by Sarah Lark
Only the abundant bottles of rum that they’d brought along remained waterproof and kept them warm. The members of the expedition drank to their adventure every night, and Doug was the only one who remained at least halfway sober. He didn’t really expect to be attacked by the Maroons, but in case the men of the mountains decided to butcher their enemies in the night, he was at least going out with a proper fight. In general, this expedition contradicted everything that Doug had ever heard about strategy. He had briefly considered escaping his hated legal studies by means of a military career, but then he’d decided against it. After all, he wanted to return to Jamaica, not some other area of the world where England had been fighting a war. However, in order to evaluate his current adventure, one needn’t have read The Art of War. This was purely just groping around in the dark, concocted by a few drunken older men who sent a few adventurous younger men on the trip. Doug’s companions on the ride were mainly overseers from the plantations who wanted to show that they were not afraid of the blacks. They seemed to consider the whole thing as a sort of holiday, and were so noisy moving through the jungle that any Maroon with the ability to hear had so much time before their arrival that they could either flee or load their weapons. Doug was hoping there would be an early end to the expedition. Not just because they had not seen a single black face in two weeks, but also because the rum supply was running low.
“We must do it again,” an overseer from the Hollister plantation said, as if it were a fishing trip. “But then maybe we’ll take someone with us who’s been here before.”
Doug rolled his eyes. He had suggested that they hire a guide at the start. There were whites who traded with the Maroons, mostly petty criminals, who rode into the mountains every few weeks with a fully loaded mule in the hopes of getting as much money as possible for a couple of shoddy tools. From time to time, there were also “free” blacks imprisoned in Kingston, mostly because they had been caught for theft. Usually, the governor let them hang — Doug was sure that their lives would be spared if they led whites through the mountains. However, that had not been allowed. The risk was too great that the men would lead them into a trap.
“Does anyone know how we get back out of here?” the overseer asked whimsically, as he uncorked the last bottle of rum.
Doug rubbed his forehead and reached for his compass with a sigh. Had these people never been away from their plantations and before that never out of their Scottish villages?
The day after the Obeah ceremony, Nora awoke with an excruciating headache. She had never drunk so much as on the previous night, especially never anything harder than wine or a glass of rum punch on occasion. The experience with Akwasi almost paled in comparison to the pounding in her skull — which was not improved by Máanu not arriving to help her. Eventually, the little Mansah brought her smelling salts and put wet towels on her forehead at Adwea’s request.
“Máanu back tomorrow,” the girl promised.
Nora didn’t think much of it. She suspected that Máanu was feeling similarly to herself on that morning, which did not excuse her neglecting her duties, but at least explained it. Nora only first began to wonder when Máanu appeared at work the next day, but was just as bristly and taciturn as she had been on Nora’s first day at the plantation. Actually, it was worse, because Máanu had only acted indifferent back then. Now, she seemed to be downright angry with Nora.
“Did you see me at the Obeah ceremony? Did you not like it? Do you think that whites shouldn’t be present there?”
“Missis does what Missis wants,” Máanu retorted bitterly, leaving the room.
Naturally, Nora could have forced her to answer, but she didn’t want to offend the girl. At some point, Máanu would soften up again, or so she hoped. Perhaps Nora’s participation in the gathering had indeed violated her religious beliefs. Máanu had sat at front and so possibly was one of Kwadwo’s most fervent followers. Nora just wondered how she even knew of her mistress’s presence. As for Akwasi, the young fieldworker adhered to Nora’s instructions and no longer went near her. In the first few days, Nora deliberately stayed away from him, but then she realized that it was not at all necessary. Akwasi was avoiding her.
Two days after the incident in the barn, Nora was relieved when her blood flow began again. She could hardly imagine what would have happened if she were with child, although she would have known which baarm madda to contact in case of pregnancy. The healer and midwife belonged to the Keensley plantation, and it was said that she also “treated” white girls from Kingston. Moreover, hardly a single one of the slave women died after seeing her. But Nora would have died of shame if she had to admit to the old slave that a child of a slave was growing inside of her, or that she didn’t want her husband’s child. Nora found both options equally repugnant. Now, however, she could confidently forget the incident with Akwasi — and believed that she would succeed in doing so.
Until Doug Fortnam returned to the plantation.
“And? How is my beautiful stepmother?”
Doug leaned forward to nonchalantly kiss Nora on the cheek as he entered his father’s house before dinner and met her in the entryway. He expected that his father would come down the stairs at any moment, so his greeting for Nora would be without fault. Nevertheless, Nora flinched from his kiss. Doug was confused, but then Elias also appeared, and asking about it was not an option.
“Well, did you find the nigger nest?”
Nora sighed. Elias’s first question didn’t bode well for their evening and dinner playing out as expected. Doug could not report anything about the Maroons, but Elias also wouldn’t permit him to entertain Nora with colorful descriptions of his other adventures on the ride. He interrupted his son when he began to speak of birds, ferns, and butterflies.
