Little Black Girl Lost 4 (9 page)

Chapter 26

O
n August 22, 1791, the
Windward
docked at the Isle of Santo Domingo and unloaded its cargo. It had been nearly one hundred years since the French officially colonized the island in 1697; more than two hundred years since Christopher Columbus “discovered” it in 1492 and began the Spanish colonization. Of the island's five hundred thousand people, only five percent were wealthy white planters; four percent were free people of color, better known as the
gens de couleur,
ninety percent were slaves—and that was an enormous powder keg. Indigenous insurgents called the Maroons had been successfully practicing guerilla warfare on the planters for years. For more than two hundred years whites ruled and prospered, but tonight, things would change forever—the insurgency would see to it.

Captain Rutgers was well aware of the instability of the island, but there was good money to be made. In a million years he would have never thought that a group of so-called ignorant blacks could have taken back the island now called Haiti. He had no idea that that very night, the leader of the Maroons, with the help of house slaves, were planning an unprecedented move that would eventually free the Isle of Santo Domingo of white rule. Had he known that, had he any inkling that white planters, their families, and whites in general were going to be savagely murdered, he would not have agreed to sell the prince to his friend and Christian brother, Monsieur Francois Torvell.

Of the six hundred slaves the ship could carry, only four hundred made it to the Isle of Santo Domingo alive. The number was expected. It was a difficult voyage for the slaves, and many died or jumped into the sea on the way.

The slaves had been cramped in the cargo hold for the better part of three months and had to be cleaned of the filth and stench that clung to them. They cleaned the slaves by throwing buckets of water on them, which helped, but was far from doing the job necessary. The way they smelled skewed the way the planters saw them. They smelled like animals, so that's what they became in the eyes of their masters. At the very least they were seen as savages; anything but the human beings they were.

When they thought the slaves were sufficiently cleansed and presentable, they marched them to Monsieur Torvell's plantation. Captain Rutgers rode in a carriage. Ibo rode with him, right by his side. He wanted to show her off to his friend, who, he knew, would be quite envious. Torvell didn't have to know there was no sex going on between them. The assumption was good enough for Rutgers. With nearly twenty-two thousand free people of color on the island, it wasn't at all unusual for a black woman to be seen openly with a white man.

Monsieur Torvell was a tobacco man. He was the son of Jacques Torvell, who had come to the Isle of Santo Domingo forty years earlier. Jacques Torvell was a swindler by trade. He brought a sack full of money to the island and bought the land and a few slaves to work it for next to nothing. Now the Torvells owned the biggest tobacco plantation on the island. Business was booming, and they needed another hundred slaves in addition to the three hundred they already had to bring in a much larger crop.

Darkness was nearly upon them by the time they arrived. Rutgers pulled the reins and stopped the carriage in front of a lavish white brick mansion. The grounds were well maintained and pristine. Monsieur Torvell and Helen, his wife of twenty years, greeted them. Behind them stood their black butler, Herman, and his wife, Marcia, whom they trusted with their lives and their financial portfolio. They lived in the mansion and practically ran the plantation. When Torvell wanted to know something about his property, his servants, or anything other than Mrs. Torvell, he went to Herman for answers. Helen considered Marcia a close friend. They often had lunch together. Consequently, they saw nothing wrong with what they were doing, since two of their best friends on the island—in the world, for that matter—were Negroes. Besides, they had given them the Torvell name, and that made them officially family, didn't it?

Chapter 27

N
ow, when Helen saw Ibo sitting next to Rutgers, she looked at Francois to see his reaction to her good looks. He was obviously enamored by Ibo's beauty. His lecherous smile confirmed it for her. Helen was hoping that she wasn't a part of the cargo they had just purchased, because her husband was known for his escapades with the dusky females they owned. She didn't want another one on the island that she would have to compete with for her husband's affections. While it wasn't officially acknowledged, she was the reluctant stepmother of more than ten pickaninnies that looked remarkably like Francois.

Feeling quite vulnerable at the moment, she shot a quick glance at her supposed new rival. From what Helen could tell, she was the kind of female who was used to men staring at her. She deduced that Ibo had the kind of looks that made it nearly impossible not to stare at her. That's what she told herself anyway. As far as she was concerned, she had nothing to worry about. The woman saw her husband as just another man that she knew found her extremely attractive.

With her inner fears aside, she forced a quick smile and hugged their friend who had dismounted. She kissed both of his cheeks and in French, she said, “Joseph, it's so good to see you.” Her voice had an air of aristocratic sophistication in it; like someone had paid a fortune for her education.

