Freedom Dues

By Indra Zuno

Winner of the 2021 Gold IBPA Benjamin Franklin Award, Historical Fiction category.

1729: Blair Eakins is a fifteen-year-old Ulster-Scot living in Ireland under the crushing weight of famine, poverty, and prejudice against his people. In search of a better future for himself and his beloved, he pays for passage to the American colonies the only way he can: he commits himself as an indentured servant for a term of four years, having no idea what he's in for. His rough ocean crossing is only the beginning of a new life of hardships in Philadelphia.

In London, ten-year-old orphan pickpocket Mallie Ambrose is arrested for stealing a handkerchief. After experiencing the horror of Newgate prison, she is sentenced to "Transportation," bound into indentured servitude and exiled to the American colonies. Once in Maryland, she is sold to a tyrannical tobacco planter for seven years.

As Blair and Mallie each endure hellish conditions, their paths eventually cross when they are acquired by the same owner. After Blair steps in to defend Mallie from their cruel master, the two escape and head west, finding unlikely allies among the Delaware Indians. But as fugitives without rights, they live in constant fear of capture.

Indra Zuno vividly portrays the terror and injustice of indentured servitude in pre-Revolutionary War America while championing the indomitable spirits of two strong survivors who struggle against monumental odds to find the freedom to love each other and control their own destiny.

KIRKUS REVIEW
Zuno’s novel is a splendid historical epic with complex characters and richly drawn settings...The nuanced, well-developed narrative spans nearly a decade as it follows Mallie’s and Blair’s journeys to America and the difficult circumstances of their lives as indentured servants. The author’s sturdy, workmanlike prose perfectly captures the joys and sorrows of the protagonists as they struggle to build new lives in America...An accomplished and stirring tale from a promising new author of historical fiction.

BLUEINK REVIEW
...this well-crafted blend of research, characterization, and moving story progression should appeal to those drawn to entertaining, believable, historical fiction.

CLARION REVIEW
Enlivened by captivating historical details, Freedom Dues is a riveting coming-of-age love story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indra Zuno
• Release date: Jan 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734165203

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

July 6, 1729

London, Covent Garden

The small girl sat cross-legged on the floor, her back to the cracked window of the one-bedroom tenement apartment. A tortoiseshell cat brushed against her grimy and patched blue linen skirts, and she picked it up, brushing from its fur flakes of paint that the walls constantly shed. The cat nuzzled into the girl’s milky-white cheek. A pink scar ran from the outer corner of her right eye to her chin. The girl watched in fascination as a young woman with auburn hair and freckles, wearing only a shift, stood in the middle of the room and raised her arms above her head while two other women placed a sort of hollow dome made of cork over her abdomen and secured it with twine. The girl giggled, a chirruping sound that, coupled with her slight frame, made her seem younger than her ten years. She nestled the cat in her skirts and smiled as it curled into a warm, purring puddle of fur.

The woman gestured impatiently at the petticoat, dress, and gloves that were laid out on the only bed in the room. Get the clothes, Mallie.

The girl gently lifted the cat onto the floor, then jumped to her feet in one agile movement. She handed the clothes to the woman and sat on the edge of the bed.

Off, the woman snapped.

I wasn’t going ter sleep on it, Mallie said softly. She plopped back down on the floor and returned the cat to her lap. Lizzie! she exclaimed when the woman was fully dressed. Yer truly look as if yor childing!

Lizzie pressed a velvet heart-shaped beauty patch on her right cheek, the sign of a married woman. Who’ll be me maidservant today? She turned to one of the women who had attached her fake belly. Winnet?

Yeah, it’s me turn, said the woman.

Mallie, get up, Lizzie said.

Can’t yer take Betsy?

Get up.

