Island Queen

by Vanessa Riley

  He wasn’t listening, and I was tired of explaining, tired of the sadness in his hazel eyes. “You are free to go—”

  “Stop it.” He clapped his fingers and folded them to a prayer. Then he closed his eyes. “Travel safely, Dolly Thomas. Godspeed.”

  With his black hat popped onto his head, he went out the door.

  “Coseveldt.”

  I whispered his name as if it was the last time I’d ever say it.

  Saying good-bye to him always hurt, but this was for the best. I had a boat to catch, children and grands to make secure.

  Demerara 1823: Capitulation

  I stepped off the sloop onto the dock and a bustling afternoon at the Demerara River. Tired to my bones, I waited for my things to be gathered, the crates and packages and presents I bought in Europe. Traveling across the sea and back had been uneventful. The gentle waters had stirred, changing their colors as I sailed to install my granddaughter, Emma, at Kensington House and to see about her mother, Crissy, in Glasgow.

  A dray pulled close.

  For a moment, I thought it was Polk or even Cells.

  It wasn’t.

  No, it was better, Rebecca Ritchie. Neat as a pin, wearing a straw bonnet crowned with white lotus flowers on the brim, she waved. “Hello, stranger. Back from traveling the world?”

  “For now.” I laughed and cocked my favorite confection, my woven hat with orange flowers and all the peacock feathers. It was too fine for boat travel, but I’d changed my outfit when I saw the brown waters of the Demerara.

  Well, part of me did think my other old friends might show, Polk with his grin, Cells with his black beaver-skinned top hat. They’d seen me off and welcomed me back to Demerara more times than I could count, but not the last. Cells hadn’t returned to my house on Robb Street after our last parting.

  Rebecca bounced down and hugged me tightly. “Have your servants fill my dray. I’ll take you home.”

  Signaling to one, I had them load my things and my mammee apples from my stop in Grenada to visit with Mamaí, Frances, Ann, and all her brood. These custardy fruits looked good. The dishes they would make. Frances had our businesses doing well. The tensions between British colonists and French settlers continued, but the island was peaceful.

  The only successful slave rebellion in the Caribbean was Haiti, back in 1804, eight years after the slaughtered end to the Fédons’ gambit.

  No one wanted war. Everyone yearned for freedom, but not the bloodshed, the hard work, or the fair governing to keep it.

  “Look at you. The sea agrees with you.”

  The blue and orange feathers of my hat wiggled as she twirled me around. My skirt belled. The pleating beneath my bosom of the striped mango silk billowed.

  “And you have your apples. You visited Grenada. How is the family?”

  A groan churned from my soul and fled my mouth. “Ann’s husband, John Gloster Garraway, was left in the lurch when his brother, the scoundrel who ruined Crissy, ran up debts.”

  Rebecca pointed to hurry the men securing crates and bundles in her dray. “Oh, no. That Robert is nothing but trouble.”

  “Was trouble. He’s nothing but dead. But John Gloster had to sell the Garraway estates.”

  I felt for them. John Gloster and Ann were doing better now that he focused on working for the courts. “Rebecca, it brings to my mind my legacy, the fortune I’ve amassed. Nothing I and my children built should be consumed by one of my girl’s husbands. I’ll speak to King and my London solicitors. There has to be something I can do to prevent theft after my death.”

  “Don’t talk death, but theft is a harsh way to put a husband’s privileges. A white’s man debt should be his, not siphoned off our hard-earned money. Lord knows we suffered a hell of a lot more to earn it.”

  John Gloster wasn’t white. He needed two more generations of separation from Black blood to count as Creole white. Nonetheless, Thomas’s old friend Garraway made sure his boys claimed influence like they were as pure as London’s bright snow.

  Yet, knowing D.P. Simon’s plight with his creditors and British planters, part of me wondered if the causes of John Gloster’s problem had as much to do with his mixed-blood as his reckless brother’s debts.

  Rebecca climbed up into the dray, ready to drive. “Dorothy, come on up and let’s get you home. Robb Street is positively boring without you.”

  Hiking up my skirt, I took my seat and clutched the sides. Rebecca drove fast, too fast.

