Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (8 page)

CHAPTER
15

February
1654

Birdie
sat cross-legged on her pallet in the golden early morning light, slumped over
a white bundle she was hugging to her breast. Her disheveled black hair drooped
forward, hiding her face. Mumbling something in her native language, she rocked
back and forth.

       Freddy
stood at the work table grinding the day's corn, her heart heavy as she kept a
close eye on her friend. Little Rassawek rested quietly in a sling on Freddy's
back.

       Birdie
rocked harder. Her eerie keening howls soon filled the kitchen, as they had
when Una died. As she wailed, she took the wrapped bundle from her breast, and
gently placed it on her lap. Freddy watched from the corner of her eye as the
native woman picked up a butcher knife from the floor, grabbed the left side of
her long, hanging hair, and slashed wildly at it. As she hacked away, she
sliced the skin on one of her knuckles. Birdie stopped keening, sat up still
and straight, and let the knife fall to the floor with a clatter. She stared at
the blood flowing from her knuckle.

       "Them!!"
she hissed fiercely, pointing with her bleeding hand at Mrs. Pratt and Master,
who stood outside the cookhouse talking. "Kill baby…"

       Freddy
glanced at her friend's tear-stained face and nodded. Two weeks ago, the
housekeeper had accused Birdie of purposely burning the potatoes. Mrs. Pratt
had seen to it that Birdie got a severe paddling, in spite of her delicate
condition.

       A
movement outside caught Freddy's eye. The housekeeper was slowly walking toward
the Big House. Master burst into the kitchen and strode to Birdie's pallet. He
stood over her, puffing hard on his pipe. A cloud of pungent tobacco smoke
swirled around his head.

       The
native woman lowered her eyes to the floor and put her injured knuckle in her
mouth.

       Whittingham
removed the pipe from his mouth and pointed its stem at the bundle on Birdie's
lap. "This – will – not – do," he pronounced in his stiff, nasal
English voice. "A stillborn! You must have been careless."

       Birdie
shook her head and began rocking again. The chopped, ear-length side of her
hair swung to and fro.

       "You
must produce healthy slaves," the planter continued, sniffing. "From
now on, you will live with an African and make strong mulatto babes.
Understand?"

       Birdie
bowed her head, nodding silently.

       Master
turned to leave but stopped short when he spotted Freddy at the work table.

       "And
you!" He eyed her high, round belly.

       Freddy
kept her eyes on the corn kernels in front of her.

       "No
more stillborns!" Master thundered, turning on his heel and marching out
of the kitchen. 

       She
looked over at Birdie to make a face behind Master's back, but her friend's
head was still lowered as she stared at her lap, sucked her knuckle, and once
more clutched her dead baby to her chest.    

Freddy's
back ached. At seven months along she could not get comfortable on the pallet,
no matter what position she chose.

       Moaning
and whimpering came from Una's old kitchen pallet, where Paulina Ritchie – the
new girl – slept. Freddy could also hear Master's deep voice. Last month he had
won the light-skinned Creole in a poker game at a neighboring plantation. He
had made Paulina chambermaid in the Big House, as well as the latest target for
his attentions. Freddy had not yet spoken with the girl, who just stared down
her arched nose at her. A mulatto from Bridgetown, this Paulina seemed to have
a high opinion of herself. Freddy had overheard her tell Mrs. Pratt that she
considered the other slaves beneath her.

       The
new girl certainly seemed to please Master. His satisfied grunt was louder and
longer than usual. Freddy shifted to her side, relieved to be left alone.
Paulina was welcome to entertain Master's attentions forever, as far as she was
concerned. How long would it be until this girl's belly was as swollen as her
own, she wondered.

       Una
would have laughed so, hearing those two carrying on. With a sudden, sharp stab
in her chest, Freddy missed both of her nighttime cookhouse companions. Had
Birdie still slept in the kitchen, this night she and Freddy would have been
combing out each other's hair and giggling behind their hands until tears ran
down their cheeks. The native woman had moved into her African's slave hut
several days ago. Of course she and Birdie still worked together in the
kitchen. But it was simply not the same. They were kept so busy with kitchen
duties they could rarely talk. Tomorrow she would ask Birdie to come with her
to the spring.  

As her
eyes adjusted to the dark, Freddy could just barely make out Birdie's features.
Her friend sat on the side of the pool next to her, swishing her feet in the
cool, silky water. Freddy, up to her neck in the water, loved how weightless
her round belly felt.