The cat meowed in complaint as it was lifted yet again, and Mallie kissed its head before setting it down. She stood up, reluctantly this time, then grabbed a basket covered with a linen rag. Winnet lit a candle and led the way three floors down through the narrow, windowless staircase, dark even in the middle of the day. They exited into shadows cast by leaning tenements rising on both sides of the alley, which in turn steered them to the street. On the sidewalk, they skirted a dead horse, and Mallie merged into the thick crowd of pedestrians, ahead of Lizzie and Winnet. When they reached Grace Church Street, Mallie stood aside to let them pass. Then she crossed the street and followed behind them, carefully avoiding piles of manure and stagnant puddles of rain and urine. Sulfurous coal smoke seemed to pour out of every building—the earthenware factories, blacksmiths’ and glassblowers’ shops, and houses—enveloping everything and everyone. A young shoeblack at a corner looked up from the boots he was shining and smiled.

Mallie!

Mallie waved happily and, without slowing down, pointed toward Lizzie. The shoeblack nodded knowingly and returned to his work. Always keeping her distance from Lizzie and Winnet, Mallie wove her way through members of the gentry, a milkmaid, a Jew selling oranges, a boy selling mousetraps, white and black beggars, and soldiers with wooden legs, all the way to the well-kept grounds of Drapers Gardens. A man holding a carved bamboo walking stick greeted Lizzie with a Good morning, madam as he tucked a silk handkerchief into his right coat pocket. At his side his black slave boy adjusted his bright-green turban. Mallie watched as Lizzie pretended to trip and allowed herself to land on her rump; if she had not known it was a ruse, she would have believed the fall was authentic. As Mallie expected, a crowd gathered around Lizzie like fish drawn to food sprinkled on the surface of a pond. Mallie was in charge of the fishing.

Are yer hurt, m’lady? Winnet inquired in an alarmed voice, faithfully playing her part. When the man with the bamboo walking stick hurried toward the incident, Mallie followed him into the crowd. She had begun to slither her slim fingers into his pocket when he whirled on her.

Thief! he cried, catching her wrist with his hand.

Mallie yelped in pain, his handkerchief still dangling from her fingers. He looked into her wide and desperate eyes and for a moment was confounded; one of her eyes was brown, the other green. As she tried to squirm free, her woolen cap slipped off to reveal a disheveled bun of jet-black hair. She’d been taught to keep quiet if she were caught, but this was the first time it had actually happened, and she couldn’t help herself. Lizzie, ‘elp me!

Winnet took off running. Lizzie’s eyes flashed in anger and fear. Her face drained of all color when a man grabbed her right hand. Madam, if you’ll forgive me, he said, removing her glove. Upon seeing the T branded on her thumb, the man coolly announced, Madam has been lettered.

The man clutching Mallie turned to his slave boy. Fetch Constable Gardner.

#

Ireland

Province of Ulster

Borough of Lisburn

The teenage boy took one end of the pall, his brother took the other, and they draped it over the coffin, which rested on the box of a horse-drawn cart parked in front of the whitewashed stone cottage. The pall had arrived in Ireland with the boy’s great-great-grandfather when thousands of Protestant Lowland Scots had settled in Ulster. Now, the funeral cloth would accompany his father to his final resting place. Don’t cry, the boy told himself, his throat aching as he watched his mother and grandfather stand guard next to the coffin. Her expression was numb; the old man seemed angry. The boy swept his amber eyes over his family’s small rented farm, over the crops that were withering just as they had the year before and the year before that. He walked to the front of the cart and stroked the horse’s neck. The animal snorted, prompting him to glance toward another cart next to the cottage, the grass beneath it yellow. Their own mare had died months ago, as had their cow. He retrieved black cloaks from inside the cottage and handed them to those participating in the funeral procession. Then he started to make his way to the rear of the cottage.

Blair, where’re ye going? his brother called after him.

Tae the privy.

Dinna tarry.

No sooner had Blair shut the door of the outhouse than he burst into tears. His Presbyterian pride mandated that he not carry on like the vulgar, barbarian papist Irish with their histrionics and hideous keening.

Blair? Are ye awricht?

