Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Minette had used Emerald to intercede with Great-uncle Mathias.

  “He shows no promise toward the true God but holds to his tribal worship in secret,” Mathias said. “Whereas Minette has confessed faith in Christ.”

  The matter had ended badly, with Sempala turning bitter toward her. She had avoided him after that when walking the narrow cane roads on her errands for Mathias.

  Sempala noticed Mr. Pitt’s stained shirt and the visible bandage about his upper chest. “Someone hurt you, Boss Man? You want me to break him in two?”

  Minette stared at the rust-colored dirt beneath her feet and felt the hair lift on the back of her neck.

  “Was a wench who shot me. Emerald Harwick. She’s in the gaol now waiting to hang, with fit company of rats and lice.”

  Sempala must have been shocked, but he wore his face like a tribal mask. Only Minette, who knew him better, could see the amazement in his eyes.

  “Harwick’s dead,” Pitt said, as if to hint of why he could get by with his present actions. “I’ll be taking over the Harwick bungalow myself.” He nodded toward Minette. “She’s just another slave now. Gets no special treatment ‘cause her uncle was Harwick. She’ll work the fields on the far end.”

  Minette tried to show no emotion as she stood between them, a small waif and two giants discussing her fate. How indignant Emerald would be if she knew Mr. Pitt was moving into her father’s house.

  The soles of her feet were burning from the hot soil, and the twinge in her ankle was growing more painful.

  “An’ if she gets better treatment,” Pitt was saying, “I’ll whip you.”

  “Yes, Boss Man, no special treatment.” Sempala turned and gloated, his eyes mocking. “Move, you black wench!” He shoved her forward.

  Minette stumbled.

  The cane grew high and green on either side of the path. Minette walked ahead, and Sempala strode behind her like an African chieftain. The sky was royal blue, the earth beneath her feet a rich brown, but she saw no beauty and found the intense sunlight sapping her strength and leaving her exhausted.

  “How come you let him catch you, huh?”

  “Leave me alone, Sempala.”

  “An’ you was goin’ to marry yourself a handsome white man!” He laughed loudly, slapping his knee, and looking up into the bright sky.

  “I said leave me alone.” Tears welled up.

  “A mighty warrior, a buccaneer named Farrow, huh? Look at you, gal. You is as bad off as me.” He yanked on her tangled ringlets. “An’ just ‘cause your hair is faded don’t mean I’m going to treat you nicer than Yolanda’s wench.”

  Tears ran through the dust on her face, leaving little trails.

  “Sempala will look a little more like a man to you now,” he said, whistling, as he sauntered along behind her, whip over his shoulder. “My skin is black, and I like it. You’re gonna like it too. ‘Cause you is just as African as me.”

  He took his prod and gave her a gentle shove. “Move, gal. You is too slow for me.”

  Minette winced and tried to quicken her steps.

  “I has me a hut. You’ll be moving in soon maybe.”

  “Please leave me alone, Sempala. Can’t you see I’m in sorrow?”

  “I can see. Can’t go squalling to brother Ty again either, like you always did when I come near.”

  “I wish he was here!”

  “Bet you do. There’s talk. He’s not in the Blue Mountain anymore. If he’s caught here, Pitt will kill him. So if you want kindness, gal, you best give Sempala the smiles he wants when he wants ’em. I’m second to Boss Man Pitt.”

  “And a traitor to your people,” she snapped.

  “You is talking? Why, you used to live in the white bungalow and walk past us like we wasn’t good enough for you. You didn’t wanna be black like us.”

  “My mother was African, and I’m proud of it, but can you blame me because I didn’t want to be a slave? If I’d married you, you’d never be a free man and our children too would be slaves. Don’t hate me for wanting to escape, just like Emerald.”

  “I don’t hate you. But you think like a white woman. You’ll learn the white men won’t want you. That warrior Farrow should see you now. You is finally in your place. Stop.”

  She stopped, her heart throbbing.

  He snatched a hoe from a woman. “Go to the boiling house.” He handed the hoe to Minette and pointed. “See that circle? You keep hoeing till the sun goes down. Orders from Boss Man Pitt.”

