Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (10 page)

       Afterward
they lay together and drifted off, arms and legs tangled in an intimate twining
of black and white. When she awoke the candle had burned out and the babe was
beginning to fuss. She threw on her loose shift, crawled over to the bed, and
nursed Laurie. In the moonlight she watched Kofi roll over and open his eyes.
When she was finished, he took her hand, leading her out of the hut, through
the terraced fields, and down to the white strand. He placed the babe between
two large roots of a mangrove tree on the upper edge of the sand, where they could
watch over him as he slept.

       In
the pallid light of a half moon Kofi undressed Freddy, scooped her up, and
carried her into the ocean. She pretended to protest, kicking her feet and
giggling. He bathed her in the calm, slightly cool sea, caressing her breasts.
She arched her neck, closing her eyes.

       "Oh!"
she exclaimed when he lowered his head to taste her milk.

       She
removed Kofi's loincloth and washed him with it, carefully avoiding his wounded
back. She embraced him and kissed his lips, dumbfounded by the feelings
stirring in her groin. Her knees buckled and he lifted her hips to him. She
nuzzled his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist. His strong brown arms
holding her hips, she lay back in the water. Her pale skin glowed blue in the
moonlight and her long tresses spread out around her like black wisps of
seaweed as she gladly surrendered to it all – the man, the ocean, the moon, and
the stars.

       Later,
they lay on the silver stretch of sand next to Laurie, holding each other and
catching their breath. Freddy was exhausted yet exhilarated, incredulous over
what was happening between them. They were as one with no words, melded
together in profound harmony. This was how it was supposed to be. Nothing had
ever felt so right. Kofi had nothing to prove. He was simply himself –
confident and strong enough to be gentle. She felt like a real woman, not
degraded but protected and utterly loved.

       What
sweet irony, that Master had ordered them to mate. Had obedience ever caused
such bliss? They may be slaves, but with each other they were completely free.
This must have been God's plan all along, for her to love this fine African
man.

CHAPTER
18

June
1654

Captain
Lacoste threatened the men with being marooned on a sand bar if they touched
even a hair on Dika's head.

       "You'll
be made governor of an island," he said, laughing. But he was serious and
they knew it. He would not hesitate to abandon a wayward brigand with rum and a
loaded pistol. That way the errant buccaneer could choose suicide over an
agonizing death.

       As
he watched the men load supplies for their voyage to New Spain, he regretted
how small the Alizé was. However, the 60-foot sloop had saved their hides again
and again with lightning-quick escapes, sailing over shoals and hiding in
shallow bays where larger ships could not follow. Her quarters were miserably
crowded, but it could not be helped. One had to carry a crew of at least 75 to
conduct raids and battles.

       He
would never allow Dika to sleep below decks on a hammock. The lower quarters
were jammed not only with men but with food, drinking water, weapons, rum,
rats, and cockroaches. No matter how often he had the vessel fumigated with
burning pitch, the below-decks still stank of bilge water, rank bodies, rotting
meat, and salt fish.

       God
only knew what would befall the woman down there, and what trouble would
follow.

       From
her first day on board, Dika stayed in his cabin in the forecastle. She had
agreed to clean the cabin and see to his laundry in exchange for a corner of his
quarters. She fashioned a privacy curtain from gunnysacks, cleaned an old
hammock, and hung it in her corner. At first, Lacoste would awaken in the
night, all too aware of the Gypsy beauty gently snoring on the other side of
her makeshift curtain.

       After
weeks of tiptoeing around each other, Dika had come to trust him. Her dark,
gleaming cat eyes gradually stopped darting around when he spoke to her. One
night, after a private rum drinking competition, they had tumbled into his
ample bed. Never had he been so content. By day she was a leathery buccaneer in
breeches. But by night she was all woman.     

       It
had been a good year. They'd struck it rich near Tobago, raiding a Spanish ship
overflowing with gold, silver, gems, silk, and spices. Each crew member
received about 3,000 pounds, with the captain getting a double share. They'd
voted to sail back to Tortuga to celebrate, and then investigate Port Royal.
With Jamaica newly won by the English, the port was blossoming into the latest
haven for the lawless. The men spent wads of money in wicked new brothels and
taverns. Finally satiated, they'd found an isolated cove for the sloop’s annual
careening. They stripped her and hauled her onto her side with pulleys. They
scraped her bottom, burned off her barnacles, re-caulked her seams, and
replaced her worm-infested planks. It was a huge job, but a necessary one. 

