandy!”
From the road the big house and its tangled yard made a charming picture of sleepy tranquility. But “round back” all was bustling activity. “The Christmas” was over. Aunt Lou had emphasized the fact in no uncertain terms.
“Yo black scamps clean up all dis hyear trash!”
Rakes, brooms, mops and wheelbarrows were whisking. There were sleepy groans and smart cuffs. Already one round bottom had been spanked. Everybody knew New Year’s was a day to start things right. Aunt Lou’s standards and authority were unquestioned. Mis’ Betsy would be coming along soon. And Lawd help if everything wasn’t spick and span by then! ’Course Master William was already up and out on that mare of hissen. But nobody minded Master William too much. Though he could lay it on if he got mad! Most of the time he didn’t pay no ’tention to nothin’—not a thing.
Then came a strange nigger leading Master William’s horse. Well! The young ones stopped and stared, finger in mouth. Susan, shaking a rug out of an upstairs window, nearly pitched down into the yard. John and Handy regarded the intruder with eager interest. Sandy turned and just looked at him.
Frederick’s pulse raced, but he made no sign of recognition either.
Then “voodoo” Sandy smiled, and everybody relaxed. So!
In the high wainscoted dining room young Henry was serving breakfast. Old Caleb always served dinner—and even breakfast when there were guests—but Henry was in training under the eye of his mistress. Polished silver, gleaming white linen and sparkling glasses—all the accoutrements of fine living were there. A slight woman in a soft black silk dress with an ivory-colored collar, sat across from Master William. Her hair was white, but her blue-veined hands had not been worn by the years and her eyes remained bright and critical. The mistress of Freelands had not aged; she had withered.
“Henry!” She rapped the table with her spoon. “Be careful there! How many times have I told you not to use those cups for breakfast?”
“Please, Mis’ Betsy.” Henry’s tone was plaintive. “’Tain’t none of mah fault. Caleb set ’em out, ma’m. They was sittin’ right hyear on tha sideboard.”
“Stop whining, Henry!” Her son seldom spoke with such impatience. Mrs. Freeland glanced at him sharply.
“Yessah, Massa William, but—” began Henry.
“He’s quite right, Mother,” Freeland interrupted. “Caleb served coffee to the Tilghmans before they left. I had a cup myself.”
“I’m glad of that.” The cups were forgotten. “I had no idea they were leaving so early. I should have been up to see my guests off.”
“No need at all, Mother. I accompanied the carriage a good piece down the road. They’ll make it back to Richmond in no time.”
“It was nice having them for the holidays.” She tasted her coffee critically.
Mornings were pleasant in this room. The canary, hanging beside the window, caught the gleam of sunshine on its cage and burst into song. Some place out back a child laughed. The mistress suppressed a sigh. It would be a black child. Her son lounged so easily in his chair. She bit her lips.
“I never thought Delia Tilghman would grow up to be such a charming young lady.” She spoke casually. “She’s really lovely.”
“She is, indeed, Mother,” her son assented; but at his smile she looked away.
“I reckon Caleb better wash these cups himself.” Her eyes grew indulgent as they rested on Henry. He shuffled his feet as she added, “Henry here was probably out skylarking all night.”
“Yes, ma’m.” Henry gave a wide grin before vanishing kitchen-ward.
His master’s snort was emphatic. “Henry probably slept twelve hours last night. The silly ass!”
“Really, William, I do not understand your attitude toward our own people. Henry was born right here at Freelands.”
He laughed and took another hot biscuit.
“Which undoubtedly should make him less an ass. But does it?” At his mother’s stricken look he was contrite. “Forgive me, Mother, but I’ve just found much better material for you to work on, worthy of your efforts.”
“What are you talking about?”
Henry had returned with golden-brown baked apples, swimming in thick syrup.
“Henry,” Freeland said, “step out back and fetch in that new boy.” Henry’s eyes widened, but he did not move. “Run along! You’ll see him.”
Henry disappeared, moving faster than was his wont. Freeland smiled at his mother.
“I took on a new boy this morning. You’ll like him.”
Mrs. Freeland was incredulous. “You bought a boy this morning?”
“I’m hiring this fellow from a peckawood over at St. Michaels.” His mother’s sniff was audible. “But he’s really one of Colonel Lloyd’s people.”
“Oh! That’s different. Should be good stock.”
“Unquestionably. I’d like to buy him.”
The old lady’s eyes had grown reminiscent. She shook her head.
“I wonder if that fine old place is going to pieces. How sad that the Colonel died without a son.”
The door behind her was shoved open noisily, admitting Henry who breathed as if he had been running.
“Hyear he is!” he blurted out.
Frederick stopped on the threshold. The room made him hold his breath—sunlight reflected on rich colors and pouring through the singing of a little bird. He wanted to stoop down to see if his shoes carried any tiny speck of sand or dust. He must step softly on the beautiful floor.
“Come in, boy!”
The man’s voice was kind. Mrs. Freeland turned with a jerk and stared keenly at the new acquisition. She noted at once his color, or lack of color. That meant—the thought was rigorously checked. Who was this boy her son had picked up in St. Michaels? Why this sudden interest in buying the half-grown buck? She spoke brusquely.
“Come here!”
He drew near, walking quietly but firmly, and bowed. Under her merciless scrutiny he neither shuffled his feet nor lowered his eyes. It was the master who broke the silence.
