In September, while I was being paid my weekly wage, I asked Colonel Baker if Chekura and I could leave.
Baker looked up from his account book. "He can leave anytime he wishes," he said, nodding at Chekura. "But you have to stay to the end. We need you, Meena. That is the deal. We have hired you, but you stay to the end."
"When will the end be?"
"Before the year is out."
ANOTHER FIFTY OR SO SHIPS sailed out of New York in October. Without warning or explanation, I was assigned to a new team of inspectors. With them, I spent a long day registering Negroes on La Aigle, bound for Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia. Many of them had papers proving service for a British military company called the Black Pioneers.
Joe Mason, 25, stout fellow, Black Pioneers. Formerly servant to Samuel Ash, Edisto, South Carolina; left him in April, 1780.
Prince, 30, ordinary fellow with a wooden leg, Black Pioneers. Formerly servant to Mr. Spooner, Philadelphia, left him in 1777.
People showed up in bunches. All together in one family, or having served together as soldiers, cooks or laundresses in the same military regiment, or having run years ago from the same master in Charles Town, Edisto Island or Norfolk. There were people in their nineties, and newborn babies. There were healthy soldiers, and there were the dying. There were those who carried others, and others taken by hand.
Sarrah, 42, ordinary wench, stone blind, Black Pioneers. Formerly slave to Lord Dunmore, left him in 1776.
"How did you lose your eyes?" I asked her, whispering.
"Was mixing lye for soap, and a 'splosion went off," she said. "Man one foot over was handing me his redcoat, telling me to wash it soft and gentle. Kilt him lickety-split, so I reckon I was lucky."
"Must have hurt awful bad," I said.
"I've known worse," she said. "Say, you a Negro woman?"
"African."
"You writing this down?"
"That's my job," I said.
"Praise the Lord, girl. Praise the Lord. I always wanted to learn to read. Guess all I can do now is learn to sing."
"Lord Dunmore," I said. "He owned you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"The same Lord Dunmore who issued the Proclamation? The first one, saying we'd be free if we fought for the British?"
"Same Lord Dunmore," she said. "Virginia governor got to have his slaves."
"You're free now, Sarrah, and going to Annapolis Royal."
"Don't know where it is, but it sure sound pretty."
"Up the coast, in Nova Scotia. Two weeks by ship."
"You sound so smart," Sarrah said. "Right pretty, I bet."
I leaned over to tell her something I hadn't told any other person, except my husband. I made sure that nobody could hear us. "I'm having a baby."
"A chile is a miracle, 'specially these days," Sarrah said. "Your man with you?"
"He is."
"Praise the Lord. You travelling with us, honey chile?"
"Not on this boat. Soon, I hope."
"Travel safe, girl, and watch your eyes."
ONE COLD OCTOBER MORNING, after we made love and were lying, fingers intertwined, Chekura told me how he had lost the tips of his fingers.
"I had been guiding the British through the low-country waterways. They raided every plantation they could find. They shot rebels. They stole knives, chickens, pigs and silver. They took some slaves as prizes and turned others into helpers like me. They promised to liberate all of us who helped them. But when the time came to evacuate Charles Town, the British only took some of the Negroes. They promised to take more, but as usual, they lied. But I knew that if I didn't get out, a man in Beaufort County was just waiting to get his hands on me for trying to run with the British. The British soldiers started lifting the gangplank. Another fellow and I jumped in the water, clothes and all. It was just a few feet to the boat. We tried to get up the ladder, but the men on board said they would fire if we didn't let go. I didn't believe them. I had served them for months. We kept climbing the ladder, even though two sailors on deck waved cutlasses. 'Let go,' they hollered, but we kept on. Turned out they didn't fire on us after all. But when my friend put his hand on the top rung, one of the soldiers cleaved off his fingers. He screamed as he fell into the water and kept screaming when his head came back up. I had both hands on the rail. One of the sailors slashed at my left hand. He took off two fingertips. But I hung on with my good hand. I would have sooner died in the water than go back to my owner.