  “How is life on the other side of the sea, Dorothy?”

  The dray lunged forward and I slipped against the wood back. “Watch my hat.”

  “Sorry, dear.”

  She eased up a little on the reins, but I braced and clutched the brim of my straw confection. “Europe was unchanged, still building with bricks and bustling. London was the same, even with its new king, George IV. Another George.”

  My friend slowed her beast. The clicking of hooves now paced with my easing pulse. “Did you see your prince again? Have wild fun with champagne?”

  “No, Rebecca.”

  She laughed and so did I. William had married in 1818 to a German princess. London was all abuzz about his happiness. It didn’t surprise me. As he’d been with each of his Dorothys, in their respective times, he was singularly devoted to this woman. Mr. King said he was happy and now lived within his means.

  It was good William kept trying for his happiness. He wasn’t a coward about it.

  “Dorothy, you tired?” Rebecca slowed the dray, as if a more leisurely motion would restore me. It would take more than an easy gait to jar me from the safe path I was now on.

  Looking at the road, the houses with shutters and large-paned windows. “More construction in the growing colony. Always changing.”

  With a sigh, Rebecca pressed a hand to her chest, rumpling her flower-printed shawl. “You’ve delayed enough. Tell me the worst about Crissy.”

  Clicking my tongue so loudly the horse whinnied, I slapped my thigh. “It’s awful. I sat at her table and her fool lover, Major Gordon, made polite threats of abandoning my daughter if I didn’t give him ten thousand pounds. Then he had the nerve to make loving, silly eyes at their new baby, Huntly.”

  “Ten thousand pounds, Dorothy? My goodness.”

  “Yes. And she’s worth it, but you don’t settle for a man to love you for money, especially not my money.”

  The dray hit a rut, and I clamped my fingers again to my hat. “Easy.”

  “Sorry,” Rebecca said. “You couldn’t convince her to return?”

  I shook my head. “She’s desperate for him. Crissy doesn’t see he’s no good. I don’t know if she ever will.”

  The dray stopped in front of my house, my lovely two-story home with bright windows to see the best stars. My daughter and Huntly should be here. “I want my chef back.”

  “But Mr. Le Plat’s sauces are divine.” My friend stared at me with her easy smile, the one that spread when she read bad news. “You know Cells has sold everything and moved to Barbados.”

  “What? Everything. The Hermitage too?”

  “Yes. Sold it to his other daughter and her husband six months ago.”

  Louisa got it, not that Catharina and D.P. could afford such a fine estate. They still lived in my Hotel Werk-en-Rust. I waved to my servants to start unloading and to make my windows looked lived in, but Rebecca’s soft brown eyes stayed on me.

  She must’ve seen my lips curling to a frown, and my eyes, the ones Coseveldt first noticed, felt a little glassy. “I suppose he listened to me after all.”

  “Funny how they do that at the wrong time.” Rebecca’s voice sounded low and wise, whispering sorrows of her own misadventures with her soldier or her sweet daughter Martha Ann’s turbulent loves.

  When I climbed down and smoothed the wrinkles from my hips, I leaned back on the sidewall. “Get the Entertainment Society together for a meal on Sunday. I have presents for each of you.”

  When all my things were out of the
dray and into my house, Rebecca took up the reins. “You’ve been missed, my friend. The ladies and I will inform you of all Demerara’s politics. Lieutenant Governor Murray keeps tightening restrictions on the enslaved. He’s encouraging planters to take away their going to church.”

  Why do they always go after worship? “Is Murray afraid they’ll learn about freedom by listening to the priests? That they’ll demand what they already want?”

  “It’s the missionaries he’s fretting over. He thinks they are plotting rebellions.”

  With a shake of my head, I threw up my hands. “No priest is Cudjoe. They help people find peace.”

  Then I thought of Father Mardel, the third in command with the Fédons. My stomach tightened then dropped. Priests could rally revolution against the planters and the governing council.

  Rebecca nodded. “I hope you are right. Glad you’ve come home.”

