"What freedom they need, that they don't already got?" Claybourne called out.

Bertilda took Claybourne's hand and jumped in: "They is free enough to bust in here and lock us up by the neck and drag us right back out of here and all the way down south, right to the rice fields," she said. "Y'all know they's busting in here just as often as they can."

Some two hundred people roared in agreement.

"Nobody taking me down south," Claybourne said. "I up and dead first. Someone slap an iron around my neck, my heart up and stop. I looks down and I tells my own heart, you all can take a permanent rest now. Knock it off and go off to sleep."

Everybody laughed.

"Ain't no foolin'," Claybourne said. "All this time the rebels and the Tories been shooting each other up, I been teaching my mouth to run messages to my heart. I say stop, and it stop. I tell my heart it done lost its job. Time's up, baby, you out of work. You unemploy. You get quiet, now, and lie down and die. And my heart obey, just like a dog. And that's why nobody taking me back down south."

A man called out from the crowd, "Hey, Claybourne, what kind of dog you got for a heart?"

"It's a British retriever, that's what it is."

Sam Fraunces walked away in disgust. To him, Claybourne was nothing but a clown, and the kind of man who would never rise a step above slavery.

"It's only clowns and Claybournes who have reason to fear the Americans," Fraunces said. "The rebels demand their own freedom, and are more honest than the British. Liberty is coming to this land. And soon enough, freedom for all Negroes will follow."

In 1782, I read to the people gathered around my door that the British had decided to end the war in surrender. It was a large crowd that night and people sat silent and thoughtful long after our talking was done. We clung to the words of the Philipsburg Proclamation: To every Negro who shall desert the Rebel Standard, full security to follow. Even I hoped against hope that they would take me to London. From there and only there, I imagined, would I have the chance to sail to Africa.

On March 26, 1783, the whole of Canvas Town ground to a halt. The people who had been washing clothes for the British wandered back home to their shacks. The three dishwashers and two assistant cooks working in the Fraunces Tavern walked off the job and camped out in front of my lean-to. Blacksmiths put down their metal, coopers abandoned their barrels, labourers left the wharves, and it seemed that every man, woman and child in our community huddled together in horror.

For those who hadn't already heard the rumours, I opened the Royal Gazette and read aloud the notice of the peace treaty from the commander-in- chief of all His Majesty's Forces in the Colonies.

In Canvas Town, the only part of the treaty that mattered was Section VII, which said: All Hostillities both by Sea and Land shall from henceforth cease all prisoners on both sides shall be set at Liberty and His Britannic Majesty shall with all convenient Speed and without Causing any destruction or carrying away any Negroes or other Property of the American Inhabitants withdraw all its Armies, Garrisons, and Fleets, from the said United States.

White people in New York exulted over the news, but for anyone who had escaped slavery, the treaty spelled disaster. By agreeing not to take with them "Negroes or other Property," the British had betrayed us and condemned us to fall into the hands of American slaveholders.

Emboldened by the British capitulation, plantation owners began sending their men into Canvas Town on raids. We set up a system of men who took turns on guard duty to watch for strangers, white and black. Usually, our own patrols managed to catch the raiders and beat them and hold them until their arrest at the hands of the British. But slave owners and agents from Virginia to Georgia kept prowling the city, in larger numbers than ever before, grabbing fugitives whenever they could.

It was dangerous to stay in New York. But it was even more dangerous to leave. This was the last place in the Thirteen Colonies still run by the British, and until they left completely, we still had some measure of protection.

A few days after everyone began talking about the British betrayal, Waters came to see me as I was giving my regular Monday morning reading at the Fraunces Tavern. He had matured into a good-looking man, and was even more attractive dressed in full regalia, with epaulets, silver stripes, shining buttons and all. But on this day, I did not greet him as Captain Holiness. I was in no joking mood. The British had once before abandoned the people they had pledged to protect, and now it appeared that they would leave us again. I vowed to refuse to help Waters now, no matter how desperately he pleaded or how much money he offered. I was tired of making life easier for British officers by catching the babies of their mistresses.