“Well, Mother—”
She waved him to silence with a peremptory gesture.
“Do you have a name?” she questioned.
“My name is Frederick, ma’m.” His words were respectfully low and distinct.
The man nodded his head in approval. His mother did not move for a moment. When she spoke there was a harsh grating in her voice.
“Who gave you such a name?”
Frederick was conscious of something tightening inside of him. His name always surprised people. He had come to wish that he did know how he got it. From his grandmother? His mother? His father? In Baltimore he and Tommy had talked about it. Then the young master had said to his little slave, “Aw, fiddlesticks! What difference does it make? That’s your name, ain’t it? Just tell ’em!”
“Answer me, boy!” this frightening old lady was saying.
His back stiffened and he said in the same respectful tone, “Frederick is my name, ma’m.”
She struck him, hard, with her cane. The master pushed back his chair and half rose.
“Mother!”
“Impudence!” Her eyes blazed. “Get out of my sight!”
Frederick backed away. He dare not run, he dare not answer. He would not cower. He had no need of asking how he had offended her. He had the fierce satisfaction of knowing. “Impudence” could be committed by a slave in a hundred different ways—a look, a word, a gesture. It was an unpardonable crime. He knew he was guilty. Henry had backed to the wall, eyes popping, mouth open.
Now William Freeland was on his feet. He spoke to Henry rather than to Frederick, and his voice was hard.
“Take him out back. I’ll come along in a moment.”
Frederick had a crazy impulse to laugh at Henry’s face as he came toward him. The lumbering dark fellow was heavier, perhaps a year or two older, but in a fair fight Frederick knew he could outmarch him. There was no question of resistance in his mind now, however. The timid way Henry took his arm was silly.
The moment the door had closed behind them, Henry’s entire demeanor changed.
“Look-a-hyear, boy,” he whispered, dropping Frederick’s arm, “ain’t you dat crazy nigger what whopped a white man?”
Frederick shrugged his shoulders. His tiny spurt of exaltation had passed. He felt sick.
“I am crazy.” His words were a groan.
“I knowed it!” exulted Henry. “I knowed it! Come on out to tha barn. I gotta tell tha others.” There was no suggestion of whine in his voice, nor was his head cocked to one side.
At Henry’s silent arm-wavings they gathered round—the numerous yard boys and men working in the stables and barns. Frederick dropped on an empty box, but Henry delivered a dramatic account of what had just occurred. They kept their voices low, and when Handy slapped his knee and laughed out loud, John whirled on him.
“Shut yo’ big mouth! Wanta bring tha house down on us?”
“Standin’ up to Ole Missus!”
“Lawd! Lawd! She’ll skin you!”
They looked at him admiringly. Only Sandy shook his head. “Not good!” was his only comment.
And Frederick, sitting there on the empty box, agreed with Sandy.
Mrs. Freeland’s cane slipped to the floor as the door closed behind the two slaves. Her hand was shaking. Her son was puzzled as he bent to pick up the cane.
“Mother, you have upset yourself. I’m so sorry. But I declare I don’t see why.”
The small white head jerked up.
“You don’t! So this is your idea of better material. That—That mongrel!” Her words were vehement.
“Oh, Mother! For heaven’s sake!” The scene he had witnessed suddenly took on meaning. Was “bad blood” getting to be an obsession with her?
“Strutting in here with his airs and impudence!”
“I’ll confess he is a little cocky.” Then he sought to mollify her. “He’s probably been spoilt. I told you he was from Colonel Lloyd’s place. He’s not just a common hand.”
She managed to control the trembling of her lips. I must not fight with William. She pressed back her tears and got to her feet.
“Keep him, if you like. He looks strong. Only I will not have him in the house.”
She started across the floor, her cane muffled by the rug. In the hallway she turned.
“I don’t like him. A nigger who looks you straight in the eye is dangerous. Send Tessie to me!” The keys hanging at her side rattled.
She ascended the stairs, the cane taps growing fainter.
“I’ll be damned!” He spoke the words under his breath, looking after her. Then, returning to the room, he reached for his pipe. Standing there, he crushed the bits of dried tobacco leaf into its bowl. “Wonder if the old girl’s right.”
He sat a while smoking before he went out back. He forgot about Tessie.
The folks in the yard were surprised when Frederick was sent to the fields. Obviously he had been considered for houseboy. Then, after he offended Old Missus, they thought he would go scuttling. But, after a time, Master William came stomping into the yard. He wore his high boots and he carried his riding crop. In a loud voice he asked where that boy was hiding. One little pickaninny began to whimper. Everybody thought that boy was going to get it. But he came right on out of the barn. The master just stood there, waiting, drawing the whip through his hands. He didn’t say anything until the boy was quite close. Then he spoke so low they couldn’t hear.
“Do you want to work on my place?”
Frederick was so surprised by the question that he barely managed to gasp, “Oh, yes, sir! I do, sir!”
The master’s next words were louder.
“Then get down to the bottom tract.” He pointed with his whip. “And hurry!” he almost shouted.
Without another word the boy streaked off across the field. Master William yelled for his horse and went riding lickety-split after him. The yard folks stared: Well!
Some of the boys tried to console Frederick that evening. They considered field work low drudgery and held themselves aloof from the “fiel’ han’s.” But Frederick considered himself fortunate. He liked Mr. Freeland, liked the way he had told an older worker to show him, liked the way he had gone off, leaving them together.
