Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Then the sound of the shot was followed by the thud of falling furniture.

  Jonah!

  The door to her room was suddenly flung open.

  Emerald gasped, stepping back against the window, seeing a slave looming in the doorway, his machete raised and gleaming.

  She didn’t know where the strength came from, but she found herself saying, “I am not an enemy to your cause. But this is not the way to bring true freedom. You cannot win. Even if you kill me, you will lose come morning. The planters have all the weapons and the laws of slavery on their side. Yet I am a friend who also believes your women and daughters should be treated with dignity! Mr. Pitt is my enemy too.”

  He hesitated, as though wondering why Pitt would be her enemy. The hesitation proved to be to her advantage, for she saw his weapon lower, then rise again.

  Emerald thought herself mad for even hoping she might talk the man out of his rage. But she was not to know whether she had done so or not. The sound of horses beating their way up the wagon road rushed through the open window, and they both turned to look, knowing what that sound meant.

  The slaves did not have horses, but Mr. Pitt and his small militia did.

  For Emerald the sound of their arrival came with relief mingled with alarm, for it would mean many hangings if Pitt had his way! For the slave who stood in her room with the machete, the sound trumpeted his ultimate defeat. If Pitt had been alerted, then by now the slaves would know that their plot was uncovered. Without the element of surprise on their side, failure was certain, for the implements they used in the cane fields were no match for long guns and pistols.

  From across the plantation she heard the echo of shots—and more of them, coming from different directions.

  She turned swiftly to the slave. “Surrender to me, and I will see you’re not hanged with the leaders! I’ll protect you from Pitt.”

  He shuddered like some broken giant, then dropped the machete onto the floor with a clatter. He fell to his knees, weeping. Emerald stared at the weapon, knowing how close she had come to death, but then her eyes went to the man, and her heart felt compassion for his plight. She saw in him a reflection of old Jonah, of Ty, of Minette, and yes, even of herself, for at times during her young life here in the Manor she had felt a slave.

  Forever stamped upon her memory would be the image of this big broken man kneeling, head in hands, his machete gleaming on the floor. She would hear his loud weeping and the anguish of his frustration.

  “What is your name?” she whispered.

  “Ngozi,” he said. “Means ‘Blessing.’ But Pitt calls me Ham.”

  She winced. But she knew that Pitt was not the only one to rename slaves, as though they were something less than men and women.

  Slowly she walked toward him. “Ngozi?”

  He lifted his head, and she saw the gray in his hair for the first time, saw the hopelessness in his eyes, the scars from whippings on his flesh.

  She swallowed, her throat dry. “Jesus the Son of God knows what it’s like to be whipped, to be spit upon, to be mocked, to be rejected—He brings blessing to you from His Father’s house. True freedom from another slavery far worse than iron chains—the slavery to sin and Satan and death. Jesus brings healing from hate, from devil worship, from confusion, from the midnight of your soul, from my soul too. In His Name I will hide you. And when you can—seek your freedom in the Blue Mountains. And when you think of Englishmen, think also of me, of my Uncle Mathias, of a white skin who also has within a heart to love because Jesus dwells there. We are not all beasts like Mr. Pitt, or like the slavers who hunt for you in West Africa, or like the selfish planters who think only of their sugar crop. If I were not running away myself, I would stay to fight for the well-being of the African women and children.”

  He stared at her.

  Emerald turned her back to show she no longer distrusted him and went to the open window to look below at the arriving horses. Her worst fear sprang up like a snarling jackal. “Mr. Pitt!” she whispered.

  Pitt was in his bare feet. His hands were clenched into fists. In the moonlight she saw that he had with him several of the indentured servants who worked under him, and a dozen planters also rode up, armed with weapons.

  Baret! Where was he? Only he could save the slaves from a lynching!

  She whirled from the window to see Ngozi standing there glistening with sweat, his dark eyes watching her.

  “Mr. Pitt has men with him. Quick! Under the bed until he’s gone!”

  He obeyed, all thought of belligerence now gone. Emerald went swiftly to make certain the coverlet trailed on the floor. “Whatever happens,” she whispered, “do not come out, Ngozi!”

