Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (16 page)

CHAPTER
29

July
1655

Two
days later Freddy and Birdie were butchering a pig in the side yard when the
unmistakably nasal tones of Master's cursing came from the front of the Big
House. They exchanged a quick look, laid their butcher knives on the table, and
moved further away from the cookhouse to view the front carriage drive.

       "Damnation,
man, unhand me!" Whittingham lay on the ground beside his black horse,
kicking one stocking-clad foot at Mr. Pratt, who was trying to help him up. The
planter's left riding boot perched, empty, in the stirrup and bounced as the
horse twitched and took nervous steps backwards. "Take hold of the blasted
high-strung bastard or else, on my oath…!" Master struggled to sit up, his
sweaty face dark red against his fashionably high, wide shirt collar. Again he
drunkenly fell back.

       "Black-hearted
buffoon," Freddy mumbled to herself. His planter's hat was streaked with
mud, the purple plume drooping down almost comically. Below the hat, his long
hair was loose and stringy. The fancy purple vest he wore was dusty and
crookedly buttoned over a once-white shirt streaked with dirt and yellow
perspiration stains. He wore filthy beige breeches of a style Freddy had never
seen before, with ruffles and ribbons around the waist and knees, like a
sinister court jester.

        Pratt
scurried to grab the loose reins. Whittingham finally managed to sit up,
bracing himself with one arm. With the other he lifted his silver flask and
took a long swig.

       "There
you go," the butler crooned to the fidgety horse as he pulled the animal
forward, tied it to a post, and retrieved the boot. He began helping Master put
the boot back on.

       "Leave
me be!" The planter kicked his bootless foot again. "Gather up the
slaves…over by that wagon…"

       Pratt
hurried off toward the compound.

       "And
bring me a bottle of the good rum!" he commanded, slurring. He yanked the
boot on and immediately fell back to the ground again.

       Freddy
and Birdie retreated to the outdoor table, where they covered the pig carcass
with a sheet of white fabric, tucking the ends under the meat to keep the
insects off. By the time they joined the others, Master was staggering back and
forth atop the wagon bed. Mrs. Pratt stood with Mr. Pratt and Paulina off to
one side. 

       "Be
warned," the planter bellowed, waving his pewter mug. The rum sloshed
over. He pointed a skinny finger at the group. Only a handful of men were left.
"Take heed of what the Queen's authorities do to rebels here on Barbados.
That goes for any of you…"

       Freddy
could smell him from where she stood, a sour alcohol stink mixed with stale
smoke and days-old sweat.

       "Our
militia is unmatched," he bragged in that pinched voice she despised.
"They took care of the rebels all right…"

       She
held her breath.

       "Two
of the ringleaders were from here." He swaggered across the wagon bed
again, and stared drunkenly into the group of slaves. "Accursed
Coromantees. Never again! I am banning them and will sell off any of their
kind." 

       Freddy
lowered her eyes and held her belly. Would he include her unborn,
half-Coromantee babe in his ban? Then what? From the corner of her eye she
noticed that Paulina had turned her head. The Creole was smirking at her and
Birdie, her eyebrows arched. Freddy shrugged one shoulder and shifted her gaze
back to Master.

       "Our
militia made an example of them," he was saying. "They cut off their
black rebel heads and mounted them on posts in the Bridgetown square. They
remain there for all to see…"

       Another
wave of fury engulfed Freddy. She wanted to holler at the top of her lungs that
Kofi was superior to any of these evil wretches. She imagined shouting into the
wind that half of her very soul had been chopped off with a machete, like a
stalk of sugar cane. Once more the fiery rage was building in her like a
boiling river about to flood. She could strangle that scrawny imbecile, and
Paulina too. Holding her white-knuckled fists at her sides, Freddy clenched her
teeth together, stiffening her jaw. Her chest was still tight and now her
throat ached. She had not slept well for days. Struggling to breathe, she pulled
at the tight bodice constricting her chest and loosened the lower laces to
accommodate her growing mound of a belly.

