Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (15 page)

       She
knew she should not fault her sister. Aileen had no notion of the wrongs Freddy
and the others suffered every day on this cursed estate. Aileen had been
blessed in being purchased by a decent planter. Freddy was happy for her
sister, but also desperately sad about the distance between them. One day they
would be close again. Freddy had to believe that.

       Despite
her spinning mind, she dozed off. When Freddy awoke Birdie was sitting on the
floor next to her, nursing Efia. 

       "Bad?"
her friend whispered in her gentle way, eyeing the sheets of parchment Freddy
had let fall to the floor.

       She
nodded, sitting up carefully to avoid waking Laurie.

       Birdie
handed her a bowl. "Make
good sleep."

       Freddy took a sip. It was cool, refreshing.
"Mmm. Thank you." What would she do without Birdie? She put her arm
around the Indian woman's waist and rested her head on her shoulder.

       "You take care for
baby
inside." Birdie crooned, slipping Efia back into her sling and lightly
touching Freddy's forehead. "I make warm tub." She began stroking
Freddy's sore lower back in slow, circular motions.

       "How
do you always know precisely what to do?" Freddy whispered, her eyes again
filling with tears. 

CHAPTER
27

July
1655

Colin
emerged from the captain's quarters on the sloop, rubbing the sleep from his
eyes. It was early but he could already hear the men pounding as they worked on
Lacoste's new, larger pirate ship,
La Brunilda
. It and the
Alize
́
were
tied side by side, anchored in a rocky cove on Isla Tortuga. He squinted up at
a flock of screaming seagulls, grabbed his pewter tankard from its nail, and
ladled fresh water into it. After chugging some down, he poured the rest over
his head and shook himself like a wet dog. Combing back his long hair with his
fingers and brushing stray water drops from his blue breeches, he scanned the
small bay. The morning sun, just clearing one cliff, turned his tanned face and
torso a deep bronze. He perched on a barrel and looked over the sloop as waves
rocked the two vessels. He shook his head again, amazed at his good fortune.

       The
Alize
́
was
now his.

       She
was fast and true, easily able to outrun larger ships. He liked her single
mast, her light agility, and her ability to enter shallow hideaways where
larger vessels dared not go. Colin glanced over at the three-masted
square-rigger Lacoste was altering into a pirate craft.
La
Brunilda
was more seaworthy in a storm, and held more guns and crew. But
hadn't the trusty sloop always carried them to safety?

       Lacoste
had long yearned for a bigger vessel. He finally got his wish when they'd stolen
this Spanish warship in the waters near Jamaica. Colin had turned over a
portion of his booty in exchange for the sloop. He had also promised to help
convert the large vessel into a pirate ship. The men were tearing out
compartments and bulkheads, carving gun ports, and mounting swivel cannons on
the gunwales. They would make her light and fast, and create more space for the
large crew.

       Since
the most recent round of raids, Colin had felt like a wealthy man. He was
determined not to squander his booty in the taverns like most of the
buccaneers. One plantation had yielded a surprise in a trunk that Lacoste had
to chop open. The men split the rubies and emeralds inside, and sold them in
Port Royal for astonishing prices. They also sold silverware, platters, bowls,
and artwork from several estates, including the Whittingham Plantation.

       They
partied in Port Royal for weeks. Colin still felt dull from too much ale and
rich food. He was bored with the drinking, really. The crew had voted to move
on to Tortuga for the hurricane season. They preferred Tortuga for long stays
because there were more women there. It was also said that Isla Tortuga women
were more comely. Colin had to agree. However, the truth was, he had grown
tired of even the most beautiful of the tavern harlots.

       He
must admit he was envious of Lacoste, who had happily placed a large ruby
pendant from his booty around Dika's neck. They were as good as married. One
night the captain confessed to Colin that he was getting too old for this life.
As for Dika, the woman was happier than Colin had ever seen her. The two of them
hoped to settle down, perhaps in Cuba, after a few more escapades. Colin would
miss them, but stood ready to take charge of his own crew.

