Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson

WOULD BE TYRANTS IF THEY COULD…. THAT YOUR SEX ARE NATURALLY TYRANNICAL IS A TRUTH SO THOROUGHLY ESTABLISHED AS TO ADMIT OF NO DISPUTE, BUT SUCH OF YOU AS WISH TO BE HAPPY WILLINGLY GIVE UP THE HARSH TITLE OF MASTER FOR THE MORE TENDER AND ENDEARING ONE OF FRIEND. –LETTER OF ABIGAIL ADAMS TO HER HUSBAND, JOHN
    The front door opened the next morning as I walked down the stairs carrying Madam’s chamber pot. It was Master Lockton, back from being arrested. His clothing was rumpled, and he looked as if he’d not slept. He paused when he saw me.
    â€œTell Becky I require strong coffee and food. Where is your mistress, and what is she doing?”
    â€œAbove, sir.” I gripped the handle of the chamber pot tightly. “Packing.”
    He stormed past me, bellowing for his wife.
    As I dumped and washed out the chamber pot, I gave thanks. ’Twas clear he did not think me a spy.
    When I went back inside, there came a ruckus and much shouting from the second floor. I joined Ruth and Becky at the foot of the staircase, the three of us listening with big ears as Lockton and Madam shouted at each other.
    â€œShhhh!” Ruth said, putting her finger to her lips.
    â€œThat’s right, little ’un,” said Becky. “They don’t pipe down soon, the whole neighborhood will turn out to watch.”
    Crash!
    â€œBet you that was the wash pitcher,” she said.
    Craaash!
    â€œAnd the basin,” she added.
    â€œDo they often fight like this?” I asked.
    â€œOften enough,” Becky said. She stopped as Madam cried out in pain. “The master likes to be obeyed. He’s not happy she wants to head for Charleston. And she don’t want to stay here.”
    Lockton lowered his voice some, but he was still angry and scolding.
    â€œShould we do something?” I asked. “Perhaps Lady Seymour could calm him.”
    Becky shook her head. “’Twould fire him up even more. Best not to discuss these things.”
    Ruth stuck her thumb in her mouth.
    Once the fighting had ended and the master had been served his meal, I took a cool compress and mug of cold ale up to Madam. As she applied the compress to her swollen, split lip, she scolded me for not scraping candle wax that had dripped on the floor.
    â€œIt caused me to fall,” she said. “Do you see what your clumsiness has cost me?”
    We both knew it was a lie. There was no wax on the floor. A few drops of blood stained the edge of the carpet.
    â€œWhat do you have to say for yourself?” she asked.
    I didn’t like picking up the blame and carrying it, but I had no choice. I bowed my head. “I beg forgiveness, ma’am, and promise it will not happen again.”
    She removed the compress and winced. “It had better not.”
    In the weeks that followed, the master had me serve him whenever his companions visited. I listened closely to their conversating, but they blew only hot air, complaining about the Congress and the weather and the effect of war on business. I was relieved to hear that the printer, Inkstained, had fled the city with his wife and children. Lockton was certain that he had told the rebels about the money and the plan to bribe the American troops. My secret was safe.
    Becky brought back peas, greens, and gossip from the marketplace: the British fleet was in the harbor, no, the fleet had sailed for Jamaica, no, the Congress had negotiated a peace, no, the British planned to kill us all while we slept.
    â€œGossip is the foul smell from the Devil’s backside,” that’s what Momma always said. I tried to ignore the wild stories and stay alert for something, anything, I might use to secure our freedom.
    Becky had been quite happy to give me the chore of hiking up to the Tea Water Pump every day. After my first few visits, it became the favorite part of my day. The pump was set in a little shed at the edge of the Common, a big gathering place ringed by army