by Sarah Lark
“A whole family?” Mansah asked, with her mouth full.
She too loved mangos, which were a welcome thirst quencher during their midday break. The women had freshly harvested them and were once again sitting in the shade of their favorite trees to exchange gossip.
“Yes,” Keitha confirmed. The tall black woman, who had her hair hidden under a red wrapping, rarely joined in on the women’s conversations. She was a freed field slave, kidnapped from Africa three years before the Maroons raided her plantation. Like everyone in her homeland, she was Muslim and had partnered with a man of the same faith who had come to Jamaica on the same ship as her. Now she lived with him in Nanny Town — tolerated like the few other Muslims, but always a bit outside of the rest of the community.
On that day, however, she had something to tell them, and she brought it up in the circle with Nora and her friends that she trusted the most. Nora had quite recently been at the birth of her little son.
“All from plantation near Spanish Town. Girl attack backra — and then backra let her go.”
“The daughter attacked the backra and he let her go because of that?”
Nora furrowed her brow. She couldn’t imagine such a thing. But Keitha did speak very bad English, so maybe she had misunderstood something. It seemed that a patrol had found the runaway slaves a few miles west of the settlement along the river and brought them here. They were Muslims, originally from a village not far from Keitha’s birthplace.
“Not same backra,” Keitha tried to clarify. “Other. He buy all from ship. Husband, wife, child. Good backra …” The other women laughed.
“Good backras not exist!” Millie exclaimed. “Is bad, very bad and completely bad. But not good!”
“New ones say so!” Keitha insisted.
Maria thought about it. “Plantation near Spanish Town … that’s the area where you’re from.” She turned to Mansah. Nora didn’t really want to talk about her former plantation. “Maybe you know wonder backra!”
Mansah immediately began to count plantations on her fingers. “There’s Herbert’s Park, and the Lawrences between Kingston and Spanish Town, then Peaks Garden, and Hollister, and Keensley, and—” She looked at Nora, bashfully.
“And Cascarilla Gardens,” Nora added, sombrely.
Keitha chewed on her lip. “Little one say Holl … Holl …”
Nora sighed. “Well, if she considers Lord Hollister a good backra, at least she’s not very hard to please,” she remarked. “That can’t be all, Keitha, you must be confusing something. We will have to wait until the women come to the fields themselves. They will stay with us, won’t they?”
Keitha nodded. “Girl good English,” she told them. “Man, woman not.”
The husband from the new family turned out to be a skilled and enthusiastic potter. He had practised this profession in Africa and was now overjoyed to be able to return to the pottery wheel instead of the machete. He also had no military ambitions. Nanny rejoiced in the new piece of Africa in her city and especially since Maalik’s products even appealed to the otherwise more Western-oriented Maroon women. She happily allotted the new family a large, recently cleared piece of land and Khadija, Maalik’s wife, immediately and energetically began to make it arable. The daughter, on the other hand, struggled with a hoe and rake. The pretty little thing also seemed sullen whenever the mother and daughter joined the other women at lunchtime. The mother talked with Keitha in their own language. However, the girl felt more drawn to the other women and girls. She probably had already largely forgotten her mother tongue and preferred chatting in English.
Mansah pounced on her. “You have to tell us everything!” she urged her. “Your whole story. Keitha made us curious. But her English just wasn’t good enough.”
“We all not good English,” muttered the girl, who introduced herself as Alima and lowered her eyes.
Alima appeared to be embarrassed of Mansah’s intrusive questions. Mansah glanced down at her hands. Alima’s fingers were covered with blisters.
“You would be the first house slave that can’t speak English,” she then scoffed. “You were in the house, admit it! If you were used to fieldwork, you would have calluses.”
Alima blushed and Nora decided to intervene.
“Now stop tormenting her, Mansah. Let’s first put ointment on her hands and bandage the worst wounds. And afterwards, you can help us pick mangos.” She said to the girl. “If you keep working with the hoe, then tomorrow it will just be raw flesh and then there’s nothing you can do.”