Under any other circumstances, the sweet voice on the other side of the door would have made him smile, but this was the last person he wanted bearing witness to his tears. Aye, he replied. He wiped his face dry with his sleeve and took a couple of deep breaths before stepping out. He removed his cap and combed his fingers through his deep-red hair, which gleamed even in the soft light of the overcast afternoon. No matter his mortification at being caught in a moment of weakness, Janet’s emerald eyes were a balm. Her lips—which made him think of dog rose petals—were pressed tight with sorrow for him. How many times had he daydreamed he had won her affections, dreamed he had made her his wife? At fifteen they were too young to marry, but a few days prior he had finally mustered the courage and decided he would confess his love the next time he saw her. Then, the unexpected death of his father had upended everything.

I’m verra glad ye’re here, he said.

Janet smiled. I’m yer friend. I’ll always be here.

He caught his breath, wondering how much to read into her words. He pulled something from his breeches pocket. I thought ye’d like this. It’s from a kingfisher.

Janet held out her palm, and Blair placed a feather on it. She held it up between two fingers and twirled it; it shimmered with blue-green iridescent tones. Is it mine tae keep?

If ye want it.

I do want it.

A warm effervescence bubbled in his chest.

Blair! We’re waiting for ye!

Blair winced. His brother was approaching, his dark-brown eyes stern.

It’s my fault, Ronald, Janet said. I kept him.

It’s awricht, lass. We appreciate ye being here.

As the three walked to the front of the cottage, Blair glanced at his brother. Ronald was four years older, a full three inches taller, and treated his role as head of the household with the zeal of a herding dog. On the front door a rowan cross—to ward off witches, the evil eye, and evil spirits—swayed in the cold wind. Janet went indoors to join the rest of the women and help watch the children and prepare the food for the dredgy, the feast that would follow the burial. Blair raised his eyes to the gray clouds, so low they seemed within reach. Please don’t let it rain now, he prayed. Everyone in Ulster knew that if you could see the hills, it was going to rain, and if you couldn’t, it was already raining.

Blair grunted when he, Ronald, their uncle John, and five other men heaved the coffin onto their shoulders. Reverend McCracken took the lead, the pallbearers followed, then Blair’s mother and aunt, then his grandfather and other male relatives, friends, and neighbors. They had barely started down the dirt lane when they found a wretched-looking woman standing by the side of the road, five barefoot and skinny children, none older than nine, clinging to her ragged skirts. She stretched a hand out toward Blair’s mother as she walked past her. Mrs. McKay, she said, my bairns are hungry.

Donia, Blair’s mother replied, with sincere regret, we have naught tae spare. We’ve been forced tae rent the common-use kist.

Hearing the beggar’s name, Blair looked at her again. She had worked for his parents when linen was selling well. She and another five or six single and widowed women would sit with Blair’s mother outside the cottage with their spinning wheels, hour after hour. Donia was almost unrecognizable in her deplorable condition. Her shoulders slumped, and she watched the procession pass with exhausted eyes. A quarter of an hour later, the mourners stopped, the pallbearers laid the coffin down, huffing, their faces flushed, and a jug of whiskey was passed around to everyone but Blair’s mother and aunt.

Would it make ye happy tae visit Donnybrook Fair in Dublin next year? Ronald asked, handing Blair the jug after taking a gulp.

The gesture warmed Blair more than the whiskey itself. Aye.

I’ll come with ye, said a voice at Blair’s back. He turned and saw his cousin, a boy slightly older than himself.

I’m sorry, Gilroy, Ronald replied. This time we’d rather go by ourselves.

Next time, then, Gilroy said, clearly disappointed.

Another eight mourners picked up the coffin. An hour and a half, seven stops, and two jugs of whiskey later, the procession reached the Lisburn Presbyterian Meeting House. The men entered the churchyard while Blair’s aunt and mother stopped at the entrance. He took his mother’s callused hand in his and held it to his chest for a moment.

I’ll see ye back home, Blair said. She nodded absentmindedly. He looked as the two women walked away, glad that tradition prevented them from stepping into the churchyard. He stood next to his four siblings’ graves, where a hole had been dug for his father. When Uncle John and Ronald removed the coffin’s lid, Blair shuddered. During the two-day wake, when his father’s body had been laid out on a table inside the cottage, many had touched it as a sign of respect and farewell, but Blair had avoided doing so.

