Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson Page A

barracks, the poorhouse, and the jail. There were trees and fields to the north of the Common and the burying place for Africans. The air was cleaner up there, easier to breathe.
    A week after Lockton returned home, Curzon stood with me in the line of servants waiting for water. I was desperate to ask him questions but knew they had to wait until we were alone.
    When my turn came, I handed my buckets to the ancient slave who worked the pump handle, a man old as dirt, with stone-gray hair and skin the color of the night sky. He carried a country mark on his face, three straight lines that had been cut into his right cheek when he became a man in Africa. Poppa had a mark that looked close to it. It made me feel kin to the old man, and I smiled and curtsied polite whenever I saw him.
    â€œThank you, Grandfather,” Curzon said to the man as he handed us the full buckets.
    I was surprised. “He’s your grandfather? I didn’t know that.”
    The old man chuckled softly and reached for the buckets of the girl standing behind me. “I’m the grandfather of everybody and everything.” He pushed down on the handle of the pump and water flowed. “Mind how you go, missy.”
    Curzon waited until we were two blocks down Queen Street before he asked me about Lockton’s affairs.
    â€œHe traveled to Fairfield in Connecticut two days ago and came home late last night,” I said. “I thought he was on a parole, that he had to stay in New York. Why don’t they arrest him?”
    Curzon looked behind us and from side to side before answering. “They don’t have enough men to follow him,” he explained. “And his aunt has powerful connections, both here and in England. There must be solid proof before they dare arrest him again. Should you ever come in possession of letters sent to him or maps, or—”
    â€œâ€”or if I find the King hiding in our pantry,” I interrupted.
    â€œThe Congress would give you a medal for that,” he said with a grin.
    â€œI would rather have passage home on a fast ship.”
    â€œYou don’t want to sail anywhere, not now,” he said, doffing his hat and bowing to three officers passing on horseback.
    I likewise bobbed in the direction of the gentlemen and waited for them to draw out of earshot before speaking again. “Why not?”
    â€œThe Royal Fleet is fast approaching and is eager for battle and spoils. If you sailed now, you’d likely be captured and sold to the islands.”
    â€œIdle gossip and pipe smoke,” I said. “You hear it on every street corner. It’s a wonder we don’t all choke to death on it.”
    â€œWhere you see smoke, you find fire, Country. Don’t worry. The day of our liberty will soon dawn. This country is going to be free, and you and me with it.”
    â€œFor a boy with a little head, you sure do have big dreams. I just want what’s owed me.”
    â€œYou need to be patient,” he said with a frown. “The army has bigger fish to fry than you and your sister.”
    â€œAnd I have bigger fish to fry than your army,” I said with a whole lot more confidence than I truly felt.
    The sun set later and later in those weeks. The extra light was welcome and put to good use. I aired out our pallet and blanket and tidied our cellar corner. The potato bin was near empty, and Ruth asked to play in it as if it was a little house. I would not let her. Instead, I made her acornhusk doll, painting a face on it with pokeberry juice and fashioning a gown for it with a piece of cambric from Becky’s scrap bag.
    One night, feeling out of sorts and reckless, I crept up the stairs. It was after midnight, and Lockton and his wife slept heavily. I snuck into the library and took a book from the shelves—a story called
Robinson Crusoe
by Mr. Defoe. I sat by the glowing coals in the kitchen hearth and read until I could hold my eyes open no