  She rushed out the door into the hall. From downstairs she heard Pitt’s surly voice, followed by an explosion of musket fire. Her hand went to her throat, her face contorting with pity as the shooting continued.

  If uprisings were evil, what were the forces that drove men to such desperate acts? Slavery! Brandings! Beatings!

  When the shots ceased, she ran to the top of the steps and in horror looked below. Slaves lay dead or dying, and the sight of blood turned her stomach. Her anxious eyes fell upon Jonah lying on the steps, face downward, a darkened stain wetting the back of his tattered cotton shirt.

  Whether one of the slaves had shot him earlier, or whether Mr. Pitt had fired, was unclear to her. She gave a cry of outrage. The gentle old man was dead.

  As her eyes raced to meet Mr. Pitt, who was coming up the steps, her brain weaved, and waves of horror washed over her. Baret! Where are you?

  Her knees were buckling as she went under a flood of darkness.

  A red sunrise covered the expanse of sky above the wide empty field, its brown soil newly dug for planting. Emerald sat in her buggy with Minette beside her.

  Dazed, she stared ahead. The bodies of twenty Africans swayed lightly in the early morning breeze, their necks broken. Mr. Pitt had seen to it that the ugly execution had taken place at once as a warning.

  Emerald heard the sobbing of the women who huddled together like frightened sheep farther back in the field. A few children wailed, frightened, not knowing what was happening. A few smaller boys crouched on their haunches watching the bodies with round eyes.

  Above in the pale sky, large carrion circled.

  Minette sat quietly, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed from crying over her grandfather’s death, her face soiled with dust.

  Numb, Emerald thought again, I promised to save Ngozi. He could have killed me but didn’t. I failed him.

  She stiffened with new resolve burning in her soul. “Jonah must have a Christian burial.”

  Minette’s eyes filled with tears as she sat staring ahead. “They won’t allow it. You know that. No slave gets a Christian burial.”

  Emerald’s fingers tightened on the reins as she turned the buggy to ride on to the Singing School to find Mathias and tell him about Jonah.

  “Jonah will,” she gritted. “He’s no slave to me. I loved him.”

  Minette looked at her with pride. “They won’t stop us,” she agreed.

  The round school building, made of palm branches and hemp, had gone untorched, although she saw other slave huts burned to the ground. The smell of smoke hung in the air as she stopped the buggy and climbed down.

  The old woman Yolanda, who cared for Mathias in his illness, sat outside the Singing School on a rattan stool. Her head, covered with a yellow bandanna, was in her lap. She made a moaning sound like a prayer chant.

  Emerald quickened her steps. “Yolanda?” she inquired uneasily.

  The woman looked up, her dark eyes pensive.

  “Is Jonah dead?” asked Yolanda.

  Emerald laid a hand on her shoulder. She nodded.

  Tears ran down the woman’s wrinkled cheeks. “Ty escaped to the Blue Mountains,” Yolanda informed her. “Two others with him. The other men are dead. Mr. Pitt, he hung ’em.”

  Emerald felt her anger rising again like
the tide. “Yes, he killed them.”

  Yolanda remained seated on the stool, her voice without emotion. “Jonah and Ty did a good thing in warning you and Mr. Mathias.”

  “Yes—” Emerald’s voice broke. “They did good.”

  “Jonah died for helping.”

  Emerald could not reply. She nodded.

  “Others died too.”

  Again Emerald nodded, grieved. She dimly wondered why Yolanda kept stammering, until she understood what she was trying to say. Her eyes darted to Yolanda’s sober gaze. “No,” whispered Emerald, fear pinching her throat. “Not Mathias—”

  Yolanda’s eyes flooded. She pointed inside the Singing School.

  With a small cry Emerald rushed past her, nearly stumbling in her haste to reach him.

  The dimness blinded her, and for a moment she stood without moving, waiting for her eyes to adjust. The familiar smell of hemp and cane filled the hut. His music papers were stacked neatly on a small handmade desk next to the old out-of-tune harpsichord. Study books and papers were piled on small tables on both sides of his bunk. It had always been a comforting sight, and only now did she understand how desperately she wanted to behold him again sitting bent over those papers, trying to translate slave chants into English and then into Christian music.

