The Merchant's Daughter

by M J Lee

  A rider was on the driveway, his horse whinnying and prancing. It was Mr Davies, the overseer from the Bailey Estate, a lantern in one hand, the other desperately trying to control the excited horse. ‘The blacks, they’ve risen up. Torched the sugar and the house.’

  My father rushed out from his study where he had been going over the accounts with the housekeeper, Mrs Turner. It was a job he reserved for himself. ‘Your mother hasn’t a head for figures and I don’t trust Turner not to cheat her.’

  I always thought Father should leave such jobs to the estate manager, Mr Howard, but he would insist on doing this one himself, once a week. Usually when mother was in Bridgetown or away from the estate.

  ‘Calm down, man,’ he said to Mr Davies. ‘What are you blithering about?’

  The horse pranced around, sweat bubbling and frothing on its neck, Mr Davies pulling hard on the bridle. ‘They’ve finally risen, Jeremiah, burning the Bailey Estate and killing people. Folks say the Simmons Estate and Utopia have risen too.’

  I knew both places well. Sometimes I went over to play with the children at the Simmons Estate, but not often because Mother wasn’t allowed to come, what with Mrs Harris not approving of her.

  My brother came running out from the house, joining my father on the porch. The horse still pranced and whinnied in front of them like something from a circus.

  Father thought for a moment. ‘Saint Philip County is twenty miles away. Have the militia been roused?’

  ‘Colonel Codd is collecting them and the army as we speak. The slaves are led by a ranger called Bussa. They must have been planning this for months.’

  ‘Those fools in Parliament getting their hopes up with stupid talk of emancipation and freedom, and the bloody Imperial Registry Bill.’ Father spat on the ground. ‘Henry,’ he called out to my brother, ‘take your sister inside and prepare yourself to ride. It’s about time we made a man of you.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ I heard a slight quiver in my brother’s voice.

  ‘Mr Howard, send a rider to Bridgetown and ask Mrs Roylance to return immediately.’

  The scrawny Irishman stepped forward. ‘Yes, sir. Can I ride with you, Mr Roylance? I’m right lookin’ forward to some killin’.’

  ‘No, Mr Howard, you will stay here and guard my family. Make sure no harm comes to them.’

  The Irishman looked positively upset.

  ‘Jacob... Jacob!’ My father shouted the name louder as the huge black man approached, taking off his hat to reveal a domed forehead glistening with sweat.

  Father stared at Jacob as the man looked down at the ground and fingered the brim of his hat nervously. Jacob was my favourite of all the slaves on the estate. He would often go down on all fours and let me climb upon his back, pretending to be a horse, whinnying, shaking his head and laughing as I rode him around the lawn.

  He wasn’t laughing now.

  ‘Jacob,’ my father said, staring at him, ‘there is to be no tomfoolery on the estate while I am gone. Nothing is to happen to my wife or my Emily.’

  Jacob glanced quickly up at me, before lowering his eyes to the ground again.

  ‘No tomfoolery, Mr Roylance.’

  ‘I will make an example of you and your family if anything…’ My father paused for a moment, searching for the word. ‘If anything untoward happens. Do you understand?’

  For a moment Jacob looked up, the whites of his eyes stark against the blackness of his skin. Then he stared down at a fixed point on the ground again. ‘Nothing will happen here, Mr Roylance.’

  Father nodded once, then swiftly turned to my brother. ‘What are you standing here for, Henry? I told you to prepare yourself to ride. Come, Mr Davies, take some food and ale with me. We must fortify ourselves before we set out to crush this rebellion. A glass with you, sir.’

  The man dismounted clumsily from his excited horse.

  ‘Mr Howard, make sure the overseers are armed, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Howard ran off towards the kitchen block.

  I felt an arm on my shoulder. ‘Come on inside, Emily.’ It was my brother speaking.

  ‘But I want to stay here and watch.’

  ‘It’s not seemly.’

  ‘But I want to stay.’

  ‘Father will punish me...’ Henry didn’t finish his sentence – he didn’t have to. We both knew the consequences of disobeying Father.

