Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (7 page)

CHAPTER
13

November
1653

"These
are for you," Freddy whispered, slipping Colin three shiny knives and a
gold pocket watch. This night no candle was lit in the hut, as an extra
precaution. The sky had cleared to reveal an almost-full moon.

       Surprised,
Colin held the watch up to examine it in the moonlight that beamed through the
open hut window. As he inspected the timepiece, Freddy studied his bare chest.
"Where did you—?" he began.

       "It's
better that you not know." She turned away, flustered, rubbing her upper
arms through the thin white muslin of her shift. How could she say good-bye to
him? Did he feel anything for her?

       "It's
time," he said in Irish. After a week of Birdie's nursing, he was so much
improved he insisted on walking the mile down to the strand on his own. It was
all arranged. The estate night watchman had been taken care of, as had the
militia's night patrolmen, Father Sean promised. The runaways would meet on the
beach at the appointed hour. Colin had already said a grateful good-bye to
Birdie.  

       "I
could walk with you…" Freddy offered, her voice tight with anxiety. Her
back was still turned to him. "What if you weaken?"

       "I
won't," he answered. "We must say farewell here."

       She
felt she would burst. There were so many things unsaid, things that needed
saying. What if she never saw him again? What if she never felt like this
again? She yearned to run off with him, but knew it was not possible. Only
those whose lives were in immediate danger were making this perilous escape.
Also, she was with child. Father Sean said that there was work for her to do
here.

       "Look
at me," Colin said in a low voice, turning her around and holding her shoulders.
The milky shaft of moonlight lit their faces from the side as he gazed
intensely into her eyes. In the silver glow Freddy studied his features, trying
to memorize his sideburns, the firm line of his mouth, his hairline, the slope
of his strong brow, and those deep-set eyes. 

       "We
will see each other again, Freddy O'Brennan," he was saying. "I know
it."

       She
nodded mutely, her luminescent almond eyes filling with tears that glistened in
the pale moonbeam. As one tear spilled down, Colin leaned in and pressed his
cheek against hers, cupping the back of her head with one hand. They fell into
a tight embrace, his other hand pressing her waist to him. Her eyes squeezed
shut, Freddy held the back of his neck and the hard muscles of his shoulder,
her nose nestled against his throat. As she inhaled his scent, she knew she
could stand like this forever.

       "I
must go," he whispered into her blue-black curls, his voice cracking.

       "I
know," she answered in a strangled whimper, dropping her arms to her
sides.

       Colin's
hands moved back to her shoulders, and he slowly pulled himself away from her.
He reached down for his canvas pouch, put the knives and timepiece in it,
strapped it across his chest, and began putting on a black coat. The runaways
would be garbed in dark clothing, in the hopes it would help keep them hidden
in the night.

       With
a quick squeeze of her hands, he was gone.

       Freddy
stood in the doorway, arms tightly folded across her chest, as he made his way
across the compound to the edge of a mature cane field that was terraced to the
sea. The tall stalks would hide him from view as he crept down to the water.
Silent and motionless, she watched him walk into the cane. He turned once to wave.
She waved back and he disappeared into the long, inky shadows.

She
walked along the narrow track that was crowded on both sides by soaring cane
that rustled in the night breeze. Anxiously scanning the fields around her as
best she could, her heart aching and hammering, Freddy turned left and climbed
out onto a small ridge of unplanted land that separated two large cane fields.
There would be no sleep for her this night. She had decided that if caught out
here, she would pretend to be disoriented and claim that she must have been
sleepwalking.

       From
the edge of the ridge top, in the shadow of an ironwood pine, there was a clear
view of the cane fields that descended like giant stairs to the curving white
strand and the shimmering sea. The moon was now higher and brighter. A nearby
hedge laden with pink wild roses threw its fragrance into the night and she
took a deep breath to calm herself. Several tall fan palms swayed next to a
solitary, monumental bearded fig tree with long roots hanging from its
branches. Next to the wild roses was an orchid tree abloom with purple flowers
that looked gray in the moonlight.

       She
sat cross-legged in the grass under the pine, turning her eyes to the sea. A
sudden movement in the trees made her jump. Springing to her feet and whirling
around, she came face to face with a pair of monkeys that stared and blinked at
her from their black faces. Holding one hand over her racing heart, she tried
to catch her breath. She had heard tales of these mischievous gray creatures.
Perhaps she had awakened them from their slumbers in the bearded fig's lower
branches. Their black faces were framed by bright white fur that matched their
underparts.

       "It's
only me," Freddy whispered to them.

       They
just blinked and yawned.

       Sitting
back down, she studied the sea. That distant line of white would be the surf
breaking on the island's coral reef. She faced west and looked slightly north,
imagining the island of Montserrat, where Colin and the others hoped to land.
Choking back more tears, she made a fervent Sign of the Cross and vowed to
follow him there. The island of St. Kitt's, where Aileen had gone, was also to
the northwest, she had been told. Would her sister receive the letters Freddy
had written and sent with Father Sean? She must find her Aileen someday. She
must!

       Which
direction was her homeland? How many thousands of miles of open sea lay between
her and her beloved E
́ir
e? None of the Irish
she had met here knew of anyone who had made it home. It was too far, the price
too dear. Oh, to see her loved ones again! How fine it would be to talk to Mam
and ask all the questions swarming in her mind about having a child.
Scrutinizing the water below, Freddy leaned forward and wrapped her arms around
her belly, thinking of her babe. Mam would hold her hand reassuringly as they
talked and talked. A sharp jolt of loneliness stabbed Freddy's chest and again
she covered her heart with one hand. She imagined hugging Firewind's sweet neck
and tasting Mam's crunchy brown bread fresh from the oven, with melted butter.
She realized that her upper body was rocking.    

