Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (3 page)

CHAPTER
4

June
1653

Captain
Blanchard paced up and down the line of young women who, after six days in the
dark below-decks, squinted under the glaring sun. In a blue doublet and soiled
breeches, his ruddy face streamed with sweat under powdered curls gathered back
into a black ribbon. 

       "Freddy?
What sort of name is that for a right bloomin' rosebud such as yerself?"
He stopped in front of her, smirked, and picked up one of her black curls. The
captain's milky blue eyes reflected the blinding noon light. As he caressed
Freddy's ringlet, the back of his freckled hand deliberately rubbed her green
bodice and the tender swell of her left breast. She shrank back, her face
burning, angrily twisting her wrists against the ropes binding them in front of
her. Freddy imagined strangling this snake who called himself a captain. She
could feel her hands getting strong enough to do the deed.   

       God
save me from my own temper, she prayed silently, dropping her eyes, clenching
her teeth, and lifting her chin. Freddy dared not cross him. Aware of Aileen
trembling next to her, she took a ragged breath of salt air. 

       "My
given name is Frederica," she replied, her voice quaking. The sun seemed
to bore a hot hole through the top of her head. The deck rolled out from under
her, pushing her hard against him. His greasy beard stank of rancid onions, and
tobacco. The stocky captain chuckled and she caught a whiff of rum. She wanted
to jerk her head away from his nauseating smells, but was determined not to
anger him.

       "Well,
Miss Frederica," he wheezed, shoving her away and dropping his hands,
"it's lucky you are that virgin white flesh brings a higher price in Barbados.
The planters want fresh white females." He wiped his dripping brow with
his yellowed sleeve and resumed pacing. Freddy watched from the corner of her
eye as he stopped to scrutinize the Gypsy woman named Dika. As he ran his hands
down the sides of her brown bodice and over her skirted hips, Dika moved not a
muscle. Her dark eyes glittered straight ahead.

       "They
tire of their island darkies," Blanchard continued, again moving down the
line. "Ye must keep up your strength and bring a good price. Soon we
anchor. Any foolish enough to try something will discover the pleasure I take
in torturing wayward slaves."      

       Returning
to Dika, the captain grabbed her by her waist. "Ye'll do, slut," he
mumbled, leading her toward the stern. His hand moved down to her rump. She
jerked away and he yanked her close by her black hair. "Silas, make ready
the others. This won't take long." With a coarse laugh he ducked into his
quarters, pulling the woman in behind him.

       "We'll
not see her again, I'll wager," Ciara whispered into Freddy's ear.
"He knows her from the Galway streets."

       "Poor
Dika," Freddy murmured, puzzling about how Ciara would know such a thing.

       "But
it's better fed she'll be." The older girl rubbed her own flat stomach
with her tied wrists. 

       "This
is the slaver
Three Brothers
, ye're the Cap'n's property now,"
Silas was saying. "Those who can read and write the King's English, over
here while I sort the rest." 

       The
O'Brennan girls joined the other two who were literate in English. Freddy
studied the shimmering blue ocean surrounding the ship and wondered how a day
could be so cloudless and brilliant, yet fill her with such dread.

       Aileen
touched her sister's hip with her bound hands. "Let us pray," she
whispered into Freddy's ear.

       As
they waited for Silas to slowly record the women's names and ages, the sisters
turned toward the stern – facing north toward the misty land of E
́
ire.
Their lips silently moved. Freddy held onto the rail with her tied hands,
closed her eyes, and remembered Mam and Aunt Kate laughing together as they
baked brown bread. She could still smell that buttery bread and the lush fields
they called home until trouble sliced up their lives like the sharp scythe Da
swung back and forth. Freddy longed to press her nose into Firewind's neck,
sniffing his sweet scent. The striking Gypsy horse always smelled like fresh
hay in a sun-warmed barn. Da had impulsively purchased the splendid animal from
a passing tinker, and given him to Freddy. When she altered an old pair of Da's
breeches to ride him over the fields and through the woods, Mam had accused Da
of letting their eldest girl run like a feral thing. And they should not call
her Freddy, Mam had fretted, convinced that wagging village tongues would be
her daughter's ruin. Firewind would have to be sold, Mam had said. But Da was
having none of it. He was proud of his high-spirited daughter and encouraged
her to follow her heart.

       Freddy
stood on the sunny deck, guilt stabbing at her. She glanced down at her sister,
whose lips moved in silent prayer while her own mind raced with these thoughts.
Freddy shook her head and cursed herself. Her rash ways had landed them on this
devil ship.  

Try as
they might, they could not awaken poor Bridget. That afternoon, the smell of
death crept into the hold's lethal stink. When Silas brought their daily salt
meat and biscuit, he indifferently dragged the girl's corpse to the steep
steps. Without a word, he heaved her thin body over his shoulder, climbed to
the main deck, and put her down to lock the grate. 

       A
moment later, the women's heads turned toward the loud splash.

       "She's
free now," someone said.

       "May
God level the road for her soul," Ciara prayed. 

       "Aye,
may she rest in peace," the others intoned numbly.    

       "Among
the angels," Freddy added in her native tongue.

