Path to Freedom – Book 2

Chapter 1

Greenesville, North Carolina—January 1801

Mark Allen Teed’s hopes crashed with a thud to the frosty ground at his boots. He pointed at the flea-bitten gray horse and stared at Arthur, the Whitefords’ coachman.

“This is what he is giving me?”

“Indeed. The master picked out this horse himself.”

“From which slaughter yard?”

“Come now, Mark Allen. The master owes you a horse as agreed upon. What did you imagine he would purchase? The Godolphin Arabian?” The older man snorted.

Mark Allen rubbed the back of his neck. “How am I supposed to start my journey on a broken down―”

“Enough of that. I have been over him myself. He is a bit long in the tooth but sound on all four, and he has good wind.” Arthur thrust the lead rope into Mark Allen’s hand. “And he is a far sight better than the horse you had yesterday.”

Mark Allen ground his teeth. After five years at Daniel Whiteford’s estate, caring for horses of the finest quality, it had never occurred to him that the horse he’d be given at the completion of his indenture would be a worn-out sack of bones with a dull hide stretched across it. He squeezed the rope until the coarse fibers bit into his palm.

“The saddle?”

Arthur lifted his chin toward the stable. “Hanging on the hitching rail. ’Tis old, but the leather is in good shape. Same with the bridle. I found an old blanket in the tack room. You can take that too.” Arthur strode to the stable and disappeared inside.

Mark Allen followed but jerked to a halt when he reached the end of the lead rope.

The horse didn’t move.

He gave the rope a sharp tug that got the horse moving. “Come on, you jughead. This morning is not going to get any better for standing here.”

What had he expected? A royal send-off? He flung a glance over his shoulder at the manor house. It was the day he turned twenty-one years old and, as per the agreement of indenture, he was a free man. Master Whiteford had provided a new suit of clothes, ten dollars in cash, and a horse.

Mark Allen frowned at the pale creature. Something like a horse.

He tied the animal to the hitching rail and lifted the saddle. The leather was worn butter-soft. It smelled of saddle soap and oil. Arthur. The coachman must have been up half the night bringing the relic back to life.

A knot thickened in Mark Allen’s throat. He’d miss Arthur. The bandy-legged little man had taught him everything he knew about horses.

Mark Allen saddled the animal and left it tied while he climbed into the stable loft one last time to retrieve his bundle of belongings. It wasn’t much of a bundle. He’d brought nothing with him when he’d arrived, and other than two changes of clothing and a blanket rolled in an oiled square of canvas. All he owned he could carry in his pockets. He looked around the slant-ceilinged room. It could’ve been worse. He’d chosen indenture over being apprenticed to the drunken barrel maker as his father had wanted.

That was the past. The first day of his future awaited. The start of his journey to find Gwen Morgan. Her pale face surrounded by a riot of black curls danced in his memory and tightened.

Nothing else mattered.

“He has not left yet, has he?” Cook’s voice carried from the stable below.

“He will be down directly.” Arthur’s reply was accompanied by the familiar scritch of a match against his boot heel. Pipe smoke greeted Mark Allen as he climbed down.

“There he is.” The rotund Cook, her mobcap askew over gray curls, clasped a sack to her chest. “’Tis a sorrowful day. Whatever shall we do without you? Nobody left but us old servants.” She sniffed and stretched up to pat his cheek.

Mark Allen would miss her as well. He couldn’t remember his mother, who’d died of a fever when he was very young. Cook was the closest thing he’d known.

“Do not embarrass the lad,” Arthur said around the stem of his pipe.

Cook wrinkled her nose at the coachman. “I prepared a little food for your trip.” She handed Mark Allen the cloth bag, which weighed considerably more than his bundle of belongings.

He cleared his throat. “I’m much obliged.”

“Pshaw. ’Tis no more than you deserve.” She extended her arms, and he leaned into her ample embrace. “But I would not be waving it around where the master might catch a glimpse of it, were I you.” She pulled back, a twinkle in her eye.

“I have another sack for you to tie on behind that saddle.” Arthur handed over a burlap bundle. “He will look a mite better with a bit of oats in his belly.”

Mark Allen swallowed a lump as he took the heavy sack of feed.

“’Twouldn’t hurt to tie your own bundle on top of that one as well.” The old man winked.

The lump in his throat refused to stay down. As much as he couldn’t wait to leave, standing before him were the closest thing he had to family.

Until he found Gwen.

He strode out the door and tied his bundles―his canvas-wrapped clothing on top―behind the saddle. He untied the lead rope and slipped the bridle over the horse’s head. Foot thrust into the stirrup, he swung astride.

Cook wiped her cheek. “When you find that girl, give her our love.”

The smoke from Arthur’s pipe made a white wreath around his head in the crisp January air. “Take care of yourself, lad.”

“I will.” He turned the gray horse, and with a few kicks, urged the animal into a bone-jarring trot.