"I caught the eye of another sailor. I had seen that man before. I had traded with him in the low-country. I saw his face change as he recognized me too. He yanked me up, gave me a cloth for my bleeding hand and shoved me behind him on the deck. I had a fever the whole time at sea, but I couldn't stop thinking of you. When we got to New York, I was let off in Brooklyn Heights. I stayed there until I heard about Canvas Town and went looking for you again."
I had been missing Chekura since our first days in America and I didn't want to spend one more day without him. Though I worked long days, the early mornings were ours and ours alone, for loving and talking.
"Let me talk to that baby inside you," he said, bringing his mouth to my navel.
"Get out of there," I said, laughing.
"No, let me say something. I have words for her."
I smiled at my man, remembering stories of how my father had done the same thing with me when I was in my mama's belly.
"Stick with your mother, little girl," Chekura whispered into my navel.
"You think it's a girl, do you?"
"Course it's a girl. Your papa is no good, so stick close to Mama."
"Papa just fine," I said, "just fine indeed."
"Papa is a travelling man," Chekura said.
"We are travelling peoples," I said, "all of us."
At the barracks the next day, I was told that Captain Waters and Colonel Baker had sailed for England. No goodbye. No thank you. No indication of who would keep paying my salary. And no word left of when I could leave.
I spoke to a deputy quartermaster general, who was fussy and impatient.
"We don't require your services any longer," he said. "We need the space in the barracks too. You'll have to move back to Canvas Town."
"And my ship? What ship can I take with my husband?"
He fumbled about on his desk and shoved something toward me without looking up. "Take these," he said, and dismissed me from the room.
Our tickets said, "Joseph, boarding November 7 for Annapolis Royal."
CHEKURA AND I STOOD WITH A CROWD of two hundred Negroes on Murray's Wharf. Huddling together under a freezing rain, we hoped that Annapolis Royal would offer gentler winters than the biting cold and snow of Manhattan. Under my heavy coat, I had the certificate that had been issued when I began my work on the Book of Negroes.
On a small square of paper with lines in flowing ink, it said:
New York, 21st April, 1783. THIS is to certify to whomever it may concern, that the bearer hereof, Meena Dee, a Negro of Mandingo extraction, resorted to the British lines, in consequence of the Proclamations of Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia and Sir Henry Clinton, late Commander in Chief in America; and that the said Negro hereby has His Excellency Sir Guy Carleton's Permission to go to Nova-Scotia, or wherever else she may think proper. By Order of Brigadier General Birch.
I also had crab cakes, hard cheese, two loaves of bread, six fresh apples and four bottles of beer, all of which had been donated and wrapped in newspaper by Sam Fraunces, who had come down to the wharf to see us off. All of my friends had gone by then—some to Saint John, others to Annapolis Royal, and still others to Quebec. I knew none of the people crowded onto the pier. Sam Fraunces shook Chekura's hand and hugged me. I didn't know how to thank him. After Chekura and I had been made to leave the British barracks, Sam had let us stay in his tavern. Canvas Town was just too dangerous, he had told us, because white men were prowling the area every night. People were now saying that George Washington would ride into
town before the end of November.
Just as Chekura and I were leaving, Sam leaned closer and whispered to me that George Washington had promised him a job when the war was over. Sam was to become the head cook at the general's residence in Mount Vernon, Virginia.
"When the Tories pull their last anchor, the Americans will prove to be the better people. You never gave them their due."
"I'll take my chances with the British," I said.
Sam clasped my hand. "Write to me care of General Washington, Mount Vernon."
We were rowed out in the rain, mustered on the Joseph and sent below to await our interviews. For two days, the ship was loaded with salt beef, dried peas, suet, wine and water. Finally, three British men began inspections for the Book of Negroes. I didn't know any of them. Two American officers were watching our every step. They took Chekura before me.