       His
plan was to take on escaped slaves like himself and create a strong esprit de
corps among the sloop's buccaneers. Colin swore he would never sell slaves as
captured
booty
,
like some did. He would free them, put them to work, and see to it that his
crew earned the title "Brethren of the Coast."

       Loud
banging from
La Brunilda
abruptly broke into his
thoughts.

       "Belay
yer addled dreamin'!" Dika bellowed at him from the warship aft deck,
hands on her hips and a wide grin on her handsome brown face. "Help us get
this beauty shipshape!"

CHAPTER
28

July
1655

As the
sun cleared the ridge, Freddy hoed the steamy dirt between the corn rows. She
waved the swarming mosquitoes away, scratched an itchy bite on her neck, and
lifted her apron skirt to wipe the sweat from her eyes. She and Birdie tried to
work in the kitchen garden during the cool morning hours, even though that
meant more mosquitoes. Birdie was squatting in the tomato patch, pulling weeds.
The older babes sat off to one side, by the small orchard. At the moment they
were busy making mud pies and smearing cool mud on each other's mosquito bites.

       Freddy
stretched her arms and arched her back, looking around. A heavy golden mist
rose off ground that was still saturated from the storm two days ago. There had
been no word of the men. The hours stretched on in a fever of numbing worry.
The women knew that all they could do was wait. It was driving Freddy to
distraction. She made a quick Sign of the Cross, sending up yet another fervent
prayer for the men's safety. As the sun's rays hit the black dirt, a slight
breeze picked up and the high-pitched whine of the mosquitoes died down.

       Freddy
had not been able to sleep the past two nights, without Kofi in her bed. Her
exhaustion hit her with a dizzying punch and she leaned on the hoe, closing her
eyes. God willing, he would return to her. The babe inside her abruptly kicked
the front of her huge belly. She placed one hand on the place where she'd felt
the little foot. The warmth of the sun dried her sticky face and neck.

       From
the orchard came the soft cooing of a wood dove. Freddy tilted her head,
listening. The shrill screams of parrots high in the trees sliced the silence.
Then a warbler let out a clear, soprano "
sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet-than-sweet."

       "Pssssst!"    

       Freddy
whipped her head around toward the orchard. What the devil was that?

       "Over
here!" someone whispered hoarsely.

       Freddy
quickly moved to Laurie's side and peered down a row of banana trees.

       "Birdie!"
she hissed. "Someone's in the orchard!"

       As
her friend joined her, Father Tomas emerged from the trees. He beckoned to them
and disappeared again.

       "Father?"
Freddy whispered, looking wide-eyed at Birdie. The priest was so filthy, she
would not have recognized him. His tousled red hair was covered with dust and
straggling out of a pony tail, his once-white shirt sleeves torn to shreds and
blood-stained.  

       The
women glanced toward the Big House, picked up the babes, and crept into the
trees.

       "Father
Tomas!" Freddy murmured, touching his arm where it had been bleeding.

       "Blessed
Mary, but ye're a sight for these tired eyes." He sat down and leaned
wearily against a tree trunk.

       "And
you as well, Father! We've been fretting over all of ye." She sank to the
ground and held Laurie on her legs.

       "I
watch," Birdie whispered, squatting alongside them but keeping her dark
eyes trained on the Big House.  

       "God
love ye, Birdie," the priest whispered back.

       "Thank
the Lord ye're well," Freddy said softly. "May God and His Saints
always keep ye. What happened to your arms?"

       "Just
bramble scratches. I was taken, but they released me once Whittingham confirmed
my status as his blacksmith. I walked back, but stayed off the main road…"
He cleared his throat and looked down at his dust-covered legs.

       "Have
you seen Kofi and Kazoola?"

       Father
Tomas nodded, avoiding Freddy's eyes. He fidgeted with one of his torn sleeves.
"The arrested slaves have been appearing before a court martial."

       The
women waited, their eyes glued to the priest's reddening face as he continued
to pick at the ripped sleeve. "Roughly half were executed," he
finally said in a voice so low they could barely hear. "Some took their
own lives."

