Lacoste dragged a dusty trunk out from the corner, opened it, and rummaged through its contents. Onto his large bed he tossed gray breeches, a white ruffled shirt, and an old full-length coat of worn blue velvet.
"It's all I have," he said, shrugging.
"Thank you, Captain," she said in a surprisingly low, husky voice, folding her brown arms in front of her.
"We sail south for Tobago to pillage Spanish ships," the captain told the lads over more mugs of ale. "We could use more men—" Lacoste was struck speechless when Dika walked out of his cabin. His jaw dropped and he forced himself to close his mouth. He would not have recognized her as she smiled for the first time and comically swaggered around the deck in her "new" clothes.
From her white cotton shift she had fashioned a belt sash and a large kerchief. The knotted sash held up the baggy gray breeches, into which she'd tucked the white shirt. Over this was the long blue coat, its gold braiding, gold buttons, and stand-up collar setting off the smooth brown skin of her face and throat. She had rolled up the too-long coat sleeves. The white ruffles fluttering at her wrists and the white kerchief around her head contrasted with her chocolate complexion. The handle of a knife stuck out of one front coat pocket and her lower legs and feet were bare. She looked the part, as if she'd spent her entire life on a buccaneer ship. All she needed was a big hoop earring, black boots, a cutlass, and a flintlock pistol to tuck in her breeches.
Lacoste was happy with himself for keeping the old clothes. He had no idea what he would do with this Dika, but hoped she would join the others in signing on.
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 he
r 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.
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