Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (5 page)

CHAPTER
8

July
1653

The
estate horn blasted through the balmy pre-dawn, dragging Freddy from an
exhausted sleep. She rubbed her eyes, which were swollen and crusty from
crying. Her throat hurt from her screaming fit. Somewhere nearby, roosters
crowed. Beyond the curtain, a fire crackled and popped in the rock fireplace.
She sat up. Someone had lit a candle lantern and placed it in the alcove, along
with a basin of water, a rag, and some white fabric. She leaned over, pulled
the curtain aside, and stuck her head out. In the main kitchen Birdie squatted
in front of the fire, mixing something in a big bowl.

       "Thank
you," Freddy said. Birdie turned and flashed her wide smile across the
room, then put a finger to her lips. 

       Freddy
cleaned herself and fashioned an undergarment with the soft white cotton.
Trying to comb her tangled black curls with her fingers, she yanked impatiently
at her unruly hair. It had turned to frizz. She quickly gave up, gathering it
into a low knot at the nape of her neck. She bent down to separate the layers
of her pallet and air it out. A spot of blood the size of a dinner plate
stained the burlap. Suddenly she recalled Mam saying that a woman bleeds after
her first coupling.

       In
the light of the fire, several candle lanterns, and a dusty rose sunrise
glowing through the open windows, Freddy joined Birdie at a large work table
and watched her grind corn with a mortar and pestle. The woman's brown babe
slept peacefully in a bleached muslin sling tied to her chest.

       "Here,"
Birdie said, pouring cornmeal into a large crock.

       Freddy
touched her shoulder and smiled, trying to thank her for her earlier kindness.

       Birdie
smiled back, gently touched Freddy's hand, and gestured that she'd better get
busy grinding.

       As
she crushed the hard kernels with the club-shaped pestle, Freddy looked around.
Three of the pink-washed cookhouse walls had tall windows with hinged covers
propped open with poles. The covers served as awnings, shading the windows from
the scorching Barbados sun. Outside, a breeze rustled the leaves of a lone
mahogany tree. Hanging next to the stone fireplace were black pots and a
bellows. The plank floor had a hatch that probably led to a storage cellar. In
one corner was a scattering of rat droppings. Across the room a rough sideboard
held a stack of gold platters that gleamed in the firelight. Shelves held
calabash containers, wooden spoons, and small bowls made from coconut shells.
The top shelf overflowed with fruit and squash. Freddy recognized bananas,
mangoes, papayas, oranges, and lemons. The kitchen smelled of ripe fruit and
smoke from the fireplace, where Birdie was breaking eggs into a bowl of batter.
The dry warmth from the cook fire felt good and the smoke had already chased
the pesky mosquitoes away.

       Freddy
poured the fresh meal into the crock, refilled the mortar, and continued
grinding. Already her arms ached. She climbed onto a wooden stool to get a
better angle for grinding. The two worked silently. Now and then Birdie checked
on Freddy's progress, smiling and patting her on the shoulder. The native woman
repositioned the baby's head so he could nurse. The only sounds were the soft
thud of Birdie's spoon as she mixed the batter, the crunch of corn kernels
Freddy was crushing, and an escalating chorus of birdsong from nearby guava
trees.

*

"The
kitchen is separate to lessen the risk of fire and to keep smells and heat away
from the Great House," the housekeeper began, leading Freddy around the
side of the mansion. After a hectic morning bustling from the kitchen to the
Big House, serving Master and his daughter Millicent a breakfast of cornbread,
ham, and sliced papaya, Mrs. Pratt was ready to show Freddy the grounds.

       "Here
are the garden and orchard, which you and Birdie cultivate and harvest,"
the woman continued, pointing out long rows of corn, potatoes, tomatoes,
plantain, cassava, okra, and more. A huge veranda wrapped around the front
corner of the Big House, its flat roof serving as a railed balcony for the
second story. 

       Mrs.
Pratt stopped. "You are to tutor Millicent, to prepare her for boarding
school. Master Whittingham's wife died of malaria two years ago. He has not
been the same since. He drives himself to make his fortune and return to
England. He blames himself…" She shook her head slightly and straightened
her shoulders. "You will help Master Whittingham by translating for the
Irish slaves," she resumed in her clipped manner. "You will cook and
wash, take rations to the fields, and muck out livestock sheds during the
harvest. There are never enough men to work the sugar."

       The
housekeeper cleared her throat. "You will produce healthy babes and raise
them to be strong slaves." Her cheeks were bright pink as she cleared her
throat again. "Well, then, this is the Great House." Located on a
slight rise, the coral-colored manor featured hand-carved mahogany front doors
flanked by red-flowering vines. Casement windows with white hurricane shutters
faced a curving carriageway. Above three upstairs windows were the third
story's small dormer windows, each inside a decorative gable. Stately palms and
mahogany trees swayed above the roof line.