Everyone seemed to share my disappointment and anger.

"What's the good of serving you?" Claybourne called out to Waters. "What kind of men are you, selling us to the rebels?"

"You're jumping to conclusions," said Waters. "Meena, could you come with me?"

"I'm not working today."

"It isn't what you think."

"I'm not working for you any more, Captain Waters."

Waters stepped closer and lowered his voice, so only I could hear. "This is not about Holy Ground. It's different and it's urgent."

"I'll be back shortly," I told my friends.

"Don't count on it," Waters said.

IN AN OFFICERS' ROOM in the British military barracks, I was brought tea with milk and sugar, an apple, some fresh bread and a slice of Stilton cheese. I drank the tea and ate the bread and cheese but slipped the apple into my handbag.

Waters introduced me to a man named Colonel Baker, who had stripes all over his shoulders, a regal bearing, and enough confidence to swallow up both of us.

Colonel Baker shook my hand forcefully. "I'll skip to the point, as you have little time to waste and I have less," he said.

Following his example, I sat again, and waited for him to continue.

"Captain Waters says you are Guinea-born, correct?"

"I am from Bayo, in Africa."

"And that you are thoroughly literate and produce flawless handwriting."

I nodded.

"And that you have kept ledgers and understand how they work. Columns, rows, numbers and names in the right places, and all such details."

Once more, I indicated that his information was correct. I could only imagine that Waters had learned this last bit of information from Sam Fraunces, whose books I had kept over the years.

"Most important, I understand that you are said to know most of the coloured element of Canvas Town, and that most of them know you. And that you speak two African languages. And that, wherever you go, you have earned the respect of men and women in your community. Yes? Good. You are required for service to His Majesty the King. We must bring you into our employ, and haven't a day to waste."

For a moment, I wondered if this was an elaborate plan for me to catch babies of the mistresses of the most senior British military officials in New York.

Colonel Baker asked if I was familiar with Section VII of the Provisional Peace Treaty.

"I have taught half of Canvas Town to recite it from memory."

"I know the coloured element feels betrayed by it," Colonel Baker said, "but there is no cause for panic. You see, Section VII says that we agree not to make off with any Negroes or other property of the Americans. 'Property' is the operative word."

Colonel Baker paused for a moment and then leaned toward me. "Understand? The coloured element is not the 'property' of the Americans. If you have served the British for one year at minimum, you have already been liberated. You are no man's property."

That was easy for him to say, since he didn't have to fend off slave catchers in Canvas Town. But it didn't seem wise to challenge him, so I said, "You mean to say you're keeping your promises to the Negroes?"

"When we remove you to Nova Scotia, which is what we fully intend to do, we will not be violating any terms of the Peace Treaty."

"Nova Scotia?" I repeated. I hoped it wasn't a penal colony. "Not London?"

"Nova Scotia is a British colony, untouched and unsullied by the Americans, at a distance of two weeks by ship from the New York harbour. It is a fine colony indeed, on the Atlantic Ocean but north of here, with woods, fresh water, abundant animals and rich forest just begging to be converted to farmland. Nova Scotia, Miss Diallo, will be your promised land."

I had more questions to ask, but the colonel pressed forward. The British forces had agreed to vacate New York before the end of November. That left a scant eight months, and there was much work to do. Thousands of Loyalists would be moved to Nova Scotia, by dozens and dozens of frigates, transports, royal vessels and private ships. Property owners would be moving too, of course, and in far larger numbers than the Negroes.

"And in this place you call Nova Scotia," I said, "will we be free?"

"Entirely. You will be as free as any Loyalist. But be forewarned. It will be hard work. You will be given land and expected to farm it. You will need seeds and implements and provisions, and all of those things you shall have. There will be plenty for everyone in the vastness of Nova Scotia."

Like almost every Negro in Canvas Town, I was desperate to leave with the British before Americans-slave owners among them-took over New York City. I wondered if the things Colonel Baker promised were true. But when it came down to deciding whom I could trust with my tenuous liberty, my decision was already made.