He found he was to bunk over the stable with Sandy and John. John was Henry’s brother, but Henry slept in the house where he could answer a summons. Handy occupied a cabin with his mother and sister. Before Frederick went to sleep that first night he knew all there was to know about these four, who were to be his closest friends. Sandy, though still owned by Mr. Grooms, had been hired out for the season as usual to Mr. Freeland. He told Frederick that his wife Noma was well. He spent every Sunday with her as always. Some Sunday, he promised, he would take Frederick to see her. The mother of John and Handy had died while they were quite young. They had never been away from Freelands, and were curious about what went on “outside.”
Never had Frederick enjoyed such congenial companionship. The slaves at Freelands had all they wanted to eat; they were not driven with a lash; they had time to do many things for themselves. Aunt Lou was an exacting overseer, but Aunt Lou could be outwitted. After his grueling labor at Covey’s, Frederick’s duties seemed very light indeed. He was still a field hand, but he preferred work in the open to any service which would bring him under the eyes of the Old Missus. Since he had no business in the house or out front, he could stay out of her sight. Once in a while he would look up to find Master William watching him at work, but he seldom said anything.
Frederick was growing large and strong and began to take pride in the fact that he could do as much hard work as the older men. The workers competed frequently among themselves, measuring each other’s strength. But slaves were too wise to keep it up long enough to produce an extraordinary day’s work. They reasoned that if a large quantity of work were done in one day and it became known to the master, he might ask the same amount every day. Even at Freelands this thought was enough to bring them to a dead halt in the middle of a close race.
The evenings grew longer and more pleasant, and Frederick’s dreams for the future might have faded. But now he found himself talking more and more earnestly to his friends. Henry and John were remarkably bright and intelligent, when they wished to be. Neither could read.
“If I only had my Columbian Orator!”
He told them how he lost his precious book and how he had learned to read it. Perhaps such a book could be found.
“What’s in a book?” they asked.
Frederick told them everything he knew—about stories he and Tommy had read together, spelling books, newspapers he had filched in Baltimore, how men wrote down their deeds and thoughts, about things happening in other places, how once white men fought a war, and a speech one of the boys had learned from the Columbian Orator—a speech that said “Give me liberty or give me death!”
“All dat in a book?” But then they noticed Master William sitting with a book. Evening were long now and warmer. The master rode only in the mornings. They saw him on the veranda, for hours at a time, sitting with a book. One day Henry made up his mind.
“I’ll git me a book!”
It was easy. Just walk into the room which was usually empty and take a book! It was his job to dust them, anyhow, so no one noticed. Henry could hardly wait for evening when Frederick would come in from the fields. Henry and John and Handy—waiting with a book. They were excited.
Frederick’s heart leaped too when he saw the book. He took it eagerly and opened to the title page. He frowned. The words were very long and hard-looking. Pictures would have made it easier, but no matter. He turned to the first page. They held their breath. Frederick was going to read.
But Frederick did not read. Letters were on the page in front of him, but something terrible had happened to them. He strained his eyes searching—searching for one single word he recognized. Had he forgotten everything? That could not be. With his mind’s eye he could see pages and words very clearly. But none of the words he remembered were here. What kind of book was this? Slowly he spelt out the title, vainly endeavoring to put the letters together into something that would make sense.
“G-a-r-g-a-n-t-u-a-e-t-p-a-n-t-a-g-r-u-e-l.” And underneath all that were the letters “R-a-b-e-l-a-i-s.”
He shook his head. Many years later, in Paris, Frederick Douglass read portions of Rabelais’ Gargantua et Pantagruel. And he vividly recalled the awful sense of dismay which swept over him the first time he held a copy of this masterpiece of French literature in his hands.
They were waiting. He swallowed painfully.
“G’wan, big boy! Read!” Handy was impatient.
“I—I—” Frederick began again. “This—This book—It’s not—the one I meant. I can’t make—This book—” He stopped. John drew nearer.
“Hit’s a book, ain’t it?” He was ready to defend his brother.
“Yes, but—”
“Then read hit!”
Frederick turned several pages. It was no use. He wished the ground would open and swallow him up. He forced his lips to say the words.
“I—can’t!”
They stared at him, not believing what they heard. Then they looked at each other and away quickly. They’d been taken in. He had been lying all the time.
Handy spat on the ground, disgusted.
But Henry was puzzled. Frederick looked as if he were going to be sick. He hadn’t looked like that when the old lady struck him, or when Master William came out after him with his whip. Henry shifted his weight.
“Looky, Fred! What all’s wrong wid dat book?”
Gratitude, like a cool breeze, steadied Frederick. He wet his lips.
“I don’t know, Hen. It’s all different. These funny words—Everything’s mixed up.”
“Lemme see!” Henry took the book and turned several pages. He liked the feel of the smooth paper.
“Humph!” Handy spit again.
“Huccome they’s mixed?” John’s suspicions sounded in his voice. The recklessness of desperation goaded Frederick.
“Henry, could you get another book? I—I never said I could read all the books. Could you try another one? Could you, Henry?”
Henry sighed. He tucked the rejected book under his arm.
“Reckon.”
His brief reply brought Hand’s withering scorn.
“Yo’ gonna lose yo’ hide! Hyear me!” With this warning Handy walked away. His disappointment was bitter.
