Island Queen
Page 35
“Some know you. Some respect you. But on these trails, you look like a wealthy colored target. If one side doesn’t kill you, the other will.”
“I could do it.”
“Woman, you are capable of anything but good sense.”
I grabbed his arm. “My child’s out there. I have to try. If I fail, I know you’ll take care of our children, our family.”
“Is that why you ruthlessly seduced me? Two nights straight.”
“Yes, all part of my master plan to have another of your babes while I fight the British and the Fédons.”
He chuckled as he stopped the dray by the dock and handed off my horse to his friend Garraway.
“You’re going to do this, Thomas?” his friend asked as he unhooked the horse from the reins.
“Yes,” Thomas said. “We have to go get our eldest, Charlotte.”
We? No. My plan was for him to be with the children.
“Be careful,” Garraway said. “The fighting’s been heavy tonight. The rebels killed their hostages, including the governor.”
“Governor Home?” My voice was a squeak. Cudjoe and his jumbies must be swinging in the trees, triumphant. There was no going backward when the coloreds killed whites, especially white men in power.
Thomas cursed under his breath. “That’s forty men; Dr. Hay was a prisoner. You sure?”
“Yeah.” Garraway gave Thomas a lantern. “Everything you wanted is ready by the Mary.”
What was ready? What were these men planning?
Thomas started down the beach and I charged after him. “Wait.”
He didn’t. I had to catch him. “You’ve been planning to do this for a while?”
“Yes, Doll.”
With a sigh, he parked in front of me. “If I told you to stay and let me do this, you wouldn’t.”
“No.” I grabbed his arm and forced him to stop. He spun, kicking up grains of white sand. They caught hints of moonlight and shimmered like fireflies about our boots.
“Thomas, unless you can pretend to be French, you’ll be killed at Belvedere Estates. We have to do this together.”
“It’s not like I could stop you.” He waved me toward a small sailboat. The Mary, his sloop, was anchored next to it. Carved and hewn from a gommier tree trunk, the thing looked majestic on the water, bobbing in the waves. It was sleek and small. This thing would be hard to detect.
“More soldiers have arrived. More vessels are patrolling to form a blockade of Grenada. Our son-in-law and his kin have most of the island, but it’s an island. They’ll soon get cut off. Now is the time to try to get Charlotte.”
“If we get her, Thomas, gather up our family and let’s get out of Grenada.”
He put me in the boat then pushed it from the dock and started paddling. Thomas dimmed the lantern, but not before I saw guns in the bottom of the boat, the long ones called flintlocks. He was ready for war.
I prayed that God hid the stars until we struck land. I didn’t want Thomas to use those weapons. One of us had to make it back to our family.
The current felt choppy, shifting the boat like a leaf on a rushing stream.
Thomas stretched and adjusted his paddling. “Tracking the smuggling routes has come in handy. We’ll land north of Grenada. Our way will be straight to Mount Qua Qua. Belvedere is over the hills.”
I put my palm to his jacket. “You know when we land you won’t be able to go with me.”
He kept moving the paddles, up and down, pushing.
“I said you know you won’t be able to go with me, Thomas.”
The groan leaving him, the rush ushering from his nostrils, made me release his coat.
“I’ve been doing reconnaissance. The rebels are five miles from the beach. Then over the mountain. I think that’s where the Fédons have set up their headquarters.”
“I can do it alone. And if I fail, I’ll know the children will have you.”
He clasped my arm. “I knew you were going to do this without me. I’ve accepted that with you and me. I’m your helpin han, here to help you get where you need to go, to lift you, so you can grab all your dreams. When will you know this?”
I put my lips to his knuckles. “If I never said I love you, Joseph Thomas, don’t think I don’t. Just too stupid to mention it.”
“I know. I’m stupid, too, very stupid. Always when it comes to you.”
He picked up his rowing. If we both lived through this night, I’d have to remember to tell my husband how my world wouldn’t be the same without him.
Thomas lit the lantern and gave it to me. “Go up the beach. Head straight up.”