       "How
do you fare?" she asked Birdie. "I miss you…" 

       "I
miss, too." The native woman gently placed her hand on the top of Freddy's
head. "Kazoola good."

       "Kazoola."
Freddy pronounced the African name slowly. "You like him?"

       Birdie
nodded and put her hand over her heart. "He strong…we no talk, only
love!"

       They
laughed softly and watched as the half-moon rose above the treetops.

       Then
Birdie's face fell.   

       "What
is it?"

       "Raz
sick, fever."

       "You
will nurse him to health. I know you will."

       In
reply, Birdie leaned over and touched her forehead to Freddy's. 

       "I
want to ask you something…" Freddy murmured.

       Birdie
sat up straight and cocked her head, waiting in her quiet, patient way.

       "When
this child comes," Freddy whispered, holding her big belly, "will you
help? You are the only one I trust…" Her voice broke.

       "Yes,
my sister," Birdie promised fervently, grabbing Freddy's hands in hers.
"
Wash-teh!
No one to stop
me!"

       Suddenly
Freddy spotted Ben on the path just below the pool. The driver stopped in his
tracks and glared at them. "What are you two whispering about?" he
muttered. "Does Master know you're up here?"

Under
the sweltering midmorning sun, Freddy steered the overloaded donkey cart around
a deep rut in the lane. The swaying cart was piled so high with freshly cut
cane, she was afraid it would tip over before she could get it to the mill.
Making her way between mature stalks as high as the head of a man on horseback,
she rubbed her low back. It was only the second day of bringing the crop in,
and already she was sore and exhausted. Her belly had ballooned overnight and
today the babe had begun kicking more enthusiastically. Freddy knew she
shouldn't complain; this babe was the only reason Master didn't force her to
strip cane in the fields. 

       Sugar
harvest meant that everyone toiled twenty hours a day, every day, for months – everyone,
that is, except Master, Millicent, the Pratts, and Paulina. They maintained
their regular routines in the Great House. Master promised the field slaves
that once the crop was in, they would get four days off and he would host the
annual May celebration with rum, music, and a feast. Freddy imagined that she
and Birdie would be expected to cook that banquet, after months of cooking
batch after batch of extra mush to keep the field slaves going. When the two
women weren't sweating over steamy pots in the cookhouse, they carted cane to
the sugar works. At least they were allowed to sit and drive the carts.

       Under
Ben's whip the strongest men cut cane with swinging machetes, their bare,
muscled backs beaded with sweat. The women and boys stripped the leaves and
tops off the stalks and piled them onto carts. Yesterday Freddy had seen two
big Africans harnessed like donkeys, pulling heavily loaded carts.

       The
cane had to be cut before it over-ripened, crushed in the mill immediately, and
boiled perfectly to make good sugar. Even Master respected the boiler men.
After all, the plantation's profit depended on their skill.

       Master
sat tall on his big black horse, sweating heavily in his absurd tail jacket,
shoes, stockings and black planter's hat as he supervised the crushing and
boiling. As she approached the mill, Freddy noticed two African men crouching
in the bushes behind Master. They were very still, watching the planter
intently. Freddy had never seen them before. Did they belong here? Shouldn't
they be toiling in the field? She glanced down to steer around another rut.
When she looked back at the bushes, the men had vanished. 

      
Shrugging
to herself, Freddy drove the cart up to the sugar works, where
oxen were
yoked to each of the mill's long arms. The animals trudged around and around as
black and white slaves fed the stalks through rollers, saving the cane trash to
feed the boiling room fires. All night long the open-air boiling room glowed
with fires that spewed thick columns of pungent smoke. It hung over the
plantation like a soggy, suffocating blanket. Freddy hated the choking smoke
until she realized it chased away the cursed mosquitoes. From her cart she
watched the boiler men ladle the cane juice into copper vats, boiling it again
and again until it finally formed sugar crystals. They called it
"sling."    

       According
to Father Gwynne, who was an historian of sorts, the crushing and boiling had
been done like this since farmers in India began crystallizing sugar hundreds
of years ago. Money drove the process, he'd told her. Sugar cane was too heavy
to ship, so each estate had its own mill. Sugar crystals, the biggest
money-maker in the colonies, could be shipped long distances for enormous
profits. Making sugar was so much work, the colonists never had enough
laborers. That was how the slavery system had begun, the priest said.  