The next day stretched out unbearably. Frederick forced himself through the motions of his work while his mind went round and round in agonizing circles. Then suddenly it was time to stop, time for the evening meal, time to return to the yard. He knew Henry would be waiting with another book. His moist hands clung to his hoe, his feet seemed rooted in the cool, upturned earth. Then his legs were carrying him back.
He saw them standing behind the barn—John and Henry and, slightly removed, leaning against a tree, Handy. He went on whittling when Frederick came up. Handy’s demeanor was that of a wholly disinterested bystander. But Henry said, “I got hit—anodder one.” His tone was cautious.
Frederick took the book with hands that trembled. Handy’s knife paused. Then Frederick gave a whoop, and Handy, dropping his stick, came running.
“The Last of the Mo-hi-cans!” read Frederick triumphantly. He didn’t know what “Mohicans” meant, but what was one small word? He turned the pages and shouted for joy. Words, words, words—beautiful, familiar faces smiled up at him! He hugged the book. He danced a jig, and they joined him, making such a disturbance that Sandy came out of the barn to see what was going on.
Sandy was their friend, so they told him—all talking together. They hid the book and went to eat, swallowing their food in great gulps. Afterward they went down to the creek, and Frederick read to them until darkness blotted out the magic of the pages. They talked, then, turning over the words, examining them.
This was the beginning. As summer came on and the long evenings stretched themselves over hours of leisure, the good news got around; and additional trusted neophytes were permitted to join them at the creek. Learning to read was now the objective. More books disappeared from the house. After Frederick slipped up in the attic and found several old school books, real progress began. Then trouble arose.
Seemed like everybody wanted to learn “tha readin’.” That, argued the select few, would not do. This certainly was not a matter for “fiel’ han’s.” Field hands, however, were stubborn in their persistence. The fact that the teacher was a field hand seemed to have erased their accustomed servility. One of them even brought in Mr. Hall’s Jake, an uncouth fellow from the neighboring plantation. They vouched for Jake’s trustworthiness, and he proved an apt pupil. Then Jake brought a friend!
Sandy counseled caution. Frederick, happy in what he was doing, was hardly aware of the mutterings. So they wrestled with their first problem in democracy.
Then, one Sunday afternoon, they were nearly caught.
It was a scorcher, late in July. The noon meal was over, and they were sitting in the shade of a big oak tree at the edge of the south meadow, ten or twelve of them under the big tree. Jake appeared, coming over the ridge that marked the boundary of Freelands. He saw them and waved, then started walking down.
“Glad I ain’t walkin’ in no hot sun.” John had just learned a new word, and he felt good. Suddenly Jake was seen to straighten up, wave both arms frantically and start running in the opposite direction.
Books were whisked out of sight, papers disappeared as if by magic. When Master William and his guest came trotting around the dump of trees, all they saw was a bunch of lazy niggers stretched out in the shade.
“Watch out, there!” Freeland’s mare shied away. With a sleepy grunt, Henry rolled over.
The guest was from Baltimore. He had been speaking vehemently for such a hot day.
“Look at that!” he burst out. “Show me a bunch of sleek, fat niggers sleeping through the day in Boston.”
The master of Freelands laughed indulgently. His guest continued.
“Those damned Abolitionists ought to come down here. Freein’ niggers! The thieving fools!” He jerked his horse’s head savagely.
William Freeland spoke in his usual, pleasant, unheated voice.
“I’d kill the first Abolitionist who set foot on my land, same as I would a mad dog.”
They rode on out of hearing.
No one moved for a long minute. Then Henry sat up abruptly.
“Where is mah book?” He jerked it from under the belly of a sweating stable boy.
Black Crunch, long, lean and hard like a hound, moved more slowly. He was thinking.
“Fred,” he asked, leaning forward, “does yo’ know whar is dat dar Boston place?”
After this, the “Sunday School” grew in numbers. There was no more talk of restricting “members.” The name was Frederick’s idea, and everybody followed the lead with complete understanding. It was well known that masters seldom raised any objection to slaves leaving the plantation for Sunday services, even when they went some distance away. So now it was possible to talk freely about the Sunday School over on Mr. Freeland’s place!
Somebody hailed William Freeland one day as he rode along.
“Hear your niggers are holding some kind of a revival, old man,” he called. “Got a good preacher?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Freeland laughed back, waving his whip. Next morning, however, he spoke to Henry.
“Oh, Henry, what’s this I hear about a revival going on?”
“Whatchu sayin’, Massa William?” Henry’s lips hung flabby. Not a trace of intelligence lighted his face.
“A revival! You know what a revival is.” Freeland tried to curb his impatience.
“Oh, yessuh!” Henry showed his teeth in a wide grin. “Yessuh, Ah knows a revival. Yes, suh!”
“Well, is there a revival going on around here?”
“Revival? Roun’ hyear?” The whites of Henry’s eyes resembled marbles.
Freeland kicked back his chair. What the hell difference did it make?
At the end of the year William Freeland rode over to St. Michaels and renewed his contract with Captain Auld for his boy’s services. He reported that the slave had worked well; he had no complaints to make. Captain Auld’s eyes glittered when he took the money. Evidently that buck was turning out all right. Another year and he’d bring a good price in the market.
The master was really touched by Frederick’s gratitude when told that he was to remain on. As a matter of fact, Frederick had been deeply worried. As the year had drawn to a close he felt he had wasted valuable time. There was much to do—plans to make and lines to be carefully laid—before he made his break for freedom.