       "Here
in St. Michael's Parish, the planters maximize sugar production," Mrs.
Pratt was saying as she turned to face a semi-circle of outbuildings.
"That is why the yard is none too big. There are the curing, still, and
boiling houses. Over here are the stables, forge, and storehouses."

       As
they walked across the dirt yard, Master called the housekeeper to the stable.
The woman scurried to him, with Freddy on her heels. The planter leaned against
a stall, stroking his black goatee and watching the new girl.

       "My
dear Mrs. Pratt," he began in his nasal tone, "bring her to me."

       The
housekeeper shoved Freddy forward. Before she could shrink back, Master had a
painfully tight grip on her shoulders. He turned the new slave around in the
golden light, and abruptly ripped her hair from the tidy bun. Freddy felt her
face flush.

       "See
that she wears her hair loose, only the sides tied up." He stood before
her and pushed the front of her gown down to reveal the curving of her bosom.
Then he walked around behind her, circled her waist with his other hand, and
pulled her tight against him. Freddy froze, her hands clenched into fists. She
tried to meet Mrs. Pratt's eyes, but the woman had averted her gaze.

       "She
shall wear a tight bodice and a low neckline," Master was saying. "It
pleasures me to view her shape."

       "Yes,
sir." The housekeeper was now blushing furiously.

       "That
will be all, Mrs. Pratt."

       Freddy
watched the woman leave the stable. She yearned to call her back, beg for her
help.

       Behind
her, Master ran his strangely long fingernails up her side and ordered her to
stand on two milking stools he had placed in front of a workbench. Lifting her
gown and pressing her waist forward, he tore off her makeshift undergarment and
pleasured himself. Freddy held her breath, unbelieving, as his bony knees
pressed hers open wider. She braced herself on her elbows and covered her eyes
with her hands, then realized she couldn't feel her arms or legs. It was as if
she was floating beyond herself, watching from above the nearby stalls. The
horses nickered softly. She could smell them, and the piles of hay, and the
leather tack that hung on the walls. She imagined that she was hugging one of
the horses around his big neck. Her blisters stung when Master smacked against
her. But his hip bones didn't bruise her this way, she thought dully.

       It
was over right away, with his muted grunt.

       He
pulled her up by her hair. "This," he muttered into her ear, sliding
his skinny hand between her legs, "is mine and must always be ready to
pleasure me." She numbly fixed her eyes on the wood grain of the workbench
in front of her. "You know what awaits if you disobey. Please me and I
will free you in five years' time."  

Millicent
skipped into the dining room, her blond ringlets bouncing from underneath a
white cap, but stopped in her tracks when she saw Freddy. Twirling a pink hair
ribbon around one finger, she inched over to Mrs. Pratt. The girl looked
nothing like her father.

       "This
is Freddy, your tutor," the housekeeper told her.

       The
eight-year-old blinked her pale blue eyes. "I don't want her!" she
shrieked, her face turning red. "I want a real teacher!"

       "You
must ready yourself for England," Mrs. Pratt said, smoothing the girl's
ruffled white pinafore, which covered an ankle-length pink dress. "You're
to have your first spelling lesson tomorrow."

       The
girl leaned against Mrs. Pratt's legs, her eyes narrowing to slits as she
slowly looked Freddy up and down.

CHAPTER
9

July
1653

Captain
Lacoste couldn't sleep in the muggy night. Through the open porthole above his
bed he listened to the sea's gentle lapping against the side of the ship.
Usually the sound was enough to lull him into a peaceful doze. But tonight
there was no soothing his edginess.

       This
waiting grated on him.  

       A
refreshing breeze wafted in, surprising him. He got up and threw on his shirt,
breeches, and boots to patrol the sloop. 

       No
one was about except for the mate who had night watch. After a few moments he
heard the patter of large raindrops slapping the deck. He lifted his face to
the inky sky, letting the welcome drops wash over his closed eyes.

       They
had made good use of their weeks here, mending sails, going over maps,
sharpening cutlasses, cleaning muskets, and planning. Now they were restless.

       The rain was a good sign. But
they needed more. They needed a genuine tempest.

CHAPTER
10

July
1653

"I
was the first," Una whispered, her pale eyes and yellow hair shining in
the candlelight. "That was before Birdie came."

