Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  Shiny barrel, ebony handle, the gun had no smell of gunpowder. Coseveldt Cells lowered his weapon.

  “What are you . . . Dolly?”

  I didn’t answer. I needed to be an orange-bellied oriole that could flit around this man and leave before he again lifted his gun.

  “It is you, Dolly.” The man put his gun into the pocket of his long dark coat that had pleats and flared from his waist to his knees. That was too fancy for everyday Montserrat. Didn’t look like Montserrat at all.

  The crisp daylight and the years had aged him from the picture I had in my head. No longer lanky but filled out with muscles. The face that was smooth now bore a hint of stubble for a beard. The cleft in his chin, had it always been there?

  “There’s nothing to steal. It’s picked through, even the sewing needles and the bone thimble Mrs. Ben loved.”

  An image of the woman stitching in the corner talking about making ginger preserves filled my eyes, almost covering her death mask.

  The memory of her dying hadn’t left. It haunted me whenever I saw smoke in the night or heard restless drums.

  “Not here for anything, sir. Just waiting for the rain to slow.”

  He rubbed at his face. His cheeks changed from pink to peach to white. “Your hut hasn’t flooded? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No. Too many people in Pa’s owl . . . in Pa’s house. The rain slowed and I went for a walk.”

  He pounded closer, his boots making the floorboards tremble. “Oh. Not smart, Dolly. This weather is unpredictable. Kirwan’s big house is sturdy.”

  Mamaí told me about men and to avoid ’em. Yet I couldn’t cower or slink away, not with his hazel eyes judging me lacking. “Could ask the same of you? You’re out here when you have a perfectly good house fifty feet away.”

  A half smirk formed. “I grew up running back and forth from here to the main house. I always did my best thinking then. Some habits are hard to stop.”

  He was winsome and shifted his stance like he hunted for something long gone. “There should be a pot for coals and wood. A fire will take the chill away.”

  “I left to be alone. Hard to do that with two.”

  “Dolly. A sense of humor to go with your boldness. Nice.”

  The man sat and put his hands to his knees. I had a sense he showed me his easy manner to calm me.

  Yet those eyes with the tight crinkles in the corner said he wasn’t easy at all.

  As slow as a one-legger worm, I inched to the door. “I’ll be going.”

  “Dolly, I never thanked you. That night, I was pretty turned around. I wanted to help Merr Ben, but you helped me.”

  Merr wasn’t Irish, at least I didn’t think so. “I didn’t do much.”

  “You did more than most. It was brave. Thank you.”

  The back of his head was to me with nothing but an indigo ribbon cinched about his thick black hair. The sorrow in his voice guided me. He wouldn’t hurt me.

  “We still lost her, sir.”

  “Yes. Yes, we did.”

  The friendship I had with the old woman, Coseveldt Cells must’ve had one too.

  “I’ve watched you sometimes from my study. Pretty little Negress walking past my plantation heading to town. It doesn’t frighten you, walking alone?”

  “Frightens me you been watching.”

  “Please come back. I won’t hurt you.”

  I eased from the door and kept my eye on this man who talked to me like he saw me as human. “Most know I’m Kirwan’s. I’m not bothered. You’re not going to say I can’t come near your property?”

  “That wouldn’t be neighborly.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “So, Dolly Kirwan, what do you do sneaking to town?”

  “I huckster . . . I do mercantilism.”

  He fell back laughing. Sprawled on the floor, he looked more handsome and even young, chuckling like a fool. Sitting up he slapped at the shaft of his boot. “A business-minded lass. How exciting.”

  “I have big dreams. I’m not meant to be living in a hut all my days. I want to earn enough to have a plantation of my own.”

  “That is a big dream.” He leaned over and snatched up my wet scarf, making my hair fall. “This thing is sopping wet. You can catch cold.”

  Before I uttered a complaint, he’d wrung out my gray-checked scarf. Near his boots sat puddles like the osnaburg had cried.

  Fancy silks and fine needlepoint with a tricorn hat on his hip, I felt small next to his splendor, but I wouldn’t be cowed. I’d have fancy clothes, too, when I was free.