“Godspeed!” Cook called behind him.

He lifted his hand in farewell and muttered, “Only if this jughead does not trip over his bottom lip before we clear the drive.”

***

Edinburgh, Scotland—January 1801

They were finally going home. Elation and dread fueled Faye Morgan’s rushed packing. Paul McClure had given her and Madam scant notice after he’d booked their passage on the ship that would take them home. There was no time for him to even hire a girl to help with the packing.

Ship.

The very word sent a stab of fear that went from the back of her throat to the backs of her knees.

She’d crossed the ocean twice in her seventeen years, most recently two years back, when she and Madam and Paul had sailed for Edinburgh so that Paul could complete his education in the field of medicine. A voyage she’d never wanted to make but had been in no position to refuse.

But the trip when she’d been twelve years old is what caused her fear, the voyage that was supposed to give them a brand-new start. Faye’s father, her sister Gwen, and she had left Wales with high hopes for a better life across the ocean. Instead, Father had died onboard, leaving Faye and Gwen orphans. They’d been sold into indenture by the ship’s captain to a different captain, who’d kept them in a stinking ship’s hold until he’d hauled them out, half-starving, and shoved them into a chute filled with other wretched humans bound to be sold to the highest bidder. It was there Faye had lost her sister. Gwen had been sold first and ripped away from Faye forever.

Stepping aboard another ship would bring more frequently the nightmares that still stalked her. On the voyage to Scotland, she’d rarely had a full night’s sleep.

But it would be worth it to get home.

Pittsburgh would have grown in their absence, of course. Construction had been constant before they’d left. She was almost afraid to imagine how much larger it was, yet that size could be an important advantage for her. Growth meant more citizens. And while she’d left as a child, Faye Morgan was returning a young woman.

Of marriageable age.

Madam—the way Faye referred to Martha McClure—would surely see the need to present Faye to fashionable society when they returned. After all, becoming a Quaker didn’t mean she couldn’t marry well. They’d met a number of wealthy Quakers in Scotland, and everyone knew Pennsylvania was full of Quakers. They may dress plain and speak using thee and thy, but they were not against living well.

Faye intended to continue to live well.

Almost as traumatic as being sold like a horse. Faye remembered being hungry and cold, squatting on a dirt floor, clutching Gwen and hiding from Father when he’d been drinking.

She tossed a rolled petticoat into the trunk she was packing. Perhaps that was why she despised the beasts as much as she did. Even the smell of a horse repulsed her. In Pittsburgh, she’d look for a husband wealthy enough to provide her with a proper carriage and a liveried driver, not some wagon or cart where she’d have to look at the beast pulling it.

“Faye?” Madam’s voice reached her before the tap of heels on the aged wood flooring of the rented house.

“I am still packing,” she called out the open door of her bedchamber.

“Oh, good.” The older woman appeared in the doorway, one hand on her chest, the other fluttering as she spoke. “I know not how Paul expected us to get everything done by this evening. Two years of living here to pack up in a single day. Thank goodness for Olivia.”

Madam’s maid had come to Scotland with them, but the rest of the household servants had come with the house.

“But I had a thought, my dear”—Madam plunged on with barely time for a deep breath—“about thy more elaborate dresses. There really is no need to pack them. That will save us both time and space, I should think.”

Not pack her best dresses?

“But the balls in Pittsburgh.” Faye pointed to her armoire where her most prized dresses still hung. “Surely I shall require such dresses to attend them.”

“I know thee loves these pretty things.” Madam moved to the armoire and ran her fingers over the satin and lace garments in an array of colors that they had collected for Faye before Paul convinced Madam to join the Quakers. “But we shall have no use of them now. Should Paul consent to thee attending the balls, thee will wear gowns befitting the Society of Friends.”

Faye fumbled for words but came up with nothing. Leave her dresses behind?  She’d accumulated these dresses for the expressed purpose of finding a husband. Dresses she’d hung her hopes on each time she’d hung a new one beside the others. Dresses denoting her status as the ward of Dr. Paul McClure. And dresses she needed to reach her ultimate goal.

She planned to become the wife of a man who would take care of her for the rest of her life in the manner to which she’d become accustomed. At least, the manner she’d lived before the turn to Quakerism.

***

Any hope of arriving in New Bern before midnight fled Mark Allen by mid-morning. He rubbed his gloved hands together for warmth. Sleeping outside was out of the question. He glanced over his shoulder for the third time in less than half an hour at the heavy clouds that hung in swirls of pewter and charcoal. With any luck, they carried snow and not rain. He pulled his coat collar higher on the back of his neck. The cold was bad enough. Getting soaked in these temperatures would be miserable.

Another hour down the road, slushy raindrops splattered across his back. He tugged his hat lower on his brow. Jughead—the name had stuck―quickened the pace as the drops plastered against his tail. Mark Allen thumped the animal’s bony ribs with his boot heels, and he lumbered into a canter. At least the horse appeared as eager to get out of the weather as he was.

