Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  “No. Dolly. That’s fear talking. I chatted with Nicholas. He was apologetic. He says he was drunk. That he didn’t mean to hurt you. He swore to me that he’d never hurt you again.”

  “And you believed him? He’s taken me several times and only stopped when my stomach grew. He’s threatened me even when I was with his child. He’ll always hurt me. He won’t stop until one of us is dead.”

  “I’ll speak to him again.”

  Speak to him? That was all? Then I saw the ugly truth, hidden in his darting hazel eyes.

  “You wanted to believe Nicholas. How could you? The liar raped me. He’ll do anything.”

  Cells thumbed his lips, but he didn’t argue with me.

  “If you think he’s telling the truth, then you’ve sealed my fate. You believe my pa ’cause he says he’ll be back. Pa has been gone for over a year. All you planters are the same. You never intend to do anything to protect us.”

  “I did try for Mrs. Ben. I failed.”

  “No, I failed! I believed you were different.”

  “Watch your tongue, Dolly.”

  I threw the key at his head. “Give me my due. Then go to hell.”

  He stomped back to his desk and pulled out his purse. He fished out two pounds and set them on the desk.

  When I came close, he knocked those shiny gold coins onto the floor.

  I watched them roll round and round on their edges. One made a figure eight at my feet.

  It wasn’t worth stooping to get them.

  My pockets were desperate, but not my pride. My soul wouldn’t cede any more of me.

  With my head high, I turned and walked out the door.

  His footfalls sounded behind me. “Dolly, wait. I’m sorry.”

  No more lies. I ran.

  “Wait, Dolly! Wait!”

  His boots sounded louder, but I was fast. I slid down the hall and was at the front door in a blink.

  Wham. I flung it open.

  Then I froze.

  Mamaí was there. Lizzy was in her arms. Both were crying.

  “What happened?”

  My mother looked pale, like she’d faint. “They took her.”

  I pried Lizzy from her. “They took who, Mamaí?”

  “They took Kitty. She stabbed Nicholas with the scythe. He had her taken to town, to be whipped. She’ll be sold off in the morning.”

  My heart . . . “No!”

  “I’ll go to town.” Cells closed his eyes for a moment. “I’ll see what can be done.”

  His words echoed in my ear, but I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t trust him anymore.

  There was one man, one evil man, who was in control, and it wasn’t the wavering Cells.

  Montserrat 1770: False Hope

  Smoke twisted like a rope, dark and lanky curling about an escaping cloud. The chimney of the owl house spewed ash like a volcano’s cone. This signal was meant for me.

  It was the hottest part of the year, growing season. I stood in one of Pa’s fields, on the left, the evil side. The young cane rose up to my thighs.

  Nicholas wanted me to know where he was. He wanted me to come and surrender.

  Rebel me wanted to rage and fight, but how?

  I had left Cells in town. He talked to the officials. He got them to stop whipping Kitty, but not before the lashes had torn her tunic.

  The bright green fabric of palm fronds was shredded, dotted in blood. The cat-o’-nine-tails left huge scars.

  Kitty didn’t look up, but I saw one eye was blackened. She was half naked with her head and hands in the stocks.

  The agents of the governing body, even the ones who were supposed to investigate abuses against chattel, let no one, especially no one of color, come to her or cover her.

  I couldn’t hug my little swallow, tell her I loved her or that tonight I’d kill for her.

  She cut Nicholas good, three inches down his cheek, Cells said.

  I wish she’d stabbed him dead.

  But Kitty’s feet would have been made to float, hanged for striking a white man.

  They could do anything.

  We couldn’t protect ourselves. Holy Father, look away tonight as you have all my life.

  This was my fault and mine to fix.

  If I’d just gone to Nicholas and submitted, I’d be the only one to suffer. Instead, I ran to Cells, and now my sister would be sold.

  I glanced over the ridge toward Cells’s plantation. I hated him, too. He made me believe he was different. He was just a nice landowner, a nice man who enslaved people, one who overlooked suffering just like God and all the planters.

  Up the steps of the owl house, I moved my cold feet. I paused at the porch, knowing when I went through it, there’d be no going back.