"Why have you brought me here?" I asked. "Why are you telling-"

He cut me off again. "You will spread the word among your people. You will help us register them. In due time, you will collect names, ages, and how they came to serve the British. We can only help those who have been behind British lines for a year. We need to know how many wish to travel. And we need to begin embarkations almost immediately."

Colonel Baker stood up to leave the room but caught sight of my hand, index finger raised.

"Colonel, with due respect, I have not yet accepted your offer."

I heard the smallest exhalation from Captain Waters. I did not look his way but was certain he was stifling a laugh.

"I know you have a reputation for expecting fair pay, Miss Diallo. You will be compensated fairly."

"I too want to go to Nova Scotia," I said.

"You have my word," he said.

"Then I accept."

"Stupendous. Speak to Waters for details." Colonel Baker shook my hand once more and left the room.

I turned to Waters. "What about the others?"

"If they have served one full year behind our lines and if they can obtain a certificate to prove it, yes."

"How do they get a certificate? And what about the women in Holy-"

"Negroes who have served behind our lines and have the requisite certificate will be allowed to leave for the colonies," said Waters.

I hoped that meant the women could leave, but Waters was barely giving me any room to speak. "And my pay?"

"One pound per week, in silver. You will have to move into residence in our barracks, as there will be constant work. You will receive lodgings and food in addition to salary."

"All of this information about the Negroes," I said. "Where will it be kept?"

"In a special ledger," he said.

"What will it be called?"

Waters gave me a dry smile. "How about Exodus from Holy Ground?"

I folded my arms. "All of this amuses you," I said.

Waters checked his pocket watch, and his face became serious. "It will be called the Book of Negroes. You are meeting the colonel and me for breakfast, seven a.m. tomorrow, Fraunces Tavern. We have logistics to review. It will be a long day of work. You will have eight months of long days."

"The Book of Negroes," I mumbled.

I nodded and got up to go. Waters put up his hand, told me to wait and left the room. Returning in a minute, he gave me a canvas sack. In it were apples, two loaves of bread, cheese and dried figs.

"Extras from the storeroom," he said. "I'm sure someone can use them."

Within two hours of my return to Canvas Town, there wasn't a man or woman who hadn't heard the news. My friends gathered at the door to say goodbye.

"We'll keep this here shack for you, in case you get sick of the white folks," Claybourne said.

"He say that all pretty," Bertilda said, "but soon as you gone, he take all your wood. Lickety-split."

"I'm not taking nothing," he said, "'cause I built her that shack. I built it before y'all moved in with me."

"He got a mouth like a drawbridge, but I do loves my man," Bertilda said, taking his hand.

I gave them half of the food and saved the rest for Rosetta.

Claybourne took the bread and judged its weight in his hand. "My wife got her own loaf in the oven."

Bertilda slapped his arm. "Shush," she laughed. "You wasn't supposed to tell."

I opened my eyes wider and smiled at the woman. She wasn't showing, yet.

"A loaf in the oven," Claybourne said, "and a right good one too."

Later that night, as I was packing up my possessions, two Canvas Town men rapped on my door.

"Meena," one said, "we got a man here."

"A man?"

"Says he wants to see you."

A knot formed in my stomach. They had found me. I imagined being pinned and tied inside my own tent. Outside, I knew, I could try to run. I stepped out into the night air.

"Meena, do you know this man?" one of the guards said.

It was a dark night with no moon. I stepped closer. A black man. Slender. Only a few inches taller than I. One of the guards struck a match and lit his lamp.

"Aminata Diallo!" said the man.

I threw my arms around my husband and smiled over his shoulder at the guards. "Yes, I do know this man. I know him in all ways and anywhere." I took Chekura's hands, feeling the space where one finger was missing and then feeling the absence of two more on the other hand.

"You're going to have to stop disappearing," I said. "Stick around me, and hang onto your fingers."

"I've still got enough left to hold you," he said.

"I've been waiting nine years for you," I said.

"Better than thirteen," he said, grinning. "I heard you came up here around the start of the war."

"That's right. And where were you?"