       Then
she saw it, close in – a dinghy with oars sticking out both sides, bobbing on
the silver water. They were on their way then. Even this close, the miniscule
vessel was barely more than a dot in the midst of the luminous sea, under the
tropical autumn moon. She crossed herself again and prayed for their safe
passage, gazing at the dinghy's small wake.

       Freddy
watched until the boat blended into the distance. Covering her face with her
hands, she began to weep. Then she collapsed onto her right side and curled up
in the grass, sobbing. It was all too much – Colin leaving, Una dying, Master,
Millicent, everything. After several minutes, her sobs faded away into silence.
She took deep, halting breaths and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

       Freddy
sat up, brushed little pieces of grass off her shift, squared her shoulders,
and told herself she must trust in what Colin had said. They would see each
other again, God willing. In the meantime she would assist Father Sean here. 

       "Please,
God, watch over us all," she breathed.

CHAPTER
14

November
1653

Captain
Lacoste studied the choppy water through his spyglass. The Alizé was making
good time sailing down the east coast of Saint Lucia and the mate in the crow's
nest had just reported a small boat a quarter-mile off the portside. It took a
few moments before the captain spotted it – a dirty white dinghy riding
precariously low in the waves, with what looked to be six persons huddled
together on board.

       "Intercept!"
he commanded. What the devil were these people doing out here in a speck of a
tub like that? It could get swamped any minute. They were a motley crew, he
thought as he scrutinized them through the spyglass. One had long black hair
pulled back into a low tail; two redheads had curls sticking out from beneath
their hats; two more men wore white kerchiefs on their heads; and a small,
dark-skinned one had a very long single braid trailing down his back. He was
wearing a strange-looking white shirt.

       "Ohe
ʹ
du
bateau! Vous perdu?" the captain hollered as the
Alize
́
drew
closer to the dinghy.

       "No
parlez," Colin yelled back.

       Lacoste
spoke limited English but understood it well enough. He summoned Ryan, one of
his Irish crewmen, to help him find out who these bobbing fools might be. There
was something peculiar about that small dark one.

       "Ahoy,
is it lost ye are?" Ryan asked as the sloop pulled alongside the wee
rowboat.

       "Not
precisely," Colin answered, one hand on the knife that lay on the seat.
"We're bound for Montserrat, on the current."

       The
mate glanced at the captain, who nodded. "We're brethren of the coast and
ye're welcome aboard for a friendly drink and a bite, all o'ye," he told
them.

       "Sounds
like manna from heaven," Colin replied, standing to grab the rope ladder
Ryan had tossed down the ship's side. "Ye lads go ahead. I'll tie our
mighty vessel to the stern, then join ye."

       The
others began climbing the ladder, but Dika sat motionless, staring at Colin
with naked panic in her black eyes. They had all heard the stories about what
pirates did to female captives.

       "Stay
by my side, ye'll be safe," Colin told her.

Lacoste
gathered from the blue-eyed one named Colin that they'd been in the dinghy for
two and a half days, rowing and praying that the current would carry them
northwest. They had a limited amount of water and food, he said, adding that
they were indentured servants from Barbados. They had earned their freedom,
according to Colin. But Lacoste had already seen the red whip welts on their
backs, through their torn shirts. He didn't mention it, nor did he point out
that they were damned lucky the overloaded dinghy hadn't gone under. This
fellow Colin probably already knew that. He seemed a sharp one.

       It
was no wonder the small dark one had struck him as odd. She was a woman, alone
in that inadequate craft with five Irish lads! One never knew what might be
floating around out here these days. Her name was Dika. She stayed very close
to Colin, but seemed too old to be his woman. She reminded Lacoste of an exotic
princess from far-off India, a fairy tale figure. She had not yet uttered a
word. The hard look in her dark eyes told him she had seen more than her share
of trouble.

       The
flimsy, torn white gown she wore was attracting too much interest from the
crew. He found it distracting as well. When they finished their ale and fish
stew, Lacoste beckoned to Colin and Dika and Ryan to follow him to his cabin.
Too bad the woman did not understand French. The captain explained through Ryan
that he wanted her to wear less revealing clothing, to protect her from
unwanted attention on the ship. She and Colin nodded in agreement.

       Lacoste
dragged a dusty trunk out from the corner, opened it, and rummaged through its
contents. Onto his large bed he tossed gray breeches, a white ruffled shirt,
and an old full-length coat of worn blue velvet.

       "It's
all I have," he said, shrugging.

       "Thank
you, Captain," she said in a surprisingly low, husky voice, folding her
brown arms in front of her.   

"We
sail south for Tobago to pillage Spanish ships," the captain told the lads
over more mugs of ale. "We could use more men—" Lacoste was struck
speechless when Dika walked out of his cabin. His jaw dropped and he forced
himself to close his mouth. He would not have recognized her as she smiled for
the first time and comically swaggered around the deck in her "new"
clothes.

       From
her white cotton shift she had fashioned a belt sash and a large kerchief. The
knotted sash held up the baggy gray breeches, into which she'd tucked the white
shirt. Over this was the long blue coat, its gold braiding, gold buttons, and
stand-up collar setting off the smooth brown skin of her face and throat. She
had rolled up the too-long coat sleeves. The white ruffles fluttering at her wrists
and the white kerchief around her head contrasted with her chocolate
complexion. The handle of a knife stuck out of one front coat pocket and her
lower legs and feet were bare. She looked the part, as if she'd spent her
entire life on a buccaneer ship. All she needed was a big hoop earring, black
boots, a cutlass, and a flintlock pistol to tuck in her breeches.

       Lacoste
was happy with himself for keeping the old clothes. He had no idea what he
would do with this Dika, but hoped she would join the others in signing on.