Another Christmas and a new year. And New Year’s Day was a time to start things right. Everybody knew that!
They heard it first in the yard, of course. Black Crunch had run away! When the horsemen came galloping up the drive not a pickaninny was in sight. Old Caleb opened the front door and bowed with his beautiful deference. But they shoved him out of the way unceremoniously, calling for the master. Old Missus sniffed the air disdainfully, standing very straight, but Master William rode off with them.
The next night all along the Eastern Shore slaves huddled, shivering in dark corners. The baying of the hounds kept some white folks awake, too. They didn’t find Black Crunch. They never found Black Crunch.
There was a hazy tension in the air. The five friends bound themselves together with a solemn oath of secrecy—Frederick, Handy, Henry, John, and Sandy. They were going together—all five. John pleaded for his sweetheart, little Susan, to be taken along; and Sandy knew the danger that threatened his wife if he left her. Though a free woman herself, she could be snatched back into bondage if he ran away. Noma knew this also. Yet the woman said simply, “Go!”
The Eastern Shore of Maryland lay very close to the free state of Pennsylvania. Escape might not appear too formidable an undertaking. Distance, however, was not the chief trouble. The nearer the lines of a slave state were to the borders of a free state, the more vigilant were the slavers. At every ferry was a guard, on every bridge sentinels, in every wood patrols and slave-hunters. Hired kidnappers also infested the borders.
Nor did reaching a free state mean freedom for the slave. Wherever caught they could be returned to slavery. And their second lot would be far worse than the first! Slaveholders constantly impressed upon their slaves the boundlessness of slave territory and their own limitless power.
Frederick and his companions had only the vaguest idea of the geography of the country. “Up North” was their objective. They had heard of Canada, they had heard of New York, they had heard of Boston. Of what lay in between they had no thoughts at all.
After many long discussions they worked out their plan for escape. On the Saturday night before the Easter holidays they would take a large canoe owned by a Mr. Hamilton, launch out into Chesapeake Bay and paddle with all their might for its head, a distance of about seventy miles. On reaching this point they would turn the canoe adrift and bend their steps toward the north star until they reached a free state.
This plan had several excellent points. On the water they had a chance of being thought fishermen, in the service of a master; hounds could not track them; and over Easter their absence might not be noted. On the other hand, in bad weather the waters of the Chesapeake are rough, and there would be danger in a canoe, of being swamped by the waves. Furthermore, the canoe would soon be missed; and, if absent slaves were suspected of having taken it, they would be pursued by some fast-sailing craft out of St. Michaels.
They prepared for one quite possible emergency. Any white man, if he pleased, was authorized to stop a Negro on any road and examine and arrest him. Many a freeman, being called upon by a pack of ruffians to show his free papers, presented them, only to have the hoodlums tear them up, seize the victim and sell him to a life of endless bondage.
The week before their intended start, Frederick wrote a pass for each of the party, giving him permission to visit Baltimore during the Easter holidays. He signed them with the initials of William Hamilton, tobacco planter whose place edged on the bay and whose canoe they had planned to take. The pass ran after this manner:
This is to certify that I, the undersigned, have given the bearer, my servant John, full liberty to go to Baltimore to spend the Easter holidays.
Near St. Michaels, Talbot Co., Md. W. H.
Although they were not going to Baltimore and intended to land east of North Point, in the direction they had seen the Philadelphia steamers go, these passes might be useful in the lower part of the bay, while steering toward Baltimore. These were not, however, to be shown until all other answers had failed to satisfy the inquirer. The conspirators were fully alive to the importance of being calm and self-possessed when accosted, if accosted they should be; and they more than once rehearsed to each other how they would behave under fire.
With everything figured out, the days and nights of waiting were long and tedious. Every move, every word, every look had to be carefully guarded. Uneasiness was in the air. Slaveholders were constantly looking out for the first signs of rebellion against the injustice and wrong which they were perpetrating every hour of the day. And their eyes were skilled and practiced. In many cases they were able to read, with great accuracy, the state of mind and heart of the slave through his sable face. Any mood out of the common way gave grounds for suspicion and questioning.
Yet, with the plowing over, with spring in the air and an Easter holiday drawing near, what more natural than that the slaves should sing down in their quarters—after the day’s work was over?
“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,
Ah’m boun’ fo’ the lan’ o’ Canaan.”
They sang, and their voices were sweet. William Freeland, sitting on the veranda, took his pipe from between his teeth and smiled at his mother.
“I always say there’s nothing like darkies singing—nothing. Some of our folks have really beautiful voices. Listen to that!” The master of Freelands spoke with real pride.
Inside the house old Caleb fussed with the curtains. He felt a trembling inside of him. That dear, young voice out there in the dusk:
“Ah thought Ah heared them say
There was lions in the way
I don’ expect to stay
Much longah here.”
The buoyant refrain—all the voices singing triumphantly:
“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,
Not much longah here!”
“Crazy fools!” whispered Caleb. “Singin’ lak dat!”
Singing for all the world to know! He wanted to warn them. He shook his head. Caleb had been young once, too. And he had dreamed of freedom. He was old now. He would die a slave. He shuffled back to the pantry. Shut in there he could no longer hear the singing.
Two days before the appointed time Sandy withdrew. He could not go off and leave his wife. They pleaded with him.
