For the crimes of running away and conspiring to organize a slave uprising, a slave named Quash of Wappoo, along with two others, had been arrested. They were to be tried in court in Charles Town.
After delivering the news and letting Indian Peter water and feed his mount, the stranger took off back down the road. I raced upstairs with Essie, hastily preparing to travel.
“Togo will have to accompany me to town. Will you let him know?” I asked Essie.
“Essie come too, chil’,” she said, and I nodded gratefully. I’d have to arrive at the Pinckneys’ home largely unannounced. It couldn’t be helped.
“Can I come too?” Polly asked from the doorway to my room. I could see on her face that despite asking she already expected a negative answer. Sadly, I obliged.
“But it’s so boring here alone with Mama. And now Essie will be gone too.”
I walked over and pressed her smaller body against mine. I made a mental note to look into the cost of sending her to school if we could afford it next year. “I’m sorry, dear one. I don’t know how long this trial will last or if I’ll be successful in freeing Quash and Ben.”
Polly gasped. Her hand covered her mouth, her eyes filling.
For me too, just saying it aloud caused a tight band of panic to seize my chest. Then an alarming thought occurred to me.
“Good Lord,” I muttered. How would I even speak for Ben? I didn’t own him. Cromwell did.
I didn’t know if Cromwell had stayed in Charles Town or continued on elsewhere. “We must hurry, Essie.”
The voyage to town by water was choppy and perilous. I had to put complete faith in the fact the boat and its hardy Negro rowers knew the journey with such familiarity. Bilious sails of nausea unfurled in my gut, gusting from side to side in tandem with the rocking vessel. I was delirious, my mouth flooding with saliva. The air was thick with dense fog, and there was no landmark to focus on as we rocked our way through the wet cloud. I emptied the contents of my stomach twice over the side of the boat into the thick gray water. Neither episode brought relief.
I didn’t know how much time we had before the trial began. Waiting in the Pinckneys’ front parlor for their man to announce my arrival, I worried my lips between my teeth and wrung my hands to warm them. If only there’d been a fire lit in the grate in this room. With many more rooms to use, and no visitors expected, it wasn’t surprising for there to be none. I hoped I wasn’t inconveniencing them too much, especially with Mrs. Pinckney being poorly.
I made a decision then. I would use money from the rice harvest when it was delivered to buy Ben from Cromwell. I’d force him to sell, if necessary. And then, I clenched my fists at the rightness of my decision, I would set him free. He would be a free man. Benoit Fortuné would be a free black man.
My heart almost floated up out of my throat.
I would help him build a reputation for indigo-making. He would do well. He would be able to buy land. I gasped aloud at my revelation. He would be freer than I would ever be.
I knew we could ill afford it right now, but I’d figure out a way to do it anyway. But first, sweet Lord above, I had to get both he and Quash out of this frightening nightmare.
The sound of the door brushing open made me turn.
Charles Pinckney’s bright face instantly sobered to a frown at whatever he saw upon my expression, and he took three long strides toward me.
“Eliza, my dear. What is it?”
I opened my mouth to speak but snapped it closed again and attempted to swallow down the fear that had become a large rock inside me. Tears pricked, and before I could try again to form words, Charles had me pressed against his pipe tobacco and sandalwood-scented coarse wool waistcoat.
A deep rumble sounded against my ear as he cleared his throat and then set me away from him.
The loss of his warm, tight comfort sent a chill through me, and I shuddered. He called for the fire to be lit. “What is it?” he asked again.
“Quash and Ben have been arrested on charges of rebellion.” The words tumbled out. “I must go and speak on their behalf. Ben …” I paused and swallowed. “Ben ran away,” I admitted. “And I sent Quash after him. Ben was headed south, where all runaways seem to head, so I’m sure the militia is always on the lookout. I sent Quash with a letter clearing his passage, and I don’t know if he lost it, or they didn’t give it credence, but a militia man showed up at Wappoo. He told us Quash and two others were under arrest for conspiracy to organize a rebellion.” I took a breath. My voice had grown thin and panicky.
Charles walked to a small three-tiered oval table made from mahogany and opened a stoppered crystal decanter. He poured a deep, dark red liquid into a cup and brought it to me. “Port. It will calm you.”
I took it and sipped dutifully.
“So he told you Quash was under arrest?”
“Yes.”
“And you say Ben was with him?”
“He said Quash and two others.” I frowned. “I don’t know who the third could be.”
“And I have to ask …” Charles winced. “You are sure Quash didn’t take this opportunity you gave him to abscond or to join forces with other rebels?”
“No. There is no way.”
Charles was silent.
“It’s true,” I said earnestly. “He had a chance to leave during the Stono uprising, but he didn’t. Not only that, I believe he protected us somehow.”
Charles’ eyebrows grew close. Perhaps he didn’t believe me, but it was the truth. “And Ben?” he asked.
I shook my head. The thought that Ben would join some form of rebel cause was preposterous. Although, I suppose he could be forced if they knew of his abilities. “Ben just wants to be free. He is very skilled and could potentially be quite wealthy. There is no way he would risk freedom by deflecting into some kind of skirmish.” I blew out a breath. “But I should mention …” I dropped my eyes. “Both Quash and Ben have the ability to read and write.”
“And I suppose you taught Quash?”