Blair, called his uncle, come tae this side and help me take out yer father.

Blair tried to move, but his feet had turned to millstones, and he felt faint.

I’ll do it, Ronald said quickly.

The body, wrapped in a linen shroud, was secured with two lengths of rope and lowered into the ground without ceremony, and the whiskey was passed around one last time.

#

Blair’s stomach dropped when his cottage came into view: Janet was by the fence, next to Gilroy, a harvest knot in her hand. Her cheeks were crimson as she studied the love token made with three oat panicles, the bottom portion of the stems braided together and then looped and fastened. As soon as she saw Blair approaching, she slipped it into her skirt pocket and looked at him expectantly. He breezed past her, ducked under the cottage’s low thatching, and stepped inside. The cottage smelled of mutton, potato pancakes, turnips, thyme, and butter.

Ronald leaned into his ear and whispered, Janet disna care for Gilroy.

I dinna care for Janet, Blair snapped back.

The cottage was plain: a bedroom at one end, the loom room on the other, and all at once the kitchen, dining room, and sitting room in the middle, where Blair and Ronald slept. Blair noticed with relief that Janet did not sit with Gilroy but with her two older sisters, flanked by their mother and father. After eating, the children rushed outside to play, and Blair went around offering loose tobacco from a pouch, leaving Janet’s father for last.

Thank ye, lad, Janet’s father said, looking up at him with sad, gray eyes as he tamped tobacco into his pipe.

Yer welcome, Mr. Ferry. Blair kept his gaze firmly on the man but out of the corner of his eye saw Janet looking at him. When Ronald approached Janet’s father with a spill to light his pipe with, her sisters sat up straight and smiled. Ronald winked at one of the girls and then, for good measure, winked at the other.

When Blair finished handing out tobacco, he sat next to his grandfather on the settle bed he shared with Ronald. In more prosperous times, there would have been lively conversation about a new breeding mare, or the best manure to use for crops. There would be lighthearted jokes about a girl who had given birth too soon after the nuptials: no, the baby didna come early; the wedding came late. There would be fiddles, pipes, and accordions, confirming that there was more mirth to be found at a Scot’s funeral than an English wedding. That was all missing today, and the silence grated on Blair.

Finally, Uncle John spoke, addressing a neighbor. Samuel, this might be a good time tae read the letter.

All eyes immediately focused on the man, who seemed uncharacteristically nervous. The man’s wife, sitting next to him, brought one of his hands to her lips in a comforting gesture. He cleared his throat. My brother Joseph arrived safely in Philadelphia. He sent this letter. He lowered his eyes to the paper. "Dear Samuel, I account it my honor and duty tae give ye an account o’ myself and my proceedings since I left ye. On the next Friday after we left Lisburn, we came on board the ship Good Intent, at the port o’ Belfast, where we saw nine other ships also bound for the colonies. On the Wednesday following, we sailed for America." He paused, swallowed, and tried to continue, but his voice cracked. When Blair realized Samuel was about to break down in tears, he jumped to his feet.

Do ye want me tae read it? Blair asked. Samuel handed him the letter. Blair scanned the next line and tried to keep his voice as steady as possible. "On the third day of our sail, our mother died and was interred in the raging ocean."

Everyone gasped. Those sitting or standing close to Samuel reached out and patted him on the shoulders, offering words of sympathy. Blair waited for everyone to settle down before resuming. "Seven days later we lost sight o’ Ireland. We were tossed at sea with storms, which caused our ship tae spring a leak. The ship’s water pumps were kept at work many days and nights. We all suffered the most terrible seasickness and lost another five passengers, who had tae be put overboard. It pleased God tae bring us all safe tae Philadelphia after eight weeks at sea. I write these words before we make our way tae Donegal, the settlement founded by our very own people eighty miles west o’ Philadelphia, where, by the blessing of God, we will prosper as farmers on our own piece o’ land. I am yer dutiful brother, Joseph Shipboy."

