A Mother's Sacrifice

by Catherine King

  Quinta felt angry with her mother. Her Patrick would not be killed. He was brave and clever, as his father had been. She could not, would not let herself believe that he would die on a foreign battlefield. He had to come back for her. He just had to! She straightened her back and argued, ‘You are wrong, Mother. Patrick loves me and he will find a way for us to be together. I know he will.’

  Her mother was weeping again. She was so distressed that Quinta went to kneel beside her. She took her hands and murmured, ‘It is not so bad. You and Patrick’s father gave us your blessing. I surrendered my virtue to him willingly as his promised wife. I am not ruined.’

  This did not seem to reassure her mother and her weeping continued in short guttural sobs. Although Quinta was forced to acknowledge the possibility that she might never see Patrick again, she could hardly bear to even think of it, for she knew that she could never love any other man as she loved Patrick. She supposed her mother thought that she was ruined as a bride for anyone else, and sought to ease her mother’s fretting. ‘I shall be true to him for ever. I shall not look at another,’ she added softly. ‘Never.’

  ‘But what will you do?’ her mother uttered through her sobs.

  Quinta stood up and hugged her mother’s face to her own body. Of course it mattered to her that she was no longer pure, but only if she was seeking a husband, which she was not. ‘Without Patrick, we shall have to leave here, I know. But I can work. I’ll find a position for us both.’

  ‘I - I cannot do much with my cough. The surgeon said—’

  ‘Do not fret so. I can take care of us both.’

  ‘No you can’t. You don’t understand.’

  ‘What is it, Mother? Why does my loving Patrick distress you so much?’

  Her mother inhaled deeply and stemmed her strangled sobs. ‘I should not be much of a mother if I did not tell you my fear. It is your sickness, my dear.’

  ‘What about my sickness? Do you fear it is serious? That I have taken a putrid fever?’

  ‘It is not a disease. Now we are home, I see you have a different look about you. I believe that you are with child, my dear.’

  ‘I am with child? I cannot be. I am not married.’ But as this realisation sank home she understood why her mother was so distressed.

  He mother gazed at her silently.

  ‘Then I am carrying Patrick’s child,’ Quinta breathed.

  Patrick’s child. Although he had been taken from her so cruelly, he had left her with this gift. She had not considered this possibility when she had been taken up by the passion of their love. She had thought only of a married future with their children. But if she was with child, she was with Patrick’s child! For a few moments the room seemed to spin around her. Could this be true? Had God seen fit to reward her so?

  ‘Are you sure, Mother?’

  ‘If you are not, then time will soon prove me wrong.’

  ‘I have had no bleeding since . . . Well, since before that night, but it was not so long ago.’

  ‘Some are blessed to conceive so easily. Sadly, I was not. Though, for you, it is not such a blessing, I fear.’ The tears welled again in her mother’s eyes.

  ‘But it is! I am sure he wanted this as much as I did.’ I am carrying Patrick’s child and shall have a part of him with me. His child! Her hands crossed over her stomach. Patrick’s child! ‘If this is so, I shall write to him and tell him. How delighted he will be. And I shall continue to write to wherever the King’s army takes him and tell him how his child thrives and grows.’

  ‘No, my dear, you cannot do that. He is an honourable man as his father was before him. To know that you are with child will add to the anguish of his situation.’

  ‘But he must know!’

  ‘It is better he does not.’

  ‘He has to. He is my child’s father.’

  ‘He has gone to be a soldier. He may not return.’

  ‘There is no war! He will not be killed. He will come back to me!’

  ‘But not before your child is born. His child will be a . . . will be born out of wedlock. Do you know the shame that it will bring?’

  ‘I am not ashamed. I love my child’s father and he loves me. What shame is there in that?’

  Her mother was shaking her head. ‘The vicar will not baptise him in the church as he does other infants.’

  ‘But why ever not? He will be as much God’s child as any other!’

  ‘Not in the eyes of the Church, my love. It is so.’