  I whirled inside. The house servants had gone to their provision grounds. This meeting would be me and Nicholas.

  Stirring. The creaking of a chair.

  He had to be in Pa’s study.

  I walked down the short hall and slipped into the room. “Nicholas.”

  “Afternoon, Doll . . . Dolly.”

  The Irish twang of my name meant the fool had been drinking. Maybe that meant he’d be easy, and I could talk the drunk out of selling Kitty.

  “Nicholas. Came to see how bad our sister cut you. The folks in town said the wee girl got you good.”

  He chuckled. “She did all right. She’s not as clever as you. Much easier to bait.”

  If I acted as if I were frightened, he’d be out of Pa’s chair.

  But I was scared.

  The last time he beat me until I stopped squirming. I felt the punches looking at him, and he hadn’t moved.

  “You haven’t come around much, Dolly.”

  “Been busy with the baby you saddled me with.”

  He guzzled more of his drink, something amber in color poured into one of Pa’s fancy goblets. “Come closer. Let me see if you have your waist back.”

  Couldn’t, wouldn’t move.

  “I came to beg for my sister.” My voice cracked. “Mamaí has a tincture for cuts. It’s at the hut.”

  “Betty’s been witch doctoring.”

  “Suit yourself. She said you might get infected by the manure she uses in the garden.”

  He touched the long scar on his cheek. It was red and bulbous.

  “Manure? Glad they flogged Kitty.”

  The smile on his face curled into a sneer. “A tincture is what she’ll do for me, but what about you?”

  He pounded closer. There was a wobble to his prideful stride. His white shirttails were half in, half out of his black breeches—all the signs of being good and drunk from celebrating what he’d done.

  He fingered my tunic. “What about you?”

  A tremble appeared in my elbow and spread to my whole arm.

  Misneach! I said to myself trying to rally my courage. “You know why I came.”

  He took a swig from his glass, then turned and pitched it into the flames. The fire roared and spit ash. “You’ve come to be mine? Maybe I don’t want you.”

  “Fine. I’ll leave.”

  Before I could get to the door, he moved to me and lifted my chin with his bent index finger. “No, don’t go, Dolly. Pretty little Dolly. Barely five foot, but all solid woman.”

  “I’m fourteen and your sister, your blood sister. Why can’t you be decent?”

  He traced my jaw. The stench of brandy oozed from his skin.

  “If I let you . . . will you save Kitty?”

  With his palm, he gripped my neck. “Angle your face and give me a kiss.”

  The fool had shaved off his stupid mustache. Maybe it wouldn’t be as horrible as I remembered. Closing my eyes, I reached up and put my mouth to his. He bit my lip.

  “Just because you want to play nice means nothing to me.”

  His laugh cut through me. I wish I had a rock. Something to smite him between the eyes.

  Yet, with his hands on me, I disappeared inside, sinking into the bottomless hole in my chest.
“May I leave?”

  “No. It’s been a year since you’ve spent time with me. Can I say I missed you?”

  “Why lie?”

  “I told your friend I was drunk. The St. Patrick’s Day celebration overcame me.” Nicholas released me, went to the sideboard, and drank from the bottle. His throat muscles tightened as liquor pumped down his long gullet.

  Laughing, he set the bottle on the desk, then returned. “’Course. I might be drunk now.”

  It wasn’t one time.

  He hunted and had me over and over, until Mamaí’s peacock seeds, her killing medicine, wouldn’t bring my menses, till my belly showed. “I’m leaving.”

  Yawning, he gripped my shoulders, ripping at my sleeve.

  “Let me go, Nicholas. You’re hurting me. Be decent. Save Kitty. Fix the baptismal record. Lizzy’s name needs to be right. She needs your name.”

  He tossed me aside and went back to the brandy. The angles of bottle captured the light. “What does that do?”

  “It gives her a chance to be free. She needs to be acknowledged as a mulatto, as yours. Then Pa will have to free her, too. He’s said his will frees us if he can’t return.”

  “Wishing for Father’s death, too?” He laughed and swayed. “That’s a big thing to claim a bastard.”