       The
harvest reminded Freddy of the intricate workings of a giant mechanical clock,
each gear working with precision to move the hands. Anyone caught slowing down
was flogged. One afternoon Freddy saw Ben grab an Irish woman who was huge with
child. Raging at her for stripping cane too slowly, he dug a hole to make room
for her large belly, ordered her to lie face down in the dirt, and flogged her
mercilessly. Master had ordered the driver to protect all future slaves in
their mothers' bellies. "No more lost babes!" she had heard him
bellow at Ben after what happened to Birdie.

       Many
of the slaves were still sick with malaria and dysentery. Occasionally one of
them fainted in the field. There was no time to nurse them with Birdie's
medicine. There was no time for anything. After toiling from dawn to midnight,
Freddy collapsed every night on her pallet and quickly sank into a weary sleep.

       Birdie
drove her cart up to the mill, stepped down, and tied the donkey to a post.

       "Time
for cook," she said.

        Freddy
got down from her cart and secured her donkey. Just then a dark African with
wide shoulders pulled a cart up and stopped next to her. As he wiped the sweat
from his eyes with the back of his hand, Freddy realized he was one of the men
she'd seen crouching in the bushes.

       "What
were you doing in the bushes?" she whispered to him.

       He
gave her a blank stare.

       "No
English," Birdie murmured.

       The
African held Freddy's eyes in a long, level gaze.

CHAPTER
16

April
1654

"Laurence
Frederick O'Brennan," Freddy crooned. She lay with her newborn infant in
the golden light of the alcove. It was good – Da's name and her own. This would
be his real name, no matter what Master said. She stretched out on her side
next to her baby boy, resting her head on one of her arms and cradling his tiny
head with the other. Spent but satisfied, she caressed his black curls. As he
gurgled and turned his little face toward her, she memorized his purple-red
features. Freddy was astonished by the powerful surge of love that coursed
through her like a warm ocean wave. She hugged him to her and prayed she might
ride this wave forever. She did have blessings to thank God for, she thought,
studying the babe's wide blue eyes.

       "Babe
Laurie," she whispered, kissing one of his temples. She would ask Father
Sean to baptize him. They were nearing the end of the backbreaking harvest and
everyone was exhausted. Freddy was to return to work in the morning, her
newborn tied to her chest as she toiled.

       He
had come early, a small but healthy babe. Birdie said it was good that he was
early. It helped the birthing go well, this being Freddy's first child. Birdie
had her bite down on a piece of mahogany bark and squat in the native way for
better pushing. It hadn't been too difficult for Freddy to push hard,
especially when she began pretending it was Master she was pushing out. At one
point she had noticed Paulina watching her. Then for some reason the mulatto
girl had flounced out of the cookhouse.

       The
babe sneezed, bringing Freddy back from her daydreaming. She could hear Birdie
chopping something in the kitchen. Comforted that her friend was nearby, Freddy
curled up and rested her cheek against the top of Laurie's sweet-smelling head.
Both mother and son closed their eyes and drifted off.

       Freddy
slowly awakened and was startled to find Paulina standing next to her pallet
glowering at her. Arms folded across her chest, her eyes glittered like black
obsidians.

       "Oh,
hello," Freddy whispered, hoping the babe would not awaken.  

       Paulina
turned on her heel and stomped through the kitchen.

       What
was wrong with that she-witch, Freddy wondered. Far too tired to think of such
things, she shrugged and sank into a weary sleep.

       Before
long she was disturbed by a commotion in the cookhouse.

       "It's
not fair!" Paulina was whining loudly.

       "Now,
now, it's only one day," Mrs. Pratt said.

       "But
I ache from my courses, and she sleeps the afternoon away like a queen."

       Mrs.
Pratt mumbled something Freddy couldn't make out. The alcove curtain was still
pulled aside, but she could not see the two women.

       "I
hate steering her smelly cart!"

       "Hush,
she will hear you."

       "I
don't care!"

       "You
must help because of the harvest," the housekeeper said.

       "I
loathe her! She has Master's babe, and I just miscarry…" Paulina's raw
sobs seemed to echo off the cookhouse walls.

