A new sobriety settled over her soul as she contemplated what was to come.
African slaves made up a high percentage of the population in Jamaica and across the West Indies. Most of them were bought by Spain’s colonists to work the treacherous silver mines in Peru. Others were sold in Havana to the tobacco plantations. The French colonists on Martinique, Guadalupe, Marie Galante, and Hispaniola were always willing to buy from the French, who came yearly from the Gold Coast, having taken their spoils in the grotesque bounty of human cargo.
If a slave was both strong and loyal, the European planter on Jamaica made him into a bodyguard, for an uprising among the slaves was always a fearsome possibility. Some slaves became unrelenting overseers to their own, who cut the cane and worked in the sugar mills producing molasses and rum. Slaves who became boss men fared better than their unfortunate fellows and had to prove their willingness to use the whip on rebellious workers.
“The fallen world is full of cruelty and injustice,” she told Minette. “But it will take more than one man with a sword to change it. It will take many men. And it will take more than swords to bring justice and mercy. It will take righteous laws and changed hearts born anew by God’s Spirit.”
Emerald thought of Great-uncle Mathias’s work. She had always believed it to be important, a well of water beside the long, hot, dusty road to those who cared enough to sit and drink. Now she believed that work could also become a great voice, declaring truth that would spiritually unshackle the prisoners.
She envisioned a rainbow hovering over his small Singing School, built of little more than palm branches and containing rattan furniture. She saw Great-uncle Mathias—a Cambridge scholar—willing to turn the cultural chants of the Africans into a message of deliverance in their own language. A deliverance that transcended iron chains.
The Singing School. Here, at least, was a candle in the darkness, she told herself. But the flame must burn brighter, must grow, must expand. And I want to be a part of its light, she thought.
“Oh, Father, may Your light shine through me.”
9
INSIDE THE PLANTER’S GREAT HOUSE
In a lavish bedroom decorated in pink and gold in the upper story of the Great House, Emerald stood tensely in the flickering afternoon shadows that fell upon the giant four-poster bed.
There were no portraits of Baret Buckington in the room. If Lavender had one somewhere, she did not display it. With relief Emerald realized that her fears had proved unfounded. Captain Foxworth was a blackguard pirate, nothing more.
The meeting with her cousin over Ty and Jamie had not gone well, although Lavender had been more sympathetic to her dilemma than she had expected. In quiet despair, Emerald released her grip on the carved mahogany bedpost. As she turned from the bed with its silk coverlet embroidered with seed pearls, she was again reminded of the hypocrisy woven into the British society living in and ruling Port Royal.
The coverlet had been brought by adventurous buccaneers from a raid on the Spanish Main. While the nobility scorned the buccaneers and ejected them from participation in social affairs among the better families, those same families who owned plantations, or were merchants, or sat in seats of authority on the governor-general’s Jamaica Parliament depended on them for island protection and the delivery of wealth and rich material goods.
It was ironical that while Lavender’s featherbed was covered with the prize of some buccaneer, Emerald was disowned by the family for having been related to the French pirate Marcel Levasseur.
Wistfully she thought how pleasant life would be if she were like Lavender, whose mother, Lady Beatrice, had made grand plans for her future marriage. Beatrice, a cousin of Emerald’s father, kept a secret list of suitors for her daughter in a gilded box with a key. The names, listed in order of importance, belonged to the eligible men whom she considered worthy of marriage to her peerless daughter.
Lavender was in her early twenties, certainly older than most unmarried young women of the day. Her health had postponed her marriage to the Earl of Buckington’s grandson, Baret, but from what Emerald had been able to ascertain, Lavender would soon be voyaging to London where the wedding was to take place within the following year.
Lavender was sitting on a daybed of cane and carved oak when Emerald secretly arrived. She couldn’t help noticing that Lavender’s skin, unlike her own, was untouched by the tropical sun and was a translucent white. She often thought that Lavender was the embodiment of the British view of beauty—fair complexion, golden hair arranged in lustrous waves and coquettish curls, and graced with an outward poise that made Emerald feel awkward. Strong-willed men became pliable tools in her hands.