One touch of his fingers curving on my wrist—almost not wanting to let go but mostly supporting me, steadying me on the shore—told me everything there was between us—the love, the fear, the pride. “Hurry back, Doll.”
Turning away took everything in me, but I had to get my child.
With the lantern held high, I followed the trail. It was me and the darkness, walking together stumbling, trudging over pebbles and branches.
Funny.
I’d spent what felt like a lifetime not seeing, not looking at things that hurt me or left me without hope. Now I struggled to keep my vision.
If I hummed, would Charlotte hear?
Hiding in my cloak, my hand slipping in and out of the slits formed of the napped broadcloth, I edged up Mount Qua Qua.
Then I heard singing.
Pushing through the ferns, I saw men crowding around a fire. Father Mardel stood, leading them in a prayer. He wasn’t in priestly robes, but a black tunic with braiding, black breeches, and boots. The man was well connected in St. George’s and other parishes throughout Grenada.
Now I understood how the Fédons had recruited and organized the rebellion.
Sitting around the flames were free colored people like the Nogues, but also men who looked as if they’d come straight from the fields. That said a great deal about the relationship of my son-in-law’s kinship with the enslaved, for massa and his chattel to join forces.
But I hadn’t come to evaluate their plans. I came for Charlotte. Hoping no fool would shoot, I stepped out of the clearing, waving my lantern. “I come for Charlotte Fédon.”
Men ran toward me, bringing with them the smells of gunpowder and shed blood.
“Charlotte Fédon. She’s my daughter. Charlotte Fédon.”
I said her name over and over.
A woman came from a tent. “That’s my sister’s mother,” she said. “Let her alone.”
The men did, but this lone woman marched toward. Wonderful, braids shining in the moonlight, Rose Fédon strode to me like a general.
But her skirts bore dark stains, stains that weren’t mud.
My heart clenched.
Selfishly, I held my breath, held the hope in my chest that blood was from the battle.
She clasped my lantern and lowered it. I wanted to resist. I wanted to be blind to the truth—that I’d come too late, that I’d wavered too long to be of help to my girl.
“Come this way, Miss Dolly.”
Heart in my mouth, I followed. At the entrance to a cave, she stopped. “The priest, Mardel, calls this a sepulcher. It’s the resting place of a hero.”
I couldn’t breathe. My eyes glazed over.
Rose held me up. “Go in, Miss Dolly. She needs you.”
Her face was blank, but in her eyes, I saw peace. How did she have that with death so near?
My footfalls echoed, drumming as I moved into the cave. The place smelled of dampness. The shroud of misty fog that surrounded Mount Qua Qua drove into my throat. I couldn’t let it flood my lungs, drown me like a rushing ghaut.
Then I saw Charlotte. She was prostrate over a pair of feet.
Jean-Joseph’s.
He lay still. His chest was covered in white cloth that had soaked through. Dark red. His gentle face, brown turning gray, mouth open, eyes turned back—I added this mask to the collection in my head.
“Charlotte.”
“Stay back.”
“It’s Mama, Charlotte.” The closer I came, the more her weeping gnawed into my gut. My hand slipped to her shoulder. I wanted to draw her up in my arms like she were a babe. “Charlotte, I’ve come for you.”
She didn’t move. She mumbled to the Holy Father to save Jean-Joseph . . . and her babe.
The baby? No! Charlotte’s baby. No.
Blinded in my tears, I crouched beside her. We prayed, prayed like it would change the stains on her skirt, prayed like time would turn back, prayed that she and Jean-Joseph had no cares.
Prayed like God would hear the tears of a Black mama and care.
The Holy Father hadn’t quite looked away. My girl still lived.
“Home, Charlotte. Let’s get you home.”
“Home is here, with my husband.”
“No, with me, your brothers and sisters, Thomas.”
“How can I honor Jean-Joseph, Mama? I lost our baby. Nothing of him will survive this day. He’s gone, and the one thing that I could’ve had to keep him alive, I let go.”
Nine children had filled my womb, had breathed air, had sent me crashing into despair, but nothing, nothing, nothing cut this deep.