       The
captain leaned on a cannon and watched Colin scramble barefoot onto the long
bowsprit to adjust the rigging. The lad worked hard, pitching in with any
chore. He had taken to this life completely. He'd begun covering his head with
a lime green bandana. He'd also grown a bushy black beard, purchased a belt and
boots, and had his ears pierced. As he labored, his silver hoop earrings
flashed in the sun.

       Lacoste
was thinking of making him an officer. His former Sailing Master had run off
with a señorita in Port Royal. Colin had some education and a knack for reading
navigation charts. The captain hoped the lad would be adept at leading
plantation raids, now that the rainy season was upon them. Colin and Dika would
like nothing better than to return to the Whittingham Plantation, this time to
ransack the place.

CHAPTER
19

August
1654

To the
west, dark clouds were piled high, their edges glowing orange in the sunset.
Walking back to the slave quarters, Freddy rounded a corner and stopped.
Silhouetted against the ginger sky, in the center of the vacant compound, were
Ben and a slave at the whipping post. The slave was naked, his hands tied to the
crossbar, his toes barely touching the ground as the driver lashed his back. He
looked too small to be Kofi. Freddy covered her eyes, shuddered, and then
looked again. Under the whip the man twitched. She realized it was Birdie's
kindhearted Kazoola, and her heart sank.

       She
rushed to Birdie's hut. Her friend was huddled on the bed, cuddling Raz's head
under her chin, rocking back and forth, and weeping. Freddy wrapped her arms
around both of them.

       "Ben
kill," Birdie whimpered, her voice muffled against Freddy's shoulder.

       "No…"
Freddy murmured. Through the open door she watched as Ben threw a bucketful of
salted water on Kazoola, who writhed and moaned.

       "It
wrong…" Birdie's breath came in racking sobs.

       "What
did he do?" Freddy asked softly.

       "He
help sick ones, late to field."

*

       As
she worked, Birdie's wooden earrings swung like pendulums from her ears.
Kazoola had found a slender mahogany branch, carved half-moon crescents from
it, and made them into earrings for her. The cookhouse burst with fragrance as
she and Freddy stood at the work table grinding coriander, ginger, nutmeg, and
pepper to store in urns. The native woman stopped and straightened her back.

       "Our
love grow…" Birdie rubbed her round belly. She was due to give birth in
December. 

       Freddy
nodded, pausing to nurse Laurie. "How is Kazoola?"

       "Better.
I put medicine."

       "Kofi
was angry. He was gone until late. Did you hear the drumming?"

       Birdie
shook her head as she stretched her back.

       Freddy
cradled her love for Kofi deep inside. She worried about him.

       Paulina
ambled in, humming to herself. She wore a tailored white dress Freddy had never
seen before, with a full skirt that accented her petite waist.

       "Give
me luncheon," the house slave demanded airily, lifting her chin and looking
down her long nose at Birdie. "Master desires my company on his rounds in
town." She sniffed and sat at one end of the work table, spreading the
billowing skirt around her.

       Birdie
wiped her hands on her apron, turned her back to Paulina, and rolled her eyes.

       "You
have a new dress," Freddy remarked as she ground ginger root. She had to
admit that Paulina looked lovely. The high collar set off her golden skin and
elegant neck.

       "A
gift from Master." The creole woman smoothed her black hair, which was
pulled tightly back in a bun. "He has also given me a room in the Big
House." She slid her eyes to Freddy but, realizing that she was nursing
the babe, quickly averted her gaze.

       Birdie
placed a bowl of stew in front of Paulina and began to turn away. Suddenly she
froze, both hands on her big belly. "Oooh," she grunted.

       "The
babe?" Freddy asked.

       "Moving
big," Birdie said, a look of wonder in her sloping eyes.

       "Bring
me a napkin!" Paulina interrupted.

       Freddy
picked up a clean rag and tossed it down the table.

       "I
think girl," Birdie murmured, sitting on her stool. 