He embraced her and said, “It's good to see you both as well.”

“And who is this beautiful creature?” Helen asked.

Rutgers smile broadly and said, “Ibo Mustafa. She's my personal guest aboard the
Windward.”
He extended his hand to help Ibo down the carriage stairs.

“Your next stop must be New Orleans, Joseph,” Francois said, smiling.

Having been there, he knew miscegenation ran rampant there. They even had special balls for the occasion; balls where beautiful, light-skinned black females were taken specifically to be a wealthy white man's exclusive consort. If he were living in New Orleans, he'd do everything he could to be her lover.

“It is, sir,” Rutgers said. “And I'm sure she'll fetch a great price.”

“Well, you all made it just in time for dinner,” Helen said, quickly changing the subject. The last thing she wanted to hear was men sexualizing women in her presence. To do it in private was bad enough, but to do it openly was a shameful thing for good Christians to do. “Marcia made a great dinner for us. I hope you're hungry.”

“We are,” Rutgers said. “Famished, in fact. I've been looking forward to eating some of Marcia's scrumptious cooking since I was last here.”

Helen hooked her arm around Rutgers' elbow and escorted him toward the house. Then she looked at Marcia and said, “Please see to it that Miss Mustafa wants for nothing.”

While Ibo was just as hungry as Rutgers was, she hadn't seen the prince in weeks. He still consumed her thoughts and dreams daily. She wanted to see him before they left him there. She wanted him to know that while she would wait for him, she had a plan of her own to rescue him, if need be.

Respectfully, Ibo, in French, said, “Captain Rutgers, if it's okay with you, I'd like to see the prince now.”

“She speaks French?” Francois asked rhetorically.

“That and about four or five other languages,” Rutgers said. “It's a gift. She's a quick study. She could probably run this plantation better than Herman here inside of a month.”

“You don't say,” Francois said. “I see why you expect a great deal of compensation for her. Tell me your price and I will pay it.”

Rutgers cut his eyes toward Helen briefly and said, “I've already got a buyer in New Orleans. I can't very well go back on my word, can I?”

“Not even for a longtime friend like me?”

“I'm afraid not. It would be unethical. Besides, how could I expect to continue doing business with the man if he found out what I did?”

“Yes, Joseph,” Helen said, glaring at Francois. “By all means, stick to your principles.”

“A prince, huh?” Francois questioned, changing the subject to appease his jealous wife. “And who might that be?”

“Yes, Joseph,” Helen said, smiling broadly. “Don't tell me we have royalty with us.”

“In a manner of speaking, I guess we do have royalty with us,” Rutgers said. “As a matter of fact, he's a part of the cargo you paid for, Francois.”

“Really?” Helen said. She looked at her husband. “Well, I'd like to see this prince. Wouldn't you, dear?”

“Yes, I would,” Francois said. “But first, let's have a bite to eat and some of our vintage wine.” He looked at Rutgers. “Herman can show your guest to the servants' quarters.”

Chapter 28

“T
he man you're looking for ... is he really a prince?” Herman asked Ibo in French.

“Yes. The king had many sons, and Amir was one of them.”

“So what's your story?” Herman asked as they walked along the path that led to the slave quarters.

“My story?”

“Yes. I've been on this island all my life long, and if there's one thing I know, everybody has a story. So what's yours?”

She told him how she and Amir became the property of Captain Rutgers. She told him of all the things that happened on the ship and how she and the captain became friends. They weren't actually friends, at least not in her eyes, but she would maintain the façade because it was necessary. Allowing Rutgers to think they were friends was useful for now.

She didn't know Herman and she didn't trust him. There was no way she would trust a man who worked gleefully for a man who enslaved him and then called him a servant, as if he were being paid for the jobs he did. For all she knew, he could be trying to get information out of her. It would be a very long time before she would trust anyone other than Amir.

“What's your name, sir?” Ibo asked, even though she'd heard it when Francois told him to show her where the servants' quarters were. It was a calculated attempt to get information out of him. She wanted to know what languages he spoke so that when she spoke to the prince, she would know whether she would have to disguise what she was really saying.

“Herman.”

“What's your last name, Herman?”

“Torvell.”

“Torvell? The same name as the man I just met.”

“Yes.

“No, I mean your real last name. The one you were born with. What was it before it was Torvell?”

“To my knowledge, it has always been Torvell. We were friends when we were little boys. Monsieur Torvell's father owned my father and mother, and his son owns me and my wife. That's the way things are here.”

“And your father never told you who you were? Your family name and where your people came from?”

