Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (14 page)

CHAPTER
25

July
1655

"I
see nothing," Birdie said when she returned.

       "Let
us pray that I am wrong." The rebels' plan depended on surprising the
militia. If Paulina somehow betrayed them to the soldiers, all could be lost.
Birdie joined Freddy on the floor of the dark hut. They wrapped their arms
around each other's shoulders and leaned their heads together, silently
thinking their own thoughts. Father Sean had once described to Freddy what
happened to slaves who were caught in a rebellion. She shuddered, reaching over
to open the door just a crack. She held it in place with her bare feet, to keep
it from blowing open and letting the sheets of rain in.

       "Remember
what we talked about, what we are to do if the soldiers come?" Freddy
asked.

       "Yes,"
her friend whispered, inclining her head closer to Freddy's ear. "You
say…please."

       She
turned her mouth toward Birdie's ear. "Speak our native tongues, and
pretend we neither speak nor understand the soldier's English."

       "I
remember."

       "Is
there anything in here to connect you or Kazoola to the revolt?" Freddy
had already checked and re-checked her own hut to make sure nothing could be
found there.

       "No."
Birdie shook her head. "Look!" The women leaned forward to see
through the door, barely noticing the tepid rain gusting in. A crowd of men
bearing sputtering torches poured into the compound. Freddy spotted a group of
shirtless Africans in the middle of the throng, carrying Mr. and Mrs. Pratt
prone. In the noisy storm, Freddy could not hear what the Pratts were shouting.
The Africans, whose wet torsos gleamed in the golden torchlight like polished
ebony, held the housekeeper and the butler high by their ankles, hips, shoulders,
and wrists. Neither Kofi nor Kazoola was among them. Freddy squeezed her eyes
shut and sent up another prayer for their safety.  

       Mrs.
Pratt was fuming, waving her arms about, legs flailing and white lace cap
askew. The more she thrashed, the higher her long apron and skirt travelled on
her chunky white legs. Behind her, Mr. Pratt's wiry frame looked as stiff as a
wood plank. His nightshirt was soaked and sticking to his skin, his bony
shoulders hunched. His pale features seemed waxy in the torchlight, his long
hair straggling down from his dripping, balding head. He held his mouth tightly
closed.

       As
the slaves lowered Mrs. Pratt into a puddle, her white cap fell off in the mud.
She continued to struggle. One of the Irish men slapped her hard across her
mouth. Stunned, she sat still in the puddle and watched as they lowered her
husband. The rebels bound the two house servants together, the whipping rain
drenching all of them.

       Freddy
heard Master before she saw him.

       "Unhand
me, ye rancid curs!!" He bellowed slurred curses as the slaves carried him
past the hut. The men stopped for one Irish slave to gag him with a long red
scarf. Whittingham pitched his lanky body as the chanting Africans held him
high above their heads. Finally Freddy was able to make out Kofi and Kazoola,
gripping the planter's ankles. This night Master resembled an oversized
scarecrow, his white shirt ripped and shreds of torn lace dangling from his
wrists. Gazing at the spectacle, Freddy could not stop her own satisfied smile,
God forgive her. The wind whipped the disheveled strings of Master's long hair
into his shadowed eyes and black goatee. Gone were his plumed planter's hat as
well as his boots and stockings. His big, pale bare feet glowed in the
torchlight as he heaved his long legs against the Africans' grasp.

       "Ye
damned scoundrels, ye'll pay for this, every last one of ye!" Master
roared, the cords in his scrawny neck standing out as he lifted his head,
trying to see around him. His breeches shone black from the rain. He struggled
against the Africans' firm hold on his wrists. The men tied the planter to the
whipping post, securing each of his wrists to the 'T' bar with thick rope.
Whittingham was so tall he could stand in the mud while tied to the post. Most
who had been tied there suffered helplessly, dangling toes barely touching the
ground. The slaves taunted the hated Englishman who had starved them and worked
them almost to death. Some swung their torches close to his ragged white shirt.
One came forward and kicked his kneecaps. The planter howled in pain. Freddy
glimpsed a furtive movement in a doorway across the compound when an African
woman's white turban caught the flickering torchlight.