       Una
MacMahon was the chambermaid in the Big House, but she slept on a pallet in the
kitchen. She and the other two house slaves were huddled on the floor around a
candle lantern, slapping away relentless mosquitoes as big as thumbnails.
Birdie had made a smudge to smoke away the insects, but the determined
mosquitoes did not seem to notice it. Una was combing out Birdie's long black
hair. It was late, the Big House was dark, and Birdie's seven-month-old babe
slept peacefully on the native woman's pallet. Just outside the open windows a
night heron called.

       "How
can you bear it?" Freddy almost choked on the question.

       "Bear
what?" Una asked absently.

       "Him."
Freddy was feeling more like herself. She had been here only a week, but it
seemed like a month. She feared that Master's crude attentions would make her
lose her mind. Slowly the numbness in her arms and legs had faded. But the
curious visions of floating above herself worried her. 

       "Master?"
Una snorted.

       Freddy
nodded.

       "He
is but a cockroach, to be crushed."

       Freddy
waited for her to go on, but Una had fallen silent.

       "Where
is Birdie from?" Freddy glanced at the handsome Indian woman, whose eyes
were closed as Una stroked her scalp.

       "The
Virginia Colony."

       "Is
she with child?"

       Una
nodded. "Master's, again."

       "What
of your children?" Freddy asked, slapping at another mosquito.

       "I
am barren from the yellow fever," Una replied matter-of-factly.
"Master wanted to trade me off, but Mrs. Pratt was having none of it… Now
he turns to you to satisfy his needs. May the devil cut off his cock and feed
it to the pigs!" Una leaned forward and let out a ridiculous low grunt.

       Birdie
covered her mouth with her hand, crumpling into a giggle fit. Soon the three of
them were rolling on the wood floor, holding their sides and laughing so hard
they were weeping and coughing. The more they tried to stifle their laughter
the harder they giggled.

       "What
if he hears?" Freddy asked breathlessly, collapsing into another spasm of
wild mirth. 

       They
shook their heads and Birdie moved behind Una to comb out her flaxen hair.

       "He
makes his visits late." Una dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her gown.

       Freddy's
stomach lurched again at the thought of Master's visits. "What is the Big
House like?" she quickly asked.

       "Fancy.
Polished fans and mahogany, silver and crystal." Una's eyes flashed.
"Yet our people starve and die in the cane…These planters will roast in
the hottest corner of Hell for what they do, so they will."       

The
crock of maize mash wobbled crazily as Birdie drove the donkey cart along the
rutted lane. The midday sun glared down on the towering cane, burning the leftover
mist like a fireball. It was so humid, Freddy felt like a steaming blanket was
draped over her face. As the cart groaned forward, the day yawned like a dazed
dream.

       Her
eyes had widened when she first beheld the sharp stake fences enclosing the
plantation yard. The wee slave shacks were excluded from the protective fence.
As the cart slowly creaked past the slave compound Freddy surveyed the huts,
which were thinly roofed with reeds and sugar cane trash. Atop the highest
hill, she and Birdie viewed the curving white sand beach, the sea, and ominous-looking
purple clouds on the western horizon. Even on the ridge there was no breeze.

       As
they approached the sweltering field where the Great Gang dug cane holes, Freddy
noticed Master stiff on his tall black horse, high above the bowed backs of the
field slaves. His face was shadowed by his plumed hat. Freddy's stomach
twitched and she averted her eyes. She recognized the black-haired lad she'd
seen on the auction block in Bridgetown. He looked about seventeen years old.
Like the other Irish men, he wore white trousers and worked his hoe alongside
the Africans. The bare skin of his reddish-brown back was split open and
bleeding from whip wounds. Two rows down, the mulatto driver was lashing a
woman as she worked. Freddy realized that it was Dika, the Gypsy woman from the
Three Brothers
. The back of Dika's white shift was torn and bloody. With
each crack of the whip, the rips and blood stains grew. Dika continued digging
with nary a flinch. Freddy's stomach twitched again.

       The
Africans' blue-black skin glistened with sweat that accented the criss-crossed
whip scars on their backs. The black men wore two-paneled aprons slung low on
their hips. The Irish men stood out, their burnished pink skin and red whip
scars glowing. The white women, who worked in a separate line, wore loose white
gowns like Freddy's. Among the gang of 40 or so, only two were African women.
They wore scarves wrapped high on their heads, and short skirts of bright
fabric. Una said the field slaves toiled under the whip from dawn to dusk in
the scorching sun and humidity, with one break and only water to drink.
Sometimes it was dirty water that sickened them.

       The
driver blew a conch shell and the gang stopped digging. Some sank to the baking
ground, wiping their dripping brows with their arms. Others straggled to the
edge of the field to ladle and slurp water from a wide barrel. Then they headed
for the rations cart. Birdie readied the calabash bowls. 

