Path to Freedom – Book 3

Chapter 1

Fragile black crepe crushed beneath his fingers as Daniel Whiteford removed the wreath from his front door. What used to be his front door. He handed the wreath to the butler, Silas, who accepted it with a solemn nod.

Cook sniffed, and Margaret’s maid wiped a tear from the groove in her cheek.

“I know you shall take good care of this place for the new owner. I appreciate that he has agreed to keep all of you on staff.” Daniel cleared his throat and pivoted to face the trio. “You have always done your best for me.”

“Good luck, sir,” Silas said.

“When you find them, tell Gwen hello from all of us.” Cook’s chin wobbled on the last word.

“Indeed.” Daniel stepped off the porch and strode to the carriage without another backward glance.

Arthur held the door until Daniel collapsed onto the plush seat. He buried his face in his hands. The soft click of the door closing barely registered past the fog of his grief. The carriage rocked as the bandy-legged old stableman climbed onto the high seat. It jerked into motion with the clatter of iron horseshoes striking cobblestones.

He pulled his hands from his face but refused to look back at the house—the house his children had grown up in. The house his wife had died in. An empty shell awaiting the new owner’s arrival.

Not entirely empty. He was glad the new owner had agreed to keep the staff on. He’d considered bringing Silas with him, but the man was getting on in years. His children and grandchildren lived nearby. It hadn’t seemed fair to ask it of him.

Daniel would miss Cook’s apple fritters and her Sunday fried chicken. There would be cooks in the north, but would they be able to create his favorites? Cook was a wonder in the kitchen, even if she was a gossipy old thing. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d not gossiped about the most important thing. Not ever. None of them had. He owed them for that, as well as the care they’d given his family over the years they’d been in his service.

Why had everything gone so wrong?

His wife’s death, as much from a broken heart as from the influenza, had been the last straw. Their daughter Constance’s horrendous scandal, caught with that low-life captain in the very bedroom she shared with her husband.

Daniel pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples in an attempt to suppress the memories of the past horrid months.

And Jonas, his only son, the one on whom Daniel had leveled such hopes. The one he had groomed to take over the shipping business he’d labored his whole life to build. Jonas would rather make his money running illegal slave ships. North Carolina had outlawed the importation of slaves in 1774, but men like Jonas found ways around the law. They were little better than pirates.

Refusing to have his ships pressed into that sort of service, Daniel had sold the business—every last ship—to keep them out of his son’s hands.

Slavery. He abhorred the practice. They’d never had a slave in their home. Daniel hired his employees or bought their indentures. He couldn’t abide the thought of one man owning another as if a horse or a cow. He shuddered and drew in a long breath. Over the last few years, he’d lost more than one friend over his stance on the issue. It was a good thing he was relocating north. He needed a new start, far from his disgraceful children, and far from the evils of bondage that seem to grow more prominent every year.

Daniel Whiteford had one more chance to do things right.

Thomas Baldwin, a long-time business acquaintance, had settled in the new Quaker community of Mount Pleasant in the Ohio territory. Surely a new community such as theirs would need a man of business—someone to ship in supplies and keep the flow of commerce open.

Daniel would need to purchase riverboats and establish a freight line, but he was good at what he did. He’d built his shipping business from the ground up, after all. And he’d always had a cordial business relationship with Thomas.

Mount Pleasant was the perfect place for Daniel’s new venture.

But that was the lesser reason for traveling to Mount Pleasant.

He was more interested in finding his last family member who remained untainted by the world. The Quakers—who called themselves the Society of Friends—would have seen to that. The boy had been born in April of 1799. He’d be a sturdy four-year-old next month, the perfect age to begin molding him to be a man of character, a man of worth, a man as unlike Jonas as Daniel could imagine.

In Mount Pleasant, Daniel would find Gwen Morgan―and reclaim his grandson.

***

“Pull it!” The shout came from the other side of the addition to Mark Allen Teed’s house.

Zachary Brown clicked to Annabelle, and the mule leaned into her harness. The rope tightened and creaked under its load as the steady mule plodded forward, front hooves digging into the soft earth, releasing the scent of crushed grass.

“Stop her there.” Micah Pike’s hand splayed above the peak of the roof.

“Whoa, girl.” Zachary cupped his hand over the bridge of the mule’s long face, and she stopped.

“Hold on.” The hand disappeared as Micah no doubt secured the beam on the other side of the house.

Zachary removed his hat and mopped the sweat from his brow. He plopped his hat back on his head, letting the brim shade his face. It was early April, but the sun beat down as if it couldn’t wait for full summer. He wouldn’t complain.

His pastures were already growing lush, his cows filling out, and their milk richer for the fresh fodder. All six of his cows had birthed their calves, four of them giving him heifers. He could sell them for a good price on the frontier and build onto his barn this summer.

Mark Allen and Micah, his closest neighbors, would come to help. He was thankful for all God’s blessings, and especially for those two steadfast friends. The three of them made a good team. Zachary’s dairy was thriving, Mark Allen’s orchard was growing, and Micah’s farm was expanding as he cleared more land.

So why wasn’t Zachary happier?

The rope slackened before the shout of “Unloaded!” reached him. He unhooked it and walked toward the house, tying Annabelle and the rope to the hitching post before walking around the new addition.

“Is it not time for lunch?” he called to the two men on the partially constructed roof.

Micah squinted into the sun. “’Twould appear so.”