  Waving at her, I realized I was back in time to use my influence to stop fools on both sides from violence. Once I became reacquainted with my stores, my hotels, my hucksters and housekeepers, I’d jump into the local politics, hold court in my parlor, and set things right.

  Then at month’s end, I’d go see about Kensington Plantation and see firsthand how Eliza and Charlotte were running it and if there was any discontentment in our provision grounds. Just because I was liberal that didn’t make my land immune.

  Demerara 1823: Caught

  Back three months, now this?

  Under attack on my own land.

  No. This was not happening.

  With my shoulder I pressed on the cellar door of the big house at Kensington Plantation. It had been barred from the outside. “Let me out, Smithy!”

  “For your protection, Mrs. Dolly. For your protection. The rebellion isn’t meant to hurt you, but we have to be free.”

  Smithy was my cooper, the best cask and barrel maker in Demerara. He was well on his way to purchasing his freedom. “Smithy!”

  The man barged in on Eliza and me having tea in the parlor. He shoved us down into the cellar.

  “Smithy, you let us out.”

  “The king, the British king, Miss Dolly. He’s made us free. He sent orders to the lieutenant governor, but that man won’t free the slaves.”

  Murray, that fool. If that was true, then he’d caused this rebellion. “Smithy, I’ll find out what has happened. Let me out of here. You know I’ll deal with you fairly.”

  “I know, Mrs. Dolly. I couldn’t rest if something happened to you. Your son, Mr. Thomas, is looking down from heaven and would want you safe. Stay here till this is over.”

  Drums pounded.

  Shouting, running. The smell of soot.

  “Smithy.” I beat my palm against the door. “Is my house on fire?”

  “No. Now stay. I have to go.”

  Seemed my cooper was a leader in the rebellion. “Smithy, you’re too kind to be Cudjoe!”

  Forehead sweating, Eliza pulled at her pale-yellow sleeves. The muslin stuck to her.

  “Mama, I’m scared.”

  I pulled this girl, this wife, the mother of four, this businesswoman, into my arms. “Smithy is a good man. We have to believe that. We’re going to be fine. Look around the cellar. Make note of what we have.”

  “Will this be as bloody as Grenada?”

  Her voice was smaller, a mere breathy plea. She was eight during that rebellion. Charlotte. How was she handling this? Fullarton was gone again, and she and her babies were at Robb Street.

  Holy Father, keep them safe.

  Eliza shivered. She didn’t do well with fear, never had.

  “Don’t fret. Some rebellions are only a few days. Kitty and I lived through many in Montserrat.”

  The great St. Patrick’s Day Massacre in Montserrat was one day of terror. Many coloreds died. How many would die in Demerara because that fool Murray tightened his fists on the enslaved? If King George IV, Prince William’s brother, freed the slaves, Murray shouldn’t stop it.

  “Let’s look around, Eliza, for tools like a hatchet.”

  With a nod, she searched on shelves, while I studied the door hinges.

  “Found some rope, Mama. Some barrels and maybe a scythe.”

  I took the tool from her hands. Rust stained the sharp blade; I saw Kitty protecting my baby Lizzy. Then I pictured Josephy leaning on it, clearing his fields. “Show me the barrels.”

  She led me to three. A tap on one gave a warped hum. They were full.

  “Well, we might have something to drink, but champagne should be bottled properly to keep the bubbles. Once we open it, we’d have to drink it all. Hmmm. Would that be bad?”

  “Mama, you make jokes. I don’t want to die.”

  “That’s not happening.” I took the scythe and rammed the door. “Smithy!”

  Eliza clasped my shoulder. “He said they wouldn’t hurt us. He’ll be back. Maybe we should quiet down.”

  “No. I don’t like waiting for anyone, not for a man and definitely no rebel. “Smithy, you’re not Cudjoe! Tell everyone to stop. Tell them Mrs. Dolly will see what can be done.”

  The chant “Long live King George” soared. Over eighty men and women worked Kensington Plantation. I didn’t want Murray to hurt them. The governor’s incompetence led to this.

  More running and shouting.

  Banging on the big oak door, I beat my palm against it until my skin scraped and bled.

