Passing to Freedom: Chapter 4, Willow, and Horses?

When we left our two escaping young heroines, in chapter 2, there were horses bearing down on them. Now what will they do?

Chapter 4

The apple in my mouth turned to bile, as the smell of corn meal and tobacco leaves mingled with the odor of my own fear. My entire body began to tremble, my hand shaking almost uncontrollably. It moved as if of its own accord, seeking out the solace of my sewing basket. What I began hours ago, I would finish, now, before those horses arrived, carrying a far worse fate with them. I was drawing the scissors out of my basket when I saw a shadow fall across me. The moon had come out, and Anna had just stood up, still leaning against the wagon:

“Right on time.”

She looked from my wide eyes to my sewing basket, nodding toward my still bloody left forearm.

“You didn’t really think I’d stop here and just wait on those patrollers to come collect us up, now did you? Really? Miss Willow, you-”

The thundering of hooves drowned out the last of her words, but her eyes, and her down-turned mouth, told me all I needed to know. She was such a young thing, but held so much more wisdom than I’d yet learned. When, after all, could I ever have learned to trust my fate, given what I’ve seen of this world?

She touched me almost tenderly on the shoulder, bringing my thoughts back to the present.

“Do you know how to ride a horse?”

She looked at me, then glanced at the two white men who were now dismounting in front of the wagon. I shook my head no.

“Well, you will just have to learn something quick, because we are taking these two very good horses across country for a while, at least until we get out of Maryland, Delaware, too.”

“I heard we had to go all the way up to Canada now.”

I had no idea of what the new plan might be. I’d heard talk of a law that the Senator was proud to have forced through, buying him two horses for the price of one, some said. Coffles were no longer to be seen, chained misery shuffling up the Market Street from the Wharf, so that our good White citizens could look respectable in the eyes of those envoys sent from distant lands. Particularly the English. At the same time, any of us who managed to escape our bonds could now be safe only across the border from the land of our own birth, in British Canada.

“Yes, yes we do. And there we will go.”

She looked at me so steadily that I could feel my former mourning turning to hope, if not to joy, beneath her gaze. Just then, one of the white men cleared his throat. He was standing nose to nose, at the head of a horse, holding the reins of both the wagon and his horse.

Anna patted me on the shoulder, turned, and walked over to him, straight and tall. She now seemed to be far taller than she had first appeared. They exchanged a few words as they turned toward the second horse. Anna took the reins from the other white man. She showed no fear of them whatsoever, as if they had known each other for some time. She turned back to me, leading both horses over to the side of the wagon where I still sat, my head nearly level with the wagon’s walls.

She switched the reins of both horses to her right hand, holding out her left to me, and I rose up, stepping over the side of the wagon, and down to the ground. It hadn’t been nearly as far as I’d imagined. That wagon had been my world for some hours, but now it seemed small, fragile. Then I looked up at those horses, and I felt small, and fragile. Gather up your courage, girl! Oh, Willow, don’t you weep, either. The song reminded me of Miss Mary, bringing my sorrow from yesterday back with it. Not now. There is a time to mourn, and a time to dance. With horses, too. I looked to see where the white men were. They were facing away from us, as respectful as could be. It was a wonder to me, though I was grateful. I gathered up the hem of my dress and bunched it around my waist. I felt indecent, but there was no help for it, if I didn’t want to break my neck up on this huge beast. My head hardly reached the animal’s back.

“I guess it’s time for me to learn to love this horse. Miss Anna, will you teach me?”

I saw that twinkle in her eye, for sure, this time!

“I surely will, Miss Willow.”

And with that, she patted the saddle of the horse nearest me, “Her name is Mary,” bent down and touched my left foot, looking up at me “Put your foot in the stirrup, and I’ll catch you around the waist to help you up into the saddle.”

“You mean I’m to ride like a man?” I had no idea how I would ever stay on top of that horse, as big as he, I mean to say she, was.

“If you want to get away, yes Ma’am, you do. You might want to open your bodice a little, too, so you can breathe.”