  Nicholas’s elbow hit the bottle. It fell and shattered into a thousand bits.

  “I’ll go get a bucket.”

  “No. Don’t move.” His voice was firm. “You might take a shard and cut me like Kitty. You might be more deadly than her.”

  I would be if I could. Just once, I wanted him to fear me.

  He strode to me and put his hands on my waist.

  His hold was too strong, too hurtful as his nails dug into my sides. “Maybe I should sell you, too? Seeing you all greased and naked on the stage would give me such a laugh.” He grabbed my face and shook it. “How high will you hold this chin then?”

  “As high as I can. I’m still better than you.”

  He slammed me against the wall.

  I’d come to give myself to him to save Kitty, but there was no surrendering to a fool. He needed to die.

  The broken glass. It sparkled like the stars.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “How stupid you are. Small stupid man. You think Pa will forgive you for selling Kitty and me? Adharcáilí, you lustful man, you’re a fool. Pa will hate you . . . maybe more than he does now.”

  “You take that back, Dolly.”

  “Castoff. Why do you think he kept sending you away or why he keeps leaving? It’s not ’cause of me.”

  Nicholas shook me hard. “Stop it.”

  “Give Pa reasons to take your inheritance portion and offer it to his cousins, the successful Kirwans of St. Kitts. Or maybe, he’d even give it to me to make up for your evil.”

  The pressure of his hands became tight. I thought he’d rip off my arms.

  Nicholas’s eyes were half-open, drunken slits. I grabbed his chin and slapped it. “Why would Pa keep you? He’ll know once and for all you’re not worthy to be his son. He loves nothing your mother gave him.”

  Wham.

  He struck me, and I crumbled again.

  “You talk too much, like always.”

  I wiped the blood smeared on my lips. No more submitting. “Castoff.”

  I saw him wince from my words, but that was no solace for he tossed me over his shoulder. “I own you. I’ll do with you as I please.”

  Wriggling did nothing. He wobbled, but his band of iron arms had me.

  Then he dropped me headfirst by the fireplace.

  Pain dimmed my eyesight; I wished the impact had stolen my senses. I didn’t want to remember the weight of Nicholas on top of me again.

  I wouldn’t yell or beg. No one would stop him. I was his chattel—a sow to be used.

  Boots sailed over me.

  Then breeches.

  His heavy legs, the weight of Nicholas’s knees, split my thighs.

  He pushed my skirt up to my breasts. “Yes, Dolly. No crying, eyes alert and pretty for me. You remember.”

  I turned my head and caught sight of two curved chunks of the shattered bottle.

  Four feet away—the sparkling pieces were out of reach. I couldn’t stretch and seize them. I failed.

  Yet I kept staring, kept dreaming, kept hiding my hopes deeper and deeper inside so Nicholas couldn’t touch them.

  “Look at me, Dolly.”

  I didn’t.

  The bits of glass had me, for they were broken and shiny and free.

  I vowed to find my misneach—to heal, to find my power. One day, somehow, men like Nicholas would fear broken pieces.

  Montserrat 1770: Fleeing Time

  The morning light came and found me on the floor of Pa’s study.

  Everything ached.

  Everything was raw.

  Nicholas lay beside me, snoring, with an empty wine bottle by his mouth.

  I eased from him. My anger whirled inside, echoing in my chest. I wanted my brother dead, but I needed a head start. My sister’s life came before revenge. I could save her if Nicholas didn’t rouse. I put his breeches and good boots in the fireplace.

  It wasn’t enough. I took the wine bottle from his hand and smashed it against his ugly skull.

  He didn’t move but kept breathing.

  If I didn’t have to get to Kitty, I’d burn down the owl house and stay to watch.

  Outside, the strong sun set fire to my eyes. I fought it, running to Mamaí’s to get my money.

  She wasn’t asleep. She was sitting on her bench waiting.

  I looked at her, then little Lizzy in her arms. “I’m going to save Kitty.”

  Her gaze was on my torn bloody skirt.

  “He’ll kill you next time, Dolly. Take Kitty. Don’t come back.”