       Next
to her, Birdie moaned softly. Freddy reached for her hand and clasped it
firmly. The Indian woman squeezed back.

       Master
was still boasting about the island's militia. He was enjoying this, Freddy
realized. Another, even hotter wave of wrath swooped through her. The planter
relished the soldiers' show of power. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted
blood, and let go of Birdie's hand to wipe her mouth.

       Master
rambled drunkenly about his plans to purchase more field slaves. "We must
work hard to make up for the time that's been lost," he was saying.

       Freddy
stood there with the others under the blazing sun, nostrils flaring and jaw
muscles flexing. Her eyes shone with livid tears that trickled down her cheeks
to the sides of her mouth, which was fixed in a grim downward curve. Under the
black mourning scarf, her hair was matted and soaked with sweat that dripped
down her face and mixed with her tears.

       She
closed her eyes, felt the gentle breeze on her wet cheeks, and pictured Kofi.
That first evening, the slanting late sun had turned his skin a golden toffee
as his deep-set eyes followed her every move, his slow smile and gentle manner
surprising her. Then there had been that night in the moonlit sea. She could
still taste the saltiness of his skin and feel his solid arms holding her.

       She
thought of the midnight burial ceremony she and Birdie had held in the slave
cemetery. The African women had chanted softly in the dappled moonlight under
the mahogany. The stately tree presided over the graveyard like a sheltering
umbrella, its top so high and round it looked like lofty clouds above them. As
they buried the men's humble belongings – a few pieces of clothing, Kofi's
white clay pipe filled with his favorite tobacco, Kazoola's necklace of shells
and fish bones – a soft rain had begun to fall. It had seemed right, as if the
gentle moisture would nurture the makeshift graves as it did the wild roses and
flowering almond tree that grew along the edge of the rocky cemetery. On the
other side of the graveyard, someone had planted an orchid tree with purple
blossoms that looked gray in the moonlight. That had reminded her of another
night…

       Freddy's
throat burned so that she could barely swallow. She realized with a start that
the others, including Birdie, had wandered away. Tears still streamed down her
face. From the wagon bed Master gawped at her with narrowed eyes, swaying on
his feet.

       "What
ails you, wench?" His voice dripped with contempt.

       She
could not speak.

       He
grunted, clumsily stepped down from the wagon and staggered across the yard to
the Big House, where he flopped into a love seat on the veranda.  

       Freddy
remained motionless, studying his sprawled drunkenness. The big butcher knives
they'd used this morning were razor-sharp. She had seen to that yesterday.
Earlier the shiny blades had flashed in the sun as she helped Birdie butcher
the pig, the edges effortlessly slicing through the meat. How easily such a
knife would pierce Master's pale skin. How delicious it would be to stab him
straight through his callous heart…

"I
fear I will murder him." Freddy whispered to Father Tomas, having lost her
normal voice. "And Paulina. Father, I am going mad. I imagine spearing
them with a butcher knife…I cannot pray. I only rage against God…" She
placed her trembling hands on the priest's table and tightly folded them.
"Why would God take Kofi away?"

       Father
Tomas leaned forward and covered her clenched hands with his own. "Grief
disrupts one's ability to think. The mind shuts down…"

       Freddy
met his pale eyes in the candlelight. "You have felt this way."

       He
nodded. "This is what faith truly means – believing even when there are no
answers."

       She
bowed her head.

       "Be
patient with yourself, Freddy. You have been dealt a huge blow."

       She
nodded and leaned back. "Perhaps it is my condition, making me a right
barmy idiot…"

       "Your
condition does not help matters." The priest patted her hand.

       "I
fear for this babe. Master vows to sell off Coromantees and their mulattos.
Would he sell me off as well, with the babe? What of Laurie? Father, the time
has truly come for me to get away from this place! But…where can I go? I yearn
to live near my sister on St. Kitt's, but Coromantee mulattos are outlawed
there."

       "When
is the babe coming?"

       "September."

