Adrift on St. John (39 page)

Wednesday afternoon, the storm continued to move across the island, sending its drizzle into Cruz Bay. Few of the day laborers gathered around the Freedom Memorial, however, appeared bothered by the damp weather. Most of the faces in the crowd were turned toward the machete-wielding statue and the green bench beside it where Beulah Shah stood addressing her audience.

The old woman’s hoarse, lilting voice rose above the rain.
“When thuh French troops sailed een-to ’Urricane ’Ole and bee-gan their assault on thuh eye-land, the Ameena soon realized they were out numbered…”

From her lookout on the Ram Head cliffs, the Princess tracked the French ships as they sailed around the island’s southeastern tip and headed north toward Hurricane Hole.

The sight of the massive wooden structures instantly brought back memories of her voyage from West Africa. She shuddered with remembrance. She could still feel the rocking, heaving motion of the boat, the dry thirst in her
mouth—and the heavy weight of the chains hanging from her wrists and ankles.

But as she continued her surveillance, the trauma of her past was quickly overshadowed by apprehension over her future. As she counted the soldiers patrolling the decks and squinted at the powerful weaponry glinting in the sunlight, a tension began to knit across her chest.

The Princess leaned back from the ledge, her head pounding with the realization of this latest development. She and her tribesmen had controlled much of the island for the past six months, but their reign would soon be coming to an end. The French reinforcements had just tipped the balance—seemingly irreversibly—against them.

The soldiers began a systematic sweep of St. John, marching in formation through both parched scrubland and thicketed forests. The troops quickly secured the plantations and the main roads, torturing and killing anyone they suspected of colluding with the Amina. A new reign of terror gripped the island—one that appeared headed toward a gruesome, bloody end.

As the noose began to tighten, the rebels faced their unthinkable reality.

They had little choice of what to do next. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide—and only one way to escape the prolonged agony of their fate.

The only question was how to achieve it.

One by one, the suicides began.

The Princess watched with increasing horror as her tribesmen slashed at their throats and aimed pistols to their heads, leaving their bloated bodies to rot in the sun. The empty, frozen faces littered the landscape, abandoned by the spirits that had inhabited their once soft contours.

She knew that she would soon be departing this island, her new home that she had come to love, but she was determined
to do so on her own terms—and in a manner that would give her flesh a more suitable resting place.

When the last of her warriors lay prostrate on the ground, the Princess set off into the woods, following a trail that tracked deep into the dense jungle that covered Mary’s Point.

The greenery leaned in over the path, providing cover for the Princess’s fleeing figure; the vines that dropped down from the treetops wrapped around her shoulders as she passed, buoying her with their caressing touch. The rocks and boulders of the volcanic earth pushed up against the soles of her feet, carrying her momentum forward.

After an hour’s brisk hike, she reached a bluff overlooking the island’s north shore.

With a last look at the channel’s stunning vista of brilliant blues and greens, she stepped toward the overhang. Her pace increased as she neared the edge, gradually building to a full-on sprint.

Her feet left the ground, sending her body tumbling through space, momentarily weightless as the sea reached up to catch her.

Murmurs circulated through the gathering of day laborers surrounding the Freedom Memorial. A seam began to form on the outskirts of the crowd as a young woman with curly, dark hair wearing a flowered sundress slowly made her way toward the front.

Whispers murmured through the mist as she climbed onto the green bench next to Beulah Shah.

The voices grew louder.

“That’s her. That’s the girl from the resort.”

Someone pointed and pronounced the crowd’s conclusion.

“She’s the one. She’s the Slave Princess.”

58

Conrad and I bumped along the muddy road leading up to the eco-resort in the front cab of Manto’s truck taxi. The earlier storm had passed, leaving behind a clear backdrop for the day’s sunset, and a slick, treacherous surface on the steep, unpaved route. Given the challenging road conditions, I’d decided the truck taxi had a better shot of making it to the camp. The Jeep would be safe enough at the Salt Pond parking lot, I reasoned, patting my hand against the pocket where I’d stored the key.

Twenty minutes later, I steered the truck taxi into the eco-resort’s gravel parking lot, which was filled with several rental cars and a mud-spattered limo. I stared at the limo, wondering how it had made the trek up the hill, as Conrad—still in his Slave Princess getup—jumped out of the truck.

A handful of lawyer types milled about the cabin that housed the check-in desk where the resort’s bald-headed, full-bearded director, Alden Edwards, handed out stapled packets of photocopied paper.

I trailed Conrad through the mumbling crowd, every
member of which appeared to be intensely reading the document. From the comments I picked up as we walked past, I gathered the lawyers had just come from Cruz Bay, where they’d been nervously observing the gathering of day laborers at the Freedom Memorial.

Their reporting memos had been revised several times over the last few days; the events of the past six hours would require yet another rewrite. Despite the morning’s disruptive walkout, however, several groups still intended to advise their clients to make a bid.

Alden Edwards had one more dampening piece of information for their reports.