  ‘Then if the Church does not accept my child, I shall not go to church.’

  ‘Do not speak so hastily. Your child will have no prospects as it is. Oh Quinta, my dearest love, the fault lies with me. I did not want this shame for you. I wished only for your happiness. The sergeant, too, God rest his soul. We were so sure you were meant for each other.’

  ‘It is true. I believe we were.’ Quinta’s anger was kindled. ‘It is not your fault, Mother. Nor is it Patrick’s or the sergeant’s. Farmer Bilton is the cause of this. It is all his doing. He lied in the courtroom and he should be the one to pay. It is not fair!’

  ‘No, my love, it is not. But it is as it is and we must live with the outcome.’ Laura coughed. ‘We must find a way to survive outside of the workhouse.’

  How? Quinta thought crossly. They had been running out of choices even before this happened. If she was with child as her mother strongly suspected, she would be dismissed from any position she might secure as soon as her employer discovered her condition. Any respectable matron would vilify her as a woman of easy virtue. It was true what Mother said. She was ruined. ‘But what shall I do?’ she breathed.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Laura’s coughing became worse.

  Quinta’s eyes widened when she saw the red stain on her mother’s handkerchief. ‘You must lie down. Go to bed and I’ll mix your medicine.’

  ‘I shall die in the workhouse,’ Laura choked. Her tears overflowed.

  ‘No, you won’t. I shall not let that happen. I’ll find a way.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘I’ll think of something. I promise. Do as I say, Mother, and rest.’

  Quinta was in despair. Her mother needed her more than ever. And she needed Patrick. How desperately she yearned for him to be with her, to hold her and to fill the emptiness in her heart. But that void might soon be filled by his child as it grew within her. She would not let Patrick or his child down. She alone must decide what to do.

  Quinta remembered tales of hardship told to her as a youngster to warn her not to err in her ways. She had heard of a young woman who had made a home of sorts between the boulders near a stream high on the moor, filling gaps with brushwood to shield her from the biting winds. She and her newborn infant were found half dead by a rider alerted by the baby’s wailing. They were taken to the workhouse in town and it was said that they both still lived. But what kind of life did they have? Quinta wondered.

  Her mother needed country air and wholesome food and drink. She needed a warm fire and a proper house to get through the cold wet winter in these hills.

  ‘We’re not going to the workhouse, Mother,’ she said firmly as she helped her up the stairs. But no matter how she racked her brain, she could not find a solution.

  She continued to weed the garden and look every morning for a show that told her Mother was wrong. And when there was no show she felt such enormous relief that she felt guilty at her secret joy. She wanted Patrick’s child. She wanted it so much that, when she was sure, she rejoiced. If she could not have Patrick as her husband, then she would have his child. His child would sustain her through any sacrifice she had to make, any hardship she had to face. It would all be for their child and the memory of their brief, yet unforgettable union. When she had made that pact with herself, her decisions about the future became easier.

  Mother did not have the same strength as she did and indeed could not survive the hardships she might have to endure. Quinta determined that her mother’s last few years would be
comfortable and her child, Patrick’s child, would have a future. The sacrifice would be hers and hers alone. She hoped that she was not too late.

  Chapter 18

  Patrick narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you want of me?’

  His sergeant was a grizzled, greying man, not unlike his father, who had learned how to survive and risen slowly in the ranks of his regiment. Their duty on this hot and humid island was to keep the peace; to guard the Governor’s residence; and to quell any suspicion of riot before it started. But this meeting was off duty and off the record.

  ‘I want you to share a bottle of rum with me.’

  They were in the cavernous basement of the stone-built fortress that housed the King’s offices and his militia.The arched vaults were cool in the afternoon heat. Patrick obeyed and pulled out a chair.

  The sergeant poured two shots and slid one across the plain wooden table. ‘Loner, that’s what they call you. Is that right?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘The others have gone down to the harbour.’

  ‘They’ve gone to the whorehouse.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go with them?’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  His sergeant pursed his lips. ‘You know as well as they do that I have a woman.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘She’s not here, though, is she?’

