Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Sir Jasper turned white with rage. “Away with the strumpet! She’ll not be put in the cages—put her in confinement! Tell the turnkey he’ll be hearing from the governor’s officials at the Bailey in a few days.”

  “Aye, I’ll tell him. With two killings tonight, and now this one accused of attempted murder, ol’ Braxden will be in a sour mood when we waken him again. Come along, miss.” He took firm hold of her arm and led her out the door.

  “I’m innocent,” she pleaded as he led her down the steps into the humid darkness. “You must listen to me!”

  “They all say that.”

  “Please—have you ever seen me before at Brideswell? If I was a doxy, you should recognize me. You’ve never arrested me before tonight—and you can tell I haven’t the smell of rum on me.”

  “True enough about the rum. But seein’ as how I’ve only been at this a week, I wouldn’t be knowin’ how many times you’ve been hauled to the cages. Anyway, that man was bloodied up all right, and Sir Jasper has your pistol. He’s an important man on the council…”

  “He’s a smuggler and a pirate, and he ought to hang! Please—I must get a message to Lady Geneva Buckington.”

  “Come along, miss, an’ don’t give me any trouble.”

  “But I’m innocent. Sir Jasper is lying, and I can prove it.”

  He stopped by a cart drawn by two horses and called to a fellow guard. “We’ve been ordered by a member of the governor’s council to bring this one to the detention hold.”

  “What do we got this time? A woman?”

  “Aye, a murderess.”

  Emerald wanted to faint. Lord, she prayed, fighting back her tears. Help me. I commit myself to You.

  The outer door of the gaol swung open, and a lantern was thrust rudely into Emerald’s face. She blinked several times before she could see the guard on duty.

  “Aye, what ‘ave we here, gents? Ain’t seen a doxy this pert of face and figure before.”

  “She tried to kill a man. Hold her till morning. Sir Jasper says he’ll be in touch.” The militiamen went out, and Emerald was left with the turnkey.

  “A murderess, eh?”

  “Lies. I’m the daughter of Sir Karlton Harwick—” Her voice broke. “It was my father who was killed tonight…”

  “Aye, we heard of Sir Karlton turning pirate. He escaped, but the authorities at Fort Charles caught him. He was killed putting up a fight.” He looked at her slyly. “So you’re alone now?”

  She swallowed her fear. “No, I’m not alone. I’m the betrothed of Earl Nigel Buckington’s grandson. And I wish to send a message at once to the Buckington residence on Queen Street.”

  There was a chortle of laughter from another guard who appeared from a back chamber.

  “Well, now, imagine this,” the turnkey said with a wink at his fellow jailer. “We’ve a countess in our midst. What say, shall we bow a bit and kiss the lady’s sweet hand?”

  Emerald pulled her arm away and stepped back.

  “There ain’t no ring,” he said. “Say now—you wouldn’t be fooling us now, would you?”

  “Maybe the earl’s grandson can’t afford one,” mocked the other guard.

  “Or maybe she’s got it hidden on her?”

  The turnkey grabbed her, and Emerald screamed hysterically, fighting him off.

  A voice interrupted angrily from a darkened doorway. “Clyde! What goes here? You waken me again, you blundering cocklebur?”

  “Pardon, Your Honor,” said the turnkey. “We’ve a murderess with us. She’s a mite hysterical, seeing as how her conscience is darkened by the thoughts of hell. Shall we put her in manacles?”

  “Do you think she’ll sprout wings and escape?” came the sarcastic retort. “No, you fop, put her in solitary hold.”

  The door banged shut behind him, and he presumably returned to his bed.

  “See what you’ve done, you feisty strumpet? Your hysterics have me in trouble again.”

  Impatiently he pulled her down a foul-smelling passageway to a chained wooden door. She tried to break away, but he seized her roughly and drew back the bolt, then shoved her into the odorous blackness.

  “Sleep well, me cantankerous countess.”

  The door banged shut behind her, and the sound of the bolts and locks wrapped about her soul as certain as iron chains.

  Emerald stood transfixed in the thick darkness. Sudden hysteria reached out its mad fingers to drive her to endless screaming. Her hands formed fists against her mouth, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The putrefying stench gagged her.