“You young ones go! You make good life. I stay now!”
John was the most visibly shaken. John whose little Susan had wept several times of late because of his moody silences and bad temper. After saying that nothing could change his mind or intention he walked away stiffly.
Then Sandy confessed that he had had a dream, a bad dream.
“About us?” Frederick asked the question, his heart heavy. This was bad, coming from Sandy. And Sandy spoke, his voice low and troubled.
“I dream I roused from sleep by strange noises, noises of a swarm of angry birds that passed—a roar like a coming gale over the tops of the trees. I look up. I see you, Frederick, in the claws of a great bird. And there was lots of birds, all colors and all sizes. They pecked at you. Passing over me, the birds flew southwest. I watched until they was clean out of sight.” He was silent.
Frederick drew a long breath.
“And they took me with them?”
“Yes.”
Frederick did not meet his eyes. He stiffened his back.
“It was just a dream, Sandy. Look, we’re worried and jumpy. That’s all. Hen, that’s right—don’t you think? What’s a little dream?”
Henry spoke with unaccustomed firmness.
“Ain’t no little ole dream gonna stop me!”
Frederick gripped his arm, thankful for Henry’s strength and determination. He keenly felt the responsibility of the undertaking. If they failed it would be his fault. He wished Sandy had not told him the dream.
The day dawned. Frederick went out to the field earlier than usual. He had to be busy. At breakfast Henry broke one of the precious cups. He was roundly berated by Old Missus. Her son said nothing. Henry had been more clumsy than usual lately.
The morning dragged. Frederick had been spreading manure for what seemed to him an eternity when—for no apparent reason at all—he experienced a sudden blinding presentiment.
“We’ve failed!”
It was as if a hundred eyes were watching him—as if all his intentions were plainly written in the sky. A few minutes after this, the long, low, distant notes of the horn summoned the workers from the field to the noon-day meal. Frederick wanted nothing to eat. He looked around probing the landscape for some reason for the awful certainty in his mind. He shook himself. He pressed the back of his hand hard against his mouth.
As he crossed the field he saw William Freeland come out of the house and go toward the barn. He came nearer, and the long graveled driveway was in full view. And so he saw the four men on horseback turn into the drive and approach the house. Then he saw two blacks whom he could not identify walking behind. One of them seemed to be tied!
Something has happened! We’ve been betrayed!
No need to run now. He came on, cutting across the front yard; he climbed over the low hedge and was stooping to pass under the rotting rose trellis as one horseman, far in the lead and riding very rapidly, reached the house. It was the tobacco planter, Mr. William Hamilton. The horseman pulled his horse to an abrupt stop and hailed Frederick.
“Hey, boy! Where’s your master?”
Even in this bitter moment of defeat some perverse imp inside Frederick forced him to reply, speaking very politely, “Mr. Freeland, sir, just went to the barn.”
Hamilton’s whip jerked in his hand, but he did not bring it down on Frederick. He wheeled about in a flurry of gravel and rode off toward the stables. By this time the other three had come up, and Frederick saw that they were constables.
He burst into the kitchen, heedless of Aunt Lou’s wrath. But the kitchen was quiet with an ominous stillness. Only John was there, his back to the room, looking out the window. He turned quickly, and Frederick saw his quivering face. They grasped each other by the hand and stood together, waiting.
The outside door opened a second time, admitting Master Freeland. His eyes were glinting steel in a grim face. His voice was harsh.
“So, here you are!” He was looking at Frederick. “Go outside! These men want to question you.”
“He ain’t done nothin’, Massa William.” There was panic in John’s appeal.
“Shut up!” Freeland shoved Frederick toward the door.
As he stepped outside, two constables seized him.
“What do you want? Why do you take me?”
A blow in the mouth cut his lip. They twisted his arm, throwing him to the ground.
Hamilton, standing beside his horse, pointed to John, who had followed Frederick to the door.
“That one, too. Take him!” He held a rifle in his hand.
John cried out when they seized him.
All this was taking place just outside the kitchen door, some distance from the barns and outhouses. Motionless black figures could be seen. Now a kind of hushed wail was heard.
Henry, running with Sandy behind him, was coming from the barn. A constable met him, a heavy gun at his side. He carried a rope. Hamilton had pointed to Henry, nodding his head.
“Tie him!”
“Cross your hands!” ordered the constable. Henry was panting. He did not speak at once. In that moment he had seen everything. Then, looking straight at the man in front of him, he said, “I won’t!”
They were all taken by surprise. The master of Freelands stared at a Henry he had never seen before. The constable sputtered.
“Why you black ——! You won’t cross your hands!” He reached for his revolver.
“Henry!” His master’s voice cracked.
And Henry looked at him and said, with added emphasis, “No! I won’t!”
The three constables now cocked their revolvers, surrounded him. Mr. Hamilton was agitated. He also drew his rifle.
“By God, Freeland, he’s dangerous!”
William Freeland could say nothing. Iron bands seemed to be choking him. Henry! That clumsy, silly slave had grown a foot.
“Shoot me! Shoot me and be damned! I won’t be tied!”
And at the moment of saying it, with the guns at his breast, Henry quickly raised his arms and dashed the weapons from their hands, sending them flying in all directions.
In the confusion which followed Frederick managed to get near John.
“The pass?” he asked. “Do you have the pass?”
“It’s burned. I put it in the stove.”