“What was that, young man? You took a trip with a container to collect botanical specimens? You should be giving us a firsthand account of the Maroons and not about picking flowers.” He laughed at Doug’s descriptions of camping in the rain. “My boy, are you made of sugar? That’s how it happens at war, Douglas, with the wind whipping at your face and the waves crashing on deck. But no one whines about it — you reach for your sword!”
“I could hardly fence with the weather,” Doug then remarked. “As much as I would have gladly done, if I could have at least found the Duppy who was responsible.” He was surprised to notice how Nora winced at the mention of the spirit. Had he somehow offended her religious beliefs? “But he was just as scarce as the Windward Maroons. I’m sorry, Father, but if you want results there, you have to send people other than a few fools who believe that the niggers exist to bow down before them. These people would have fallen from their horses in terror if a black man with a musket appeared before them. I know that I’m repeating myself, but to smoke out Cudjoe or Nanny Town, you need half an army, or even better, a whole one. Well-trained, prepared for anything — and armed to the teeth. And a couple of men on the inside who can show you where the settlements actually are. As far as punitive expeditions are concerned — we can thank God that we didn’t see anything more than a few flowers and birds.”
Doug stood up and went to his room. He would talk to Nora later.
To his disappointment, Doug’s first impression had not been wrong. Nora was clearly more reserved towards him than before the expedition. Apparently, she had taken offense at the kiss.
Doug cursed himself for his haste. He should have spent more time before letting her know how he felt about her.
Now he would have to start all over again — he continued to try with the young woman, describing the flora and fauna of the mountains to her in detail, and repeatedly inviting her to accompany him to Kingston. Eventually, Nora accepted out of loneliness — but remained vigilant. She was not permitted to give into her strange feelings for Doug. It would be extremely inappropriate to feel for her stepson the way she should for her husband.On top of that, Máanu’s demeanor didn’t change with time. She seemed to be angry with Nora for something.
She did her work, but didn’t exchange a single personal word. For Nora, this cast a shadow over all of her daily activities. It was tiring and upsetting to examine and care for the patients every morning with Máanu standing there silently the whole time. The girl also no longer did anything on her own accord, and Nora had to specifically ask for help with everything.
“Then why don’t you just dismiss her?” Doug asked, when she complained a bit about her suffering. “You can get another maid. Who cares?”
Nora glared at him. “Just like you got rid of Akwasi?”
“That was different,” Doug said, vexed, and then went quiet.
Nora could have kicked herself. The entire summer of that year was marked by bad feelings — between Nora, Máanu, and Akwasi, as well as between Doug and Elias. Although, Nora didn’t understand the latter, since Doug was actually doing exactly what Elias had him trained to do. In Kingston, he was quickly recognized as a lawyer and no one asked for a certificate. But it was probably to do with what he had hinted on the first evening: Elias Fortnam had never planned on bringing his son back to Jamaica — at least not during his lifetime. Maybe he had even hoped for Nora to bear another heir. Co-running the plantation seemed to be simply unthinkable to the older Fortnam.
“A ship only has one captain!” he said curtly, when Nora asked him about it. “And Doug doesn’t have what it takes to run a plantation, the boy is too soft. A nigger-lover. I should have taken a new wife sooner. And it was wrong to let the boy grow up in the kitchen.”
Nora didn’t remark upon the fact that a wife was nothing but a means to an end for Elias. She had already known that at the wedding, and was glad that he hadn’t touched her in months. Nevertheless, she sometimes wondered if it had something to do with her figure. Nora was not quite the graceful nineteen-year-old he had first met. She had become more womanly and muscular. The regular walks to the huts, the beach, and the swimming area in the jungle strengthened her, on top of her swimming and riding. She found that it suited her — she liked her firm, limber body. Elias, however, now seemed to rank her among the “fat cows,” as he had described the other planters’ wives when he was no longer sober. But Nora also couldn’t pick out a lover among the black women, so she assumed that her husband visited a brothel in Kingston when he felt physical desire.
Doug, on the other hand, devoured Nora with his eyes when they rode or went for walks together. They also couldn’t help getting closer again. They both needed someone to talk to.
During those months, the arguments between Doug and Elias mainly focused on a subject that Doug had first brought up one day after a ride to Kingston.
“You have to talk to Hollister,” the young man said as the appetizers were being served one night. “I have no idea why he doesn’t know on his own, but he isn’t particularly clever. In any case, he is clearing the jungle for new sugar cane fields. It shouldn’t be done.”
Elias snorted. “He must know what he’s doing, and anyway, I can understand why he’s doing it. His property doesn’t go very far inland and he wants to expand. It’s the case for all of us.”
The sugar prices had continued rising to a dizzying height and so did the demand. Tea had finally triumphed in England and there was no tea service lacking a sugar bowl. Tearooms were opening up in England and becoming regular meeting places for women, as the coffee shops of the past had always been reserved for men. The new drink was even starting to tap into the middle and poorer classes. And hardly anyone drank it unsweetened — the sugar barons were victorious.