  “What is it you want, Cells? Have you seen the pots or the blankets? Do you wish to buy? I see you fixing up things.”

  More humor covered his face, shifting his lips, changing the way the light hit his dimples and the dent in his chin.

  “Dolly, I’m trying to decide if I should make a go here. My father, he’d want me to.”

  “But you don’t? Trying not to let him down.”

  “Something like that. But I’m pushing uphill. The land’s not as good or stable. My manager Polk says it’s no good. No good.”

  His tone flattened.

  Cells was rich, one of those good praying Catholics. He shouldn’t have worries, but not succeeding here seemed to hurt.

  “Ya pa would understand. He wouldn’t want you wasting money. Then there’d be nothing left in it for you.”

  “Something in it for me. You’re a smart little girl.”

  “Yes. That’s what my pa says. If you’ve done your best, no one can talk against you.”

  “Someone always will.” He sighed and shifted his legs. “You save me the best blanket, but don’t give me a discount. A friend should expect to pay full price.”

  Friend?

  I didn’t have any besides Kitty. Not sure if a sister counted if I could order her around. “Yes, full price.”

  My gaze met his and I accepted his attention fully. I had nothing to be ashamed of. I was a businesswoman after all. Watching Pa all these years meant I could charge a fair price.

  Yet, after an eternity of Cells staring and me looking back, I lowered my eyes to the floorboard and fixed my dripping braids. “Say what’s on your mind. I can’t read your thoughts.”

  “I suppose you read some, though. Merr Ben could.”

  He said my damfo’s name again with such affection. I imagined Cells coming to her as I did to ask advice, to eat a treat of hot sugared ginger.

  “It’s better to ask and save my mind for important stuff, like charging goods. We haven’t settled on what colors you want.”

  He craned his neck to the freshly thatched roof. “Do people ever question if you’re mulatto, that Kirwan is indeed your pa?”

  Sitting, I yanked at my braid, thin and fine, straight as the day is long and of the deepest ebony, just like Pa’s. “Mamaí said I got this purely from the Kirwans. Her own pa’s Creole hair wasn’t this straight. I wish mine was thicker like hers.”

  And if Cells had seen Pa’s face when Mamaí told him about Overseer Teller trying to visit, he’d know my pa wasn’t letting anyone near her. “Why do you ask?”

  “Most children of such a union have light skin.”

  I grasped my hands, folded them like I was about to shuck beans. I was darker than Mamaí or Kitty, but I never fretted about my coloring. “I’m luckier, I guess. My black is beautiful.”

  His gaze remained steady. He even smiled though I doubted he believed the same. The planters believed that black was good for working the fields, nothing else.

  I rose like Mamaí, slow, stately. “The rain has eased, Mr. Cells. I’ll be heading back.”

  He popped up and went to the door and held it open. “You make sure I get one of those blankets. The finest one for me. I like blue.”

  Taking my scarf from his fingers, I put it in my pocket. “Just have your coins ready. We still haven’t settled on a price. Blue may be trouble to get.”

  “I’ll have a few waiting for you, Miss
Kirwan. I will.”

  His chuckles followed me, but I didn’t mind. I’d made a sale and maybe a friend.

  Montserrat 1768: A Rush

  I adjusted my shawl about me as I walked past the cistern. My sack was heavy with things to sell in town. Pa needed to return. He was gone again several months now. I’d earned sixty pounds mostly through selling things at the Saturday market and the rest to Mr. Cells. He’d become a steady customer, and I cleaned his house while he was away, keeping mildew, the green dust, from his treasures.

  I walked past the old cottonwood and Cells’s fence. I missed haggling with him and the humorous way his growing mustache twitched when he examined my bowls. His laugh when he told stories of his travels to Europe was so merry.

  A carriage drove up from town. The hoofbeats sounded louder.

  I ducked past the fence and hid behind the big cottonwood silk tree. Its shadow fell on the Bens’ hut.

  “Dolly?”

  Had I wished him back? “Mr. Cells?”