       "There,
there, you have a good cry. God knows you have reason…"

       Freddy
shook her head. This was the first she'd heard of Paulina miscarrying. That
would explain the girl's angry ways. Freddy stretched her legs, yawned, rubbed
her nose lightly on Laurie's silky head, and floated back into a worn-out
slumber. 

In the
sputtering light of a lone candle, Freddy held Laurie as Father Sean dripped
holy water on the top of his little head and mumbled the baptismal prayers. He
made the Sign of the Cross over the babe and murmured, "Amen."

       Freddy
pressed her lips against the babe's forehead.

       "Come,"
the priest said. "I have tea."

       "Thank
you, Father." It was late. Through the hut's open windows Freddy could
hear the night herons calling to each other. For the hundredth time she wished
Mam were here to witness the baptism of her grandson. Freddy sank onto a chair,
lay the babe on her lap, and sipped from a coconut bowl. "I am not wise
enough to be a mother, I fear," she muttered in a thin voice. 

       "Child,
the light of Heaven shines bright on you and this babe," Father Sean
answered softly. "May the help of God be nearer than the door for all of
us."

       "I
pray for Colin and Dika and the lads, wherever they are," she whispered in
Irish.

       "Yes,
that they thrive," he agreed, also switching to his native tongue.

       "Master
bought six more slaves, big Africans he calls Coromantees."

       "The
ones who stare so?"

       "Yes.
They're said to be dangerous, but he doesn't care. He told Mr. Pratt that
they're so strong he can work them twice as hard, and breed them to produce
superior mulattos. He's already sent Birdie to live with one of them."

       The
priest rubbed his white beard, then leaned forward. "Has the indomitable
Mrs. Pratt let anything slip?"

       "Only
that Master is frantic to make piles of money so he can retire in
England."

       "I
wager he is angry over how much he paid for those Africans. They are higher
priced, so they are treated better than our people…"

       Freddy
sighed wearily and rested her head in her hand. "This is a desperate
situation into which to bring a child…"

       "Hold
on to hope, my girl. This island has a secret side that grows in
strength…"

Master
summoned Freddy to the stable. 

       "Show
me," he commanded, pointing to the sling on her chest. He sat on a hay
bale, took off his big hat, and rubbed one of his thick eyebrows. His pitted
face was more sallow than usual. He smelled strongly of ale.

       Freddy
untied the sling and carefully handed Laurie to him. Master held him by his
waist, at arm's length in front of him. The infant reacted by squirming and
fussing.

       "Does
he have a name?"

       "Laurence."
Freddy wiped her sweaty palms on her shift, barely controlling a powerful urge
to grab the babe back. She hated seeing Master's scrawny hands on her son.

       "Awfully
small," he remarked. "Puny, really." Whittingham handed him
back.

       Freddy
clutched Laurie to her chest.

       "In
five weeks time you will go live with the biggest African, Kofi Ashanti, and
produce strong slave stock." He regarded her coolly, his dark eyes
unreadable.

       Freddy
concentrated on the babe as she tied him back to her chest. Sensing that the
planter was waiting for her reaction to this news, she willed herself not to
look at him. She would not give him the satisfaction of even the slightest
response. Lying with an African…could it be any worse than lying with a
loathsome Englishman such as Master? Surely not.  

       "You
will get what you deserve, breeding with a savage, for turning your face away
from me," Master was saying in his pinched manner. Freddy stared at the
straw floor. She could feel his beady eyes travelling up and down her body. He
cleared his throat. "I tire of you chilly papist whores. Paulina knows how
to please a man…"

       Freddy's
cheeks flamed as she scrutinized the planter's shiny black boots. How she would
love to spit on them.

       "And
what is this I hear, of you and the native woman bathing in the spring?"
Suddenly he grabbed a handful of hair on the back of her head and yanked on it,
forcing her to meet his gaze. "Look at me, strumpet!"

       Freddy
stiffened. Studying Master's squinting eyes, her stomach roiled. She almost
gagged from the curdling stink of his breath.

       The
babe let loose a high-pitched wail.

       "Quiet
him!" He released her hair.

       Trembling,
she rubbed the side of Laurie's mouth with her little finger. He clamped his
tiny lips around it and sucked hard.

       "We
meant no harm," Freddy said softly, lifting her eyes to Master's and
trying to look apologetic.

       "Take
heed," the planter snarled, leaning in so close their noses were only an
inch apart. "I miss nothing."