“Here you go, fellows,” he said, beaming broadly as he handed packets to the latest lawyerly pair to arrive. “Freshly unearthed documentation for you.”

I peeked over the nearest shoulder to read the top page. Bold block print proclaimed: “Remains of the 1733 Amina Slave Princess believed buried on Maho Bay Property.”

“This is going out to the local media as I speak,” Alden added with a confident smirk.

Conrad waved at Alden from the edge of the crowd, giving the eco-resort director a cheeky smile before setting off down one of the walkways.

As I scampered through the lawyers to catch up to the skinny little man in Slave Princess garb, I couldn’t shake the nagging question in my gut. The Princess’s connection to the property seemed a little too convenient.

Joining Conrad on the walkway, I leaned toward his head and whispered under my breath, “Conrad…did you?”

He winked slyly at me.

I glanced back at the crowd, silently pondering. I counted at least three or four of the assembled attorneys who looked unconvinced. We were a ways off yet, I feared, from the resolution Conrad so desperately sought.

I didn’t have long to worry about Conrad’s forged burial document, for I soon found myself standing in front of the
infamous teepee tent. It looked, incidentally, exactly the same as the rest of the eco-resort’s canvas-walled structures. It didn’t bear any resemblance to a teepee, at least not to my way of thinking. After all these years of hearing Conrad rave about it, I confess, the reality was a bit of a letdown.

Thumping
up the wooden steps to the entrance, I was immediately hit by a thick smoky fragrance that intensified as Conrad swung open the screen door and beckoned me inside.

“What have I gotten myself into?” I muttered as I followed his swishing sarong through the doorway.

Perhaps this had all been an elaborate ruse to lure me to the teepee tent, I thought ruefully, as I tried to remember exactly why I had accepted Conrad’s invitation in the first place.

The erstwhile Slave Princess skipped over to a cot on the opposite side of the room and began digging through a duffel bag laid open on its surface.

“So, Conrad,” I began warily, positioning myself next to the door in the hopes of catching a breath of fresh air. “How did you come up with the costume?”

A chuckle gurgled up from the bed as Conrad continued searching the duffel bag. “My niece seems to think she might have been the inspiration.”

“Your niece?” I repeated, as the first inkling of realization began to hit me.

“Yep,” he said, reaching into his back pocket. “She’s been helping me save the teepee tent.”

He turned and stepped toward me. “My sister married a fellow from this area, not long after I first started coming down here.” He cleared his throat and frowned sadly. “She passed away during childbirth. Then, her husband—well, he pretty much lost his mind with grief. He still lives here on the island. Used to be, you’d find him hanging around the bars most days, but a couple of months ago we managed to get him a job at one of the rental car places over on St. Thomas.”

Conrad’s face scrunched up into a grimace. “I don’t think
that’s going to work out.” He jerked his head toward the parking lot. “I reckon they’re going to want their limo back here pretty soon.”

I stood there, my jaw slowly dropping, as Conrad flipped open his worn leather wallet and thumbed through the contents.

“Anyway, my niece grew up with my folks in New York. It was only recently that she started asking questions, wanting to know more about her father’s side of the family. She’s working at your resort this summer. I’m sure you’ve seen her around. I’ve got a photo of her in my wallet.”

He held up a picture of a young woman with green eyes, cocoa-colored skin, and dark, curly hair.

“Her name is—”

The full implication of his revelation finally hit me, and I cut in before he could finish.

“Wait—
you’re
Hannah’s uncle?”

I was still processing that last piece of information when a commotion outside the teepee tent interrupted our conversation. I climbed down the steps to the wooden walkway, straining my head to catch a glimpse of the ruckus going on in front of the check-in cabin.

During the few minutes we’d been inside the tent, crowds of day laborers had descended upon the eco-resort, swamping the lawyers who were still studying Alden’s pamphlets.

The new arrivals, wielding conch shells, horns, and the occasional machete, had quickly snatched up copies of the Slave Princess burial documentation. None of these readers, I noted, appeared the least bit skeptical of its claims, and they, I suddenly appreciated, were a far more important audience than the whole cadre of lawyers.

As I surveyed the scene outside the check-in cabin, Conrad skipped up next to me on the walkway and tapped me on the shoulder.

“This is for you,” he said with great formality. In his hands, he held out a blue nylon satchel. He issued an informative nod and added, “One friend to the other.”

“Thanks,” I replied. The satchel rustled as if it held a stack of papers inside. More Slave Princess propaganda, I assumed.

I glanced up at the sky, which was quickly dimming toward darkness. The next front of clouds had already filled in the eastern horizon. The sooner I managed to get Manto’s truck taxi down the hill, the better. Besides, I had no intention of returning to Conrad’s teepee tent.

“I’ll take a look at this later,” I said with a wave. Then I slung the satchel’s strap over my shoulder and headed toward the parking lot.

“Later, Princess,” I called out, still shaking my head with bemusement as I trotted off down the walkway.

59