  Reluctantly, I turned and went inside the house.

  I didn’t know it then, but this was the start of the famous Bussa’s rebellion. An event that shocked Barbados and polite society everywhere. It was to change my life, perhaps for the better, perhaps for the worse. I make no concessions to either, but leave it to you, reader, if you are there, to decide.

  Chapter SIX

  July 05, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  Emily lay down the pen and rubbed her eyes. Writing by oil lamp was tiring and she was no longer as strong as she used to be.

  She listened to the house. Nothing stirred.

  Dipping the pen in the ink again, she resumed writing, the memories of those days when she was young and innocent flooding back.

  1816 – Perseverance Estate, Barbados

  It was two weeks later, on April 28th, that he arrived at the estate. I had been playing with Rita, my maid, at the bottom of the lawn where the hibiscus and the wild jasmine grew and the stream flowed.

  The air was still, without a breath of wind to disturb the heat. Over everything, the sweet, bitter smell of smoke still lingered from the burning of the cane fields by the rebel slaves. The fires had been put out long ago, but the aroma shrouded the land, a memory of what had happened.

  Father and Henry were still away with the militia. The rebels had been defeated by Colonel Codd and his good men with great slaughter – over 200 rebels killed, or so I was told by my mother. It was in the same breath that she said, ‘Don’t think about these events, child. Young girls like yourself should never allow their minds to dwell on the more sordid aspects of men’s work.’

  Anyway, I was playing hide and seek with Rita. She was the seeker and I had decided to hide in one of the sheds on the other side of the stream. I knew I shouldn’t have gone there, Mother had expressly forbade it. But Rita was very good at finding my usual hiding places and I wanted to finally beat her in the game.

  I stepped through the rough grass, careful not to stain my shoes. The shed door was closed. Father occasionally used it to store tools that were used to repair the house. It also contained the trunk where he kept the whips and chains when he felt the need to chastise our slaves. But he rarely used those instruments of punishment now, preferring to leave the correction of the slaves to Mr Howard.

  Father had shown me the chest once, though, saying, ‘If you disobey me, Emily, I shall be forced to use this on your back.’ He had been holding up a short leather handle, from which sprouted entwined ropes of cured leather, each one ending with a tip of pointed iron. He shook the whip and I jumped back with a start at the sound of the points rattling together. Then his mouth creased into a large smile and I knew he was joking, just trying to frighten me. He placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Emily, nobody will ever use this on you. You are a lady, not a common slave. And one day, God willing, you will marry a rich man and live in a large house. Would you like that?’

  I was still staring at the whip as it rattled in his hand.

  ‘Would you like that?’ he repeated.

  ‘Y-y-yes, Father,’ I stammered as he put the whip away and closed the lid of the chest.

  All these memories were playing inside my head as I approached the shed. Then there was a sound, a snuffle, from inside. Had a pig escaped and was hiding in there? Or was a wild animal trapped, unable to get out?

  I thought about running back to Rita and telling her what I had heard, but she would tell Mother I had crossed the stream and then I would be in trouble.

  There was another snuffle from inside the shed, louder this time,
followed by the sound of something being dragged across the wooden floor. I reached for the latch and pulled the door open. The hinges creaked loudly from lack of oil. I half expected a wild pig or fox to rush past me, out into the forest and on to freedom.

  Instead, in the sharp rays of light from the open door, a black man lay on the floor, a pool of blood beneath his right leg. He lifted his head towards me, resignation written all over his face. It was a look I had seen often on the faces of the field slaves of the estate; a submission to their fate, whatever it was to be.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I asked.

  His face grimaced in pain. ‘A little,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch Mother, she will know what to do.’

  He held up his hand before I could run off. ‘No, please don’t. Not yet.’