       "A
girl would be good," Freddy said, pouring the ground ginger into an urn.

       "Do
you two ever chatter about anything besides babes?" Paulina cried, glaring
at Birdie. "Your precious bairn was fathered by an African field slave!
Ugh! How degrading, lying with Negroes!" With that, she lifted her
perfectly-arched eyebrows at Birdie, who said nothing and kept her eyes on the
nutmeg she was grinding. Paulina tucked the rag into her collar to protect her
dress and began spooning stew into her mouth.

       Freddy
shook her head as she loaded the mortar with chunks of ginger. She glanced
again at Birdie, who was holding her round belly, her brown eyes now filled
with tears. Freddy put her arm around Birdie's shoulder and gave it a quick
squeeze. How dare this ninny vex her gentle friend so? Freddy dropped her arm
and glared at Paulina, her jaw muscles clenching. The creole was focused on her
stew. It's a fool she is, a right simpleton, Freddy told herself, and not worth
the trouble. Freddy bit her lower lip and resumed grinding, her hands
trembling. She attacked the ginger with a wild strength. Remembering what she'd
heard Paulina say about miscarrying, she willed herself to keep silent. But
before she could stop herself she blurted, "What about you?"

       "Me?"
Paulina asked with her mouth full.

       "Yes."
Freddy pretended to concentrate on her work.

       "Whatever
do you mean?"

       "When
will you be with child?"

       Paulina's
spoon stopped in mid-air, her eyes darting from Freddy to Birdie and back to
Freddy again. "That is for God to know," she said stiffly.

       Birdie
sat very still, looking at the house slave. The silence was heavy and thick.

       Paulina
scraped the bottom of her bowl noisily. "Anyway, men admire my slender
shape…"

       Freddy
kept her eyes on the ginger she was grinding.

       "Master
wants to marry me!" Paulina suddenly exclaimed.

       Freddy
looked at her. "You're welcome to the likes of him."

       "At
least he is not a filthy African!" Paulina jumped up, yanked the rag from
her collar, and threw it on the floor. She stormed out, slamming the door.  

Late
that night Birdie watched the babe so Freddy could follow Kofi. He went only as
far as the plantation's slave cemetery – a rocky area nestled among guava trees
just down the hill from the compound. Hiding behind the trees, Freddy watched
as the Africans gathered quietly amid crude grave markers. A warm breeze
stirred the guava branches, sending blue shadows dancing across the east-facing
burial sites. Africans always buried their dead so that they faced the
homeland.

       Under
the half moon the men stood in an arc, facing away from her. A boy sat in the
center, softly beating a drum. The men joined in a low chant. One man rattled a
shell necklace as he sang in a high-pitched voice. Father Sean had cautioned
her about the Africans' Obeah religion, which he said involved witchcraft. Was
the singer an Obeah man? At his signal they quit chanting, sat on the ground,
and took turns speaking in low, deep voices. Freddy understood none of their
musical language. When a cloud darkened the moon, she stole away.

"Bababababa!"
Laurie bellowed.

       Freddy,
who was cooking the field rations, glanced over. She had put Laurie on his
blanket, on the floor next to the far wall. "Just listen to you!"
Freddy grinned at him. He was sitting up on his own, his legs splayed as he
leaned forward. His curls were thicker and blacker than ever, but his blue eyes
were turning green like Freddy's. He favored his mother except that his eyes were
deep-set under a prominent brow, like Master's. Laurie toppled over and amiably
picked up a wooden bowl Freddy had given him to play with.

       Mrs.
Pratt bustled into the kitchen, carrying a bundled cloth and cursing the heavy
rain. Paulina was right behind her, bringing the sewing basket. "Of all
the days for it to begin pouring," Mrs. Pratt complained loudly. "How
will I get it dry? This is his best linen tablecloth; he is beside himself.
Paulina, you must help me repair the embroidery and wash it carefully. This
cloth belonged to his dear departed wife, you see. And now this rain!" She
set the cloth in a small tub, wringing her hands. "You two," she
barked at Birdie and Freddy, "hurry and take those rations, so I can
prepare the lye wash. Paulina, get a bucket of water heating. Thank goodness I
only need a small tub—"

       "Bababacaaaa!"
Laurie bawled, louder this time. He pounded the floor with the bowl. Turning
onto his side, he jammed one edge of it into his mouth.