Nora wanted to take Alima’s hand, but the girl pulled it away with fright when she saw Nora’s white skin, and her mother looked over suspiciously. But then, Keitha seemed to be explaining Nora’s story to them. The two looked over to the white woman again while she talked.
“I won’t hurt you, Alima,” she tried to calm her, but Alima seemed so afraid that Maria eventually took the pot of ointment and cared for the girl.
“But you must tell some,” she encouraged the girl. “Otherwise Mansah explode with curiosity. And we don’t want to have that — exploded girl under tree.” Alima laughed, shyly. Maria had an endearing way about her that that seemed to relax the girl.
“You don’t want tell us what happen with you and backra, yes?” Maria asked. Nora admired her sharpness. Undoubtedly, that was the subject that affected the girl the most. “But tell us why whole family run. Keitha say whole family come from Africa, backra buy whole family. But that—”
“Backras not doing this!” Millie said categorically.
Alima nodded emphatically. “He do!” she then said. “Backra Doug do. Backra Doug on ship when we come. And mama cry, I cry and—”
Nora needed a moment to compose herself. Even the mention of his name hurt. Much more than she had ever imagined. Much more than she would have ever believed she could feel again.
“Doug … Doug Fortnam?” She choked out.
Alima nodded again. “Yes, Backra Fortnam. Good backra. Good, good backra! Mama cry, I cry, papa cry — so he buy all. Mama and Papa go on fields, me in house. To Mama Adwe … Good house …”
Mansah sobbed when her mother’s name was mentioned. And Nora thanked the heavens that the women took so much interest in Mansah’s and Alima’s fates that no one was paying attention to the white women, who now was a paler than usual. So, Doug was still there, he was clearly alive, but she had never really doubted that. He was running Cascarilla Gardens — in an exemplary manner, as it seemed. Alima reported on the almost self-governing slave settlement, free Sundays, weddings among slaves … and finally about her position at the Hollister’s and her subsequent escape.
“I don’t want go alone. But then Backra Doug send Papa and Mama along, Kwadwo drive us to Kingston and show the way in mountains. Backra Doug very, very good backra!”
The girl ended her story and the other women gave her generous quantities of fruit and bread, while Mansah questioned her more about her mother and friends.
Maria seemed to suddenly remember Nora.
“That was your plantation, wasn’t it?” she asked, looking at her friend inquisitively. On first glance, she could tell without a doubt how upset she was. “But Backra Doug not your husband?”
Nora shook her head, determined not to show any bit of the flood of emotions that almost made her tremble.
“My husband is dead. You know that.”
“Also not your son?” Maria asked.
Nora forced a nervous laugh. “No, no, of course not. Doug is, Doug was—” she was now alternating between blushing and going pale.
Alima had heard her last words.
“White woman know Backra Doug?” she asked, timidly.
Nora didn’t know how to respond.
“She was almost your Missis,” Maria said. “Did your Backra Doug never tell? Of father, that dead, his wife here?”
Then Nora really began to tremble. She didn’t know if Maria knew what she was doing, but her friend knew her well. Just by looking a
t her troubled face, Maria had probably understood that there had been something between Nora and Alima’s backra.
Alima didn’t seem to understand. Confused, she looked up at Maria. “Yes. House all burned when come. First build new house last year. But Missy Nora not here. Cannot be. Missy Nora dead.”
CHAPTER 4
Doug Fortnam endured a difficult investigation by two officers sent by the governor. It culminated in a search of his slave quarters, since Lady Hollister expressed a strong suspicion that he would offer the girl asylum. As Doug had reported Maalik and Khadija as missing, they were also on the wanted list.
“I don’t understand this suspicion!” Doug said, after the men found nothing. “After all, I am one of the people hurt in this matter. The girl was a maid and the parents were valuable field slaves. And now they’re gone!”