She admired Lavender’s cool self-confidence, for her own self-image had been marred by the scandal surrounding her birth.
Lavender had no such feelings. Whatever she did, she usually did well, whether riding horses, reading poetry, or entertaining a roomful of admiring guests with her charm. She took pleasure in showing Emerald how proficient she was. She liked to parade her sophistication, and as long as Emerald accepted her superiority, their relationship went smoothly.
It hadn’t taken Emerald long to understand that Lavender could become a rebel, though few others in the family had seen that side of her. With Emerald, Lavender held nothing back.
Emerald, Lavender told her, was “plain,” and Emerald believed her. She would naturally be the expert on such matters. Lavender often adorned her own flaxen hair with pearls, for her hair was magnificent and the adornments called attention to it. “You should try harder with yours,” she often lectured. “It’s so common to wear it in a coiled braid, and actually the color is rather nice.”
A compliment coming from Lavender always bolstered Emerald’s poise. But she continued to wear her hair in a braid only because she didn’t want Lavender to completely rule her, which she desired to do with those she considered her own.
Somehow Lavender’s self-assurance saw her through her difficulties with her health. “I know what I want in life, and I’m going to have it,” she had told Emerald.
Emerald knew better than anyone else in the family what Lavender wanted: Baret Buckington. And from what she had heard about the earl’s grandson, the feeling was mutual. Lavender’s family, however, was beginning to have second thoughts. The viscount had turned adventurous, it was said, rebellious to the earl and politically embarrassing.
As Emerald introduced her concerns about Jamie and Ty, Lavender frowned. “I can understand your worry about Ty since you’re scandalously related to him. But if I were you, I would want to forget that! As for that indentured servant—what did you say his name was? Jamie?—there’re men out searching for him now. They’re bound to catch him. And if the family discovers you want him to escape, you’ll have much to explain.”
Emerald had not told Lavender of her plans to marry Jamie, knowing how she would look down on the idea. Instead she only pleaded for her intervention to her great-aunt to withhold punishment should Jamie be caught.
“The overseer insists that Jamie Bradford is dangerous to Foxemoore. You know how much Great-aunt Sophie relies on Mr. Pitt,” Lavender said.
“A mistake. He’s an evil man, can’t you see?”
“Of course I see, but convincing her is a horrendous task. You know how opinionated she is. And she’s still mad at your father, blaming him for the trouble. Said he was too lenient with the slaves. ‘Give an inch, and they take a mile,’ she says.”
“That’s not true of my father. The family was wrong to remove him from managing Foxemoore.” Emerald still smarted over Lavender’s indifference to her pain. “If he were still in charge, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Lavender shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve no strong opinion about Sir Karlton,” she said casually. “But honestly, Emerald, there’s little I can do about the matter of the indentured servant. Once I marry the viscount, perhaps things will change. I’ll be in authority then, since Baret’s share of Foxemoore is nearl
y as large as Cousin Geneva’s. But I’ve my hands full already convincing my mother that Baret is the right man for me. She’s considering Sir Jasper. Imagine! As if I’d marry that fop!”
Emerald was not interested in her marriage trials at the moment and pled impatiently, “But she’ll listen to you. Great-aunt is convinced you can do no wrong.”
Lavender’s clear laughter was part of her outward charm. “Thank goodness she does. What will I do if she doesn’t leave me her portion of the Harwick fortune?”
There was no doubt in Emerald’s mind but that Sophie would leave Lavender a hefty portion of the Harwick wealth in Jamaica.
“Emerald, I’ll be truthful with you. If I involve myself now in something as unpopular with the family as slave reform, it will put me in a most uncomfortable position. I can’t afford to disturb matters as they are, not with Felix arriving to marry Geneva. There are already nasty political problems in the family over Baret.”