  ‘I don’t want another.’

  ‘She’s special, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The sergeant rubbed his stubbled chin with his hand. ‘You’re not like the usual convict we have.You don’t go whoring, you don’t get drunk, and you even asked the lieutenant for a book to read.’

  ‘There’s not much to do here. No riots, no fighting, not even much drilling. We should do more to keep in shape.’

  ‘I’ll be the one to decide that.’ He poured another tot of rum. ‘You’re coming with me to the harbour. Not to the whorehouse, though. I want to show you something. Bring your rifle.’

  Patrick knew he could not disobey and he filled his water bottle from the barrel. Outside the thick stone walls of the garrison cellars the hot air overpowered him, hitting him like a blast from a furnace and within minutes sweat was trickling down his back.

  ‘Will you slow down, Ross,’ his sergeant barked. ‘We’re off duty now.’

  He wondered if he would ever get used to this foreign land of hills and lush vegetation. He had never seen such greenery; glossy, tangled and wild, and always dotted with brightly coloured flowers. He ducked to avoid the fronds of a palm leaning precariously across the dusty track.

  ‘Does this stuff ever die back?’ he asked.

  ‘Never thought about it,’ the sergeant replied. ‘If it does, more grows in its place.’

  ‘What happens in winter?’

  ‘We don’t have winter here. We have storms like you never see in England; high winds fierce enough to knock back some of this stuff. The cane stands it pretty well, though; strong stuff is sugar cane.’

  ‘I’d like to see how a sugar plantation works.’

  ‘Now why would you want to do that?’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  The sergeant gave a derisive snort. ‘As I said, you’re not like the rest of my men. Well, I don’t hold that against you.’

  They progressed slowly in the baking heat, down the dusty track from their barracks to the colourful, noisy, smelly and vibrant Creole quarter of the island. The encroaching greenery gave way to flimsy shacks and, as they approached the harbour, larger stone buildings of the shipping companies that brought in supplies and took out sugar.The wharves were crowded with tall-masted vessels, some with their sails unfurled, ready to leave.

  It was busier than he’d imagined and the variation in skin colour surprised him. Men, women and children, barefoot in bright cotton, carrying, trading and even cooking the vegetables and fruits that grew so easily in the fertile ground. He inhaled the spicy smell of stewing meat, which he recognised as the curried goat that they ate with boiled rice at the barracks. He bent to choose a couple of ripe mangoes from a heap on the ground, dropping a coin in the child’s eager hand.

  ‘These people aren’t slaves,’ he commented as he copied his sergeant and sliced into the juicy fruit with his sharp army knife.

  ‘We have a whole colony of free men and women,’ the sergeant explained.

  ‘Existing to supply pleasure for Europeans, it seems?’

  ‘We don’t interfere unless there’s trouble. What else are freed slaves to do but make their living by serving white men with money to spend?’ the sergeant snapped.

  ‘Is that why they are so many different hues?’

  ‘The older ones were born on the plantations. When the trade with Africa was outlawed, the plantation owners had to get more slaves from somewhere.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘The plantation owners encouraged their Negroes to breed. They paid their overseers a bounty for each new birth.’ The sergeant major was silent for a moment. ‘So the slave masters saw to it that every Negro woman got with child as soon as she was old enough and continued to produce.’

  ‘They found them husbands?’

  ‘They gave them babies.’

  ‘They what? Good God, you mean the overseers fathered their children?’

  ‘You see this Creole walking towards us? She is one such offspring. She is half white and a free woman now because of her hard work and sharp wits. She is one of the privileged.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘She is Constance, my wife.’ He embraced her, and then his attention was drawn to another much younger woman who was approaching them. He kissed her warmly on each cheek. ‘And this handsome girl is my daughter Faith. You see, she is more white than Negro.’