  He tipped his rounded hat of beaver pelt. His face was tanned, and he looked smart in his long emerald jacket and flowing white pantaloons. That coat had deep blue embroidery from top to bottom. Very fancy. Too pretty for Montserrat.

  “As you can see. Made it all the way to London then down to Demerara.”

  I covered my eyes from the strong sun and stepped toward his horse. “Demerara? Where’s that?”

  “Beyond Trinidad. It’s a boon. I’m building a plantation there. Hopefully one that sticks.”

  “That means you’re leaving Montserrat again?”

  “Expanding for now. Showed Kirwan. He thinks it quite fine.”

  “You’ve seen my pa? Is he back?”

  “No. He had more trading to do in Grenada, I think.” Cells’s head tipped to the side. “You must be on your way to town. Still working on your fortune? Can you buy me out and the whole of Montserrat?”

  Boy, he made my dreams sound silly. “Making fun? I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “No. Well, a little. But you and I actually want the same. Lots of money.”

  “And the world to know our names.”

  He bit his lip a moment, pressing down until the pink turned red. “You are perceptive, girl. What are you selling?”

  I shook my sack made of strong scraps of osnaburg fabric. “Mamaí has made another fine blanket. It should fetch a lot of shillings.”

  “Have to admire a business-minded woman.” He patted the bench. “Can I give you a ride to town?”

  It would be safer, but what would people think of me in Cells’s dray. I tugged on the light scarf on my shoulders. “I don’t know. You haven’t any room in the back.”

  “I’m your neighbor, Dolly. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

  “You just came from town. It’s wasteful to go right back.”

  He jumped down off his cart and helped me up. “No trouble.”

  “Well, since you jumped down and all. Thank you.”

  He hurried back to the other side and climbed into the seat. He whipped the reins. “Good, you’re not stubborn. Young Kirwan says—”

  “Stop the dray. Let me out.”

  “We’re not to town yet, Dolly.”

  “I’ll not be anywhere with you if I have to talk about Nicholas.”

  Cells lowered his hand on my arm, and I almost jumped.

  “I take it you two don’t get along. Odd. He’s seems to talk about you a great deal. He’s always asking when I last spoke to you.”

  I felt my eyes pop wide. “Don’t ever tell him that we talk. He’ll be mean to you.”

  Cells adjusted his gloves and tugged on the reins. “He won’t hurt me. He doesn’t know how.”

  “A baby viper can still strike.”

  “Has he bitten you, Dolly?”

  My head dropped and I looked away.

  “I guess he has.” Cells’s voice was low, drowning in the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.

  Mamaí didn’t like how Nicholas looked at me. She told me to stay out of sight, but to be easy with him if he teased me. With Pa not here to keep him from bossing me, I hid all the time.

  “Just take me to town. I have business.”

  He nodded. “If you ever want to talk, come over, cross that fence. Meet me at the Bens’. I’ll be there. I’ll pray for you, Dorothy, that you find peace with your family.”

  “What’s a prayer to do to stop evil? Aren’t you running from it?”

  His eyes grew wide, the hazel dot drifting. “What are you talking about?”

  “I hear things at the market. You’re leaving ’cause the British set laws against the Catholics. They took your churches. You now pray to your god in the woods. You must be afraid of them taking more.”

  “These are dangerous times for Catholics. Our liberty and land are at stake. If Tuite pulls out, no Irish man has a chance. British are Anglicans. They hate us. It will only get worse.”

  “Why do Anglicans hate Catholics? Is their god the same or is it like the Obeah spirits and you have many?”

  “That’s a long conversation about the holy sacraments, but the hate is more about the heads of the faith. For Catholics, it’s Pope Clement XIV. For Anglicans, it’s King George. British don’t trust our allegiance, not as long as we are Catholic.”

  He seemed agitated, like his voice had to thread through Mrs. Ben’s needle.

  “Will they keep bothering Catholics?”

  “They’ll do whatever they please, whenever they please.”

  “So you don’t want overseers, but you force them on us? Seems like a bad circle, Cells.”

  He bit his lip then leaned in close. “Dolly, don’t go to town next week. Keep your mother and sister in your hut.”