Lord Felix was the son of the earl by his second marriage to one of the Harwick women. As such, Felix was only distantly related to Geneva. There was controversy over the marriage, for Geneva, a woman in her early forties, had never married, and her portion of Foxemoore was double that of either her younger sister, Beatrice, or her cousin Karlton.
“They’ll find Jamie Bradford,” said Lavender. “They always do find the prisoners who try to escape. And if I help you by coming to his defense, I’ll confront the displeasure of Felix. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
Emerald had heard much about Felix from her father, and little of what he had said was good.
“But you can go to Great-aunt Sophie,” argued Emerald. “And if they do find Jamie, ask for leniency. He only has six months until his indentured service is fulfilled. It’s unjust to arrest him now.”
But Lavender showed no interest in being talked into anything and sipped her glass of limeade. “Mr. Pitt’s convinced her that this Jamie fellow was involved in stirring up a rebellion among the slaves. You know the concerns about the possibility of an uprising. The planters don’t talk about such matters, but it remains their worst fear.”
The planters’ as well as the family’s inability to act fairly in this matter provoked Emerald’s temper. “How absurd! Did Mr. Pitt tell Lady Sophie they were planning a rebellion?”
“He advised her that Jamie Bradford must be caught and … hanged.”
Emerald paled. The beast! No words were terrible enough for what she thought of Pitt.
“Jamie did nothing more than anoint the bloody back of a slave who was whipped unmercifully. For that deed of kindness should he be hanged?”
Lavender grimaced, showing her boredom, for she often appeared impatient when Emerald reminded her of the horrors of slavery. “I don’t want to hear about such cruelties. Truly, Emerald, there’s little I can do. As for hanging, I’m told that any indentured servant can be hanged if deemed necessary for the safety of the plantations. And it’s true that the slave was a runaway. That’s against the law.”
“It’s an unjust law, and the more I see what happens, the more I realize just how wicked slavery is. Men made the laws of Jamaica, men who care for little except making money from their plantations. Not even a runaway animal deserves to be whipped—much less a man!”
“They don’t consider slaves to have the rights of men,” said Lavender wearily, picking up her parrot fan and swishing it.
Emerald walked toward her. “They wouldn’t, of course. If there were laws acknowledging them to be men, slavery would soon be outlawed, and the sugar plantations would have to hire workers. That’s why the Jamaican Council has outlawed teaching the slaves Christianity. If we worship God with them, we surely cannot keep them as slaves. But whether the law says they are men or not doesn’t matter. God says they are made in His image!”
Lavender tossed aside her fan and stood. “Vapors! I didn’t make the law, did I? Must you burden me with evils I’m not guilty of?” She paced. “I shall be glad to leave Port Royal for Buckington House. There’s been nothing but tension over the workers since Uncle Mathias arrived and began that Singing School.”
“Be fair. It isn’t so. Uncle Mathias has nothing to do with the tension among the workers. It’s Mr. Pitt. The ill-treatment of the slaves has grown worse since my father was removed as manager.”
Before Lavender could reply, they were interrupted by a sound coming through the windows that faced the sugar cane fields.
A breeze filtered through the cane shade, bringing with it the melancholy fragrance of the rich warm earth and the Caribbean Sea. In the distant fields the wind set the miles of cane rustling, and the sound came to Emerald’s ears like a chorus of the restless sea.
Then somewhere on the plantation the African slaves began to chant. She tensed. If the family heard, they would send Mr. Pitt to stop them. It was also against Jamaican law for slaves to meet together to sing. The big planters feared that would lead to a unity of purpose resulting in a rebellion.
The distant chanting arrested her concentration as surely as though hands had taken hold of her shoulders and given her a shake, bidding her to pay heed. The singing was not engaged in for happy purposes. Wearied souls moaned their sorrows in chants, their longings speaking in universal language within the echo of African drums, their hopelessness in the shaking of rattles. The haunting African music moved through her soul like the trade wind coming through the veranda. Again she felt a restless discontent that she could not fully understand, a beckoning that urged her forward down a long straight road to—where?