       "No,
no, that's nasty!" Mrs. Pratt scolded. She charged over, yanked the bowl
away from him, and slapped his hand.

       Freddy
inhaled sharply.

       "Dirty!"
Paulina chimed in, grabbing a bucket to fill and hang over the fire. 

       Laurie
began crying.

       Freddy
rushed over, picked him up, and hugged him to her. "There, there,"
she crooned in his little ear. He stopped his wailing.

       "Get
back to your work. You two are late already. Here, give him to me." The
housekeeper grabbed Laurie from her. "You must not cosset him so."

       Freddy
stood staring. Mrs. Pratt could stir up plenty of trouble. Knowing she mustn't
say a word, Freddy slowly backed away, her fists hidden in the skirt of her
shift. Laurie was quiet but looked confused. Freddy felt her face getting hot
and knew that her cheeks had become red splotches. She turned back to the mush,
keeping one eye on her babe. Her hands were trembling again.

       Mrs.
Pratt set him on the work table in front of her. "How old is he now?"
she asked, smoothing his dark hair back. Laurie began to topple over, but she
caught him and held him upright.

       "Four
months," Freddy replied lightly, trying to sound calm. If only the mush
would cook more quickly, so she could take her son and get out of the
cookhouse.  

       Birdie
went to get the cart.

       Paulina
stood behind Mrs. Pratt, smiling slyly at Freddy, her arms crossed in front of
her chest.

       "Old
enough to learn some words!" Mrs. Pratt exclaimed, sitting on a stool.

       Paulina
sat next to her, idly stroking one of Laurie's chubby legs and glancing over at
his mother. "Say 'Paulina,'" she cooed, leaning forward so that her
face was almost touching the babe's.

       Laurie
stared at the young woman, his eyes huge. Freddy noticed that his face was
turning red. If only they would leave him be!

       Mrs.
Pratt leaned in, too. "Say 'Mamma Pratt,'" she clucked, running the
tip of one finger down his plump cheek. "Come on, now…"

       Laurie
put his thumb in his mouth, looking around for his mother.

       "No,
no, dirty," Mrs. Pratt scolded again, pushing his thumb away. 

       Laurie
flapped his little arms at her, his face crumpling as he began to fuss.

       "May
I hold him?" Paulina asked the housekeeper.

       Mrs.
Pratt handed her the infant. Freddy broke into a sweat.

       As
the house slave cradled Laurie, he calmed down. "Wouldn't it be nice to
keep him dry here in the kitchen?" Paulina asked in her sweetest voice.
"He shouldn't be out in that wet weather…"

       "A
splendid notion!" Mrs. Pratt crowed. "Since we must stay and watch
the lye wash, we might as well watch the babe for you."

       Paulina
cast a self-satisfied smirk at Freddy, then lowered her head to rub her nose
against Laurie's. "Who's a good boy?" she gushed. He flapped his arms
again, as if he could perhaps fly away.

       Freddy
hesitated, not knowing what to do. She forced herself to take a deep breath,
her mind racing. What was Paulina about, she wondered, and what were they
planning to do with her babe. "Mrs. Pratt, thank you all the same,"
she began, "but the lye wash is so dangerous—"

       "Nonsense!
As if I don't know how to keep an infant safe! Really, I insist that you leave
him with us." 

        "But
he will need feeding soon…" Why was Mrs. Pratt doing this? Her stomach
churning, Freddy tried to remember if the housekeeper had ever forced Birdie to
leave Raz with her.

       "From
time to time you must leave him, to focus on your work," Mrs. Pratt said,
arching her eyebrows at Freddy.

       Birdie
arrived outside with the cart.

       "But
he is no bother," Freddy said. "I work well with him in his
sling…"

       "Perhaps
I shall be forced to consult Master Whittingham about this disobedience."

       Freddy
lowered her head, tears of anger springing to her eyes. She was mere property,
not allowed control of her own babe. Seething inside, she turned toward the
hearth and imagined pouring the burning-hot mush over Paulina and the
housekeeper. The strength again flowed into her trembling hands and she knew
she could strangle them. Her temples pounded with the beginning of a bad
headache.