The older of the constables snorted. “She saw a certain complicity, sir,” he then explained. “When you knew that the girl had run away, you would have had to detain the parents. Why ever did you leave the families together? Only brings trouble, believe me.”
“If Lord Hollister had just kept his fingers off of my slave, none of this would have happened,” Doug answered. “What was he doing with his wife’s maid? Especially since a specifically pointed out to both Hollisters that I wanted the girl returned as a virgin.”
The men laughed.
“A torn hymen doesn’t decrease the value. Or did you have your own plans?” The man grinned.
Doug forced himself to remain silent. The men took it as consent.
“Well, then,” the other one said. “This is how we see it. She is a slave. She has to let her master have his way.”
“I see it differently,” Doug said firmly, clutching the pendant in his pocket, which he had with him as a lucky charm that day. Nora would have expected him to take a stand in such a situation. “Of course, she is a slave, but she is also a person. I have purchased her labor, and that I am due. But that doesn’t give me the right to abuse, frighten, and humiliate her!”
They laughed again.
“You should try for a pastorate, Mr. Fortnam,” the older one said. “You’re talking like a reverend. And now, with the Stevens leaving …”
After Ruth Stevens’s second son died from a fever a few months earlier, the reverend had lain down his arms. His wife hated the island and he couldn’t maintain the pastorate without her help. Now he was just waiting for his successor.
“And the blacks do exactly the same thing when you let them!” the younger one added. “They say that the Maroons have white slaves now! Women, at that. What do you think they need them for? To fetch water?”
The men laughed uproariously.
“White women?” Doug furrowed his brow. “With the Maroons?”
The older constable nodded. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? Scandalous, actually. The governor should be intervening, but he’s as gentle as a dove at the moment. Just because he’s hoping to be able make an agreement with them. But for you it would be a good thing. If the guys retroactively have to send back the slaves, you might also get back your runaways.” The man grinned and gestured as if he was cutting his throat.
Doug didn’t say anything more, but hoped that it didn’t happen. He could hardly imagine the Maroons would make a retroactive agreement. That would certainly induce an uprising in Cudjow and Nanny Town. No, whatever happened, Alima and her family were safe.
The Constable’s remark about the Maroons having white slaves preyed on Doug’s mind though. The man was right; if it was true, it was outrageous. And the governor had to do something about it — the people couldn’t put up with that. Doug decided to find out more information on the matter during his next visit to Kingston and to inform all of the planters as necessary. His reputation among the Kingston society had suffered greatly because of the incident with Alima. Two weeks had passed and Lord Hollister was still quite unwell. He lay in bed with a fever at the plantation — a transfer to Kingston could still not be expected of him — and he was in great pain. His condition was still life-threatening. Lady Hollister took the sympathy calls, as the lord himself could receive no visitors. She never tired of explaining how she had been hoodwinked by the “nigger-lover,” Doug Fortnam and his devilish slaves. Most of the planters could undoubtedly piece together the real story, but of course they saw it like the constable: Lord Hollister had suffered too much for such a trivial offense. The girl should have given into him or, at most, run away. Her panicked reaction was not met with even a glimmer of understanding.
So, Doug gave up on trying to excuse Alima. Instead, he complained about the loss of Maalik and Khadija in the hope of keeping from completely losing face among the men. If he now denounced such a monstrosity as the defilement of a white woman in a Maroon settlement, he would regain trust and credibility, but hopefully not trigger a war in which Alima and her family, Máanu, and Akwasi would fall victim. Doug didn’t resent his runaway slaves. Máanu ran away with good reason, and Akwasi — who wouldn’t have taken advantage of the Maroon raid to break free?
But no matter how he looked at it, he couldn’t risk a break with the society of planters in Kingston. Too much business was conducted together, too many ships chartered — and even to influence the governor a bit, they had to stick together. Doug might be able to hold onto Cascarilla Gardens alone, but the income would drop dramatically — and then he wouldn’t be able to afford his slaves as many freedoms and privileges as they had now.