  There was a tiny patter—rats’ feet?—and for a moment she thought she would faint. She backed away and bumped into a stone wall, crying out in terror when her fingers touched slime. An odd itching soon overtook her ankles and began to creep up her legs. Lice! Thousands of them! In panic she did scream and stamped her bare feet until, in a frenzy of horror, her knees gave way and she fell to the floor, weeping mindlessly.

  There was no one to turn to. She was abandoned. If only Baret would come and suddenly and daringly rescue her. If only Geneva would come. The earl. Anyone. What if no one ever came?

  With a stricken sob she remembered, like a child waking from a nightmare, and cried out, “Father God, where are you? I can’t stand it! You wouldn’t just leave me here. I know You wouldn’t! Help me!”

  16

  BOUND IN AFFLICTION AND IRON

  The broiling sun beat upon Minette, huddling in the back of the open wagon on its way inland from Port Royal to Foxemoore. Devastated, her emotions had withdrawn into a world of silence where she tried to shield herself from the cruel words of Mr. Pitt. She was beyond tears now, and a merciful dullness had settled in on her heart. Nevertheless, questions arose to which she could find no answers from the brazen heavens above. Had she been saved from Spanish slavery for this?

  For a short time after leaving the lookout house, she had succeeded in blocking out Pitt’s boasting voice but not the jackals of doubt that encircled her faith. Her confidence in the Lord had been shaken with the harshness of new circumstances. Had God forgotten to be gracious? Did He not see what had befallen her and Emerald? Her cries for deliverance uttered through the night had gone unanswered.

  She envisioned God as far removed from her isolated world of pain, even indifferent to her plight. While she was a small sparrow caught in the trapper’s snare, the evil man was victorious and boasting of his cleverness. Yet the merciful Lord of whom Great-uncle Mathias had taught seemed to do nothing about it. How could this be?

  “Fret not thyself because of evildoers…for they shall soon be cut down,” she had read in the Psalms. But what if she met her doom before the Lord dealt with Mr. Pitt? What if Pitt forced her to defile the sanctity of her body by making her his mistress? Would God allow such a hideous thing to happen?

  There was no hope. She was now seen as just an African slave. She had no rights, no dignity, no say in what her owner might do to her. She was property. There were no laws in Jamaica to protect her. Even if Mr. Pitt killed her, no one would accuse him of murder! To kill a slave was little more than killing a sick mule. Her safety with her master rested in her value as a worker or in pleasing his sinful flesh.

  “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,’” she said aloud. “‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.’” With me—through it all?

  “Shut up,” said Pitt over his shoulder. “You mention His name one more time, and I’ll box your ears good. I had my fill of religion when old Mathias lectured me. It’s a relief the man’s dead and gone.”

  The wagon bumped along. And now she realized they were not heading in the direction of Foxemoore but toward the small cacao plantation belonging to the newcomer Reuben Hoffman. What had that no-good Sir Jasper said? Something about Pitt taking Hoffman’s acres and cottage? Anyone of Jewish descent fared little better in Jamaica than an indentured servant or a slave, when it came to acceptance
and rights.

  Pitt drew up near Hoffman’s cottage and sat easing the reins as he gazed about with satisfaction. The woods had already been cleared. Hoffman and his son had one ox that they used to till the land. Cacao had already been planted by Spaniards who long ago had turned their backs on that crop and gone to Havana to raise tobacco.

  The door opened, and Hoffman came out on the porch with a boy who looked to be thirteen or fourteen. Like the Jews of Barbados, those in Jamaica had migrated from Brazil, Surinam, and other sugar colonies. Mathias had said they lived apart, congregated in the Middle Precinct of Port Royal in a tiny ghetto on what was named “Jew Street.” Minette felt sure they’d been forced to name it so.

  Although, by the standards of the day, Jamaica was considered a haven for those persecuted, the Jews did not fare as well as most and were looked upon with suspicion. Some were wretchedly poor, others were shopkeepers with goods but very little property. Mathias, who had tried to engage in friendly dialogue with the local rabbi had said they kept their wealth fluid and shipped much of it to colleagues elsewhere. “They are grudgingly tolerated by the Jamaican government and forced to pay a special Jew tax,” he had said.