       The
slaves were poised to slice Whittingham's throat when the thunderous roar of
gunfire reached the compound. The men froze, then took off running up the hill,
away from the road. During a pause in the gunfire Freddy heard the deep drum of
countless horse hooves on the road. Somehow the babes still slept.

       Minutes
later a dozen militia men rode into the compound, their strapped rows of
bullets reflecting the flames of their torches. Their brownish-red coats and
filthy breeches wilted in the wet storm as they dismounted and released
Whittingham and the house servants. Two soldiers helped the Pratts escort the
planter, who swayed drunkenly, toward the Big House. The remaining militia men
stood in a circle talking in low voices for several minutes. Then they got back
on their steeds and galloped off toward the main road.

       The
compound was once more empty and dark, but the gunfire went on and on.
Sometimes it sounded distant. Other times it seemed to come from a large circle
surrounding the estate. Birdie squatted in the middle of the room and lit a
bundle of dried grass. Freddy retrieved her rosary, leaned against the hut
wall, and silently fingered the beads. Birdie closed her eyes, wafting the
smoke over her face again and again, her lips moving in prayer. 

An
hour later, the rain and the shooting had stopped. Laurie still slept. Birdie
had just finished nursing Efia in the pink glow of dawn. Freddy opened the hut
door and poked her head out. The silence was far from comforting. It felt
ominous, in spite of lovely crimson streaks across the eastern sky. Even the
birds were hushed this morning.

       The
peculiar stillness was interrupted by two uniformed soldiers galloping into the
compound. They dismounted and tied their gray horses to the whipping post.
Freddy ducked back from the doorway and sat on the floor where she could watch
them. The men wiped their hands up and down on their sooty, blood-stained
breeches. They looked around, raised their muskets to eye level, lowered them,
and then strode over to a hut across the compound. Both had dark blond hair.
They looked like brothers. Neither wore a hat, but they sported the dark red
uniform jacket of the Barbados militia.

       As
the men made their way around the circle of huts, Freddy listened to the
frightened cries of women and children. She heard thumping as the men
apparently rummaged through each shack, tossing aside plank tables and shelves.
Once more she pictured her own hut and could not think of any objects that
would arouse suspicion.

       Glancing
at Birdie, now curled around Efia and Raz, Freddy realized that her friend was
terrified of the approaching soldiers. She shook her head, quietly closed the
door, and went over to her.

       "No
English," Freddy whispered, sitting on the floor.

       Birdie
sat up and nodded, her sloping eyes wide with fear.

       "I
think that they are not hurting the women and babes…they are only searching
through belongings…" Freddy gently rubbed Birdie's shoulder.

       The
thuds and knocks grew louder as the soldiers ransacked the hut next door. Still
touching Birdie's shoulder, Freddy leaned in close. "We must stay
strong," she whispered.

       The
Indian woman's eyes flashed and she nodded her head.

       One
of the men kicked the door wide open with his black-booted foot, and the
soldiers burst into Birdie's hut.

       "What
'ave we 'ere? Two of ye?"

       The
two women stared at them.

        "Where
are the men?"

       Freddy
answered in rapid Gaelic.

       "Speak
the King's bloody English!"

       Again
Freddy said something in her native tongue, shrugging innocently. She
concentrated on keeping a blank expression on her face.

       "And
you?" one asked Birdie.

       She
hugged Raz and Efia to her chest and mumbled a few words of Monacan. Raz
whimpered.

       "What
the devil tongue is that?" he asked.

       "Sounds
some sort of native," the other muttered. 

       "Bloody
hell, let's just get the search done."

       The
men kicked over the plank bed, and swiped the gourd containers off the crude
shelf. Laurie shrieked. Freddy picked him up and hugged him to her, rocking her
body and stroking his hair. He continued to cry, but more softly.