  I must keep him, Lord! He’s all I’ve got, she prayed, her hands gripping the sides of her skirt and petticoats. I can’t lose him too!

  She moved softly across the room toward the figure covered with a light cotton cover, fearful she would see the gaunt face of death.

  But he turned his head toward her, and a glimpse of his face reminded her of how Mathias, with his knowledge of the Scriptures, had been a shield for her, dispensing comfort and strength from the Lord.

  “Mathias!” She sank to her knees beside his bunk, her skirts rustling. “Uncle Mathias? It’s me, Emerald,” she choked. “Don’t you die too. I can’t bear it.” She put her head down beside his and wept the way she had as a child.

  A feeble hand reached out to try to pat her head. She looked at him through tears. His eyes were open, but she saw approaching death staring back.

  Behind her, Minette wept softly.

  He’d been terribly burned. Probably trying to save a family trapped in one of the huts.

  He tried to speak, his hand patting her. Emerald brought herself under control in order to hear his words, bringing her ear to his cracked mouth.

  “Find Karlton … he doesn’t know … go to England, Emerald—”

  “There’s no hope anymore, Uncle Mathias. Everything has turned out badly.”

  “Lord … is not weary. Those who wait on Him … mount up with eagle’s wings … wait …”

  “I’ll find Papa,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about me, Uncle Mathias—” Her voice cramped.

  He tried to gesture to his desk. “Save … work.”

  “Yes, you worked very hard. I’ll take care of the music. You can count on me, Uncle.” Tears ran down her face. She wanted to hold him, but he was in too much pain. “You can count on me,” she repeated.

  Did he smile? His gray eyes shone with an inner peace. He tried to muster his remaining strength. He seemed to reach out to include Minette.

  Emerald turned. “Minette, quickly!”

  Minette rushed forward, falling to her knees. “Mathias!”

  He placed a weak hand on Minette’s shoulder, the other one on Emerald. “Jehovah aid thee … guide thee … keep thee both … till the morning break … and … shadows flee away.”

  “Yes,” replied Emerald. “Till then.”

  His ragged breath heaved, and his eyelids closed. His hand grew still, reflecting emptiness, for his soul had winged its way homeward.

  Gone. Her last human bulwark. There was no one left who truly understood her, who loved her at her worst, who was there to advise, to listen to her troubles, to truly care.

  Grieving over her loss, she lay her head upon his chest and sobbed.

  From outside Emerald heard a carriage. Voices followed, and then she became aware that someone had entered the bungalow. She lifted her head but did not turn.

  “He’s dead then?” The voice was quiet but stilted.

  Geneva, his cousin.

  Emerald pushed herself up from the bunk and turned to face her. Geneva obviously hadn’t gone to bed since the ball and was still richly gowned and bedecked with pearls. She carried a basket, and as Emerald’s eyes dropped to its contents she saw salve and fresh cotton strips. Geneva had come to anoint him. Emerald said nothing, and as Geneva walked to the humble bunk, she stepped aside. For the first time Emerald saw tears in the woman’s eyes.

  She knelt, forehead resting on her folded hands. “Mathias—what have we done?”

  Emerald took in her expensive clothing, the well-set red curls, the rubies that twinkled on her earlobes. At the same time she glanced about the bungalow until her gaze fixed on the worn harpsichord.

  He had wanted so little of this world’s goods. Only a musical instrument. He had not been bitter toward the Harwick family for disinheriting him. He had never spoken in envy or resentment about denied wealth or lack of appreciation. Now he was gone. Geneva remained, the others in the family remained, and Geneva could become the sole inheritor of the Harwick portion of the sugar estate—except for what Karlton owned. And that too was at risk to family debt.

  And yet who is the richer? Emerald wondered soberly.

  She walked numbly over to his desk and, finding the satchel, filled it with his work, opening and shutting the drawers.