I pulled my girl into my arms. “You’re his legacy, Charlotte. He wanted women respected, free from harassment. He’s a patriot. He died for true freedom.”
She leaned on me. “Don’t know what to do, Mama.”
“Come with me now. We’ll make our way together.”
She pulled at her tunic like her skin itched. “You think Jean-Joseph wouldn’t mind, if I go rest?”
“He’d want you to, Charlotte.”
Rising together, I offered my strength and wrapped my cloak about her. We headed out of the cave.
Rose lifted Charlotte’s chin. “Julien understands. Go with God.”
Like a priest, she smeared ash in the shape of a cross on my daughter’s brow. Part of me wanted a blessing too. We still had to make it back to Thomas and sneak into St. George’s.
The price on Charlotte’s head had to be great. She was a Fédon woman, the wife of a revolutionary.
Dr. Hay was sitting on a log by the fire. He nibbled off a plate of salt pork and plantains. Our eyes locked.
The last time I saw him, I was filled with hate. I needed someone to blame for Edward’s death, but he was innocent. “Rose, can Dr. Hay go with us, too? I’ll make sure he’s no trouble.”
“He’ll be freed soon. I give you my word. Now go. Dawn brings new fighting.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Thomas.” Dr. Hay started forking plantains into his mouth. “Your mother has a cure-all for shock. Ask her to give it to your daughter.”
Mamaí probably did. Sally too.
Keeping Charlotte close to my side, we headed down Mount Qua Qua. We needed to leave Grenada. This place meant death, and I was done losing.
Grenada 1795: The Widow
Mamaí walked me to the docks. The sun was high, the waves calm on the deep blue water. The breeze couldn’t separate us. My fingers were locked with hers.
My heart wasn’t right. “I don’t want us to split up. I promised—”
“It has to be done, Dolly. You’re only going for a month or two this time.”
Holding her a little longer, I looked over her shoulder at my poor Charlotte sitting alone in the Mary. Running away was hard.
“Kitty’s mad at me. She doesn’t want me to leave. She’s fearful.”
“I’ll be with her. She’s my daughter. You take care of yours.”
Mamaí’s voice wasn’t harsh. The hummingbird was sweet in her rebuke, but I’d never be comfortable with my swallow being sad or hurting. The safe world Kitty built couldn’t be unraveled because of Grenada. It couldn’t.
“Thomas is coming. He must have the paperwork.”
My husband couldn’t get the approvals for all of us to quit the colony, only a few. The excuse of a quick trip for business would have to be our lie.
My mother’s face had her treasured smile, small and perfect. “Dolly, it’s for the best. Kitty and I will keep the girls safe.”
“Polk says that Captain Owen lives in Bridgetown, Barbados. He was a good friend once. He could vouch for our story and make Charlotte a Foden, not a Fédon.”
Her smile dropped away. If it fell to the ground, someone would step on it as if it were a millipede, the two-leggers in her garden. “You’re going to trust the man who never checked on his child?”
Owen knew the truth. Frances was not his. It might be folly, but I was desperate. Hiding Charlotte in a world needing paperwork for coloreds . . . to quit a colony, to walk, to breathe. Making Charlotte a Foden was our only hope.
“Frances will keep the accounts with the housekeeping. There’s more invoices to come.”
Thomas pulled the dray near, the horse trotting across the shore, flinging sand against the high-walled wagon.
My numbers girl, Frances, sat alongside him, with the boys, Josephy and Harry, fidgeting and bouncing about the dray’s flat back. The closer they came, the more her guilty smile grew. That meant Thomas had let her hold the reins again. Beautiful girl. Olive brown, nose beginning to sharpen, shadowing a perfect oval face with a tiny cleft in her chin that a quill tickled when she counted and adjusted ledger entries.
Mamaí released my arm. “Go on now. We’ll be fine.”
Thomas gave Frances a kiss and defiantly gave her the reins as he tipped his hat to me. Then he went to the rear and collected Josephy and Harry. They swung from his arms like climbing iguanas.