       The
soldiers shook out all the rags and blankets. 

       "We're
not through with you." The taller of the two sneered at Freddy. She hugged
Laurie tighter. The men smelled of unwashed bodies and horse manure. Pale
whiskers stuck straight out from their chins. "We'll be back."

CHAPTER
26

July
1655

"Poor
Master Whittingham faces financial ruin," Mrs. Pratt fretted, smoothing
her gray skirt and glancing toward the cane fields. She and Paulina stood at a
table in the cookhouse yard, cutting rags and mixing oils for polishing
furniture. "Here it is planting season, and all those slaves lost."

       "It's
awful," Paulina murmured in agreement. "Did Master ride to
Bridgetown?"

       "Yes,
indeed, and Mr. Pratt with him, in the middle of the night. Master Whittingham
intends to see justice done. And he must purchase new slaves. One poorly timed
sugar crop can cripple an estate for years—"

       "Owwww!"
Freddy cried, jumping onto one bare foot. Carrying a heavy black kettle of
boiling water from the outdoor fire to the laundry tub, she had dropped it,
sloshing the scalding liquid on her left foot. The steaming water spilled
across the dirt near the table, and the housekeeper and house slave had to hop
out of the way. Luckily Raz and Laurie were playing off to one side of the
yard, breaking twigs and small branches that had come down in last night's
storm. Birdie was scrubbing laundry across the yard.

       "What
ails you, clumsy child?" Mrs. Pratt scolded. "Do take care! I am in
no mood for your vexing mischief. Birdie, we expect luncheon in exactly one
hour."

       "I
am not feeling well." Freddy's stomach was nervous and upset. She placed
her hands on her belly and felt the babe kick. Earlier she'd had frightening
cramps, but thankfully they had passed. She had two months more before giving
birth to this one.

       "I
suppose you wish to rest, but this is no time to be idle," the housekeeper
sniffed.

       As
the older woman turned back to Paulina, Freddy and Birdie exchanged a quick
look. The Indian woman silently ducked into the cookhouse and grabbed a clean
linen bandage from a shelf. Freddy leaned against the wall and lifted her
injured foot so Birdie could wrap it. Her friend pointed through the open
cookhouse window to a pile of fresh cassava on the kitchen counter that was due
to be soaked. Freddy nodded and limped inside, sat on a high stool and began
peeling the white cassava roots.

       Much
as she hated to agree with the odious Mrs. Pratt, she had to admit it was true
– she had been dreadfully awkward all morning. It was as if her mind had turned
to heavy stone. There had been no word of the men. All they'd heard was the
thunder of more horses on the main road. She had not slept. This waiting and
worrying was horrid. Even Birdie looked terrified, with her bloodshot eyes.
Just after sunrise they had heard noises coming from the road, and walked
through a cane field to see what it was. From the field above the road they
stared at the militia men on horseback, who were marching long columns of black
and white slaves in ankle irons toward Bridgetown. The women looked for Kofi and
Kazoola, but had not seen them. They could not find Father Tomas, either. The
metallic shuffle of the men's chains had broken the morning's eerie silence.

       "Stop
that this instant!" Mrs. Pratt's shrill voice rang out. From the open
cookhouse window Freddy watched the housekeeper rush to Raz, who had just
stomped through the warm mud where the water had spilled. Mrs. Pratt grabbed
the little boy's arm and wrenched him out of the muck, which now covered his
lower legs and had splattered onto the table and the polishing rags. "Do
you need a good paddling? Do you?" She clutched his little shoulders and
shook him. "Don't think I won't give you a whipping!"

       Raz,
stunned, stared open-mouthed at the older woman. Birdie dropped the shirt she
was washing and hurried to him, wiping her soapy hands on her gown. Freddy
jumped off her work stool, but stood there transfixed, not knowing what to do.
From the far side of the yard Laurie came running to her. He hugged Freddy's
legs tight, whimpering quietly as she stroked his hair. Birdie's face looked
calm as she reached out, took Raz's little hand in hers, pulled him to her, and
placed one hand on his shoulder. The boy had not uttered a sound. 

