A Place Called Freedom (1995)

“Prettier than you, Pepper. Come on, Whitey, where did you see her?”

“Down by the river. She was wearing a green coat and carrying a basket, and she was getting the ferry over to Falmouth.”

Mack smiled. The coat, and the fact that she was taking the ferry instead of wading across the ford, indicated that she had landed on her feet again. She must have been sold to someone kind. “How did you know who she was?”

“The ferryman called her by name.”

“She must be living on the Falmouth side of the river—that’s why I didn’t hear of her when first I asked around Fredericksburg.”

“Well, you’ve heard of her now.”

Mack swallowed the rest of his beer. “And I’m going to find her. Whitey, you’re a friend. Pepper, thanks for the beer.”

“Good luck!”

Mack went out of town. Fredericksburg had been built just below the fall line of the Rappahannock River, at the limit of navigation. Oceangoing ships could come this far, but less than a mile away the river became rocky, and nothing but a flatboat could negotiate it. Mack walked to the point where the water was shallow enough to wade across.

He was full of excitement. Who had bought Cora? How was she living? And did she know what had become of Peg? If only he could locate the two of them, and fulfill his promise, he could make serious plans to escape. He had been suppressing his yearning for freedom while he asked after Cora and Peg, but Pepper’s talk of the wilderness beyond the mountains had brought it all back, and he longed to run away. He daydreamed about walking away from the plantation at nightfall, heading west, never again to work for an overseer with a whip.

He looked forward eagerly to seeing Cora. She probably would not be working today: perhaps she could walk out with him. They might go somewhere secluded. As he thought about kissing her, he suffered a pang of guilt. He had woken up this morning thinking about kissing Lizzie Jamisson, and now he was having the same thoughts about Cora. But he was foolish to feel guilty about Lizzie: she was another man’s wife, and there was no future for him with her. All the same his excitement was tinged with discomfort.

Falmouth was a smaller version of Fredericksburg: it had the same wharves, warehouses, taverns and painted wood-frame homes. Mack could probably have called at every residence in a couple of hours. But of course Cora might live out of town.

He went into the first tavern he came across and spoke to the proprietor. “I’m looking for a young woman called Cora Higgins.”

“Cora? She lives in the white house on the next corner, you’ll probably see three cats sleeping on the porch.”

Mack’s luck was in today. “Thank you!”

The man took a watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “But she won’t be there now, she’ll be in church.”

“I’ve seen the church. I’ll go there.”

Cora had never been a churchgoer, but perhaps her owner forced her to go, Mack thought as he went outside. He crossed the street and walked two blocks to the little wooden church.

The service had ended and the congregation was coming out, all in their Sunday best, shaking hands and chattering.

Mack saw Cora right away.

He smiled broadly when he saw her. She certainly had been lucky. The starved, filthy woman he had left on the Rosebud might have been a different person. Cora was her old self: clear skin, glossy hair, rounded figure. She was as well dressed as ever, in a dark brown coat and a wool skirt, and she wore good boots. He was suddenly glad he had the new shirt and waistcoat Lizzie had given him.

Cora was talking animatedly to an old woman with a cane. She broke off her conversation as he approached her. “Mack!” she said delightedly. “This is a miracle!”

He opened his arms to embrace her but she held out a hand to shake, and he guessed she did not want to make an exhibition outside the church. He took her hand in both of his and said; “You look wonderful.” She smelled good, too: not the spicy, woody perfume she had favored in London, but a lighter, floral smell that was more ladylike.

“What happened to you?” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Who bought you?”

“I’m on the Jamisson plantation—and Lennox is the overseer.”

“Did he hit your face?”

Mack touched the sore place where Lennox had slashed him. “Yes, but I took his whip from him and broke it in half.”

She smiled. “That’s Mack—always in trouble.”

“It is. Have you any news of Peg?”

“She was taken off by the soul drivers, Bates and Makepiece.”

Mack’s heart sank. “Damn. It’s going to be hard to find her.”

“I always ask after her but I’ve never heard anything.”

“And who bought you? Somebody kind, by the look of you!”

As he spoke a plump, richly dressed man in his fifties came up. Cora said: “Here he is: Alexander Rowley, the tobacco broker.”

“He obviously treats you well!” Mack murmured.

Rowley shook hands with the old woman and said a word to her, then turned to Mack.

Cora said: “This is Malachi McAsh, an old friend of mine from London. Mack, this is Mr. Rowley—my husband.”

Mack stared, speechless.