  “Afternoon,” Hoffman called, curiosity in his tone. He obviously wondered what Pitt was doing looking over his small acreage.

  “A nice piece of land,” said Pitt.

  “We think so, don’t we, Isaac?” he said to his son.

  Minette glanced at the boy. He had a black curl on either side of his head. The lad made no response and watched Mr. Pitt uneasily.

  “You have papers proving this land is legally yours?” demanded Pitt, not favoring them with eye contact but taking in the neat little cottage.

  Minette’s eyes drifted to a mother cat by a newly planted flower patch. She was contentedly licking her kittens. An empty dish sat nearby. They had found a home. Minette’s head lowered, and she plucked at the tear in her skirt.

  “I bought it a year and eight months ago,” Hoffman said cautiously.

  “Where did you buy it?”

  “Spanish Town—seat of Jamaican government.”

  “From who? A rabbi?” Pitt asked with a leer.

  “No, from the previous governor.”

  “You got papers?”

  “No…but it’s on record in Spanish Town.”

  “No, the council says it ain’t on record. And if you ain’t got legal papers proving it, you’ve got to leave.”

  “I won’t leave! I bought this cacao plantation when there was nothing here but a few trees—the rest I’ve put in myself. Isaac and I have worked from sunrise to sunset and—”

  “Without papers you got no proof. I got papers. Issued to me by the new governor, Thomas Modyford.”

  “But—what about the papers issued to me by the previous governor?”

  “Guess His Majesty decided Roundheads loyal to Cromwell were traitors, unfit to issue papers. Especially to Jews.”

  “I’ll get those papers. I won’t leave.”

  “You try. You won’t get ’em, Hoffman. Now look, I got no quarrel with you. I’ll even let you and the boy stay and work my land till I come claim it next year. That’s all I got to say. If you want to argue, you go see Sir Jasper in the Parliament.” He snapped the reins, and horse and wagon jolted forward at a quick trot.

  Sitting in back, Minette saw Hoffman place an arm around his son’s shoulders. The boy’s gaze faltered, and then he looked over at the cat and kittens.

  As Pitt drove on toward Foxemoore, Minette could find no solace in the familiar dirt road. It was now a strange road, a frightening road, for she traveled not as Emerald’s cousin but as a slave. Hedged with palm trees, it reeked of heat-sodden earth and shrubbery. After the rain, the stinging insects were at their worst, but today she did not bother to slap them away. She was a sacrifice for a pagan idol, and no amount of fighting would deliver her.

  The creaking wheels and the horse’s steady plodding reminded her of biblical Samson, blind, mistreated, chained like an ox going round and round, pulling a bitter load. If I was Samson, she thought, I’d bring Mr. Pitt down to utter ruin!

  Tears did not flow, but she wondered with hopeless resignation where her Lord was now, when she needed Him most. She was a small sparrow caught in the trapper’s snare, but had not Uncle Mathias taught her that the Lord watches over the sparrow?

  “A sadist,” Emerald had called Mr. Pitt. Now she understood what her cousin had meant.

  Where are You? she prayed.

  He was all-powerful. With one word He could cause Mr. Pitt to slump over dead. She stole a glance over her shoulder, and the sight of the man flooded her with burning hatred. I wish you were dead.

  And then she loathed herself for feeling hate.

  Her eyes lifted then to the cane field, where she saw slaves—hundreds of them. She saw the women first, shamefully unclothed from the waist up, crawling on their knees through the cane with hoe knives in their hands. Some had newborns strapped to their backs.

  Minette began to weep, unable to silence the sobs in her throat as her eyes flooded over and blinded her vision. I see, Lord. It’s not only my sorrow but the anguish of a human family. Yet each is an individual with a face, a different face. No face is exactly the same, no heart responds to the hot blue sky above in the same way. But what can I do? I’m helpless too.

  “Cease your blubbering, you cursed wench,” said Mr. Pitt, flicking the reins. “I’ve enough of your squalling. You tried to kill me, and I ain’t forgettin’.”