  “He warned the house last night,” said Geneva. “He came across Jette and brought him to me. I suppose when he returned here, he was caught. I begged him to stay, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “No,” said Emerald dully. “They wouldn’t have harmed him deliberately. The slaves knew he was their only friend. They respected him, even loved him. They loved this hut …” Her voice cracked.

  Geneva was bent over him, her shoulders shaking gently.

  “This is where his work was,” said Emerald. “His heart was here, with his music, his plans for the Singing School, for the slaves …”

  “And look where it got him,” said Geneva bitterly. “He’s dead.”

  “He had friends! They tried to save him—they saved me too! Mr. Pitt is a vile man! How can you bear the sight of him?” She pointed toward the door. “How could you allow Pitt to hang those men as though they were animals! Twenty men! Now women no longer have husbands, children have no fathers. All because of Pitt.”

  Geneva looked up at her, white and shaking. Her lips thinned, and her eyes flashed. “I didn’t know he would hang them.”

  Emerald’s fear had long ago faded, and she faced her cousin evenly. “But you should have known. Why didn’t you? Who is master of Foxemoore, Mr. Pitt or the family?”

  “You dare speak to me like this?”

  “Someone needs to tell you how wrong you are—all of you,” wept Emerald. “Must it take the death of Mathias and the lynching of twenty men to convince the family how evil it is to own human beings as though they are oxen?”

  Emerald walked toward her, her hands clenched. “Have you ever been out here before? Have you ever seen their plight?”

  Geneva shook her head, still kneeling over Mathias.

  “The women are naked from the waist up—”

  “Stop it.”

  “Why? You should know! Look—and see what is happening here. Some of the children have no clothing except for the things Minette and I have managed to make. When they give birth, there is no midwife. When they are sick, they die unattended. They receive no Christian burial—”

  Emerald stood beside her. “Jonah was killed for warning us. He gave his life for us. I came here to have Uncle Mathias give him the dignity of a Christian burial. Now he is dead too. Mr. Pitt will try to stop me, but Jonah will be buried next to Uncle Mathias.”

  Geneva looked at her sharply. “You don’t know what you’re asking,�
�� she breathed.

  Emerald looked down at her. “I do. Mathias used his life to bring spiritual freedom to the slaves,” she said quietly. “We should honor his work by giving Jonah a Christian burial with him.”

  “Sophie will never allow such a thing. And the other planters will be upset. It’s against Jamaican law.”

  “The laws of God are more important.”

  Geneva shook her head. “In all Jamaica I couldn’t find a minister to conduct such a funeral. An African slave with Mathias?”

  “I shall conduct the funeral,” Emerald found herself saying and was nearly as taken aback by her words as was Geneva, who stared at her, stunned.

  Emerald swallowed and raised her head. “I shall read Mathias’s favorite words from Scripture. I-I can get some of the slaves to dig their plots.”

  Geneva stood up from the bunk and faced her, overwhelmed. “Do you realize what Sophie would say if I let you do this? And Felix—” She stopped and looked down at her left hand, raising it. In the shadowed bungalow the new diamond wedding ring did not shine.

  “Yes, I know what they’ll say. But I’m asking you for permission. Not for me, but for him,” she said softly and looked toward the bunk where he lay.

  Geneva turned away, head in hand as if in agony. The minutes crept by while Emerald waited.

  At last Geneva’s voice came so quietly that Emerald strained to catch her words.

  “I must be ill. You have my permission.”

  Emerald drew in a breath, feeling she had won a great victory. Permission for a most common event, a burial, had been granted.

  But not just any burial of the dead, she thought. A Christian burial for Jonah. A small but poignant acknowledgment by one of authority on Foxemoore that a slave was a man.

  Emerald grasped the satchel containing her uncle’s work and reached the bungalow door. There she paused and turned toward Geneva, her warm eyes glowing.

  Geneva stood erect, her face pale and gaunt from lack of sleep and weariness. A long moment passed in silence as they stood looking at each other.

  “You are not the only one who has lost a loved one and a friend. They managed to get into one wing of the upper house last night before Grayford shot them. Lavender saw her mother killed.”