“Doll, I have the paperwork. We can leave for Barbados. Charlotte Foden is ready to travel.”
He eased the boys to the ground. “Get in the Mary, fellows.”
They scrambled into the sloop, sitting next to Charlotte. My husband turned and helped Mamaí up into the dray.
I went to Frances’s side. “I trust you to manage things and be a help to my mother, especially with Ann and Eliza.”
She saluted me. “Of course, Mama. Ann already follows me around, mimicking my ways.”
“Girl, give your proud ma a kiss.”
She offered a toothy smile, then bent and put her lips to my cheek. “Proud of you. Take care of dear Charlotte.”
Her eyes locked with mine. Not sure if she understood all that was at stake, but this old soul would manage well in my absence. Without even pretending to let Mamaí drive, she started the dray back into St. George’s.
“Garraway will watch out for them until we return.” Thomas’s voice sounded confident. Wished I was as certain.
With a sigh, I let him help me into the Mary. I sank next to Charlotte. Her widow’s weave of indigo and black was the only thing I could get her to wear, once I coaxed her from the bloodied clothes.
My grieving child wanted everyone to know the truth, that her warrior and baby had died.
“Sit down, boys. We are about to cast off.” Thomas’s command made them freeze in midair. Harry and Josephy settled close to the tiller.
I’d never seen the boys grin more.
Yet between them I saw a death mask, a shadow of Edward. Goodness, how he loved sailing with Thomas.
Charlotte probably saw one too. Her gaze stayed pinned on Mount Qua Qua.
Thomas untied the thick jute holding the Mary. He stopped before undoing the knot and stood up straight. Like he’d become a shield, he stepped in front of the soldiers rushing toward us. Scarlet uniforms filled the deck. These men had their long guns drawn. We were at the mercy of the colonial government.
Grenada 1795: The Wind
One soldier slogged into the Mary’s hatch. Others searched the deck, hitting along the hull as if looking for a secret passage.
Heart pounding, I stood in the breeze. It swirled my knotted scarf as I looked at the waters. Though I co
uld swim and draw the British soldier’s fire, I couldn’t save my children from bullets.
“Stay put, Doll. No one move another inch.” Thomas marched to the soldier with the most medals pinned to his jacket. “What’s the meaning of this?”
His voice sounded calm but indignant—a trait men in silver buttons, important men, excelled in.
“Sir, we need to make sure you’re not transporting contraband.” The fellow barked more orders and gave his men permission to rip open our portmanteaus. I feared they’d take my manumission papers and burn them.
One fellow looked long at my daughter, then at me.
Thomas hopped into the boat and caught my arm. This possessive move told them we were his, his family.
He stepped again to the man examining papers. “Must we be delayed further?” His tone sounded affronted, not like he’d offered them documents sporting lies. “Your men have searched every inch of my ship. Let us be on our way.”
This man, an officer by the braiding on his jacket, slipped his finger over the pages, creasing and flipping Thomas’s handiwork. “Some rebels have escaped to Trinidad.”
“None here. We’re on our way to Barbados.”
A soldier came from below. “No stowaways or guns, sir.”
The look on Thomas’s face, his cheeky smile—the man was too smart. He’d prepared for the worst.
One soldier peered at Charlotte, making flirty eyes at her, but she offered him nothing. My daughter was a stone, quiet and still.
It was good to be rigid like a rock. If she could feel the hate they had for the rebels, for the Fédons, she might do something rash.
“Your papers are in order.” The officer pushed the documents to Thomas, and all the soldiers trudged off the boat. “Have a pleasant trip.”
They moved away and boarded another boat.
“You’re leaving here without weapons, Thomas?”
His smile was broad. “I have secrets, too, you know.”
He untied the Mary, angled the sail, and started us moving. “Josephy, secure the boom. Grab the line. Ed . . . Harry, help me tie off the sail.”
Thomas looked at me and I put his gaze into my heart.
The wind pushed us into the open sea. Big ships like William’s Andromeda were at a distance but they could easily overtake us.