She turned to gaze into the afternoon shadows. The rhythm of the chant, the drums, the rattles, the cry of the soul went on to fill the velvet afternoon and wrap about her like a mantle, as the folk song from West Africa filled her ears.
“The lightning and the flashing,
The lightning and the flashing
The lightning and the flashing,
Who set this poor man free?
“We run to the mountain,
We run to the mountain,
We run to the mountain,
But the soldier he follow me.
“The lightning and the flashing,
The lightning and the flashing,
The lightning and the flashing,
There be no hope for me.”
Emerald felt her skin prickle. The rattle of drums intruded into the satin-adorned bedroom, bringing a tension of its own.
As they stood listening, Lavender’s own eyes showed her unease, and her gaze clung to Emerald’s. Then from one of the upstairs chambers an insistent bell clamored.
Emerald looked toward the bedroom door. From downstairs hurrying feet mounted the stairway in answer to the summons.
But before the house servant reached the upper hall, a door opened above, and Lavender’s mother, Lady Beatrice, demanded, “Henry! Tell Mr. Pitt to stop that dreadful noise! They’ll soon go on a rampage!”
“The overseer done took a horse already, Miss Beatrice.”
“Must the overseer be told every night to silence them?”
“It’s because Sir Karlton done used to let them sing—”
“I don’t care what my cousin once allowed. He is no longer in charge of Foxemoore. The noise is dreadful and speaks of trouble. Sounds like devil worship. Voodoo, they call it.”
“Yes, madam.”
Lady Beatrice’s door shut firmly, and the serving man Henry made his way back down the stairs.
Emerald stood staring toward the open veranda, where she could see the rising trade wind rustle the jasmine vine and the late afternoon sky flame the horizon. As if coming out of a trance, she tried to recall what had concerned her before the singing began.
Emerald turned and faced Lavender. It was plain to see that her cousin was not going to use her favored position with Great-aunt Sophie to intervene. Emerald realized she had been foolish to think she would. Once again her expectations had come crashing down. Lavender had her own plans, and no one would be allowed to do anyth
ing, or expect anything from her, that might keep them from coming to fruition.
Lavender appeared to read her thoughts. She walked up, troubled, and took Emerald’s arm. For a moment they looked at each other, then Emerald pulled away and walked to the door.
“I must get home. It’s getting late,” she murmured.
“Do be careful. Don’t let Mr. Pitt see you on his way back from the slave huts.”
“If I do, I shall tell him what I think of him.”
Lavender looked at her ruefully. “If I were in your position, I would be more cautious about confronting authority.”
Her suggestion was meant as a slight affront, but Emerald behaved as though she hadn’t noticed. “I know exactly what I would do if I were blessed to be in your favored position,” she told Lavender. “First, I’d work to get Mr. Pitt dismissed. Then I’d convince the family to end slavery.”
“You’d never accomplish such a thing.”
“Then I’d at least make certain their situation was bettered. And I wouldn’t give up easily.”
Lavender studied her briefly. “So there lies the difference between us, dear. I wish for nothing more than to leave Jamaica and return to England. I have one purpose—to marry Baret and sup with the king.” She opened the door and looked into the hall to make certain it was empty.
“Run now,” said Lavender, “before the family catches you here. They won’t like it, you know. And Emerald—” her voice changed “—where did you get such a grand dress? Perhaps I should wear it to the ball.”
Emerald leaned toward her. “You’re impossible, Lavender. Your wardrobe is overflowing with French ball gowns, and yet you must wear my one pretty dress? No. What do you think of that?”
Lavender turned pink, but she managed a smile. “I think you are selfish,” she said and shut her door softly.
Emerald tiptoed down the hall, her steps making no sound on the highly polished wood floor with its bright rag rugs. She neared Lady Geneva’s room and was about to sneak past. But the doorway stood partway open, and she heard voices arguing.
Buccaneers Series Page 9