“Good!” This much evidence was gone, anyway.
Henry fought like a tiger. Inside the house, Old Missus heard the uproar and came out back.
“Henry! Henry! They’re killing Henry!” she shrieked. Her son rushed to her, trying to explain. She pushed him away. “Stop them! Stop those ruffians!”
Finally they had Henry overpowered. As he lay on the ground trussed and bleeding, Frederick and John, helpless though they were, stood accused in their own eyes because they too had not resisted. John cried bitterly, in futile rage. Frederick stood rigid, every breath a separate stab of pain. Mrs. Freeland, her own eyes wet, tried to comfort John.
“Don’t, Johnny. I know it’s all a mistake. We’ll fix it. We’ll get you and Henry out of it!”
They took Sandy, whose black face remained unfathomable. Then the tobacco planter spoke.
“Perhaps now we’d better make a search for those passes we understand Captain Auld’s boy has written for them.”
Freeland was almost vehement, insisting that they be taken immediately to the jail and there carefully examined. To himself he said that his mother’s outburst had unnerved him. He wanted to get the whole business over and done with—get it out of his sight.
As they stood, securely bound, ready to start toward St. Michaels, the mistress came out with her hands full of biscuits which she divided between John and Henry, ignoring both Sandy and Frederick. And as they started around the house she pointed her bony finger at Frederick.
“It’s you! You yellow devil!” she called out after him. “You put it in their heads to run away! John and Henry are good boys. You did it! You long-legged, yellow devil!”
At the look which Frederick turned on her, she screamed in mingled wrath and fright and went in, slamming the door.
The constables fastened them with long ropes to the horses. Now Frederick recognized the two dark forms he had seen from a distance as Handy and a boy owned by Mr. Hamilton. Handy had slipped off that morning to hide their supplies near the canoe. This boy had somehow become involved. Maybe Handy had solicited his aid—maybe that was what happened. Frederick turned the possibility over inside his aching head. The boy had been beaten. His shirt hung in stained utters. Under the watchful eyes they gave no sign of knowing each other. They waited while the horses pawed restlessly, kicking up sharp bits of gravel into their faces.
As Freeland mounted his big mare, the tobacco planter pointed at Sandy.
“Is that one of your own niggers?”
“No,” the master of Freelands shook his head. “I hire him from a man named Groomes, over in Easton.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I hate to lose the best carpenter we’ve had in a long time.”
“I’ve seen him somewhere before.” Hamilton looked thoughtful. “Believe he’s the one they call a voodoo.” Freeland shrugged his shoulders, settling himself firmly in the saddle. Hamilton continued, his voice grim. “Best keep an eye on him.”
“Don’t tell me you take stock in nigger black magic!” Freeland mocked him.
It was Hamilton’s turn to shrug his shoulders, as his ungracious host headed the procession down the drive and out into the highway.
Inside the house old Caleb straightened the worn, brocaded curtains, his stiff fingers shaking. He felt old and useless. Upstairs Susan sought to muffle her sobs in Old Missus’ feather bolster, heedless of the fact that she was staining the fine linen slip. The children down in the slave quarters were very still, hardly breathing.
Easter was in the air. The sun shone bright and warm. Folks were thinking about the holiday, and overseers were relaxed. In the fields, slaves leaned on their hoes and watched them go by—five white men, their hats pulled low, their shirts open at the neck, riding on horses; and behind them, jerking, grotesque figures, pulled by the horses, dust blinding and choking them, their bare feet stumbling over rocks and raising a cloud of dust, their bare heads covered with sweat and grime.
Frederick, fastened with Henry to the same horse, pulled hard on the rope, endeavoring to slacken the pace. He knew what torture Henry was enduring. The constable, noticing this tugging, lashed out once with his whip. Then he chose to ignore the matter. It was a long, hot drive to the Easton jail, and the constable was in no particular hurry.
Henry managed to get his breath. The mistress had made them loose one of his hands. In this free hand he still clinched his biscuits. Now, looking gratefully at Frederick, he gasped, “The pass! What shall I do with my pass?”
Frederick answered immediately. “Eat it with your biscuit!”
A moment later Henry had managed to slip the piece of paper into his mouth. He chewed well on the biscuit and swallowed with a gulp. Then he grinned, a trickle of blood starting from his cut lip.
The word went round from one bound figure to another, “Swallow your pass! Own nothing! Know nothing.”
Though their plans had leaked out—somehow, some way—their confidence in each other was unshaken. Somebody had made a mistake, but they were resolved to succeed or fail together.
By the time they reached the outskirts of St. Michaels it was clear that the news had gone on ahead.
A bunch of runaway niggers! Fair sport on a Saturday afternoon. The “insurrection”—the word stumbled off their tongues—had been started by that “Auld boy,” the “smart nigger.”
“A bad un!”
“Ought to be hanged!” They laughed and ordered another drink of burning whiskey. Wish something would happen in this God-forsaken hole!
The procession stopped first at Captain Auld’s. The Captain was loud in his cries of denunciation.
“Done everything for this boy, everything! I promise you he’ll be punished—I’ll take all the hide off him! I’ll break every bone in his body!”
He was reminded that Frederick and the others were already in the hands of the law. Beyond a shadow of doubt they would be punished. At this the Captain calmed down. Here was a horse of another color. Frederick was his property. His slow mind began to revolve. He dared not offend either Mr. Freeland or Mr. Hamilton. He had no stomach for losing a valuable piece of property to anything as vague and unrewarding as “the law.” He fixed a stern eye on Frederick—noting the thick broad shoulders and long legs.