       "You're
far too indulgent with him," the housekeeper reproached, wagging her
finger at Birdie. "You had best teach him to behave, or I will!"

       Birdie
said nothing, but her eyes narrowed.

       Paulina
studied the Indian woman's face. "I have seen many a naughty slave child
sold at auction in Bridgetown," she commented in a feigned lilt.

       Birdie
glanced over at Freddy, who shook her head.

       "I
will tell Master Whittingham you're too soft with the little one," Mrs.
Pratt threatened. "Mayhap he will sell him off. Lord knows he needs the
money, to buy strong slaves for the planting."

       Birdie
shot her friend an alarmed look, but quickly lowered her eyes to the ground as
she turned and led Raz to the laundry tub.

       "Now
I have a headache," the housekeeper complained, returning to the table
with a loud sigh.

       Freddy
kept her wide eyes fixed on Mrs. Pratt, her hands once more gaining strength as
a river of boiling rage flowed like molten lava down her arms. Her fingers
itched to claw and strangle those two. She shifted her gaze to the fields that
terraced down to the sea and imagined herself leading all of her loved ones to
the beach, where a tall ship would rescue them from this hellish pit of a
plantation.

       "What
was it I was going to ask you?" Mrs. Pratt was mumbling absently to
Paulina. "Oh yes, I remember. Have you heard of Ben's fate?"

       "No…"

       "He
was found in his cottage covered in blood, his throat slit ear to ear."

       "Oh!"
Paulina slapped her hand to her chest. "Those evil field slaves will
pay…"

       "That
they surely will." Mrs. Pratt nodded.

       Paulina
glanced around furtively to see if the others were listening. Freddy pretended
to be absorbed in peeling cassava. Birdie's back was turned to the yard as she
scrubbed clothes. Raz sat in the dirt next to her, drawing a picture in the
dust. "It is only because of me," the Creole said in a lowered voice,
"that things are not worse." The morning was so still, her hushed
tone carried clearly across the yard.

       "Whatever
do you mean?" Mrs. Pratt asked.

       "It
was I who alerted the militia," she bragged. "If not for me, we would
all be dead, I am certain of it. I was awake at a strange hour and heard horns,
then saw field slaves moving about. I ran to tell the soldier at the slave
cemetery."

       Freddy
bit her bottom lip to keep silent. Birdie continued scrubbing, but her widened
eyes now scanned the horizon. She looked as if her mind were far, far away.

       "What
a precious gift you are, my dear," Mrs. Pratt was saying as they flung
rags over their arms and carried the jugs of polishing oil to the Big House.
"We must tell Master Whittingham when he returns."

        Freddy
stared at their backs. Those two had become odd bedfellows, especially since
Master had given Paulina the room under the stairs in the Big House. She waited
until they had gone inside the mansion, rubbing her lower back. She felt huge
and uncomfortable with child.

       "I
knew it!" she hissed. "Remember I saw her running?"      Birdie
nodded grimly. She came inside to hang a pot of water in the indoor fireplace.
Mrs. Pratt had ordered them to cook maize mash twice a day and deliver it to
the compound.  

       Freddy
rested her head in one hand, holding a cassava root in the other.
"Birdie…"

       Her
friend finished stirring the fire and turned to her.

       "I
have a wicked notion," Freddy whispered, waving the cassava root in the
air. Birdie's brown face crinkled into a grin. It would take only a few pieces
of raw cassava to send the treacherous Paulina and the obtuse Mrs. Pratt to
their beds.

       Birdie
pretended to vomit.

       "Just
enough to make them suffer." Freddy nodded, smiling for the first time
this day.