       "She's
just the first," someone across the hold muttered. "There's many
can't survive the middle passage…"

       "Aye,
some of the men are sick with the scurvy," someone else added.

       "Small
wonder I heard the right wicked wail of a banshee last night," another
said.

       "And
felt the stark chill of ghosts on this death ship," yet another added
mournfully.

       "Let's
don't start that sort of talk," Ciara snapped.

       For
once, Freddy was glad of the older girl's bossy ways.

"I
dreamed of Bridget floating down with the wee faerie folk, down into the green
glen where they live under the western sea," Aileen whispered. The sisters
huddled together, shivering in spite of the night's steamy heat, the scent of
death lingering in their noses and in their minds. It was damp and misty. The
patch of sky above them held no stars this night.

       "Aye,
I can see it." Freddy hugged her sister. "And her in bliss among the
Tuatha de Danaan
in
lovely
Tir na
nÓg
. The strength of St. Patrick's horse to her."

       "Tell
me, please…"

       "Tell
you what?"

       "About
Tir na nO
́
g
..."

       Freddy
smiled in the darkness and tried to imitate Mam. "Imagine," she
whispered into Aileen's ear, "a land of youth and beauty, a golden
otherworld where there is no sickness, no hunger, no thirst, and no death…only
music, strength, life, and eternal happiness."

       The
night's silence was broken only by the ship's creaking as they both pictured
it.

       "Why
does God punish us so?" Aileen asked, her voice as soft as a sigh.

       Freddy
held her tighter and stroked her long brown hair, wondering what Mam would say.
"We must not question God's will," she murmured. "It's not for
us to know what's in store. May we never fear the will of God."

       "I
miss Mam…"

       "As
do I…"

       "Will
we ever see her again?" Aileen's small chest heaved in a sob.

       "We
must have faith." Freddy rubbed her sister's narrow back, searching for
the right words to bolster both of them. She took as deep a breath as she could
through the apron she had pressed tight against her nostrils. "We must
keep our wits and find a way back. We are O'Brennans, descended from the Old
Ones, the Tuatha deDanaan, the real people. Da always says so, remember?"

       She
could feel Aileen nodding wordlessly in the black night.

       "That's
right," Freddy whispered, "even though the Church frowns on such talk
and calls our faerie folk demons."

       "Surely
they're not demons…"

       "No,
macushla, far from it." She rested her cheek atop Aileen's head.

"The
sharks will eat you if you try jumping overboard," Silas warned, pointing
at the turquoise water twinkling around the
Three Brothers
where it was
anchored in the crescent-shaped Bridgetown harbor. "Ye'll take your turn
resting, and make yourselves presentable. I'm watching ye."

       When
the wind was right, the women could hear voices from the bustling town square.
Their view of the Barbados capital was blocked by the tall ships in port.
Occasionally the aroma of smoking meat drifted out, making Freddy's mouth
water. Warm breezes floated around the deck as they stuffed themselves with
local victuals brought on board to plump them up and pinken their cheeks. That
way they would bring a higher price. The higher the price, the better the
planter, Silas had advised. With clean air and passable food, the young women
recuperated quickly from the deadly ten-week voyage. Three more of their group
had expired as the
Three Brothers
plunged across the sea.   

       She
and Aileen ate as much as they could. Their favorites were the strange tropical
fruit, fried fish, and sweet bread. Aileen loved the juicy papaya, but Freddy
refused to taste it. To her it was a bitter reminder: had she not been made the
fool by that churl's promise of papaya sweetmeats, they would not be here
facing God-knows-what fate.

        The
group swabbed the filthy hold and washed away the voyage's stink in tubs placed
on the main deck. The women hung aprons from a circle of lines, creating a
bathing area curtained away from the men's stares. The welcome baths were
delightful, in clear seawater warmed by the Barbados sun. Then, as they took
turns rinsing their grimy clothes and hanging them to dry in the hot sun, the
younger girls chattered about finding a planter who would become a decent
husband.

       Freddy
finished her bath, put on her clean dress, and left the women's private circle
to perch on a deck crate and dry her thick black hair. The island was
beautiful, she admitted to herself, gazing to the north and taking in the white
beaches, lush mountains, and swaying palms. Terraced fields ruffled in the warm
wind, above water so clear it revealed a pink bottom. The humid air was flower-scented
and filled with birds. Near the
Three Brothers
, seagulls cried as
pelicans glided by. Yesterday she and Aileen had watched a cluster of shiny
dolphins splash near the ship, amidst the bay's blue and green stripes. Perhaps
the others were right. Perhaps the West Indies could be a fine place, where a
planter could turn out to be a worthy husband.

       But
last night, frightful noises had drifted out from the town. Freddy had heard
moans and the high cracks of a whip. Perhaps the island's sunny beauty was
fickle and shallow, barely concealing the brutal undercurrent flowing beneath
the surface. A painfully lovely place it was, the sort they dreamed of back
home when chilled to the bone during months of driving rains and dank fog. But
never had they dreamed of heavy ropes on their wrists, of being merchandise
bought and sold. The tropical splendor was like a juicy piece of fruit that
stuns with bitter poison. It was treacherous, like candied papaya promised to
hungry girls on a County Galway beach.