       Birdie
dropped her head. Freddy continued to search his blushing countenance, trying
to meet his brown eyes. He glanced at her but quickly averted his gaze again.

       "Our
men took their own lives?" she asked weakly.

       "No,
no, I – I saw them from the cage. They were pronounced guilty and then, well,
er…I am loathe to say…"

       Birdie
raised her head and Freddy sat as still as a statue.

       "…your
men were flogged to death, may they rest in peace." He made the Sign of
the Cross, closed his eyes, and folded his hands in prayer.

       Freddy
leaned back against a tree trunk. She held her aching belly. Birdie turned her
back to them and sank cross-legged onto the dirt.

       "I
am so very sorry…" the priest was murmuring.

       Freddy
nodded, trying to breathe. She stared into space.

       "I
go…" Birdie whispered faintly. "Get him."

       Father
Tomas swallowed hard. "Their remains were carted away with the others, to
a swamp on the edge of Bridgetown."

       Freddy
shook her head slowly. "It is not true. It cannot be! I would feel it if
he were gone, I-I…would know…" She pressed her chest as if to quiet her
heart, which was thumping so violently it hurt, and rocked slightly. Birdie and
the others appeared strangely slow and liquid, as if they were under water. She
looked around at the fruit trees, disoriented. Leaning back again, she felt the
solid tree trunk against her upper back, through the thin layers of her gown
and bodice. She closed her eyes and focused on the tree.

       Birdie
hugged Efia tight, then carefully put her back in the sling. Without a sound
she pulled her glistening black braid over her shoulder, looked at it as if it
belonged to someone else, and held it in one hand. She picked up the small
knife she'd brought for harvesting tomatoes, her knuckles white where she
clenched the handle.

       She
slashed at her hair. 

       Raz
and Efia began crying at the same time. Birdie seemed not to hear as she held
ragged chunks of her thick black tresses out to the side and sliced at them.
Her movements were rough. Laurie whimpered as he watched Birdie.

       Father
Tomas tried to comfort Raz, who was squatting in the dirt next to his mother,
crying feverishly. Efia wailed in her sling. All of them gaped at Birdie as she
cut the hem of her gown into ragged strips. She blindly gashed the skin of her
legs, bloodying the fabric, then slashed at her long sleeves, cutting her arms.

       "Mama!"
Raz screamed between sobs.

       "No,
Birdie!" The priest went to her and pressed a piece of her sleeve against
the deepest arm cut, where dark red blood was dripping down. "Kazoola
would not want this—"

       "No
say name!!" Birdie pushed the palm of her hand against Father Tomas's
mouth. "No!" She yanked on the leather string of the African pendant
she had worn every day since Kazoola had given it to her. Unable to break it,
she quickly cut the string, pulled it off, and tossed it on the ground. She
tugged at her bodice and chopped the lacing. Then she ripped it away from her.
With a high, whimpering moan Birdie collapsed on her side in the dirt and lay
there motionless.

*

Freddy
tied the band of black cloth on Birdie's upper right arm and watched her
disheveled friend nurse Efia. It was so quiet in her hut, she could hear the
babe suckling and the two candles occasionally hissing. Birdie's head drooped
over the tiny babe, her face hidden behind an uneven curtain of jaw-length
black hair. The Indian woman sat motionless, as if in a trance. Freddy sat on a
log stump at the plank table and quietly folded a larger square of the black
fabric into a scarf. She covered the top of her own tangled mass of hair with
it, then tied it at the nape of her neck.

       If
only Birdie would let her clean those bloody cuts. Freddy had never witnessed
such a violent display of grief. That had been just this morning, but seemed
like a week ago.

       In
the silence, she heard her own stomach growl, and looked down at it in surprise.
She had not felt it. She was so empty, it was as if her stomach belonged to
someone else. She could not remember when she had last eaten. But she knew she
would be sick if she tried to eat. 