Sometimes, Doug thought, I feel like I am on a tightrope and infinitely alone. There was ultimately no one with whom he could talk about his thoughts and feelings. He missed Nora desperately. While Amigo once again trotted along the road to Kingston — Doug was determined to not postpone his inquiry any longer — his rider briefly struggled with the urge to turn off to the beach and look for Nora’s spirit in the hut there instead. Or Simon’s spirit — he probably would have even been a more agreeable conversation partner than the people he planned on meeting that day.
But Doug guided his horse into the city nonetheless — first to the oldest market in Spanish Town. The offices — or what passed for offices but were really dilapidated shacks — of the merchants who were rumored to be doing business with the Maroons were located there. The men usually had the help of one or two slaves, often women whom they probably also had their way with at night. They were dodgy fellows — Doug usually had nothing to do with them. Now Doug led his horse though the narrow streets of the old city and found the man called Barefoot’s shop beside a tavern. As expected, it was a shed in which a few barrels of cheap rum, and sacks of legumes, and dried figs awaited buyers. On top of that, there were metal household items, pots, pans, and other pieces of equipment piled high in the corners. When Doug peered though a small window, a black woman opened the door for him. She anxiously lowered her eyes.
“You want to buy, Backra?” she asked softly. “Provisions for ship …”
Doug shook is head. “I don’t have a ship,” he said. “But I would like to speak to your backra. Barefoot?”
The woman nodded. She was still quite young and pretty, but also seemed scared.
“Is him. Is next door,” she said.
“In the pub?” Doug made sure.
The young woman nodded again. Doug gave her a penny. She wanted to kiss his hand in return.
“I save,” she said with a quiet voice. “Sometime I buy myself free, then go to Maroons…”
Doug smiled at her encouragingly, even if he didn’t believe that she would ever be able to collect the hundred pounds that she undoubtedly was worth. But the hope surely did her good. He entered the tavern. Barefoot couldn’t be such a bastard if he at least let his slave believe that she would eventually be free.
Doug recognized the man from his apparent trademark: he wore knee breeches without shoes or stockings.
“Mr Barefoot?” Doug asked, and approached the wobbly, wooden table and the three hardly more sturdy chairs that stood around it.
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The tavern had just two tables. It smelled like rum and old grease, the floor was littered with the remains of chewing tobacco. The stocky, red-faced merchant nodded. “Take a seat. Roberta, a rum for the gentleman. It’s not often that such a distinguished backra suddenly drops in on my office.”
“Your office?” Doug asked, with a wry smile.
Barefoot gestured to the entire tavern. “Don’t you like it?”
Doug laughed. “I couldn’t think of any finer,” he said, and then toasted the trader. The waitress, a skinny Creole woman, promptly put a glass on the table in front of him.
“The name’s Doug Fortnam.”
Barefoot took a sip of his drink. “Fortnam from Cascarilla Gardens?” he then asked.
Doug nodded.
The trader directed his watery, but attentive, light-blue eyes toward him. “So what is it you want from ol’ Barefoot?” he asked, suspiciously. “You don’t want a ship fitted, do you? And you also don’t need any ironmongery.”
“No,” Doug smiled. “But I need some information. I am willing to pay a bit for it and, of course, it stays between us. I won’t tell anyone how I found out.”
The trader raised his brow. “There aren’t so many secrets in Jamaica, sir. And I don’t have any at all. Everything is completely legal here, Mr. Fortnam. I have nothing to hide,” He attempted to look innocent.
“Except for a few trips that you take to the Blue Mountains from time to time,” Doug remarked. “Don’t deny it, everyone knows. And for all I care … you have my blessings. I think it’s ten times better to trade their wares than for them to steal from us.”
The dealer stared at him suspiciously “You’ve been burned in the past, haven’t you?”
Doug nodded. “Yes. Cascarilla Gardens was raided a few years ago. My father and my stepmother were killed.”