       "We
have two months and longer. Surely Whittingham would wait until the babe has
finished nursing?"

       "To
fetch higher prices, if for no other reason." Freddy agreed, embracing her
belly. "I vow, this child will be proud of Kofi's African blood."

       "We
are welcome on Montserrat, as are Coromantee mulattos, to the best of my
knowledge."

       "What
of going home to Éire? Would a mulatto child be accepted there?"

       "I
fear not." The priest sighed deeply. "I have considered returning
across the wide sea, if I could but raise the funds. But what is there to
return to? Cromwell has destroyed our life there, transplanting Englishmen onto
our lands."      

       They
fell silent, watching the candle flames. Freddy wondered if Mam was still
living with Aunt Kate. She tried to imagine Aileen and her husband on their
plantation, but somehow she could not picture her sister's face. She shook her
head.

       "What
would we do on Montserrat?" She finally whispered weakly.  

       "That
I cannot answer, but things would be better there. You and Birdie would have me
and Father Gwynne watching over you. Shall I write to Father about this?"

       "Oh,
yes. May I write a note to him as well, to be included?"

       "A
delightful notion. Let us pray, then set pens to paper."

CHAPTER
30

July
1655

Freddy
opened a cookhouse window to another misted sunrise, and leaned out as far as
she could to view the gold and pink swirls ascending into the sky and blending
with a pale haze. The plantation was quiet. It had been since the rebellion. No
new slaves had arrived and there had been no sign of life from Master for days.
The only sounds in the kitchen this morning were the maddening whine of the
mosquitoes and Birdie's knife chopping as she halved grapefruits.

       The
twirling streaks of rising color were a sign from God, Freddy mused. They were
a message that all was well and Kofi was now in a better realm, lifted to the
heavens. She closed her eyes, touching her black armband and saying a quick
prayer.

       Birdie
was quiet. Freddy, knowing that her friend could not be rushed or coaxed out of
a mood, silently placed a crock on the stool next to the table and squeezed
grapefruits into it. Mrs. Pratt said that Master must have fresh grapefruit
juice with breakfast this day. Freddy rubbed one finger that stung where the
juice had seeped into a small cut. Gazing again out the window, she waved away
a swarm of insistent mosquitoes that kept landing on her face. The pesky
insects were worse than usual because there was no fire in the fireplace or in
the side yard, and therefore no smoke to drive them away. Instead of smelling
smoky, the kitchen was filled with the scent of citrus. Breakfast would be the
juice, cold sweetened tea, leftover ham, and cornbread with pineapple sauce.
All they had to do was make the juice, dilute it slightly, and sweeten it just
right. The cookhouse was cool, for once, but the humidity was oppressive.

       Freddy
took two grapefruit halves, sprinkled them with sugar crystals, and took them
across the room to the toddlers. They were playing happily with wooden bowls
and spoons. Efia slept in her sling. Carefully adding spring water to the
crock, Freddy stirred in a handful of sugar, and tasted a spoonful.

       "Mmmm,"
she said, offering Birdie a taste.

       The
Indian woman sipped, then smiled for the first time this morning.

       Freddy
continued squeezing and adding water and sugar, tasting frequently. She took
larger and larger swallows from the wooden ladle.

       "I
hear spirit," Birdie said in a hushed tone. "Say go away, make Efia
safe." She put a finger to her mouth.

       Freddy
nodded. "I have been pondering the same," she whispered.  "I
fear what will happen to Kofi's babe."

       Birdie
peered out the window and wiped her hands on her apron. "This," she
pointed to the ethereal vapor, "like home. Mist climb mountain. Spirit
call people to mountain."

       Freddy
just listened.

       "I
go home, for Efia, Raz." Birdie stopped halving the grapefruits, put the
knife down, and wrapped her arms around the baby sling. She began speaking
Monacan. Freddy placed a comforting arm around her friend's shoulders and
nodded as if she understood what Birdie was saying.

