Freedom and Independence Theme Analysis

A few blocks south lay the Walnut Street Prison, where Blanchard had flown that remarkable balloon. From the prison’s courtyard it rose, a yellow silk bubble escaping the earth. I vowed to do that one day, slip free of the ropes that held me. Nathaniel Benson had heard me say it, but he did not laugh. He understood. Perhaps I would see him at the docks, sketching a ship or sea gulls. It had been a long time since we talked.

Like most blacks in Philadelphia, Eliza was free. She said Philadelphia was the best city for freed slaves or freeborn Africans. The Quakers here didn’t hold with slavery and tried hard to convince others that slavery was against God’s will. Black people were treated different than white people, that was plain to see, but Eliza said nobody could tell her what to do or where to go, and no one would ever, ever beat her again.

If I was going to work as hard as a mule, it might as well be for my own benefit. I was going to travel to France and bring back fabric and combs and jewelry that the ladies of Philadelphia would swoon over. And that was just for the dry goods store. I wanted to own an entire city block—a proper restaurant, an apothecary, maybe a school, or a hatter’s shop. Grandfather said I was a Daughter of Liberty, a real American girl. I could steer my own ship. No one would call me little Mattie. They would call me “Ma’am.”

“Nonsense,” Grandfather said. “There’s nothing wrong. . . .” He broke off coughing again. I stared in horror, first at Grandfather, then at the doctor.

“You must help him,” I cried. “If he is sick, you must help him.”

The farmer grabbed me under the arms, pulled me from the wagon, and threw me onto the road. He and the doctor lifted Grandfather and deposited him beside me. King George squawked and circled above the commotion.

“They aren’t my family,” the farmer said as he motioned for his wife to climb aboard. “They only rode in back the last mile or so. They was walking and we picked them up.”

“He’s lying!” I shouted […] I stared, mouth open, as the wagon disappeared into a cloud of dust. Our food, our clothing—gone. This couldn’t be happening.

“I am concerned for your future,” he said. “We must form our battle plans, both for this skirmish and the rest of the war.”

I waited for his advice. It did not come. That scared me more than anything. He was waiting for me to decide what to do.

“We’ll move camp tomorrow,” I finally said.

He nodded. “Whatever you say, Captain.”

My wet petticoat swayed in the breeze. It would have to do.

I tried to rip open the seam with my teeth, but the tiny stitches that Mother had sewed would not yield. Another fish wiggled to the top of the water to gulp down a water bug.

If I had sewn the skirt, it would have been easy to tear apart. Instead, I would have to use it whole. I pulled the drawstring at the waist tightly until I could barely poke my thumb through the opening. I would hold open the hem and pray an unusually stupid fish would swim into the trap.

“I bet no soldier ever thought of this one,” I said, wading back in the water with my improvised net.

I fumbled with the tread of the hollow stair, then threw it to the side and lifted out the metal box. I opened the lid. It was still there, pence and shillings. Thank heaven for that.

I returned the box to its hiding place. It could be worse, I thought. The house is still standing. We’re alive. Mother and Eliza must be somewhere safe, I had to believe that. The fever would soon be over, and our lives would return to normal. I just had to stay clever and strong and find something to eat.

A tear surprised me by rolling down my cheek. “None of that, Mattie girl,” I whispered to myself as I scrubbed the tear away. “This is not the time to be childish.”

I held my breath and waited for the earth to stop spinning. The sun need not rise again. There was no reason for the rivers to flow. Birds would never sing.

The sound came straight from my heart, as sharp as the point of a sword. I shrieked to the heavens and pounded the floor with rage. “Nonono! Don’t take him! Nonono!”

I picked up the sword and attacked a chair as if it were Death itself. When the chair was a pile of firewood and the sword dull, I fell to my knees by the side of my grandfather’s body.

I stared at the grave diggers. They took off their caps and bowed their heads. Movement in the park stopped, as those watching laid down their shovels and bowed their heads. The book opened to the familiar words. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and began to read loudly, so that all could hear.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...” The men around me moved their lips and then gave voice. Our voices rose together as one, proclaiming faith, joining in grief. At the end of the reading, some crossed themselves, others wiped their eyes. I stood straight and tall.

Rev. Allen said this was a chance for black people to show we are every bit as good and important and useful as white people. The Society organized folks to visit the sick, to care for them and bury them if they died […] The Africans of Philadelphia have cared for thousands of people without taking notice of color. If only the doctors had been right, we could look to these days of suffering as days of hope.

“Don’t love her,” warned Mother Smith.

“Pardon me?”

“I said, don’t you fall in love with that baby girl. She’s not yours. You can’t keep her. You had any sense, you’d take her right down to the orphan house tomorrow and hand her over. Don’t look back […] She stays with you, you feed her, wash her, sing to her, mother her, then give her away. How’s that going to make her feel? You’re the cruel one.”

If Mother was dead, I’d have to sell the coffeehouse, or have the orphan’s court sell it for me. I’d get work as a scullery maid, or move into the orphanage and do laundry.

I looked past the apple seller to the haberdasher’s window behind him. My face looked back at me from the thick glass. […] The shape of my face looked for all the world like Mother’s, her nose, her mouth.

But my eyes were my own. I blinked.

A scullery maid? Ridiculous. I was Matilda Cook, daughter of Lucille, granddaughter of Captain William Farnsworth Cook, of the Pennsylvania Fifth Regiment. I could read, write, and figure numbers faster than most. I was not afraid of hard work.

I would set my own course.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Shh. Please don’t cry. Everything is better now. I’m home, you’re home. You don’t have to worry anymore.” I drew up a chair next to her, and she leaned against my shoulder. I cradled her head in my arms until her sobs quieted […] Her hands lay in her lap, withered and limp. I had never seen her hands stay still before.

Early morning was the only time I felt as if there were ghosts nearby, memories of the weeks of fear. That’s when I found myself listening for Polly’s giggle or Grandfather’s voice. Sometimes they felt so close. Close enough to tell me I should stop dawdling and get to work.

I smiled as the mist faded. The yellow sun rose, a giant balloon filled with prayers and hopes and promise. I stood and shook the idleness out of my skirts.

Day was begun.