  I stood there watching him. His black face was surrounded by a white beard which continued past his ears and formed a circle around his bald head. The hand he held up was cracked and deeply fissured, the skin like tanned leather. I stood there for a few moments, wondering what to do. The sun streamed down through the branches of the trees on the banks of the stream. In the distance, I could hear Rita calling my name. In front of me, the man groaned again, reaching for his leg but stopping before he touched the wound.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

  ‘Emily Roylance. I’m ten years old and my father owns this estate. What’s your name?’

  As I spoke, I thought I saw some flash of recognition in his eyes, but then it vanished as another wave of pain washed over his face. He seemed to focus on my question and answered me slowly. ‘My name is King Wiltshire and I come from the Bailey Estate.’

  ‘Are you a real King? Do you own the estate?’

  I don’t know why I asked that question. No black man owned land in Barbados, they just worked on it.

  He shook his head, laughing and groaning at the same time. ‘Not me. It’s just my name, given by my massa. He thought I had a noble face.’ He twisted his head to the left and right proudly, groaning as he did, and then took three deep breaths to calm himself. ‘I’m a driver. I drives around to Bridgetown and all over the island. What’s the name of this estate?’

  ‘Perseverance. We have sixty-seven field slaves, twelve house slaves and three overseers. We grow cane and make rum.’ I remembered my father’s description of our land. ‘We are the fourth biggest estate in Barbados,’ I said proudly, just as my father did.

  The man nodded and seemed to think over my words. ‘I have been here in the past. Do you know a Mr Jacob?’

  ‘Yes, he lives here with his wife, Ruth, and their daughters Sarah and Mary. I play with them sometimes, but my father says I shouldn’t become too friendly.’

  The man called King Wiltshire laughed again. Or at least I thought he laughed, but there were tears in his eyes. ‘Could you ask Mr Jacob to come here?’

  ‘I... I don’t... know,’ I said reluctantly.

  ‘It would help me,’ he said. ‘As you can see, I’m hurt real bad.’

  ‘How did you get hurt?’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘A man, he shot me.’

  ‘Did you do something wrong?’

  Again, he was silent and his eyes closed. I thought he was falling asleep when he answered again. ‘No, I didn’t do nothing wrong, but people won’t give up what they have without a fight. Can you fetch Mr Jacob?’

  ‘Are you a rebel?’ I asked, the truth finally dawning on me.

  A large drop of sweat ran from his bald head, past his nose and on to his soiled shirt. ‘I just wanted my freedom. We all just wanted to be free.’

  I stood there not knowing whether to scream or to run. I looked over my shoulder. Nobody was nearby. If I screamed, would Rita hear me?

  ‘Please help me. Get Jacob...’

  Those were his last words as his body slumped down on to the floor of the shed, his head hitting the wood with a thump. I could see his chest rising and falling slowly, see the blood slowly drip from the wound in his leg to the pool on the floor.

  I stood there for a moment before running to the bridge across the stream, hearing my shoes thump on the wooden planks. Up the far bank and stopping at the edge of the lawn, I could see Mother walking around in the drawing room, but I went left instead, along the drive to the slave quarters.

  A few of the younger children were sitting out on the bare ground, tossing wooden balls carved by their fathers. I rushed to Jacob’s hut. It was empty, neither he nor his family were to be seen. But that wasn’t unusual; Ruth and the children would be working in the fields in the afternoon.

  I ran to the smithy, Jacob was bound to be there. Past the old slave house and out on to the main road, the smithy was the last building on the right where the smoke from its chimney wouldn’t drift across to our house.

  Jacob was out front, naked to the waist, hammering a red-hot piece of iron into shape on his anvil.

  When he saw me, he stopped, his hammer raised level with his shoulder. ‘What is it, Missy Emily?’ he asked.

  Between gulps of air, I managed to splutter, ‘A man... in the shed.’

  He put the hammer down and quenched the metal he had been working on in a bucket of water, releasing a stream of steam.

  ‘A man in the shed, you say?’

  ‘He wants to talk to you. An old man,’ I added, by way of description as if Jacob would know what I meant.

  He picked up an iron bar that was leaning against the door. ‘Can you show me where he is?’

  I ran ahead with Jacob following me, past the big slave house and along the lawn, across the bridge and up the bank to the shed. Jacob stayed close all the time.