“And Ben,” I admitted. Had I handed down a guilty verdict just by educating them? I squeezed my eyes tight.
Charles took in a long audible breath through his nose. “If the authorities know this, it’s no wonder they assume the worst. We’ll have a devil of a time getting them released.”
“You’ll help me? I came for advice. But, Charles, I—if you’ll help, I—thank you,” I finished, my voice wobbling.
Charles looked at me fondly. “Honestly, Eliza, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you.” He smiled fleetingly, his handsome face troubled. “Now, let’s not dilly dally. We’ll see if we can avert a trial altogether. I’ll just go and inform Mrs. Pinckney.”
“Oh.” I gasped, aghast at myself that I hadn’t asked before now. “How is she?”
He grimaced. “Not well, I’m afraid. Though the doctor says he can find nothing wrong. But she tells me she awakens with fever at night, feeling hot when the air is chilled. She says her bones ache, though that comes and goes. And weak. She feels so very weak. It has quite confounded us all, I’m afraid.”
I pursed my lips in sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”
“Well.” He forced a smile. “She’ll be happy to have you visit with her—”
“Oh, I knew it was you!” Miss Bartlett’s cheerful voice just barely preceded her through the door. “I saw Essie, and my heart gave a little jig to think you were here!”
“Dear Miss Bartlett.” With effort, I pulled my mouth into a smile. “Yes, though I wish it was under better circumstances. I’m in town to rescue two men from jail.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! Do tell me all!”
The stench of unwashed bodies and excrement at the jail under the courthouse wafted out to the street. I pulled a muslin to my nose and carefully stepped over the cobblestones and drains as Charles and I made our way to visit the bailiff.
A small beady-eyed gentleman, whose name I forgot two seconds after hearing it, confirmed he held a man by the name of Quash. We stood in a stone room with wooden shelving and numbered boxes along one wall.
“He mulatto?” the man asked, scratching his head and then picking a lice bug between his thumb and forefinger and flicking it toward the wall behind him.
“He is,” I responded and shuddered, feeling my own skin itch in response.
“Well, sir,” said Charles, “I do believe he may have been mistakenly apprehended. He and his companion, Ben, a darker skinned Negro, were traveling on plantation business up the Combahee to Mistress Lucas’ other plantation, Garden Hill.”
“There ain’t no Negro by the name of Ben. And all due respect, Mr. Pinckney, he was in the company of some men we’ve been searching for for quite some time. You may have sent him on plantation business, but that is not how he was spending his time.”
I opened my mouth to jump to Quash’s defense. Charles quickly shot me a look, and I stopped.
“If he’s lucky, and it turns out he ain’t the one what been rounding these fellas all up, he may get off with a whipping. But the leader? He’s gonna be hanged.”
I clenched my fists, my teeth tight, trying to stifle my gasp of horror. “I’ll be speaking in his defense,” I managed before Charles could stop me. “He is an honorable slave.”
The bailiff snorted.
I thought about what other name Ben might go by and got nothing. “And you’re sure there was no slave named Ben?”
“We ain’t got none by that name,” the man snapped, irritated.
Perhaps Quash hadn’t caught up with Ben yet. Equal parts relief he wasn’t imprisoned and dread that he was still out there somewhere washed through me. If Quash and Ben weren’t together, then Ben was very likely gone. Perhaps forever. I couldn’t think of that right now. I tried to keep my spinning mind blank.
“Can we see the prisoners?” Mr. Pinckney asked. “To be sure.”
“Can’t do that. But here’s the belongings what were found with them,” he said turning and hauling a wooden box from the lowest shelf and setting it on the wood counter with a thump. Inside was an assortment of flint stones, dried meat, rope, a small knife, and—I froze.
A small leather pouch sat innocuously to one side. It looked almost identical, but darker, to the one Ben wore around his neck. That was alarming in itself, but more so was the small cutting of yellow lutestring ribbon curled next to it. I slowly put my hand inside and touched it gingerly.
“That was inside the leather pouch, along with some stones and such. You recognize it?”
I swallowed. “Yes,” I said, remembering the coil of yellow ribbon Papa had sent us from Antigua before the King’s Birthday Ball. “I believe it belongs to me.” How did Ben have a piece of my hair ribbon?
“Stole it, did he? Well, we can add that to the charges.”
“No.” I startled. “No, it’s all right. I gave it to him.”
The bailiff frowned, and I felt Charles Pinckney shift uncomfortably next to me.
“Regardless, the pouch looks like it belongs to the man you say you do not have,” I said thickly. “Ben. Not Quash.”
“Well, the militia said they took it from your man Quash. He was half drowned and lying on the riverbank when they came across him. Tried to get away into the river when we raided the rebel encampment, but we hauled him out quick enough.”
“That makes no sense,” I said, confused about him being in a rebel encampment. “What did he tell the militia?”
“Concocted some story of a boat full of rice going down in the ‘Santilina’ and bein’ carried by the water.” The man shook his head. “They’ll tell you anything.”
My pulse pounded in my ears, the voices of the bailiff and Charles Pinckney growing tinny as my vision narrowed. “A … a boat went down?” Santilina? Our boat from Garden Hill always traveled through the St. Helena Sound. I swayed and felt Mr. Pinckney’s warm hand grasp my upper arm.
If it was our boat Quash spoke of, then it would have been carrying our last rice harvest.