  “I have customers. St. Patrick’s Day should be a big selling day. Everyone is happy and spending money. I’ll make a fortune. A mighty fhortún.”

  He shook his head something furious. “I’ll buy up everything you have, just don’t. You won’t be safe if you go.”

  His eyes held a warning, something dire.

  Running my hand over the bright fabric, made soft by Mamaí beating it on the rocks, I didn’t know what to do, but I believed him. “Hurry to town, Mr. Cells. I need to make enough to tide me over until you return.”

  “I should ask your father about you coming to Demerara. You and your family. It may be safer for all of you in the new colony. I want to help.”

  Something scared Cells, but I wasn’t looking for a new owner. I knew Mamaí wasn’t either.

  “I leave by sloop, the Dolus, at week’s end. I’m going to write to your father and ask. He has to see it’s not safe here.”

  I didn’t know what to react to, the unknown threat or the vague offer to buy me and Kitty and Mamaí. I lowered my face to my sack. “There are customers waiting. Please hurry.”

  Montserrat 1768: A Reckoning

  The smell of char seeped into my closed window. St. Patrick’s Day, the Irish holiday to celebrate the saint and his miracles in Ireland, was made hell in Montserrat. This wasn’t a simple uprising.

  This was slaughter.

  So many planters’ guns, all their numbers, overwhelmed the enslaved’s shovels and scythes.

  The overseers boasted the troublemakers would die today.

  The killing lasted hours. The blasts never stopped, nor the jeers. From my treasured window, I saw death on this side of Pa’s plantation. It was never supposed to be here.

  Wished my pa or Cells would come.

  Arms folded, I shuffled out of my room and sat with Kitty on the floor.

  Mamaí was on her bench stitching another blanket, this one of an oriole with its wings stretched wide. If we lived, maybe I’d be able to sell it in town.

  “Dolly, play with me?”

  My sister rolled the metal banding from a barrel between her palms. Her teeth chattered. She knew death was outside.

  “Stupid Cudjoe,” Mamaí said, “he’s gone and gotten everyone killed. All our
men, anyone strong, they’ll kill tonight.”

  Anyone strong?

  I looked at Mamaí and realized she’d said this to me like I was older, like I was an adult.

  My sister tugged on my flowery skirt of orange and red. I’d worn it to make the day seem normal. Should’ve found mudcloth black.

  “Can we go outside tomorrow, Dolly?” Kitty asked. Her eyes stayed locked on her hoop. “Will it be over then?”

  Who knew? I shrugged my shoulders. “Let me do your hair.”

  “Again, Dolly?”

  She pouted, but I’d tried and failed three times to finish plaiting her hair. Her fat braids were crooked. “I’ll take care of us. I always will.”

  “You think Nicholas is safe, Dolly?”

  Didn’t care if he was or wasn’t; I didn’t want him near Mamaí’s hut, not with the sweat of killing on him.

  He had to know about the uprising as early as Mr. Cells but said nothing.

  My friend had more care for us than my own brother. Since my neighbor wasn’t here, he couldn’t be hurt. So I chose a side. I wanted the rebels to win.

  The door to the hut crashed open.

  Two women came inside, one with a baby crying.

  Mamaí welcomed them. “There’s stew if you’re hungry,” she said, pointing to the bowl over the fire bucket. The big pot of vegetables from her garden and salt fish I’d brought home from the market.

  I recognized one woman—one of the gossips at the cistern. I wanted to turn them away, but Mamaí kept showing them kindness.

  Hugging her baby to her big bosom, the gossip wiped at her eyes. “Thank you, Betty.”

  That taught me something about Mamaí. Something new. Her heart was bigger than mine. Her forgiveness was much bigger too.

  “Is the rebellion over?” my voice echoed.

  “’Twas no rebellion,” the second woman said. “Planters shot men in the sick house. They’re killing all the Black men. They killed my husband. They did it because he complained to an agent of the council for putting me in stocks when I was so close to birth.”

  The poor woman sobbed.

  Her friend held her by the shoulders.

  The shooting sounded louder. Were these two followed?