  Her voice sounded dull, like she’d rehearsed the words. “Your money and clothes are on the bed. I added a sack of the peacock seeds. You don’t want no more of Nicholas’s children, no more of his hold on you.”

  My breasts were raw and sore. I wanted them to fill with milk for my child, to give her something of me before I left.

  They were empty.

  I was empty.

  “Mamaí, how can I leave Lizzy, you?”

  “If you buy Kitty, you can’t bring her back here. You can’t hide here. Nicholas will kill you. He’ll kill all your dreams.”

  “But Lizzy.”

  “Kitty is all alone. Be her mother now. I’ll be one to Lizzy.”

  “How can I leave my flesh?”

  “Staying doesn’t mean you get to keep her. You have an older sister, Dolly. They took her from me.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, a sister, Ella. My father sold her off before he sold me to the Kirwans.”

  I put my brow to Mamaí’s. “I’ll make this right, somehow.”

  “You make things right by living. By keeping my Kitty alive.”

  Late at seeing my mother’s strength, I was a fool. Now I had to survive without her. “Mamaí—”

  “Kitty is my heart, but you are my soul. You have the strength of warrior women in you.” My ma took my hand and led me to my room. She put Lizzy in the cradle and then washed my face with water from her calabash.

  Then she prayed with her rosary, the one with the red and gold beads, and tucked it into my pocket.

  Sobbing, I said good-bye to this room, to the window that framed my stars. Then I held my daughter, my Lizzy, who sucked her gums like a tooth rooted.

  “Bye-bye, little one.” Then I set her down.

  With my purse of money and my sack, I ran.

  The stench of Nicholas stayed on me. The blood on my clothes was what I needed to show the one man who could buy Kitty for me.

  When I reached the property line, I saw Cells’s dray was out front. He was readying to leave again.

  Bursting into his house I called to him again and again. “Please. Cells. I need you.”

  He
came from the long hall, in a dressing gown, bare feet. “Dolly, I’m glad . . . you’re . . . Nicholas.”

  “Yes.” Dropping my sack, I shoved my purse at him. “I need you to buy Kitty for me. You’re a planter. They’ll let you.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “You can keep all my money if you fail, just try. That’s all I have in the world. I need help.”

  He stared at me. It felt like hours. Was he assessing the risks, weighing if there was enough good in it for him?

  “Please. You know this is right. You said you owed me. Help.”

  His hand closed about mine. He took my coins and put them in his pocket. “Let’s go.”

  For once I liked that he didn’t ask questions. When he returned dressed in his white breeches, I knew things would be all right.

  He offered me a blanket, one of Mamaí’s that he’d bought. He draped it over my torn tunic. It hurt to climb into that dray, to sit on that hard seat, but I needed Cells to drive fast and wild.

  In a blink, we were in town.

  Crowds buzzed, milling in the Marketplace. With the big boat in the harbor sailing England’s red-blue-and-white flag, I knew more people would be sold today. It was bittersweet that a slave ship would be the reason we had more time.

  Cells parked in a field off the main road and tossed the reins into my damp fingers. “Stay here. If things get rough, you head to my land.”

  “I’m not leaving here without you or Kitty.”

  A look, then a mumbled prayer or curse crossed his lips. “Then stay put.”

  He pushed back his black hat, a tricorn with high sides and at the front a cockade of leather ribbons forming a knot. The fancy man straightened his tan pleated coat and walked across the graveled road to join the men and women in the square.

  Cells disappeared among the planters and gawkers who came to laugh and lust at the chattel.

  The breeze smelled of mushrooms. That was the horrid palm oil they slathered on the captives. Beautiful black and brown and tan bodies stood glistening in the sun waiting their turn on the stone platform. Oiled up and shining, these stars, the bits of glass were brought up one by one and sold.

  After twenty, I lost count. The jeers from the crowd stuck in my chest, falling deeper into the pit of pain, that hole in my soul. I couldn’t breathe.

  Ducking my head into my lap, I sobbed onto my bruised hands. I only stopped crying, stopped remembering last night, when it was my sister’s turn.