Chekura, 41, little fellow, says he served the British in Charles Town, left his owner, Mr. Smith, Beaufort, 1779. In possession of General Birch Certificate.
It seemed to me that the less I told them, the better. I even gave them my Anglicized name, to keep things simple.
Meena Dee, 38, Guinea born, served behind British Lines in New York since 1777, previously owned by Mr. Lindo of Charles Town. In Possession of General Birch Certificate.
With a few businesslike scratches of the quill on paper, we were free. Chekura and I moved below deck with the last of the inspected Negroes. But just as the Joseph was preparing to lift anchor, a loud voice called out: "Meena Dee. Return here please."
The British and American officials conferred in whispers. The Ameri- cans produced a slip of paper, and were pointing out details to the deputy quartermaster.
Finally, the deputy quartermaster spoke. "Meena Dee, there is a claim against you. We cannot allow you to leave at this time. You must go with these men."
"But—"
"There will be no discussion."
"But I have a General Birch Certificate. I served the British for years. I worked from April to a week ago on this very Book of Negroes, under Colonel Baker."
"You will be allowed to respond to the allegations of your claimant."
"What claimant?"
"Gentlemen, please remove this woman."
Chekura took my hand. "I am her husband, and I go with her."
The deputy quartermaster frowned. "Look here, boy. If you get off this ship, I can guarantee you that you will board no other. If she prevails over her claimant, she may board another vessel. But if you leave this ship, you stay in New York. I will personally see to that. I have no time for this."
"Stay on the ship, Chekura," I said. "I will be back."
"I can't leave you, wife."
"Go with the ship. It's the only way. We will find each other in Nova Scotia. Send out word for me, and I will, for you."
He hugged me. I held his hands. His fingers slid away as I was pulled off the deck, down the ladder and into a boat that rowed me back to Murray's Wharf. The whole way back, I kept my eyes on the Joseph. I knew Solomon Lindo had put in a claim for me. He had helped separate me from my son more than twenty years ago, and now he had just separated me from my husband. I didn't like the feeling of hatred in my heart, so I tried to put Lindo out of my mind and to think instead of Chekura's arms around my body.
I spent the night in jail. They took my bag, which contained some spare clothes and all my savings. I didn't even have a few shillings to bribe the Negro jail guard. But I whispered to him anyway and pleaded with him to go tell Sam Fraunces of my fate. If he could do that for me, I promised, Sam would surely reward him in some way.
The guard smiled at me. "I was going to do it for you anyway," he said. "I know who you are."
"You do?" I said.
"You taught my daughter at St. Paul's Chapel, and she reads fine now. She taught me some reading too, after you taught her."
THE NEXT MORNING, Sam Fraunces came to see me. At other times, he had always been impossibly optimistic. But now, he wasn't smiling at all.
"I trusted the British," I said. "They said they would protect us, and I believed them."
Sam took my hand. He said that some of the plantation men who showed up with proof were being allowed to claim their runaways.
"I can't promise to get you out of here, though I'm going to do everything I can," he said. "But I do have some bad news."
"What?"
"I've just heard that Solomon Lindo is in town."
I cupped my face in my palms. "I'm done for now."
"Don't give up," Sam said. "I'll see what I can find out."
The guard escorted Sam from my cell. I rubbed my belly and whispered the songs of my childhood to soothe the baby inside me. I didn't want to be afraid. I didn't want that baby to learn fear from me. To stave off my anguish, I tried to imagine the shape of my baby's mouth and the sound of her first cries.
AFTER TWO DAYS IN JAIL, I was taken—wrists tied and legs shackled—to the Fraunces Tavern, whose meeting room had been converted into a court for claims.
I waited with the jailor and a justice of the peace, who would not even name the man who claimed me.