  The other slaves glanced at her and Sempala, their eyes showing spirits beaten down and without hope. Then they returned to their work.

  Minette began to hoe and found the instrument too big for her small hands. As the hour wore on, her soft palms, unused to hard labor, formed blisters that soon broke and stung as sweat ran into them.

  The afternoon wore on endlessly. The sun grew hotter. Without hat or parasol, she thought the unbearable heat would bring on a faint. Her skin was burning, and her lips grew dry and cracked. Sweat ran down her face and blurred her vision.

  Once she slumped to her knees, her brain overcome with dizziness. The other slaves glanced in her direction, but none came to aid her. She knew they dared not.

  I don’t care if Pitt does whip me, she thought. I want to die.

  She heard someone come up behind her then. She felt strong arms lifting her from the hot ground and carrying her between two rows of cane to where there was shade. Whoever it was placed her on some dried cane leaves. Then he removed his shirt, folded it, and placed it under her head. Her eyelids were swollen, and her face burned. She tried to see who it was, but it hurt too much to look.

  “You rest,” he said in a low voice. “I know who you are. Miss Emerald’s cousin. I’m Ngozi. She saved me from Pitt during the uprising. She saved me from hanging. I’m not forgetting. Here, drink.”

  She grabbed the water skin and brought it to her mouth. Her lips cracked and bled as she gulped the warm drink, and her thirst was such that it might have been sweetened lime water.

  He pulled it back. “Not much—it will make you more sick.”

  “Ngozi.” She wept with relief, her eyelids stinging from the salty tears. “I must get to the Great House. My cousin is in Brideswell, arrested for trying to murder Mr. Pitt. It isn’t true—I’m the one who shot him, but Mr. Pitt won’t listen. I’ve got to do something to help Emerald—”

  He looked at her with pity but shook his graying head, half-covered with a bright orange scarf. His dark eyes were weary pools that reflected his own suffering.

  “Pitt and Sempala watch us night and day. We cannot take chance now. You must wait. But there is hope—” He stopped. “Someone comes.”

  The stalks rustled, and Sempala pushed his way through. Seeing her, he frowned.

  “I said you was white. Look at you. Roasted like a skinless rabbit.”

  “What you do to the girl, Sempala? You got a serpent’s heart of cruelty.”

  “Can I stop Boss Man? Is he not the big chief now? Harwick is dead. Work must be done. Pitt will whip me if I help her. Will my raw back free her? Free any of us?”

  “We do her work for her today. If he finds out, he whips us, not you.”

  “If you wasn’t an old man, Ngozi, I’d think you has a heart for Minette.”

  “You talk foolish. I have a heart for God. An’ He told me to help her.”

  “Your white God don’t help you none that I can see. How come you isn’t Boss Man, huh?”

  “If my Savior could suffer, I can suffer until He says, ‘Enough now, it is over.’ The girl is sick and full of sorrow. Do not stop us. You know you like her.”

  Sempala frowned at Minette. “Who else will help?”

  “The indentured servant, Danny.”

  A moment later there was another rustle of leaves, and an Irishman stepped out, the one called “the papist” by Mr. Pitt. “Hoot! I’m no’ afraid of Pitt’s whip. I’ll help ye, lassie.”

  “If Boss Man finds out, I k
now nothing,” said Sempala. “I won’t defend you.”

  “We’ll take any whipping.”

  Sempala looked down at Minette, then at Ngozi and the Irishman. He nodded, turned his back, and walked to the next row.

  If Mr. Pitt wondered that she hadn’t been brought to the bungalow ill, he said nothing when he came daily on his gray gelding to look over the slaves and the work done. Always her share was completed. He said nothing after demanding to see her palms. Satisfied with her blisters and sunburned skin, he rode on.

  One night Minette awoke in the slave hut where she slept on the floor with other women and girls, hearing men’s voices outside. Fear gripped her, thinking it could be Pitt or even Sempala, but then she recognized Ngozi’s voice.

  “Run! It’s Pitt,” Ngozi said to the men. And then she heard the sound of fleeing feet.