  He sat ahead on the driver’s seat, a matchlock beside him and a whip on his lap. Sir Jasper had sent a man to attend his wound after the militiamen took Emerald off to Brideswell, and now Pitt was bandaged and presumably recovering, although she noticed with satisfaction that his complexion looked pasty and his eyes had a yellowish tinge. He had coughing spells that would immobilize him for several minutes, and then he’d pop open a flask he carried under his shirt. The rum did little for his brain, but it did seem to ease his coughing spasms.

  Next time he falls into a spell, I’ll jump wagon and run for it. But his coughing had eased during the hours on the road. He also kept turning his head to glance back at her, as though he expected her to try to escape and was just waiting to lay his whip on her back. His countenance intimidated her.

  “You’ll pay a high price for shooting me,” he repeated. “So you think yourself too good for the likes of me, do you?”

  Minette remained silent. She wrapped her arms around herself and buried her head on her knees.

  “Look at you, like some turtle sticking its head in its shell. An’ I even was going to give you a pretty frock. An’ one of them feather bands with beads to wear.”

  Minette’s mind carried her to the coast of Africa, where she imagined the slave traders rounding up her mother. She would have been prodded with a sharp pole onto a waiting vessel and headed with others down into the cramped, dark hold to stay without food or water, sometimes for days. Then she would arrive in the West Indies to be paraded before thoughtless and greedy planters and merchants, to be bought as one bought a pig, a milk cow, a horse.

  Her mother’s fate had been slightly better than those brought to Spanish colonists. She’d been taken to St. Kitts, bought by a French pirate in a gambling game, and then brought to Tortuga. There Minette had been born and, through her French father, became a cousin of Emerald.

  Mr. Pitt’s voice shook her awake. “Are you listening, girl? I said you’ve ruined any chance you had. Do you hear me right?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pitt, I hear you.”

  When they arrived at Foxemoore, he stopped the wagon on the narrow road between the cane fields. He climbed down and came around to the back, where he stood mopping his brow. His canvas shirt was stained with dried brown blood.

  He gestured with his good arm toward the field where the women worked. “Ain’t a one of ’em who wouldn’t come running to take what I offered you. You ruined your opportunity, girl,” he repeated
bitterly. “Now I wouldn’t trust you in my bed, lest you put a dagger in me. You’ll go to the cane fields. An’ you’ll use a hoe. You’ll soon learn what it’s like to work. You’ll work from dawn to dark. Seven days a week, you’ll work. If you don’t, I’ll be lookin’ for the chance to lay you before my whip.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pitt.”

  “An’ if I catch you tryin’ to escape like your brother did, I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll long remember. Now, out with you.” He took her arm and jerked her from the wagon.

  Minette, frail and small, tripped and fell into the hot dust.

  He smiled cruelly. His face dripped perspiration, and he pushed back his stained Panama hat. “Up with you,” he ordered. “Get your body to the field where you belong.”

  Minette got to her feet, feeling a twinge in her ankle. She was aware of her torn frock—and her missing shoes, still with the rest of her things at the lookout house. Her tangled hair hung like wild-honey ringlets, sticking to her face and neck.

  “I need shoes to walk,” she said.

  “You’ll walk like the rest of your kind. Always whining. Grateful for nothing.” He turned his broad back and gazed off in the direction of the cane workers. “Big Boy!” he hollered. “Get yourself over here.”

  A handsome, bare-chested African, wearing cotton britches cut off at the knees and a hat of dried woven cane leaves, came at a trot, whip in hand.

  Minette tensed when she saw him. It was Sempala, but Mr. Pitt had changed his name to show authority. He was now Big Boy, the muscular chief taskmaster on the field. If a slave was strong, outwardly obedient, and considered loyal, a European overseer gave him authority over the other slaves, sometimes even making him a personal bodyguard. Africans such as Sempala, however, were usually hated by their own who cut the cane and worked in the sugar mills, where molasses and rum were the chief by-products. For a slave such as Sempala to rise from the field, he must prove his willingness to use the whip on rebellious workers. For this ugly task, he had served Mr. Pitt well.

  Sempala glanced at Minette, then looked away, but she noted his surprise when he recognized her. The year before, Sempala had gone to Sir Karlton to plead for Minette in marriage. Her uncle had refused. But when Sempala had solicited Mr. Pitt’s help, Karlton reconsidered, telling Minette how handsome and upcoming the African was.