The door swung open, and into the room stepped Robinson Appleby. My mouth fell open. I hadn't seen Appleby since leaving St. Helena Island twenty-one years earlier. He was bald now and had a bulging belly, but his confidence had grown over the years. He had a huge smile on his face.
"Meena, what a pleasant surprise," he said.
"How dare you?"
"Careful how you speak to the one who owns you."
"You own nothing but your own conscience," I said.
"You made quite the name for yourself in New York," he said. "It was easy to track you down."
Appleby told the justice of the peace that he still owned me. He said that I had only been loaned out to Solomon Lindo, that Lindo had absconded with me and that I had run from Lindo. Therefore, Appleby said, I had never been freed, was illegally in New York and still belonged to him.
Appleby unfolded a worn-out piece of paper. "This, sir, indicates that I purchased this woman from Mr. William King in Charles Town in 1757."
"What is your response to this?" the justice of the peace asked me.
"That part is true," I said. "But he sold me in 1762 to Solomon Lindo." And then I had no choice but to go on with a lie: "Mr. Lindo manumitted me in 1775."
"Where are your papers?" asked the justice of the peace.
"I lost them," I said.
"She claims to have had papers, but she has lost them," Appleby said. "I make my claim with documentation."
"Have you anything else to say for yourself?" the justice asked me.
"He is lying."
Just then, Sam Fraunces slipped into the room.
"Mr. Fraunces," the justice said. "Have you something to contribute to this process?"
"You know me to be an upstanding businessman," Sam said.
"Your reputation is steady," said the justice.
"Then I ask for a brief delay. I need two hours. I am in the process of obtaining proof on behalf of the woman."
The justice sighed. "I have three more cases today," he said. "I shall hear them. Afterwards, if you have not brought forth your proof, I will have no choice but to decide this matter."
I sat under guard, still shackled, while Appleby stepped out to lunch. At the back of the room, I heard claims against two other Negroes who, like me, had been pulled off ships in the harbour. Both—one man, and one woman—were given over to men who said they owned them. I despised the Americans for taking these Negroes, but my greatest contempt was for the British. They had used us in every way in their war. Cooks. Whores. Midwives. Soldiers. We had given them our food, our beds, our blood and our lives. And when slave owners showed up with their stories and their paperwork, the British turned their backs and allowed us to be seized like chattel. Our humiliation meant nothing to them, nor did our lives.
Appleby waited with two strong aides. The better, I feared, for ca
rrying me off. Finally Sam Fraunces came into the room.
"Mr. Fraunces," said the justice, "have you made progress?"
"I have."
"Submit it, then."
"I will."
Sam opened the door, and into the room stepped Solomon Lindo.
Solomon Lindo? Sam had to be out of his mind. Had he turned traitor? Was he now sealing my fate? Perhaps Lindo had offered him money. Perhaps times were so bad that Sam needed it. But it didn't seem possible. Unlike Appleby, who stared with his lips pressed together, Lindo walked with a shuffle and kept his head down. He did not look at me.
"Please identify yourself," the justice of the peace said.
"Solomon Lindo."
"Place of residence?"
"Charles Town."
"Type of business?"
"Merchant."
"Do you own property?"
"I own property, yes," Lindo said, "a house in Charles Town, and an indigo plantation on Edisto Island."
His indigo grading must have slipped during the war years. He must have been running the plantation out of desperation. I couldn't imagine how I could go on living if he made me oversee his indigo production or do his books again.
"Have you come to New York to claim this woman?"
"I came to discuss indigo trade with the governor of New York. But I knew she was here."
"What stake have you in this case?" the justice of the peace asked.
"This man," Lindo said, nodding in Appleby's direction, "sold Meena Dee to me in 1762. I have the papers here."
"So you are saying that she belongs to you? You are claiming her for yourself?"
"Mr. Appleby does not own her," Lindo said. "I do."
"Mr. Appleby has already shown his papers," the justice said. "Do you have more recent proof of purchase?"