  When we got to the shed, the door was still open as I had left it. The old man was still lying on the floor, but now his eyes were open and he was looking straight at both of us. ‘Hello, Jacob,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Father.’ Jacob put down the iron bar and knelt close to him on the floor. ‘Well, you sure look like you have got yourself into a whole heap of trouble this time.’

  Jacob looked down at the leg, wiping away the blood to reveal a small round hole in the centre of the thigh. He bent over to look at the back of the leg and, in the light streaming in through the door, I could see an even larger hole at the back.

  ‘Yes, sir, you got yourself a whole heap of trouble.’

  ‘Help me, Jacob, help me.’

  Jacob looked over his shoulder at me. ‘You should go now, Missy Emily. Don’t tell nobody about this.’

  ‘Not even Mother?’

  ‘Not even your mother. It’s best if she doesn’t know.’

  I nodded. ‘Are you going to get the doctor?’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘Can’t do that. Not for this man. You should leave now.’

  I looked past Jacob at the old man lying on the wooden boards. He lifted his head slightly off the floor, the white curls covered in sweat and dirt. ‘Thank you,’ he said slowly, before letting his head fall back on the wood.

  I turned to go, taking one last look over my shoulder as I walked away. Jacob had his powerful arms wrapped around the old man and was lifting him up to a sitting position, whispering all the time in a strange tongue. The language was the same as Rita spoke under her breath when she was angry with Mother.

  Jacob had cradled the man in his powerful arms and was lifting him up. I caught the look in his eyes and I hurried down the bank and across the bridge, back to the house and my mother, to be chastised for getting my dress and shoes dirty.

  The next morning I overheard Mr Howard talking to Mother.

  ‘Jacob and his family vanished from the estate last night. I’ve set a search party with the dogs to look for them.’

  ‘Why did he leave? I thought he was happy here.’

  Mr Howard shrugged his shoulders. ‘You can never tell with those people, sometimes they just ups and goes.’

  I never saw or spoke to Jacob, or the old man, or Ruth, Sarah and Mary again. Well, that’s
only partially true. I did see them once more.

  Mother and I had gone into Bridgetown after hearing that a new shipment of cloth from England had arrived on one of the ships. Jacob, the old man, Ruth and the children were hanging on gibbets on the road into town. Each of them had a placard round their neck with just one word written on it:

  Rebel

  Mother hurried me past, trying to put her body between my eyes and the corpses hanging there.

  I looked anyway. Jacob’s feet were bare and his body swayed in the light breeze off the harbour. The children were next to him, still wearing the ragged clothes they always wore.

  I missed playing with them.

  Chapter SEVEN

  Saturday, August 17, 2019

  Central Manchester, UK

  Jayne was greeted at the entrance to San Remo by a beautifully coiffeured man wearing a blue suit, brown shoes and no socks. ‘’Ow can I help you?’ His Italian accent was strong but welcoming. She immediately flashed back to a restaurant in Umbria where she had enjoyed remarkable food delivered with style and panache. One of the happier days of her marriage to Paul.

  ‘I’m here to meet a Miss Rachel Marlowe.’

  ‘Rachel, she at ’er table, come with me.’

  He took a menu from beneath his desk and led Jayne to a young woman sitting alone at a table staring into her phone. Not the person Jayne was expecting at all. This woman had long dark hair, a fresh complexion and could easily be described as petite.

  As Jayne approached, the woman looked up and a broad smile crossed her face. ‘Jayne Sinclair, I presume,’ she said, standing up and holding out her hand.

  ‘Rachel? Rachel Marlowe?’

  ‘You look surprised?’

  The maître d’ pulled out a chair and gestured for Jayne to sit. He then placed a menu next to her table setting and retreated back to his place at the entrance to the restaurant.

  Jayne recovered quickly. ‘It was just that I was expecting somebody older... Your voice…’

  ‘You mean this? Good evening, my name is Rachel Marlowe.’ She mimicked an older, more mature woman.