Blair handed the letter back, sat down, and took the pipe his grandfather offered. As he lit it, he sneaked a peek across the room. Gilroy sat on the floor next to Janet; she leaned toward him as he whispered in her ear. Blair felt as if he had swallowed a chunk of smoldering turf. He forced his attention back to Samuel.

Will ye follow yer brother, Samuel? Ronald asked.

Maybe. Christy and I dinna want our bairns growing up slaves tae the English. The rents in Pennsylvania are said tae be small; there are no tithes tae pay, no county or parish taxes. All men are on a level, and it’s a good poor man’s country. Several heads nodded in understanding.

I’ll leave with ye.

Stunned, Blair turned to Ronald.

I’ll go tae Philadelphia, Ronald repeated.

Ye canna leave! Blair exclaimed.

We both should leave. There’s naught here for us.

Blair blinked in disbelief. Ye would leave Ma? He glanced at his mother; she was paying close attention to the exchange, but it was his aunt who spoke.

Blair, darling, I agree with Ronald. I think—

Dinna encourage them, Uncle John said. Blair and Ronald dinna have money for the passage; neither do ye, Samuel.

Blair raised his eyebrows at his brother; Ronald should know better. They had already been forced to sell their best farming tools, along with the family’s two fiddles.

Janet’s father pointed his pipe at Samuel. As soon as ye abandon yer land, the Irish will invade it, just like they invaded yer brother’s.

We’ll soon be evicted anyway, Samuel said. We canna pay the rent.

The Irish— Blair’s aunt stopped herself and stared down at her lap. The Irish, she continued, her voice low, are taking back what was theirs. We’re on the land the English took from them. Blair looked around; some people seemed shocked, others indignant. It’s the truth, she whispered.

Blair, chewing furiously on the stem of his pipe, stared at her with concern. Maybe grief was driving her mad. He could feel his grandfather bristle at the words.

This land was wasted for centuries on these leaderless, impoverished, ignorant papists. The old man’s voice was hot with pride and whiskey. They never accomplished anything but tae raise a few mud cabins, and nothing—

Janet’s father cut in. We built these towns, and we’ve shed a lot o’ blood defending them.

And yet, Blair’s aunt said, to the Anglicans, we’re little better than Catholics. Look at Bishop Hutchinson, using our money tae stuff his belly with oysters and claret while we canna pay our rents.

"It’s a lang gait that haes nae sindrins," Blair’s grandfather said in the Scots language that only the elders still commanded. Things will get better.

Sick of the conversation, Blair got up and walked to the loom room, and sat at the loom where his father had taught him how to weave. The sight of piles of folded linen webs, nearly worthless now in the glutted market, filled him with hopelessness.

Blair?

He jumped. Janet had followed him and had shut the door behind her.

May I keep ye company?

Ye may do as ye please.

She sat next to him; his heart pounded. They sat in silence for a while. Loud voices came through the door.

Do ye want tae go tae America? she asked. He thought for a moment. What if Ronald was right?

Maybe.

Please dinna go, she whispered. When he felt the warmth of her hand on his thigh, the room spun around him. He leaned his face into hers, pausing for a moment to gauge her reaction. She didn’t pull away. He brought his mouth to hers, feeling her agitated breath, and pressed his lips against hers. Her hand clenched around his leg.

Janet, yer father is calling for ye. Ye’re going home.

Both jumped and pulled away from each other. Blair’s grandfather was at the door.

Thank ye, Mr. Eakins, the girl stammered.

Sad as he looked, the old man winked at Blair before shutting the door again.

May I see ye tomorrow? Blair asked.

We’re going tae Dunmurry tae visit my grandmother.

Meet me in the morning the day after tomorrow at the castle ruins, then.

Her eyes sparkled. Aye. Half past eleven.