  The next noon, Mr. Pitt rode up with Sempala walking beside his horse. Minette saw Pitt glance at her, but his attention was fixed on Ngozi. He reined in, fingering his whip.

  “Where were you last night?”

  Ngozi remained calm and dignified. “Sleeping in the hut, Boss Man. My body grows old and tired.”

  “You lie. I went to the hut, and you was gone.”

  “I was there, Boss Man. Ask the Irishman.”

  Pitt turned in his saddle. “Well, papist?”

  “Hoot, Mr. Pitt, he was there. His snoring kept me awake.”

  Pitt looked at each man, then around at the other slaves, who stood in somber silence. He fingered the whip handle, his jaw flexing.

  Sempala appeared nervous.

  “You’re all in this together, a rat pack of liars. I know someone’s been bringing food to a runaway in the woods. I’ll find out who. And when I do, there’ll be more hangings. The first to dangle will be you, Ngozi.”

  Pitt turned his horse and rode away, Sempala running after him.

  “One more year and he’ll be gone,” said Ngozi.

  “So what?” said a slave. “Somebody else will take his place.”

  17

  THROUGH THORNY WAYS

  Emerald heard no voice and saw no angel as she prayed, “Father God, where are You?” but a drenching peace as sweet as the dawn flooded her spirit. Her circumstances had not been altered, yet she knew beyond human ability to see that though the conditions binding her seemed dark and hopeless, she was not abandoned. The God of all comfort was faithful. She was living in the very presence of the God of Light. He was here. With her. He was strengthening her, taking away her hysteria, bringing courage where minutes before it had fled.

  “Jesus,” she whispered, delighting in the name that had made her a child of the heavenly Father.

  Gradually her thudding heart slowed. She was no longer in a panic. The itching was bearable. The darkness remained but was not as terrifying. They could do nothing to her except what He permitted. And whatever God permitted in suffering would not go beyond what she could endure, for He had promised that His grace was sufficient.

  Outside the gaol the chief turnkey sat at his unkempt desk. A dirty lantern glowed on the piece of paper delivered to him a minute ago by a liveried slave. The turnkey squinted and read the brief message:

  If Emerald Harwick is physically accosted while in Brideswell, you’re a dead man.

  Sir Jasper R.

  How many days had passed, or had it only been one? The bolt was thrown back, and the door creaked open, letting in a stream of light. Emerald blinked and turned her head away from the painful glare.

  “So be it, countess,” came a familiar, mocking voice. “A good day to you, and out you come. Make haste, little bird.”

  Emerald hesitated, and the turnkey lifted both heavy brows. “What’s this? Ye be wanting to stay, do you?”

  “You—you mean I’m free to go?”

  He brayed like a donkey. “Like a birdie with clipped wings, my lovely. You can hop about the outside all you want, but you ain’t be flyin’ high any times soon.”

  Disappointment fell. She’d been foolish to even think matters could work out so quickly. Jasper had said “months.” She ejected the word from her mind and refused to let it add to her alarm. One day at a time.

  The guard gestured her down the smelly passageway without so much as laying a hand on her arm, and she wondered about the cautious change that had come over him. But she gratefully accepted the answer to her prayers.

  With the help of daylight, she could see her new holding place. It was perhaps not much larger than the small front chamber in the lookout house. She winced at the hideous sight of women covered with sores, their hair matted and their clothes torn and dirty. Most were half-castes or Africans and Caribs. There was one Spanish woman with disheveled hair, who cursed the turnkey, showing him her fist.

  Emerald’s first reaction was to pull back in horror, but for some reason she held her ground.

  “Well, look at her,” mumbled one of the European doxies. “An angel, from the looks of her.”

  “Careful, you minx,” called the turnkey. “She’s a cold-blooded murderess, that one.”

  The woman cocked her head. “A murderess, eh? And who’d you do in, the gov’nor’s fancy mistress?”

  “I’m not a murderess. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

  “Innocent, she says,” cackled one. “Blimey, so am I, ain’t I, Maria?”