“Nothing will come of it so close to the sea,” Doug pointed out. “Everything will be washed away at the next hurricane.”
“Is that to be expected?” Nora inquired. “There hasn’t been a single hurricane since I’ve been here.”
“Be happy about it …” Elias growled.
Doug, however, looked worried. “Exactly,” he said. “It’s been going well for far too long. Sooner or later, something will get swept away, certainly over the course of the next twenty years at least. And Lord Hollister wants to harvest his sugar cane for that long, doesn’t he?”
Sugar cane was extremely durable. It took up to two years until the first harvest, but then the stalks brought in reliable profits for two decades.
Elias grinned. “He wants to and he will. Old Hollister isn’t so foolish. He will redirect the water.”
Doug furrowed his brow. “To where?” he inquired.
Elias shrugged. “How should I know where? But they’re building dams and channels. He brought in an expert from England specifically for that reason. It’ll be fine, my boy, leave him to it. He has more knowledge of planting than you.”
Doug said nothing more, but took the time on the next day to thoroughly inspect the Hollisters’ new plantation. In the evening, he was visibly more worked up than when they had eaten together last.
“Father, we cannot allow what Hollister is planning. He’s directing the water onto our land!”
Elias took a sip of wine. “So what? It’s just jungle. If a tree gets swept away, we can deal with it. That’s certainly well worth staying on good terms with the neighbors.”
Doug rubbed his temples. “It is not just jungle!” he then insisted. “Our slave quarters are also there. They will be flooded when the water comes.”
Elias remained calmed. “They’re always flooded. That’s nothing new.”
“But this time the water will rise higher!” Doug tried desperately to get a stronger reaction out of him. “The huts can be washed away, they—”
“It wouldn’t be anything new,” Elias said. “It’s happened two or three times already. Then they just build it up again. Who cares?”
Nora wanted to argue that the slaves certainly cared if their few possessions were swept away, and if they were homeless until the new huts were built — and if they had to do that in addition to their other work. She could hardly imagine that Elias gave them time off to do it. However, Doug jumped in before her.
“You will certainly care if your men drown like rats!” he snapped at his father. “You know how quickly the water comes when it rains and the sea is raging. It is always hard to get away in time!”
Elias shook his head. “You have my respect, Doug,” he then said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Not just a drop-out legal scholar, no, but also a military strategist and now a specialist in hydraulic engineering. What else were you taught in England? And why couldn’t you have stayed there to make good use of it? But no, you come here and sow discord. I, for one, will not spoil old Hollister’s business because a few Negroes get their feet wet from time to time. But all right, if you insist upon it, then I will talk to him. Let’s see what he has to say.”
Doug was not brought into the conversation between the two planters. Instead, they got sweet-talked by the English dike builder and water drainage specialist.
“There’s really no danger at all!” Elias explained when he got home, clearly drunk on Hollister’s best rum. “As I said, nothing can happen.”
Doug rubbed his temples again. “Am I right in the assumption,” he then said, with as much mockery as his father had on the previous day, “that your English specialist has never experienced a hurricane? Well, I hope he stays here until the next one rages through. He could learn a few things.”
CHAPTER 2
Most of the whites found it extremely difficult to acclimatize to Jamaica and the other islands. The Europeans were especially bothered by the almost complete absence of seasons. Even Nora, who liked the heat, couldn’t believe that it didn’t subside at all over the course of an entire year. However, the rainfall varied. There was no real dry season like in southern Europe, where Doug said there would often be no rain for three months at a time, but there were purely sunny days in the summer and winter months, especially on the coast. In spring and fall, however, it rained every day and often in torrents. In the afternoons and evenings, the water would go down the paved roads like a river, transforming them into red-mu
d slopes.
Naturally, this also held true for the slave quarters on the plantations. Only few planters permitted their men to build their huts on high ground — they preferred to put the farm buildings such as like mills, distilleries, cookhouses, and stables — in such locations. Adwea, Máanu, and the other house slaves, had been wading through knee-deep mud since August to get to work in the morning.
“This year worse than usual,” Adwea sighed, and washed her feet in the stream before entering the kitchen. The little brook had grown into a miniature raging river. “I don’t remember more rain. You, Missis?”
Nora also hadn’t noticed any increased rainfall, but of course she could guess what had caused the flooding in the slave quarters. Construction of the drainage systems on the Hollister plantation was making good progress. In the evening, she was the one who broached the topic for a change.
“Maybe Doug wasn’t entirely wrong, Elias,” she began, cautiously. “This morning, I was in the settlement, but then I had to relocate the physical examinations higher up at the mill. The slave quarters are underwater and it’s already flowing into the houses. Soon, they won’t be able to sleep there anymore. Not on the floor, at least.”
“Then they should build beds,” Elias muttered. “Like decent Christians.”
Doug held back a comment that could make it much worse. Instead, he went behind Elias’s back and distributed spades and hoes to the men, so they could at least make crude drainage ditches.