One of the white men cleared his throat, just loud enough for us to notice. Time to get a move on. Then, as if she’d read my thoughts,

“Time to get a move on, here, Miss Willow. You just trust me and Old Mary here. You’ll be fine, she won’t let you fall, and neither will I.”

For a moment, as I looked into her almond eyes, I thought I might just fall.

***

Just as Willow must learn new skills, overcoming her fear of a beast far larger than herself to do so, so must the children helped by the early childhood education not-for-profit Bright Beginnings in DC, and learn they shall, with a little help from The Project Do Better by ShiraDest Publications Fund, and the Greater Washington Community Foundation, aka the GWCF, as they too learn to handle both new skills, and bearing witness to the change that such learning can help build for our world.

Nia, writing as both Toni Morrison and Octavia Butler did, to bear witness and to show that change is possible, and contributing my pebble to the engineering of a new social structure as the reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. suggested for “an edifice which no longer produces beggars” by giving away the first edition of the Do Better manifesto for community organizers and members.

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Passing to Freedom, over a new Obstacle… (Chapter 3)

This chapter introduces a new PoV character that I decided to add to the book, after my second edit of Act I, with which older Followers/Readers of the blog will remember. The Senator only appeared from Willow’s point of view, in Parts 1 through 20, but now, he gets his own PoV. I hated writing these scenes, but I felt that they were necessary to round out the full situation in which Willow, Anna, and everyone else in this novel, find themselves having to deal with in terms of the difficulty of escaping the power structure of the time. Here is chapter 3, and a new scene for those who had previously been following this story:

Chapter 3

“Be sure that they are taken unharmed. Especially the octoroon. I will have your hide if she is damaged in any way.”

He saw the pallor in the cracker’s face, and felt satisfied that he had been understood. That was how one had to deal with these lower men.

“Yes, Senator.”

A knock came at the door, and the Senator nodded to his valet to open it. A well-dressed white man pushed past the valet and strode into the room, clearly furious.

“They got away! My boys nearly had them, and they both got away!”

It was Price. The senator rose to his feet, stubbing his cigar out as he rounded his desk to receive the odious but well-heeled speculator. The man was one of his constituents, and he wielded enough power in Montgomery County to warrant a certain level of courtesy. Not to mention being close enough to the Federal City to make a convenient ally, for the moment.

“Charles. So, they are together, then. Did your boys actually see the two of them, or are they just, speculating?”

The look on Price’s face was precious, well worth any minor ire this self-important climber might keep toward him. In any case, every slave trader needed friends in high places. Friends like himself.

“No, Senator, my boys did not see either of them two gals, but they did get a report after they picked up your other two fancies. The constables saw a wagon leaving the President’s House just about the time my boys caught them gals, the old one and the pickaninny.”

The senator blinked. Where was Ann? I will have my Ann back, at any price.

***

The Senator is so evil that no image I could find seemed to fit, so I used the advertisement placed by Charles Price, a Maryland slave trader and speculator, who also happened to be the presumptive ‘owner’ of Anna M. Weems before she escaped to freedom eventually, but more on that as we go…

Nia,

writing for the kids of Bright Beginnings in DC, to bear witness, as Toni Morrison spoke of, and also to teach some new ideas and skills while presenting new ways of solving problems, as Octavia Butler did, via the words that Ta-Nehisi Coates reminds us are so important, because stories do matter, as Project Do Better agrees.

Passing to Freedom: Willow Meets Anna, now, in Chapter 2

This is the third draft of what some Readers will recognize as an earlier part of Act I of this novel, posted as part of what became the Prequel to this novel, during the time that I was writing the Do Better manifesto, while also writing parts 1-21 of Ann & Anna, the story that is now part of Passing to Freedom, a historical novel

by D. Anto. Jones

Chapter 2

… lightly, but firm enough to stay my hand against my own intent. I raised my eyes from the scissor blade. I glimpsed a knowing face, which had a finger to lips shaped the same as mine. That slender hand, covered in mud and ash, it seemed, belonged to a young boy with high cheekbones, almond eyes, skin almost as light as mine, and freckles. Was it my imagination, or did I see a twinkle in his eyes? We both ducked our heads, keeping as low and as still as we could. No hair showed beneath the driving cap, which was pulled down tightly over his face. This must be the Conductor we were told to wait for, just out of sight around the side of the President’s House. He turned to lead me, still holding my hand, which still held my scissors, taking care not to make any noise. The boy stepped over the stick he must have snapped underfoot earlier, deliberately, I now understood.  Looking under the wagon the whole time, he waved me over and helped me up and quietly over the side, tucking my dress and me under a thick shield of dried tobacco leaves and corn meal going to market.