Herman frowned. “I don't think he knew either.” He had never even considered the questions before now. As they continued walking, he thought about the questions. Then he said, “I don't know that it makes a difference, ma'am. I'm here now, and that's all that matters. Monsieur Torvell and his wife treat me and my wife almost like family, and that's good enough for me, I guess.”

“Well . . . did your father at least teach you your language?”

“The only language I know is the French language, ma'am.”

Good. “What about your wife? Was she born here too?”

“Yes. We grew up together. Monsieur Torvell thought we would make a wonderful couple. He put us together and we've been together ever since.”

“So did you have to marry her? Did you have a choice?”

“I suppose I could have said no, but Marcia's a good woman. She's been good to me. We're happy together.”

Ibo knew then to change the subject. She had gotten the information she wanted without him suspecting anything—a lesson she had picked up from Iago, a character in
Othello.

She quickly deduced that Herman had no desire for freedom, which made him a potential enemy. What made matters worse was that he actually thought he could be happy in captivity. She would be as pleasant as she could be, in case he was indeed a spy. If he was a spy, she wanted him to tell the Torvells and Rutgers that she was sweet and accommodating. She wanted them to be relaxed, just as Amir had told her months ago. And when they least expected it, they would come out of the shadows and crush them—Herman too.

“How long will you be here, ma'am?”

“A few days, I guess. I'm not really sure. Why?”

“Because the slaves are restless. I think the Maroons might be attacking again soon.”

“The Maroons?”

“Yes, ma'am. They're a bunch of savages bent on killing good Christians for no good reason.”

“By good Christians, do you mean the Torvells?”

“Yes, me and Marcia too.”

“Is that what they told you?”

“No, the field slaves and the house slaves don't get along, ma'am. But I've seen enough to know that we have reason to be watchful.”

“You mean none of the slaves get along?”

“No. We don't trust them and they don't trust us. A woman that looks as good as you might as well get used to it. I suspect that you'll be working in the house when you get to New Orleans, ma'am. That would make you a house slave. I don't think it'll be any different there than here. Besides . . . I think the white folk prefer it that way. Makes them feel safe when we don't get along.”

“You have no desire to be free, Herman? You have no desire to come and go as you please?”

“Not really. Things are fine just the way they are. It's the natural order of things, Monsieur Torvell says. I love the Torvells and they treat us good, as I said before. We live in the big house. We eat well. We get to wear the Torvells' hand-me-downs. It's a nice life.

“When you get to New Orleans, you'll see what I mean. Good-looking woman like you won't have to work in the field. You'll be your master's bed wench. As long as he's happy with you, you'll have the best that a black woman can get.

“Anyway, I think it best you stay on the ship at night for however long you're here.”

Curious, she asked, “Why? You think the Maroons would hurt me? I have done nothing to make them attack me, Herman.”

“If you're having dinner in the big house, you're in danger. The Maroons will think you helped the Torvells, and that would be reason enough to kill you.”

“Would you help the Torvells?”

“Yes, I most certainly would. As I said, the Maroons are savages. They have to be stopped. They'll kill good people like Monsieur Torvell and his wife. If it came down to it, I would protect the Torvells before I'd protect Marcia.”

They finally reached the barn where they kept the newly acquired slaves. They had to be broken before they could be trusted enough to take off their chains. He slid the door to the left and they walked in. The barn was dark, but she could see many figures moving; she heard chains clanging.

“Amir, I'm here,” Ibo called out to him in Yoruba, their native tongue. “Where are you, my love? I have wonderful news.”

“I am here . . . in the darkness,” he said. “Come to me, my love.”

She practically ran to his voice.

They embraced and held each other for a while. It felt so good to be together after all they had been through. They wished the moment would go on forever, that reality would fade away and only their world of fantasy would remain.

As she held on to him, it became clear that he had lost a lot of weight. She was almost glad that it was dark in the barn. She didn't want to see what had become of him. She felt guilty for eating good, healthy food, even though that's what he had told her to do while he languished in the belly of hell.

Amir held her by the shoulders and said, “The man with you . . . is he a friend or an enemy?”

She shook her head and said, “Unfortunately, he is an enemy, he and his wife, but he does not know it.”

“Then it's not safe to talk in front of him,” Amir said, lowering his voice.

“He was born here. He doesn't understand. Now, listen quickly. We don't have much time. There's a group of men who can help you escape from here. They're called the Maroons. Find out from those who live here how you can join them. I'm sure they can use a man who was the captain of the Dahomey Imperial Army. I will be going to a place called New Orleans. When you free yourself, keep your promise and find me. If I get free first, I will come to this place and find you.”