  The Spanish woman spat and tossed her tangles.

  “It makes no mind to us,” said another. “The bloke had it comin’ is my guess. They all do.”

  One of the women walked up to her with a smirk. “Gimme that bonnet. Sun’s hot when we’re put out to exercise.”

  Emerald hesitated, then handed it to her. “I’m giving it to you out of kindness, not because you demand it.”

  Another, with cold, glassy eyes, walked up next. “Yeah, angel? Then your sweet kindness will give me that necklace.” She reached a gnarled hand with blackened nails to pull the Huguenot cross from her throat.

  Emerald stepped back, covering the necklace with her hand. “It’s a French Protestant cross, and it means too much to me. It belonged to my mother.”

  “Well it’s gonna belong to me now. Hand it over. I’ll take your dress too!”

  “No. I’ll not give it up.”

  The other women grew silent and stared, clearly waiting to see what would happen. The showdown didn’t delay long. Emerald expected it and was waiting when the doxy sprang, fingers grabbing for her throat.

  They fell together to the floor, struggling, but Emerald was fighting for more than her mother’s cross. She knew she must show herself strong, or the others too would turn on her. Although a fighter, the doxy was perhaps in ailing health, for Emerald realized she was strong enough to match her. And then the woman produced a small knife.

  Emerald caught her wrist and wrested the knife away. Having the advantage now, she rose to her feet.

  The woman, lying on her back, raised herself on both elbows. “Well? Go on with you. Use it! Or call the dirty turnkey!”

  “I’ve no wish to use it,” said Emerald, pushing her hair from her face. “All I want is the right to keep what’s precious to me. You can have it back if you promise to leave me alone.”

  The woman stared at her belligerently for what, to Emerald, seemed minutes. Then she grumbled something and nodded.

  Emerald hesitated, wondering if she could trust her. She decided there would be nothing gained if she did not, nor could she survive long among these vicious women unless they accepted her enough to at least leave her in peace. Cautiously, she reached down a hand to help her attacker to her feet.

  The woman stared at her hand as though she pointed a pistol, then cautiously took hold, and Emerald pulled her up. They looked at each other steadily.

  Emerald handed her the knife, and the doxy took it.

  “I’m Faith,” she grumbled, “and don’t laugh, or I’ll box your ears. I didn’t ask to be named that.”

  “I think it a fine name, but perhaps a little out
of place on you.”

  Faith smirked. “Yeah … well …” She shrugged her bony shoulders and nodded toward the door. “There’s a chapeal here—down the hall—just before the door to the courtyard. Nobody goes though, least of all the stinking turnkeys and His Honor. They’re as wicked as we are.”

  The very word chapel washed against Emerald’s soul like a sweet sea breeze.

  “Yeah, how’d you know?” asked one of the others.

  “‘Cause I went in there once,” snapped Faith, putting her weapon away. “I was curious. There ain’t nothing there ‘cept some pews and candles and podium.”

  “When was the last Sunday a minister came to hold services?” asked Emerald.

  Faith gave a laugh. “Here? They don’t ever come here. Nobody does, leastways no angel—male or female.”

  “Ain’t so,” spoke up an African girl. “We has us an angel now. An’ she beat you good.”

  When the girl smiled at her, Emerald saw that her face bore several deep scars and a memorable mark on her forehead similar to Ty’s.

  Thereafter Emerald was called “Angel,” and the women left her alone. They continued fighting among themselves, however, over food or the best places to sleep.

  Emerald thought of the chapel. She would await an opportunity to slip inside when the guards let them out into the open courtyard for exercise.

  When exercise time came, however, she saw to her horror that the male prisoners were let into the courtyard at the same time. She lingered behind, hoping to go unnoticed and steal into the chapel instead, but the chief turnkey seemed to constantly watch her, though he too left her alone.

  “All’s well, countess. Out with ye now. I’ll be on guard in the courtyard so them napes can’t get ideas.”

  “I’d prefer to visit the chapel instead.”

  He gawked at her, then scratched his head. “The chapel, you say?”

  “Yes, the women tell me there’s one here that’s always open.”