       Throughout
the day, the two of them had mindlessly acted out the repetitive motions of
their kitchen work with tear-streaked, grim faces. In the afternoon, Freddy
stole back to the garden, got on her knees, and searched for Birdie's pendant
in the dirt. She didn't know why, but she knew she must get her friend's
necklace back to her. Freddy had picked it up, wiped it off, and studied it. It
was strange. She had seen the pendant on Birdie's neck every day for months,
but somehow had never really looked at it. She spit on the cylindrical glass
bead and wiped it again, this time with her sleeve. Still on its leather
string, the African trade bead shone dark blue with white and yellow painted
stripes. Freddy tucked the necklace carefully into her vest pocket. She would
keep it, she thought in a daze, hugging her son to her. She would make a new
string, polish the bead, and surprise Birdie with it when the time was right.
But she wondered if the time would ever feel right again.

       The
day's work was finally done and they were alone in the hut with the bottle of
rum Freddy had pilfered. At last they could try to relax in peace. Raz and
Laurie were sound asleep, curled around each other.

       Freddy
poured rum into a coconut bowl that was sitting on the plank table. With a
deep, shuddering breath, she took a drink. Maybe if she drank enough rum she'd
be able to sleep. The babe delivered a hard kick to her right side. She should
find something to eat for the babe's sake. She set the coconut bowl down and
held her rounded belly with both hands, then absently moved one hand up to
finger the rosary she had placed around her neck earlier. Leaning back against
the wall, she stared with unfocused eyes into the shadowy room.

       The
cursed humidity tonight was like a steamy blanket over her nose and mouth. She
forced herself to take another raggedy breath. Since morning her chest had been
tight, as if she were lying on her back with a heavy rock on top of her upper
torso. In order to take a deep breath, she had to fight sob-like hitches and
imagine lifting the rock from her chest.

       She
shook her head, wondering how it was possible that she would never see her
handsome Kofi again, never feel his hard-muscled arms around her. Never steal
off with him for a moonlit ocean swim. She lifted the bowl to her mouth. This
time she gulped the rum too quickly. She coughed and sputtered.

       Birdie
raised her head, got up and carried the sleeping babe to the corner. She sank
to the floor there, gently placing Efia on a pile of rags next to her.

       Freddy
poured rum into a second bowl and took it to her friend.

       "Mmm,"
Birdie hummed after swallowing a taste. "Fire."

       Freddy
got her own bowl and lowered herself to the earth floor near Birdie. For a long
time they silently drank, leaning against the hut wall.

       "I
think," Birdie slurred. "No bury, bad medicine. I take hair comb,
make bundle."

       Freddy
nodded.

       Birdie
swallowed more rum. "Men die good. Spirits fly to Creator, in wind,
ocean."

       "They
died doing what they believed had to be done," Freddy murmured,
"…what is right, what still must be done."

       "We
bury things in slave place."

       "The
cemetery?"

       Birdie
nodded. "Night bury men things."

       "Bury
the men's belongings. Hmmm." Freddy hiccupped. "To honor them."

       "Honor,
yes."

       Freddy
sat up straighter. "Tomorrow night. Master is still away. We can tell Father
Tomas. Good?"

       "Good,"
her friend whispered into the coconut bowl, chopped chunks of hair again hiding
her face.

       "We'll
gather their things, bury them side by side, and mark each place with their
names. Father Tomas will help carve the markers and hammer them into the
ground…"

       Birdie
curled on her side facing Freddy, wearily propping her head on a makeshift
pillow of rags. Freddy finished her rum, blew out the candles, and lay facing
her friend so that their hot foreheads touched. She hugged Kofi's nightshirt,
pressing it against the little "V" above her swollen belly.

       The
weeping began softly. Birdie moaned a high-pitched wail into the rag pillow,
trying not to awaken the little ones. Freddy pressed her nose into the
nightshirt and inhaled Kofi's scent. Curled up tight, she moved the wadded
shirt to her mouth and surrendered to racking sobs and cries of rage. She stifled
the raw sounds with Kofi's shirt, her lamentations echoing her shattered spirit.