       The
two of them set to work splitting pieces of sweet coconut bread into layers,
spreading honey and small slivers of cassava root on them, and then squeezing
the layers back together.

       "Delicious
morsels," Freddy said softly, setting the bread on a small plate. She put
her arm around Birdie's shoulders and leaned into her affectionately.

Just
after their midday meal, Paulina and Mrs. Pratt staggered out of the Big House
looking pale and complaining of headaches.

       "Oh,
no, yellow fever," Freddy told them.

       "I
am quite dizzy and faint," the housekeeper said, leaning against the trunk
of the mahogany tree.

       "My
mouth burns," Paulina added, gulping and sweating.

       At
that, the women moaned and retched miserably in the dirt.

       Freddy
and Birdie grinned behind their hands. 

They
were still washing clothes that afternoon when Nathan Pease hurried into the
yard and handed Freddy a folded piece of parchment. 

       "It's
late," he said. "I was held up in town because of the trial."

       "Trial?"
Freddy asked.

       "The
rebels. In the big cage on the square. The militia is trying them one by one.
Everyone's watching. The crowd is so large the soldiers had to turn some
away."

       "What
of the rebels?" She fingered the letter nervously.

       "Nothing
yet. I had best be on my way. Too many eyes about…"

       "Thank
you, Nathan." Freddy picked up Laurie and carried him inside and into the
alcove, where she sat with him on her lap and hunched over the two parchment
pages. At last, an answer from Aileen. This was dated May 8, 1655. She eagerly read:

      
"Dearest
Freddy! What joy to receive your letter! Oh, for us to be together again! But
it pains me to address your question, for I fear you will dislike the answer.
Alas, Master Andrew cannot purchase the Africans or the mulatto babes. You see,
Coromantee Africans are outlawed here.

       But
Master Andrew is eager to meet you. He welcomes you and Laurie with open arms.
I pray you will come!"

      
Freddy
stopped, her heart sinking heavily into her stomach. She forced herself to
continue reading:

       "
We
are planning our wedding along with the best crop festival ever seen on this
island. The festivities will begin the moment the last cart of cane is pulled
to the mill. I will pin pink hibiscus blooms in my hair and in the veil. The
dress is finished and hanging, ready. But am I? I do believe I am! My betrothed
has made me promise that once we are married, I will call him, simply, Andrew.
He makes me delirious with happiness. One day he took me on horseback partway
up the slope of the volcano called Mount Liamuiga. It was like standing upon a
majestic rooftop above the world. I imagined I could see Barbados from there. 

       Freddy,
it has been less than two years since we arrived in these islands. Yet here I
am, about to become a married woman. And there you are, a mother of one and
soon to have more babes. Please write more of Laurie and your friends there. 

       I
will close now, as the quicker this reaches the proper hands, the quicker I
will receive your reply.

       God
and His Saints bless all of us.

       Your
loving sister,

       Aileen" 

      
Freddy
dropped the parchment and lay on her side, curling snugly around her sleepy
son. It was time for his nap anyway. Mrs. Pratt had taken to her bed. No one
would know if Freddy rested a bit. Cuddling Laurie and inhaling the sweet scent
of his dark hair, she murmured to him. But as he drifted off, she was lost in a
rush of churning thoughts.

       How
could Aileen suggest that she come to St. Kitt's without her half-African babe
and her African man, and without Birdie's beautiful Efia and Kazoola as well?
What of this Andrew? Would he also have a problem with Birdie being native?
Aileen was most likely blind to Andrew's faults.

       The
English planter was, however, good to her sister. That was the most important
thing. Freddy sighed deeply, hot tears spilling from her tired eyes. She could
never join her sister on St. Kitt's. Then again, perhaps saying 'never' was
wrong. No one knew what the future held for any of them. 

       How
far apart they had grown in such a short time! She and Aileen had landed on
opposite sides of the planters' laws. She felt worlds closer to Birdie and
Kofi, and of course Kofi's unborn babe inside her. To leave any of them behind
was unthinkable.