  Eliza took my hand and wrapped it in a handkerchief. “Gilbert will come for us. He’ll stop this.”

  I loved my Eliza. She was always sweet and easy, but when would she notice that we weren’t on the side of right?

  The cellar was musty, but all this standing was too much for me. I sat and patted the ground for my scared rabbit. “Your Mr. Robertson isn’t stupid. He’ll see the fighting and the soldiers and turn back into town. He’s not going to risk being gunned down.”

  “What about my boys? They might—”

  I tugged her face, her baby-fat cheeks, into my bosom. “Let’s not guess at trouble. The boys are in the city, that’s the safest place to be.”

  “What if everyone forgets we are down here?”

  “No one is going to forget.”

  “They won’t forget about you, but me they will. Gilbert will have some new wife within a year.”

  “Eliza. Get a hold of your tongue. Don’t be speaking death.”

  “He wanted a girl.”

  Her grief lingered over a decade. Lacing her fingers with mine, I hummed and breathed. “Your worth is not what you can or can’t give. And you still have those round hips, girl. You see that Charlotte and Fullarton after all these years have two babies.”

  Eliza snorted. “You say Crissy is like you. Maybe old Charlotte is too.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Seems mighty curious that she now has two babies when Fullarton travels so often.”

  My mouth dropped open. “What do you know, Eliza?”

  “Nothing for sure, but your friend Thomas King has two other sons besides William, fine sons. They visit Demerara, too. Kinda curious that Charlotte named this last girl Sarah King Fullarton.”

  My head cleared, rang like a bell, and I tried to remember seeing any of the King boys with Charlotte. “Eliza, if I ever get trapped in a cellar during a rebellion, there’s no other person I’d want to spend it with than you.”

  “Gilbert said the Hermitage will be sold by the courts soon.”

  Didn’t know how to react except with shock and sadness. Cells had such pride in the plantation he built. “But he just sold it to his daughter.”

  “Something about too much speculation. It will be gone.”

  My heart hurt. All the things Cells had made were gone. All the lies amounted to nothing. Yet, if he’d been Mrs. Ben’s grandson, he’d be enslaved. His long life would have been cut down by the sugar boilers of Montserrat or the slaughter of a rebellion.

  I needed to tell him I understood, to write him that there
was something worse than ghosts and death masks.

  Regret.

  Horses galloped outside. The belches of guns rocked the world.

  Eliza sobbed.

  This wasn’t how things would end. My family still needed me. My legacy wasn’t finished. “You’re Eliza Thomas Robertson. You were conceived in love. That’s who you are. When they say your name, you wear it with pride.”

  She curled into me and I held her. When she was born, I didn’t have it in me to nurture her, but now I did. I prayed the violence would go away.

  “Mama. It’s quiet outside.”

  I sat up from my crouched position in the cellar of Kensington House. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Hand in hand, Eliza and I stood together. “Get that scythe.”

  Eliza dragged it to me along with an old hammer. “I found this behind the barrel. Use it instead.”

  Not going to question why she just found it, I took it and struck the lock. I kept pounding until the metal cracked apart. “Bring the scythe as a weapon.”

  We climbed out. I swung my hammer. “Stay behind me, Eliza. This is our land! No one is going to take it! No one is going to intimidate us! You hear me! Mrs. Thomas, owner of Kensington Plantation, is here.”

  My shouts boomed. As we turned the corner . . . The fields, the sugarcane fields my son had cleared, were burned to the ground.

  I ran to the hill. At the top, I could see the sea. It was blue and clear, but all of Josephy’s coffee plantings were black as soot. Hundreds of pounds of damages.

  Yet that wasn’t the worst.

  On the road, close to the house that Josephy built, I saw a stake in the ground.

  A stake in the ground with a head on it.

  A stake in the ground with the head of my cooper.

  Smithy wasn’t Cudjoe.

  He just wanted to be free.

  Eliza’s screams filled the air, my lungs. This killing, like Nicholas’s hanging of Cudjoe in Cells’s tree—I knew it wasn’t a sign to frighten the enslaved.

  It was meant for me.

  Demerara 1823: Contention