#

London

A constable held Mallie by the arm and pushed through the crowd, behind a second constable and Lizzie. They trudged past coffeehouses, apothecaries, and inns, the shop signs hanging precariously above their heads. Finally, at a corner, they waited for a carriage to pass by, its metal wheels rattling over the cobblestones. They crossed the street, and the constable knocked on the door of the home of Sir Robert Baylis, the Lord Mayor of London. A maidservant let them in and led them to a hall outside the Lord Mayor’s home office. There, they awaited their turn as he received the daily miscreants and complainants. Then it was their turn to be brought before him. He heard the victim’s telling of the incident and, practically by rote, questioned the pickpockets. He did not even have to be shown the T on Lizzie’s thumb to know she had been convicted of theft before: he remembered her. He ordered that the girls be sent to Newgate Prison and remain there while awaiting trial.

Two blocks before Newgate, even before it came into view, the putrid stench emanating from the bowels of the building crept into Mallie’s nostrils. Upon reaching the gate, she raised her terrified eyes toward the spikes of the permanently raised portcullis, which hovered like fangs in a monster’s jaw, a monster in constant need of human flesh. A roar of voices, yelling and fighting, reverberated from within. The constable knocked on a door, and the gatekeeper let them into the lodge. Mallie kept her eyes down and stood behind Lizzie, whose fake belly had been removed by one of the Lord Mayor’s maids.

Pickpockets, said one of the two constables delivering the girls.

The head turnkey—who had been drinking beer with the gatekeeper—eyed them with appetite. I’d wager Covent Garden nuns.

I ain’t a whore, Mallie murmured.

That’s two shillings and six pence each for admission, the gatekeeper demanded.

We don’t ‘ave money, Lizzie answered.

To the condemned hold, then, the head turnkey said, standing up and grabbing a torch.

Terrified, Mallie kept close behind Lizzie as they followed the turnkey up a windowless staircase illuminated by torches on the walls. On the second floor, a gaoler stood guard outside a door with a small grated window. The hinges creaked as he swung the door open and let Mallie and Lizzie inside.

The cell was only about twice as large as the tenement room Mallie shared with Lizzie and Winnet, and the smell was a thicker version of what Mallie had picked up as they approached the prison. A single tiny window, too high for any of the inmates to see through, was the only source of light. Two women sat at a table below it; several others lay in bare wooden bunks along the walls covered only by the rags they wore. One was pregnant, a three-year-old boy curled up with her. In the corner, a woman with an eye patch was in the process of relieving herself in a pail. Lizzie sat on the blackened oak floor, her back against the stone wall. Mallie sat two feet away but began to inch closer after a couple of minutes.

Lizzie, I’m sorry, she whispered. She yelped when Lizzie elbowed her in the ribs.

Button it, you stupid, careless bitch.

Mallie brushed tears away, found an empty bunk, and curled up in a ball, shivering, terrified for herself and heartsick for her cat. She heard the door open, and she opened her eyes. A man carrying a pair of scissors and a bag walked in and approached the pregnant woman.

I’ve come for yor hair, he said. The woman moved to a chair under the window, in quiet resignation, leaving her toddler asleep in her bunk. Mallie watched as the barber sliced off the woman’s long hair, put it in the bag, and gave her some coins. Just then the toddler woke up and, finding himself alone in the bunk, burst into tears. His mother immediately went to him, but he was inconsolable. His wails mixed with the noises coming from all around: inmates arguing, laughing, or crying hysterically, gaolers yelling, and doors slamming shut. It all drilled into Mallie’s ears like the ice pick she used on winter mornings to break the frozen layer in their bucket of wash water.

She spent the next few hours lying in her bunk, trying to shut out the racket, until she fell asleep.

A gaoler’s voice startled her awake. Time for sermon! Several women—Lizzie among them—headed for the door.

Yer ‘aven’t paid yor fees, the gaoler said, stopping her.

I got no money.

The gaoler lifted her skirts. Yer don’t need money. Lizzie pulled away. Yer don’t need ter attend service either, the gaoler sniped before walking out.