“Keep still and stay down.”

   That whisper was not the sound of a young boy, but of a girl!

   ”We do this right, we both get free.”

I thought it might take a miracle for us to get past those Constables. I could still hear poor Mary putting up such a racket that the entire Federal City must be able to hear her. The cart moved a little ways, and then slowed and picked up again, as the voice of an elderly sounding gentleman called out, telling the coachman to drive on. I thanked both of our guardian angels, who must have remembered to be on duty tonight. Even more, the work of those good souls at Mount Zion church, for arranging all this, at great personal hazard. We drove for what seemed to be hours, not being stopped by anyone, I did not know why. I felt surely someone would have questioned us, by this time, but drive on we did, until I felt safe enough at last to breathe again. By the time my stomach began to growl, we’d slowed to a halt, and then, dried tobacco leaves began to part, freeing me to sit up and look around. And, of course, to thank my young benefactor. I’d not even had time to tend to my arm, but the bleeding had stopped long ago, as I lay still in the wagon. I smelled the fresh air of pine trees, and wondered just how far we had managed to come in the hours since leaving Washington City.

“Try to stay down,” the whisper seemed to have come from just beside me, as a hand holding a cloth with some corn bread reached over the side of the wagon toward me. That mysterious face popped up quickly, to say, “I have a travel pass, but we might have a hard time explaining why you are not a sack of corn meal.”

The girl smiled, and I saw a flash of small white teeth, before we both ducked again, me to settle on the floor of the wagon, and her crouched down beside the wheel of our wagon, as best I could tell. Our horse sounded like it was eating, too, and I was grateful for the calm. I wanted to at least thank this brave girl before we had to move on. I tilted my head up and whispered:

“Thank you for, you know…”

I didn’t know what else to say. I’d clearly doubted that she would come as planned. I hoped she didn’t feel insulted by my lack of faith. An apple appeared, held in that slender hand, reaching over the side of the wagon like an olive branch. Another whisper floated up to me from over the side of the wagon.

“My name is Anna.    Anna Marie Weems.    What do they call you, besides Fancy?”

“The white folks call me Ann, but every body else calls me Willow.”

“Willow, why’s that?”

I got that pain in my belly again, and had to clamp my mouth shut tight to be sure something unpleasant didn’t rush out.  When Anna must have decided that I didn’t wish to respond, she merely handed up a small ladle of water, dripping some of it on me as she held it over the side of the wagon.  I was just starting to hope she’d forgotten her question, when I heard a sigh. I’ve hurt her, too, and she has just saved me. Must I harm everyone I know?

I was searching for something to say, to smooth over my unintended insult, when the sound of hooves reached my ears. Someone was riding hard down the road.

Toward us.

***

This is the third draft, but the pdf of my second draft of Chapter 2 of Passing to Freedom: Willow’s Story, the start of the continuation of the novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or Ni, fka Shira Destinie Jones, will be available freely as a pdf upon request…

Nia,

hoping that this story may inspire the kids and parents helped by early childhood education non-profit organization Bright Beginnings in DC, not to mention a bit of help from The Project Do Better by ShiraDest Publications Fund, via the GWCF, and the ideas freely available, as all of the ShiraDest pubs, for further development in the Do Better manifesto…

Injustice Delenda Est…

„But you cut through my skin“, she reminded him.
„And you are unable to heal“, he stated.

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https://mistresswitchwrites.wordpress.com/2022/07/11/tale-about-forgiveness/

The Fitzgeralds of Dublin series is a sweeping 19th-century Irish family saga. Follow Will and Isobel through struggles, secrets, and choices that test their love and loyalty in a changing Ireland.

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