A Place Called Freedom (1995)

They walked about ten miles. It was slow, because the convicts were fettered. Some were still chained in pairs. Those whose partners had died on the voyage were hobbled, their ankles chained together so that they could walk but not run. None of them could go fast and they might have collapsed if they had tried, so weak were they from lying flat for eight weeks. The overseer, Sowerby, was on horseback, but he seemed in no hurry, and as he rode he sipped some kind of liquor from a flask.

The countryside was more like England than Scotland, and not as alien as Mack had anticipated. The road followed the rocky river, which wound through a lush forest. Mack wished he could lie in the shade of those big trees for a while.

He wondered how soon he would see the amazing Lizzie. He felt bitter about being the property of a Jamisson again, but her presence would be some consolation. Unlike her father-in-law she was not cruel, though she could be thoughtless. Her unorthodox ways and her vivacious personality delighted Mack. And she had a sense of justice that had saved his life in the past and might do so again.

It was noon when they arrived at the Jamisson plantation. A path led through an orchard where cattle grazed to a muddy compound with a dozen or so cabins. Two elderly black women were cooking over open fires, and four or five naked children played in the dirt. The cabins were crudely built with rough-hewn planks, and their shuttered windows had no glass.

Sowerby exchanged a few words with Kobe and disappeared.

Kobe said to the convicts: “These are your quarters.”

Someone said: “Do we have to live with the blackies?”

Mack laughed. After eight weeks in the hellhole of the Rosebud it was a miracle they could complain about their accommodation.

Kobe said: “White and black live in separate cabins. There’s no law about it, but it always seems to work out that way. Each cabin takes six people. Before we rest we have one more chore. Follow me.”

They walked along a footpath that wound between fields of green wheat, tall Indian corn growing out of hillocks, and the fragrant tobacco plant. Men and women were at work in every field, weeding between the rows and picking grubs off the tobacco leaves.

They emerged onto a wide lawn and went up a rise toward a sprawling, dilapidated clapboard house with drab peeling paint and closed shutters: Mockjack Hall, presumably. Skirting the house, they came to a group of outbuildings at the back. One of the buildings was a smithy. Working there was a Negro whom Kobe addressed as Cass. He began to strike the fetters from the convicts’ legs.

Mack watched as the convicts were unchained one by one. He felt a sense of liberation, though he knew it was false. These chains had been put on him in Newgate Prison, on the far side of the world. He had resented them every minute of the eight degrading weeks he had worn them.

From the high point where the house stood he could see the glint of the Rappahannock River, about half a mile away, winding through woodland. When my chains are struck I could just run away, down to the river, he thought, and I could jump in and swim across and make a bid for freedom.

He would have to restrain himself. He was still so weak that he probably could not run half a mile. Besides, he had promised to search for Peg and Cora, and he would have to find them before he escaped, for he might not be able to afterward. And he had to plan carefully. He knew nothing of the geography of this land. He needed to know where he was going and how he would get there.

All the same, when at last he felt the irons fall from his legs he had to make an effort not to run away.

While he was still fighting the impulse, Kobe began to speak. “Now you’ve lost your chains, some of you are already figuring how far you can get by sundown. Before you run away, there’s something important you need to know, so listen up and pay attention.”

He paused for effect, then went on: “People who run away are generally caught, and they get punished. First they’re flogged, but that’s the easy part. Then they have to wear the iron collar, which some find shameful. But the worst is, your time is made longer. If you’re away for a week, you have to serve two weeks extra. We got people here run away so many times they won’t be free until they’re a hundred years old.” He looked around and caught Mack’s eye. “If you’re willing to chance that much,” he finished, “all I can say is, I wish you luck.”

In the morning the old women cooked a boiled corn dish called hominy for breakfast. The convicts and slaves ate it with their fingers out of wooden bowls.