Mallie was puzzled; Lizzie always carried some well-hidden money. Why claim she didn’t have any? Why would she refuse to lie down with this man to get what she needed? He was no more disgusting than any other Mallie had seen her with. The door opened, and a woman in rags stepped inside and set down a bucket of water just to the side. She stepped outside for a moment and returned with a basket of stale bread and boiled pieces of meat, which she set down next to the water before leaving. The inmates clustered around like stray dogs, snatching up as many pieces of food as would fit in their hands before quickly stepping away. Around the bucket of water, one grimy pewter cup was impatiently being shared. Mallie squeezed between two women to try to reach the bread basket but was easily shoved aside. She tried again, only to have someone yank her skirts from behind. By the time she managed to reach the basket, there wasn’t a crumb left. Someone tapped her shoulder, and when she turned, one of the inmates was offering the pewter cup, her wide, manic smile revealing broken and blackened teeth. Mallie took the cup, knelt next to the bucket of water, set the cup on the floor, and drank with her cupped hands. Then she went back to her bunk, her stomach growling.

Take some.

Lizzie held out a piece of bread, her hand shivering from the cold. Mallie took the bread and scooted closer to the wall to make room for Lizzie. I promise I’ll do better from now on, she said, grateful for the bread and warm body, but most of all because it seemed Lizzie had forgiven her the clumsiness that had landed them in prison. At midnight the clanking of a bell jolted her awake. On the other side of the door, a bellman chanted three times:

All you that in the condemned hold do lie

prepare you, for tomorrow you will die.

Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near

that you before th’ Almighty must appear.

Examine well yourselves, in time repent,

that you may not t’eternal flames be sent;

and when Saint Sepulcher’s bell tomorrow tolls,

The Lord have mercy on your souls.

Mallie’s heart slammed in her chest. Lizzie!

Wot the ‘ell do yer want now?

We won’t ‘ang, will we?

Not without a trial. Go ter sleep.

#

At six o’clock in the morning, the tenor bell at Saint Sepulchre-without-Newgate rang ominously, and shortly before seven, two gaolers came into the cell.

It’s collar day, wenches. Let’s go, one of the gaolers said, rounding up four women and leading them out of the cell. Lizzie and the rest, except for the pregnant woman and Mallie, gathered around the second gaoler. Only to do what the others did, Mallie approached the gaoler, although she made sure to keep away from Lizzie.

Get up! the gaoler barked at the pregnant woman.

I don’t feel well at all, she said weakly.

But the more alms yer make, the more food and gin and candles yer can buy from us, he said with exaggerated mock concern as he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. He picked up her toddler and deposited him in her arms. Little brats always make people feel generous.

Ah! Mallie thought. He’s picking people to go begging. On execution days, prostitutes, pickpockets, and vendors gathered outside the prison to take advantage of the festive mood. Mallie and Lizzie had often been part of that crowd, and invariably there had been inmates begging at the prison gate. The gaoler took Mallie’s chin in his hand and brought his nose much too close to hers. She stiffened.

Those doe eyes of yours should loosen some purse strings. A whiff of decaying teeth floated from his mouth. The gaoler selected another two women but passed Lizzie over.

I’ll bring back money, I will, Mallie said, squeezing Lizzie’s hand as she muttered a curse. The inmates followed the gaoler down the staircase to the first floor, where Mallie was chained by the wrist to another inmate, and the pregnant woman was chained to the fourth. They were led outside the gate, where women from other holds and about an equal number of male prisoners were already busy begging. Mallie watched as twelve men and four women, their hands tied in front of them, were loaded onto three open carts surrounded by armed cavalry and made to sit atop their own coffins. Once seated, a noose was draped around each of their necks, the length of the rope coiled on their laps. The ordinary, wearing his Geneva gown and white neckband, climbed into the lead cart and began to preach. The city marshal, the hangman and his assistants, and a troop of javelin men completed the convoy.

The townspeople who gathered to watch the spectacle bought fried sausages and muffins as they waited for things to get going. A woman held a stack of broadsides in one hand and waved one of the printed sheets with the other while braying, "The Ordinary

Reviews for Freedom Dues

[tangqijian · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book gives me a glimpse of how life was like in colonial America. The love between Blair and Mallie is touching, because they still care for each other even after so many hardship between them.