“Good.” Mark Allen hooked his mallet’s head on top of the last beam he’d pegged in place. “My belly fears my throat’s been cut.”

The door on the finished side of the house opened, and Faye Teed filled the doorway. Curly black hair escaped the linen cap to frame her face. Her sleeves pushed up, her apron wrinkled as if she’d just dried her hands on it. She folded her arms across her extended middle, the very reason the men hurried to complete the addition.

She cocked her head at Zachary. “Was that my husband claiming starvation?”

Zachary grinned. “It sounded like him.” What a change—a metamorphosis—the past two years had been for the young woman before him. Gone was the selfish creature who had stepped off the riverboat with her haughty air of superiority. In its place had grown a confident woman, a capable wife, and a loving partner to Mark Allen.

He squelched the stir of jealousy that often plagued him of late. Not that he wished to have caught Faye’s eye, far from it. But surrounded by his friends and their wives and growing families, Zachary struggled with loneliness.

“Tell that wife of mine I am coming to the table with the hunger of a hibernating bear.”

“And thee can tell him for me—“

“Nay.” Zachary held both hands palms out toward her. “Thee will not put me in the middle of this.”

“’Tis always the way with these two.” Micah climbed down the ladder and leaned close to Zachary. “Which makes me all the more thankful for my docile wife.”

“Micah, the things thee will say.” Gwen Pike pushed past her sister and into the sunlight, carrying a tray laden with food toward the trestle table under a nearby shade tree. A tow-headed boy followed her, holding the hand of a dark-haired toddler. “Stop thy nonsense and come eat.”

Mark Allen climbed down, and they took their seats on the benches, bowing for the Quaker’s silent prayer. When Mark Allen cleared his throat, the women passed around platters of bread, meat, and cheese and a bowl filled with steamed asparagus, Zachary’s favorite. He took a large spoonful.

“I hope thee enjoys it,” Gwen said. “’Tis up early this year with the fine weather.”

Zachary sank his teeth into the soft greens and swallowed. “Perfect.”

She flushed at the praise but didn’t linger over it, tending to Owen and Sally Faye, her children.

The men spoke little, filling the holes in their middles that working since daybreak had left. The women ate around helping the little ones until Faye rose and fetched a dried-apple pie from the house. She refilled the men’s cups with cider from the pitcher before sitting again.

It was such a homey moment. So unlike the starkness of Zachary’s one-room house. The silence. The hours filled with work and more work and resting by himself in the evening.

“Papa says we can get a dog,” Owen said around a mouthful of cheese.

“Do not speak with thy mouth full,” Micah chided his son.

The boy took a slurp from his cup. “But thee did say.”

“Indeed, I did.” He quirked an eyebrow at Gwen. “But dogs do not grow up from the ground like our corn. It may take some time to find one.”

Owen slumped on the bench, his chin resting on the table.

“’Tis springtime,” Zachary said. “Dogs will be having their puppies soon, I should expect.”

That, and the slice of pie Gwen slid in front of the boy, perked him up.

“Aye.” Micah glanced around his fields, bordered by hardwood forests dotted with pines. “’Twill be good to have a dog about the place to warn of strangers and keep the vermin away from the corn,” he said.

Mark Allen waved a half-eaten slice of bread his way. “Have thee had strangers coming by?”

“None that we have seen, but there have been footprints near the creek.”

“And eggs have gone missing some days.” Gwen pulled Sally Faye, who was mashing her asparagus rather than eating it, into her lap. “So we know there have been people about.” She glanced at Zachary. “Barefoot people.”

Zachary swallowed his bite of pie and set down his fork. “Then a dog is a good idea.” Barefoot likely meant escaped slaves, since Indians from the area had moved farther west. He’d seen some fugitives before, always at a distance, most memorable a boy with a floppy hat who had been around the past two summers. He didn’t look more than ten years old, but it was hard to say without getting closer. Several Friends had reported seeing him, but the boy didn’t let anyone get close.

Here Zachary was, feeling sorry for himself in his lonesome state, while escaped slaves ran for their lives across this very countryside, risking everything for a shot at the very freedom he enjoyed. Guilt squashed what was left of his appetite.

Who was he to complain about his circumstances? He had his freedom, his own land, his own cows, plenty to eat, and good clothes to wear. He was a respected member of the Friends community—called Quakers by those outside—and blessed with good neighbors. Even if he never had a family of his own, he had so much more than others.

“On a much happier topic.” Micah raised his cup as if toasting his wife. “There will be another addition to the Pike household come the fall.”

Exclamations of surprise and congratulations ringed the table, except for Faye. Naturally, the sisters would have already shared this exciting news.

“So we will be building an addition to thy cabin soon, I take it?” Mark Allen said.

“If the Lord wills.” Micah beamed with pride.

“Are thee hoping for a boy or a girl?” Faye asked, smoothing her hands over her belly.

“Since we already have one of each,” Gwen said, “I do not think it matters.”

“Then we shall pray for a healthy babe and mother.” Zachary also raised his cup and took a sip, swallowing the envy that rose inside him and despising himself for the feeling. He truly was happy for his friends. He had no right to be envious.

God had given him a good life. Why could he not be grateful for it and satisfied with his circumstances?

paperback ISBN: 979-8-9866966-6-9 – ebook ISBN: 979-8-9866966-7-6

Return to https://peggthomas.com/