       "Mama?"
Raz tugged on his mother's gown, a worried frown on his russet face. He had
passed his second birthday several months ago and looked less babyish every
day. This morning he wore only the blue breeches Birdie had made for him. His
wiry legs were already too long for them. Birdie pushed the fruit to one side,
placed a clean white towel on the table, picked him up and set him in front of
her. She stroked his long braid and pressed her cheek to his, her hand on the
top of his head.

       "Son,"
she murmured, returning to English, "home is river, blue mountain.
Rassawak, big people place, good medicine."

       Raz
was enraptured. He leaned back on his hands and fixed his brown eyes on his
mother's face. Birdie wiped his hot forehead with a cool, wet rag. He smiled
and she wiped the back of his neck, too, blowing on the dampness to refresh
him.

       "We
pray C
reator Okee," she continued, "wear
red, blue. Hair long. Men one side long, one side no hair. Bear fat." She
made the motions of rubbing grease all over her body.
Raz
touched his mama's black arm band. She smiled tenderly at him, her eyes kind.
 

       "Hurry,
hurry!" Mrs. Pratt's high-pitched voice was as shrill as a parrot's
scream. She bustled in and stopped, staring at them, hands on her hips.
"Master
Whittingham awaits!
Where is the juice?"
  

Laurie
and Raz rolled on the floor next to Efia, giggling and imitating her sucking
her toes. The last of the day's sunshine slanted into the hut, painting all
three children a rich shade of gold. Raz reached over to tickle his sister, and
she grabbed his finger. She held on tight and would not let go. He sat up to
remove his finger from her grip. As he pulled, Efia suddenly sat up for the
first time. Startled, her round eyes surveyed the small room. Her face broke
into a happy smile.

       "Gaaaaaaa!"
she crowed.

       "Mama!"
cried Raz.

       "Efia!"
Birdie put down her sewing and scooted over to the babe.

       "Such
a big girl," Freddy crooned.

       Birdie
tickled the babe's brown feet and patted her back. Efia let loose a gurgling
laugh and reached out to play with her mama's face. As she squeezed Birdie's
nose, she looked around curiously. She leaned far forward, as if to crawl,
stretched her arms up, and yawned.

       "Time
for bed," Freddy told Laurie, wringing a wet rag to wipe his face.

       Efia
yawned again, as if in agreement. She had just begun sleeping through the
night.

       "Gaaaaa,"
she repeated, softly this time, as Birdie picked her up.

       In
the glow of sunset they settled the children. The women had stayed together in
each other's huts since the revolt. Master was not paying attention. He was
still on an immense bout of drinking.

       Laurie
and Efia were already half asleep.

       But
Raz got up and came over. "No sleep," he whined.

       "No?"
Birdie asked patiently.

       "Play
more."

       "Hmmm."
His mama watched him plop down stubbornly next to two toy blocks Kazoola had
made.

       Freddy
felt tired but not ready to sleep. Birdie lit a candle in the dusk and placed
it on the table. She had tied up the sides of her chopped hair, to keep it out
of her face. It accentuated her sharp cheekbones. The two women rested
together, leaning against the wall opposite the open door. Raz yawned. Moments
later he lay on the floor holding the blocks to his little chest, drifting off
to sleep. 

       Freddy
rubbed her aching lower back. "Father Tomas wants us to go with him to
Montserrat," she whispered. 

       "Montserrat?"
Birdie repeated, pronouncing it strangely.

       "Another
island, where things are better."

       "I
go home," Birdie murmured.

       "Perhaps
Montserrat could be a step to get there?"

       "You
come to mountain home."

       "Me?"

       Birdie
nodded, gazing at Freddy with her sloping, wise eyes. "We, children,
one."

       Freddy
gulped. She had no words. Never had she known a friend like Birdie. Freddy was
certain she would not have survived this plantation life without her. She
grabbed one of Birdie's hands with both of her own and pressed it to her hot
cheek. "I love you like a sister," she whispered.

       Birdie
held her other hand in front of her, two fingers pressed tightly together.
"Spirit twins. One. People honor Spirit twin."