  Patrick acknowledged that she was, indeed, handsome; though not a girl. There was a height and roundness about her that suggested a maturity of years similar to his. Her smooth skin was the lightest of brown and her eyes wide dark pools fringed with lashes and topped by brows of a glossy blackness. Her hair was not a Negro frizz but a cascade of ripples framing her face and shoulders. She was an exotic creature and he was compelled to stare. ‘She’s beautiful,’ was all he could say.

  ‘Yes, she is. But her life is dangerous here. Look how the Creoles stare at us. We are the enemy, not wanted here and accepted only because of my wife. If they chose to, they could overcome and kill us easily.’

  Patrick’s grip on his rifle tightened and unconsciously he checked the position of his cartridge pouch.

  ‘Go easy, Ross. Some Creoles remember the last riot when they suffered our recriminations. While we keep order, my daughter is safe, but she is shunned by the Negro and is a magnet for the very worst kind of white man. Her mother has to fight injustice and cruelty as well as guard her virtue. I give her all the protection I can but she would be safer in England.’

  Patrick fell into step beside the sergeant as they followed the women away from the bustle of the dock to a quiet back street of small stone houses. ‘Will she go?’

  ‘Not without her mother. I could arrange a passage but neither will leave without me.’

  ‘Well, you’ll return home eventually.’

  ‘And I shall take them with me. But I am an old man and you are not. That is what I want from you, Ross. I want your promise that if anything happens to me you will see that my daughter and her mother are settled in England. They will not be destitute. They will have my bounty, but no kith or kin. Find them a lodging house in a southern port where the summers will be warm and the sea will be near.’

  ‘That is a big responsibility, sir.’

  ‘And one I hope you will not be called upon to discharge.’

  ‘If I say yes, will I get something in return?’

  ‘You are a good soldier, but being a convict counts against you. If you make this promise for me I shall speak well of you to the officers.’

  That should have been enough for Patrick but he wanted one thing mo
re.

  ‘And procure me paper and ink to write a letter.’

  ‘You can have enough to write a book if you agree.’

  Patrick held out his hand. The sergeant shook it firmly and said, ‘We’ll take refreshment in my wife’s house and tell her of our pact.’

  Patrick followed his sergeant into the cool dark house thinking of what he would write to Quinta.

  ‘That was a nice dinner, Quinta.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother.’ Quinta had caught a rabbit in her snare and despatched it quickly as Patrick has shown her. It came more easily to her now. She had given the tender saddle joint to her mother. Her own taste for meat had gone of late and she craved cheese with pickled vegetables from her larder. September was approaching and at least they were not starving. Not yet. But the worry of having to go to the workhouse in the winter had laid her mother low and her coughing was bad. ‘Why don’t you rest this afternoon,’ she urged. ‘Go to bed and have a proper sleep.’

  ‘I think I might. What will you do?’

  ‘I’ll try and get a few days’ work. The Hall always needs a helping hand when the harvest is on.’

  ‘Don’t go further than that, will you, love? It’ll be too far, there and back in a day.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me. I’ll just wash the pots and be off.’

  She checked that her mother was asleep before she left.Then she pulled away the muslin from the neckline of her summer gown, tidied her hair and pinched her cheeks. She pulled on a fresh cotton bonnet and tied the ribbon bow just under her left ear. But she did not venture as far as the Hall. She turned off the track to Bilton Farm.

  Every day, Quinta had half expected to see Farmer Bilton on his black hunter, inspecting their yard. But since the shooting and the trial he had not been over. No doubt he was busy with harvesting, and he had got what he wanted, she supposed. Patrick and his father were gone, so they would be destitute again and forced to leave his property at Michaelmas. She hoped he would believe her when she told him that her mother had changed her mind.

  The farmyard was deserted and she guessed old Seth was in the scullery clearing away after dinner. She lifted the heavy knocker on the front door and let it fall three times against the bleached wood. After she had waited nervously for several minutes, Farmer Bilton answered. He was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat but still wore his boots and gaiters, which were caked with farmyard mud. His face was florid from the ale at dinner and she guessed he had been asleep.