Hudson was looking so fine and strong, and he was smiling. And I think Miss Clara was smiling too, or she may have been crying; but I’m not sure, because suddenly my eyes were full of tears and so I couldn’t see too well.

But after we had embraced, I had to make sure I understood.

“So now Hudson belongs to …?”

“Hudson is free,” said Miss Clara. “We bought him and now we’re giving him to you.”

“He’s free, then,” I said, and for a moment or two I couldn’t speak.

But then—I don’t know why—the idea came into my mind that I wasn’t satisfied. I knew that they meant kindly to me and to Hudson. I also knew, from all that I had lived through in my own life, that this traffic in human beings in which Mr. Master was engaged was a terrible thing. In my heart I considered that neither he nor any man should have the ownership of another; and if he gave up even one slave, so much the better. And I knew that I wanted my Hudson’s freedom more than I had ever wanted even my own. Yet despite all these considerations, I knew that in my mind I was not satisfied with this transaction.

“I thank you for your kindness,” I said to Mr. Master. “But I am his father, and I should like to buy the freedom of my son.”

I saw Jan glance at Miss Clara.

“He cost me five pounds,” he said. I was sure that this was too low a figure, but I said he should have it, and I gave him the first part of the payment that very evening.

“Now your father has bought your freedom,” I told my son. I don’t know if it was right or wrong, but that purchase meant a lot to me.

That was two years ago. I am sixty years of age now, which is older than many men live, and far older than most slaves. Recently, my health has not been so good, but I think I have some time remaining to me yet, and my business thrives. My son Hudson has a little inn just above Wall Street, and he does well. I know he would rather go to sea, but he stays here to please me; and he has a wife and a little son now, so maybe they will keep him here. Each year, we go to Miss Clara’s house for the birthday of young Dirk, and I see him put on the wampum belt.

The Boston Girl

1735

THE TRIAL WOULD begin tomorrow. The jury had been rigged by the governor. Handpicked stooges of his own. Conviction guaranteed. The first jury, that is.