They rounded a stand of trees, and the scattered group of shabby buildings making up Durgantown came into view. Any port in a storm. Mark Allen rode behind the tavern, ducked beneath a wide doorway, and urged the horse straight into the stable. A Negro boy in a tattered, too-small coat hurried to his side.

“Do you know if the tavern has a room available for the night?”

“Yessah.”

Mark Allen dismounted as the comforting odors of horse, hay, and dust closed around him. The horse blew out its nostrils and shook its head, spraying Mark Allen’s coat with horse sneeze.

“Jugheaded horse.” Mark Allen wiped the front of his coat with his gloved hands.

The boy reached for the reins.

“Nay, I will take care of him.” The animal might not amount to much, but Jughead was his. He led the gray to an empty stall and eased the saddle off. Pungent steam rose from the wet hide. He poured a double handful of oats into the manger, borrowed a brush and dry sack from the boy, and worked over the gelding’s wet coat while it plunged his nose in the oats.

“You may not be much to look at, and you have got a trot fit to separate me from my back teeth, but Arthur was right about one thing. You are more horse than I had yesterday.” He slapped the well-rubbed rump and grabbed his bundles. “Toss him a large armful of hay, will you, boy?”

“Yessah. He could surely use it.”

While the lad staggered by with an armload of hay so high he couldn’t see over it, Mark Allen was satisfied his horse was in good hands. At the doorway, sleet blew almost parallel to the ground. He tugged his hat tighter and sprinted for the tavern, boots splashing icy slop in all directions.

Reaching the back door, he pushed through into a blast of warmth.

Gabe Dunkley turned from the blazing hearth and wiped his hands on the streaked gray apron around his bulging middle. “Mark Allen Teed.” Firelight gleamed from his smooth head, and his smile sported as many gaps as teeth. “What errand is so important that Daniel Whiteford sent you out in weather like this?”

“I’m on no man’s errand save my own.” Mark Allen swept the hat from his head and straightened to his full height, his hair brushing the low kitchen beams. “I’m a free man today. My indenture has been met.”

A low whistle shot through the gaps in Gabe’s smile. “Your own man at last. Come in and sit.” The proprietor of the tavern scooped up two tankards and filled them before leading the way to the front room and dropping his bulk onto a bench. He set the tankards on the table and motioned for Mark Allen to sit across from him. “Now, tell me of your plans.”

A pair of narrow windows let in precious little light with the dark clouds overhead. One oil lamp smoked on the counter, and a meager fire in the wide hearth gave them enough light to see by. They were the only people in the room.

“I’m off to find Gwen Morgan.”

“Ah.” Gabe leaned into the table. “Have you any idea where to start?”

“Aye. Arthur showed me the house in New Bern where he left her three years ago.”

“Three years? Has it been that long?” Gabe planted his elbows on the table. “The lass could be anywhere by now.”

Mark Allen ground his teeth and stared at his wavy reflection in the dingy window. His Gwen was out there somewhere, and he was going to find her. Three years he’d waited. Three years he’d remembered his promise. You know I will help find your sister as soon as I’m free.

“I made her a promise. I intend to keep it.”

Gabe smacked the table with his meaty palm. “I like a man who is true to his word. That I do. But three years is a long time, lad. You know…” Gabe lowered his voice as if someone were in the room to overhear. “She could be married with a couple of youngsters tuggin’ on her apron strings by now.”

Gripping the tankard, Mark Allen shook his head. “I cannot believe that.” I will not believe that.

A log tumbled in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

“What am I blatherin’ on about?” Gabe pushed himself to his feet. “You are wet through, and here I am, talkin’ your ears off. I will bring you a bowl of stew for supper. And you will be wantin’ a warm, dry bed for the night. I will toss an extra blanket in the first room. Likely you be the only guest. Nobody will be out on the road in weather like this.”

The tavern owner disappeared into the kitchen, still talking, and Mark Allen leaned against the rough wall beside the window.

What if Gwen hadn’t waited for him? He squeezed the bridge of his nose. What if he couldn’t find her?

The answer was simple.

He had to.

His whole future depended on it. He’d worked out all the details years before. He’d find Gwen and her sister and see them reunited, purchase Gwen’s indenture from whoever had bought it from Daniel Whiteford, and then he and Gwen would marry and start a family. They’d put down roots. They’d belong somewhere.

Not belong to someone.

Belong somewhere.

He’d never belonged anywhere before, not with his father, and not with Daniel Whiteford. To both of those men, he’d been property, someone to order around, someone to do the work.

But on this day, all that ended. And as soon as he found Gwen…

His future would truly begin.

paperback ISBN: 979-8-9866966-4-5 – ebook ISBN: 979-8-9866966-5-2

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