“What have you done, you ungrateful rascal?”
“Nothin’, Massa, nothin’, nothin’, nothin’! The whistle blowed, I come in to eat—an’ they took me! They took me!”
Frederick’s mind also had been working. He was resolved to throw the burden of proof upon his accusers. He could see that the passion of his outcry now had its effect. The Captain grunted with satisfaction. He asked the gentlemen for more details. Just exactly what had the boy done?
Of course, no single pass was found on them. All six of the accused said the same thing—they had been going about their work as usual. They had not the slightest idea why they had been arrested. Handy explained in great detail how he had been sent over to Mr. Hamilton’s place by Aunt Lou. He was returning from that errand. The Hamilton boy had been down on the beach mending a net. Their protestations of innocence were loud and voluble. Too voluble, each master thought to himself. But he did not put his thoughts into words. It would never do to admit that they were being outwitted by a bunch of sniveling darkies.
They were taken to the county jail and locked up. It was a ramshackle, old affair. A good wind coming in from the bay could have knocked it over, and a very small fire would have wiped it out in short order. But it was prison enough for the six. Henry, John, and Frederick were placed in one cell and Sandy, the Hamilton boy, and Handy in another. They had plenty of space, since the cells really were rooms of the building. They were fed immediately and were left completely alone throughout the night. They were thankful for this respite.
Early Easter morning they were at them—a swarm of slave-traders and agents of slave-traders who, hearing of the “catch” in the county jail at Easton, hurried over to ascertain if the masters wanted to rid themselves of dangerous “troublemakers.” Good bargains could often be picked up under such circumstances. Rebellious slaves were usually strong and vigorous. Properly manacled, they were rendered helpless. And there was a demand for them on the great plantations where they were beginning to grow enormous crops of cotton. Word had gone out that these captured slaves were young and in unusually good condition.
The sheriff willingly obliged the traders. So they fell upon the prisoners like a bunch of vultures, feeling their arms and legs, shaking them by the shoulders to see if they were sound and healthy, making them jump up and down on one foot, examining their teeth, examining their testicles.
“This one, now,”—the trader was “going over” Frederick—“he’d go fine with a piece I picked up last week. She’s swellin’ with heat. They’d make a litter!”
The two men laughed.
“How’d you like to go with me, buck boy?” He kicked him lightly.
Frederick, his rage choking him, did not answer.
“Um—no tongue,” the second trader grunted.
“Look at his eyes!” the first man said. “If I had ’im, I’d cut the devil out of him pretty quick!”
This went on for several days, with no further questions nor any beatings. The suspense was terrible. The dream of freedom faded.
Then one afternoon the master of Freelands appeared with Mr. Hamilton and took away all the prisoners except Frederick. They were going back with no further punishment. Old Missus had persuaded her son that this was the just and correct course.
“Nobody’s to blame but that hired boy! Bring our folks home!”
He talked it over with Hamilton. For want of an alternative, he assented.
Freeland could not have explained to himself why he allowed them to tell Frederick goodbye. All that his mother had said about him had been proven true. He was dangerous. He was certain that this boy, standing there so quietly, had planned an escape for his slaves. How many were involved and where were they going? Why should they wish to leave Freelands? They had far less to worry them than the master had—a shelter over their heads, clothing, food. His mother nursed them when they were sick. Their work was not heavy. He would have liked to ask this boy some questions.
It was evident that the others did not want to go. Henry clung to Frederick’s arm, his big, ugly face working. He heard Sandy, who seldom spoke, say, “Big tree bow in the wind. Big tree stand!”
“I will not be forgettin’!” Frederick answered.
They went away then and climbed into the waiting wagon. They were going back in state—riding with one of Mr. Hamilton’s men driving the mules. The masters were on horseback. Frederick, standing beside the barred window, saw them wave as the wagon turned into the road.
Alone in the prison Frederick gave way to complete misery. He felt certain now that he was doomed to the ever-dreaded Georgia, Louisiana, or Alabama. They would be coming for him now, to take him “down the river.” Even in his despair he was glad that the others were not going with him. At least they were no worse off than before their heads had been filled with dreams of freedom. And now they could read. Eventually they would get away. But he was too young to derive much comfort from this thought—too young and too much alive.
A long week passed, and then to Frederick’s joyful relief Captain Auld came for his boy. In a loud voice he told the sheriff that he was sending him off to Alabama to a friend of his.
The sheriff looked at Frederick. Pity a clean-looking hand like that couldn’t behave himself! He spat out a fresh cud of tobacco. It had lost its taste.
Frederick’s heart fell, but obediently he went with his master. The next several days went by in comparative idleness on the Auld place just outside St. Michaels. Frederick’s stature with the other slaves had grown. By them he was treated as an honored guest, and in this he found some comfort. But the Alabama friend did not put in an appearance, and finally Captain Auld announced that he had decided to send him back to Baltimore again, to live with his brother Hugh. He told Frederick that he wanted him to learn a trade, and that if he behaved himself properly he might emancipate him in time.
Frederick could hardly believe his ears. The morning came when they went into St. Michaels, and there he was placed in the custody of the captain of a small clipper. They set sail over the waters of the Chesapeake Bay toward Baltimore.