       Spirit
twins. She tried to absorb what Birdie was saying, that they should escape
together to the wilderness of the Virginia colony. Freddy wondered how far away
that was. Virginia sounded as remote and impossible to reach as her dear County
Kilkenny home.

       "People
make basket." Birdie jumped up, went outside, and got several charred
sticks from the fire pit. Then she sat at the plank table and began sketching
on it with the stick.

       "A
flower," Freddy said, moving to the table.

      
Birdie outlined a dome with waves radiating from it. In the
candlelight her angular face was animated. "Steam help sick."

       Freddy watched, fascinated.

       Birdie drew a stick person with a
tall
headdress and
added more dome shapes.
"Village," she said in a soft voice. Around the domes she drew a
circle of
sticks pointing to the sky. "Babes safe.
No English. No che-sha, no bad…"

       Freddy
tried to imagine the place. "How would we get there?"

       Birdie
sketched a boat on waves and added a long line curving up to the left.
"Big water," she said, pointing to the waves. She moved her finger
along the curving line, and added a smaller boat. "River."

       Staring
at the rough drawing, Freddy remembered Colin's promise to return for her.
"It would be dangerous…"
       The Indian woman nodded slowly. "Escape have danger."

       "True."

       "Must
go."

       Freddy
searched her friend's face. Her heart had begun the awful pounding again.
"I understand. You must try."

       "Must
try, yes."

       Freddy
folded her arms. "Live in your mountains, among your people," she
said pensively. "We could keep our babes safe, far from the cursed
English."

       Birdie
nodded excitedly. "Here, only che-sha, bad." She spread her arms
wide.

       Could
this be the answer? To disappear into the wilds and make a life with natives of
the New World? Freddy tried to picture what that would mean for her and the
children. She wondered if Birdie's people would despise her and Laurie for
looking like the English settlers. Then there was the question of what Birdie's
people would think of the African babes. Would they shun Africans, as everyone
else did? Of course Birdie would not permit such a thing, but then, it was
difficult to say how much influence Birdie would have among her people.

       Her
mind reeling, Freddy reviewed what she knew for certain: she trusted Birdie
with her life and the lives of her children; this was a true friend, one who
had become a sister; and it was vital that they leave this place. At that
moment the babe kicked. Freddy moved her hands to her belly. This unborn one
and Efia needed the most protection. Their African blood sentenced them to
monstrous suffering. Every day more captive Africans arrived on larger ships.
Conditions for them were worsening. As time went by, African blood – especially
Coromantee blood – meant being hated even more than the Irish were hated. She
and Laurie could escape to another island and fade into the background due to
their white skin. Not so for the others. Birdie would always be seen as
different, and most likely inferior, due to her brown skin and native features.
Efia and this babe could be torn from their mothers, no matter where they went
– except, perhaps, into Birdie's Virginia wilderness.

       She
would not sleep this night until she wrote to Colin. She must find out if such
a voyage were indeed possible. Tomorrow she would locate Nathan Pease and ask
him to deliver her important letter to Bridgetown. Then she would speak with
Father Tomas about the idea.

       "You
are right." Freddy finally turned and met her friend's eyes, which shone
in the flickering light. They gripped each other's hands tightly. "We
cannot change what happened to our men. But we must try to change our lives –
for the children. We must hold hope in our hearts."

       Birdie
nodded, swallowing hard.

       "I
have something for you, my friend." Freddy went over to the shelf and
reached into a gourd. "Close your eyes," she said. She took one of
Birdie's hands and turned it palm up. Into it she gently placed the African
bead pendant from Kazoola, which Birdie had thrown in the dirt that terrible
day. Freddy had washed and polished it, then put the bead on a new leather
string.

       The
Indian woman gasped, covering her mouth with her free hand. Tears spilled from
her sloping eyes as she held the necklace up. The cylindrical bead's bright
blue and yellow colors sparkled in the candlelight. Birdie smiled at Freddy,
slipped the necklace over her head, and wiped her tears away.