       "I'm
Colin Shea Brophy, do you remember me?" a young man whispered in Irish as
Freddy ladled his mash. She gave him a slight nod, careful to keep her eyes on
her work. The driver, Ben, stood at the water barrel, splashing his face and
watching them. "From the wagon after the auction," Colin continued.
"You had eyes for no one but your wee sister…"

       Freddy
met his piercing blue eyes. They were startling, set off by his bronze skin and
thick black eyebrows. He was about five inches taller than her, with a broad
chest and wide shoulders. He had a sharp chin, strong nose, and a prominently
ridged brow. His wavy hair was pulled back into a black ribbon. She quickly
dropped her eyes again. He leaned in and Freddy detected a faintly musky scent.

       "I
will live to drink the blood of these English weasels," he murmured in his
native tongue, grabbing his bowl and sauntering off to find some shade. 

Freddy
leaned back in the silky water and sucked on a piece of cane, amazed by its
sweetness. Through the trees an almost-full moon lit the spring pool, dappling
it with silver streaks. Situated between two rock outcroppings on the hill
above the cookhouse, the small pool was perfect for bathing. A stream trickled
from a narrow cave into the pool. This was a refreshing relief, after a long
day of sweaty work. She would try to bathe here every night. Although the sun
had gone down several hours ago, the air was hot and humid. The weather seemed
muffled, as if waiting for something.

       The
cool water had already calmed Freddy's annoying mosquito bites. This night, to
keep the bloody mosquitoes away, the women had blown out the candle lantern.
Freddy watched Birdie scoop water and carefully pour it over the babe she held
in one arm. He gurgled happily. Una dunked her head under the water and blew
bubbles. She and Freddy had each draped themselves with sheets of wet muslin.
The native woman was nude. Freddy could see a dark tattoo on one of Birdie's
shoulders, but could not make out what it was. She finished the cane and slid
down, arching her neck to dip the top of her head into the water. She sighed
from its delightful chill. The only sounds were the babe's gurgle and Una's
occasional cough, from deep in her chest. In the moonlight, the woman's sharp
features were paler than ever.

       A
loud scream pierced the night. It came from the direction of the slave
compound. Freddy jerked upright, looking around in alarm. Birdie shook her
head, covered her ears, and hugged the babe to her breast.

       "Wha—?"
Freddy began.

       A
series of jagged shrieks again ripped through the night.

       "The
whipping post," Una said in a resigned tone, resting her head on a
poolside rock.

       Freddy
rubbed the goose bumps on her own arms. Now came deep moaning. Freddy
shuddered, her hair prickling on her scalp.

       "Probably
the African, Tuma," Una murmured, staring up into the trees. "He
returned this afternoon. Master broke up his family and he keeps running away
to see his wife and son across the island."

       A
nighttime bird burst into a warbled solo. Its song combined with Tuma's
haunting moans to create an eerie duet.

       Birdie
was perfectly still, staring wide-eyed in the direction of the compound.

       Freddy
lay back, letting the water fill her ears and muffle the horrible moans. It was
darker now. She gazed at the moon, now barely visible behind heavy clouds.
After a while she sat up. All was quiet again.

       "Even
Tuma isn't flogged as hard as the Irish slaves are," Una whispered.
"The planters pay more for Africans. We are sold cheap, like flotsam. They
hate us. They torture and flog Irish slaves to death."

       Freddy
hugged her knees. Birdie scooped water to wash her face.

       "There
is a carpenter named Sean Gwynne here," Una continued, hesitating
slightly. "He speaks of maroons, the wild ones on the run who come out at
night to steal food and wage war on the colonists. Sometimes they hide
there." She jerked her head toward the cave. "Mostly they hide in the
woods. They steal boats or make rafts, and row to St. Vincent, the closest
island from here, and live among the Carib natives there. Others go to
Martinique and St. Lucia. Some escape onto ships in Bridgetown…"

Freddy
shivered on the pallet, her mind racing. How could she be cold on such a sultry
night? Rolling onto her side, she curled up and folded her arms tightly. She felt
like her head was wrapped in a thick, steamy fog. Wondering how it could be
that the only time she felt warm on this pallet was when Master climbed on top
of her, she shook her head and listened. A night heron cawed above the drone of
tree frogs and mosquitoes. A low, scratching sound reminded her that earlier
Birdie had killed a rat as it scurried across the floor. Mrs. Pratt said the
island was full of rodents, wild cats, snakes, and wild boars. She shivered
again.

       In the blackness a puff
of fresh, rain-perfumed air drifted into the alcove. Inhaling the scent, she
heard the first big raindrops fall on the palm-thatched roof.