Freddy
wiped her dripping brow on her sleeve, put the babe on her left breast, and
resumed peeling a massive pile of sweet potatoes. Pausing to lift a calabash
gourd of cool water and take a long, slurping drink, she allowed some of the
water to dribble down her chin and wondered how long it would take to get her vigor
back after giving birth. She dripped some water on top of her head, sighing as
it trickled down to the back of her neck. It was only afternoon and Freddy was
already exhausted – and hungry, too. She still had to grind pounds and pounds
of extra corn to make cakes. As the last cane was cut and crushed, Freddy and
Birdie were already preparing the crop over feast. Earlier they'd slaughtered
this year's prize pig. Now its head was simmering away in a deep iron pot,
sending ribbons of pork-scented steam into the sweltering kitchen. They'd
rubbed down the rest of the pig with salt, pepper, and rosemary, then hung it
in the spring house to chill.

       With
Raz asleep on her back, Birdie was chopping onions, peppers, and cucumbers for
the pickling mix to be served with the head. "Kofi?" the native woman
asked in her quiet way as she reached for a pile of limes.

       "Yes,
Kofi Ashanti."

       Birdie
nodded. "I see. Tall, pretty." She nudged the younger girl with her
elbow and they laughed. "I ask Kazoola."

       "I
would like to see this African I am to have babes with…" Freddy gulped.

       Birdie
turned to face her. "Kazoola good, Kofi good."

       "I
hope so…"  

       Birdie
resumed chopping limes in half. "No more Master…how say? 'Thank be to
God?'"

       Freddy
chuckled and put her arm around her friend's shoulder. "Ah, you learn so
well. That's precisely how we say it!"

"In
keeping with island tradition, we offer the annual harvest feast," Master
bellowed, standing stiffly in his fancy carriage, his face shaded by his wide
planter's hat. Millicent was seated next to him, the ruffled skirt of her green
party dress billowing around her. He lifted a glass of golden rum and downed it
in one swallow. "Rum for everyone!"       A murmur undulated through
the group of white and black slaves assembled in the yard across from the Big
House. As they lined up for rum, savory smoke from the roasting pit wafted over
them. Mr. Pratt had set large planks across two wagons. On them Freddy and
Birdie arranged "puddings" of spicy mashed sweet potato encased in
pig's belly and a giant platter that held the pig's head in a bed of pickling
mix. After the two kitchen slaves carried out wooden bowls full of guava fruit
and fresh corn cakes, then helped Ben carve the roast pig into juicy chunks,
they would be free to enjoy the celebration, Mrs. Pratt said.

       The
field slaves helped themselves to food as the Irish men entered into impromptu
drinking competitions. Soon they were whooping and climbing a greased pole set
up in one side of the yard. Freddy and Birdie ate their fill of pork and
pudding, sipped rum, and joined the other women in cheering on the men.
Bare-chested African men stood around in small groups, drinking and talking
softly in their tribal languages.

       Master
and Millicent watched from the plush carriage, where Mrs. Pratt served them
dinner. The Pratts also served the squad of militiamen who lounged around the
edges of the dusty yard, keeping an eye on the slaves. Then the housekeeper and
her husband sat with Paulina near the Big House to have supper and watch the
festivities.

       The
slaves ate and drank and laughed, throwing sugar cane trash onto a pile of wood
in the middle of the yard. Just before sunset Master signaled for Ben to light
the bonfire. Flames leaped up into a rose-colored sky. As black and white
slaves gathered around, their faces were lit by the tall blaze. Three Irishmen
appeared with a wooden flute, a small Celtic harp, and a bodhran. One took up a
two-headed stick and began beating a light rhythm on the tiny round drum. As in
past harvest feasts, the slaves paraded past Master, clapping their hands and
shuffling.

       Freddy
watched Master's dour face in the firelight. He and his petulant daughter
seemed to only go through the motions of the celebration. As soon as tradition
allowed, they retired unsmilingly to the Big House.

       Then
it was time to dance the ancient Irish "Beltaine" around a tall pole
that had blue and green fabric streamers fluttering to the ground. Everyone was
invited to join in. Mrs. Pratt came over and encouraged Freddy and Birdie to
dance, offering to watch the babes. She gave each of them a red hibiscus flower
for her hair. Freddy noticed that Paulina, who still sat near the Big House
veranda, also had a red flower in her black hair.