“Yes. Have a seat, ma’am.”
There’s a simple rose-colored couch and two straight-legged chairs on either side of the low table. I ease onto the couch with my train draping beneath me.
Lord Bathurst goes to the opposite side and sits. “Where are you from? And what messages have you.”
“I’m from the colony of Demerara.”
“Demerara? That’s not a foreign tribe from Africa.”
“No, Demerara is not. It’s a colony the British won from the Dutch and the French. I’m a survivor of the Rebellion of 1823. The government officials that report to you did not follow your instructions. They have made the plight of the enslaved untenable.”
“Are you here for abolition? That’s not something I can do. That requires Parliament and discussions.”
“And reparations for the holders so they will willingly comply. Yes, yes. I know. That’s not why I am here.”
He pulls his wrists together and taps his fingertips. “Then tell me why?”
I dip in my reticule, slipping past my manumission documents, and pull out the papers with the arguments the Entertainment Society prepared for me. Pushing them to Bathurst, I breathe a little easier because he can read them and then act.
The man sets the pages on top of his cluttered table that has books and rolled-up maps and checklists. “I can read these later. I want to hear from you. You obviously went to great effort and expense to be here.”
He’s right.
The life I’ve lived has led me to this point, but I’m tired. Words fail.
London 1824: Whitehall—Plain Words
I sit in Lord Bathurst’s office with my heart beating like a warrior’s drum. It’s thudding hard in my chest.
“Ma’am. Make it plain. I’m listening.”
“I’m here to stop future rebellions. I think you created your Amelioration Laws to do that.”
“I did. Rebellions are costly in lives and damage and resources. The navy is overburdened now. Amelioration can bring contentment to the slaves.”
My gut burns at the notion of being satisfied as chattel, but I had to focus. Prince William’s Parliament could end slavery, but Lord Bathurst can end this wrongful taxation.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Come in,” Bathurst said.
A fellow brings a service of tea.
“Refreshment, Mrs. Kirwan Thomas?” Lord Bathurst points to the plain silver pot. Steam is rising.
My throat has dried from my tongue being too careful. “Please.”
The clerk puts the heavy tray on top of my papers then stokes the fireplace.
Lord Bathurst tries to wiggle the pages free. Tea spills. Ink smears. My squiggles are blurry indigo waves.
“Sir, those are notices of the taxes. Women under attack. We’ve written all the reasons this is unfair.”
He takes the wet papers and gives them to the clerk. “Johnson, see if these can be saved.”
I stare at the man taking away the ruined pages, then to the street with my carriage with my damfo. My heart feels full and powerful. I remember I am here for her.
“Mrs. Kirwan Thomas, you know a great deal about this. Tell me the problem. You started eloquently. You can finish.”
My pulse swooshes in my veins. The tea has scented the air with lemon, but the ash of the fireplace coals takes me to the moment I saw Josephy’s burnt fields. My anger, my hurt, all the losses erupt from that bottomless well in my chest.
“I’ve come to talk about how to stop the killings, the next rebellion. One will come if nothing changes. It will be bloodier and more costly than the last.”
He propped his hand under his chin and supported it with the other arm. “The unrest robs resources needed to govern the colonies. The rebellions in Grenada and Haiti cost so many lives. I’m listening, Mrs. Thomas.”
“Lieutenant Governor Murray purposely withheld your orders. He did so to appease the planters who fear that the enslaved learning about the Bible would yearn for freedom. What the governor doesn’t understand is that everyone yearns for freedom, everyone. When the enslaved believed King George had freed them and Murray was keeping them enslaved, they threw off their yokes, praising the king.”
“Then it’s a misunderstanding, ma’am.”
“No. It’s criminal. Everything being done builds a climate of mistrust. Can you blame anyone when your officials do not follow your orders?”
He sat back in his chair. “Murray may be the wrong man to lead Demerara.”
“It’s him and the council. They’ve placed taxes upon the free women of color to be punitive. They don’t believe colored women should be free, or that we should have money and live in peace. The governor wants tyranny. That is why they behead or hang any enslaved person. They do that to choke off the hope of a people craving freedom, craving autonomy of their bodies.”
“Murray’s threatening free colored women, too? Are you leading insurrection, ma’am?”
“My being here is insurrection ’cause I’m not doing what those men want. Murray is using taxation to hurt us. The colonial council want us women alone to pay for damages to government buildings. As good colonists, we will do our share, but all citizens have need of those buildings. Shouldn’t all people of means pay?”
He steepled his fingers and nodded. “That does sounds unfair, but how will this cause the next rebellion?”
“I was in Grenada. Many Catholic planters joined the Fédons because they felt the governor had treated them unfairly with taxes and confiscations. The council in Demerara will continue to abuse us by imposing harsh laws. Once men get away with something, they continue causing more trouble.”
“That’s a problem, Mrs. Thomas. Unrest and strife do enflame the populaces.”
“If that means people will rise up, then yes. Many have been freed under the laws of England. If this council keeps making unjust laws, what will stop them from changing the manumission contracts? Nothing. Nothing will keep them from changing the terms of freedom. People will go to war over it.”
He poured himself a cup of tea. “They’ll never do that. You’re overreacting.”
“What’s to stop this council of men? Decency? One of the enslaved was murdered by the militia for praising King George. He had no weapon. They cut his head off and put it on a stake in my yard. Does that sound like a reasonable action?”
The lord’s eyes went wide, then he folded his arms. “What is it that you are asking me to do?”
“Abolish this tax on freewomen. Send notification to Demerara, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, Montserrat, all the islands of the West Indies that the targeting of women will not be tolerated. Tell them that the tax code and the laws can’t be used to erode the freedoms we’ve gained. Send that message. Make it loud.”
“I’ll take what you’ve said under consideration, Mrs. Thomas.”
“Do more. Your inaction condones those old men weaponizing laws to intimidate good citizens. Loyal citizens of the Crown. If you do not act, they will continue to inflict more pain. You will have another Grenada. Or Haiti. I hear those rebels won.”
Bathurst swallowed and nodded. “You make good points.”
A double knock pounds the door.
“Yes, come in,” Bathurst says.
Johnson enters. “Here, sir. It’s almost dry and mostly legible.”
“Thank you.”
As the clerk leaves, the overseer secretary takes the papers. By the window, he holds them up one by one.
He takes his time, and I stare out the window, wondering where my niece and I might journey next in our six-pair carriage. Around Kensington Palace? Gunther’s for an ice? Shopping? Or back to her husband to plan my financial escape from Demerara?
I’m comforted.
I’ve done my best.
I can’t think of anything more to say to sway Bathurst.
The man puts my papers on his desk then sits beside me on the sofa. “I see. I understand.”
“Does that mean you w
ill help?”
“That means I’ll do more. I agree this tax must be abolished. I’ll have orders written today. Do you want a copy sent or do you wish to wait for it?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll sit here and enjoy this tea while I wait for your words. I’ll take them back to Demerara. I’ll let everyone know freewomen will be treated fairly under British laws.”
“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Dorothy Kirwan Thomas.”
Savoring my warm cup, I enjoy the rhythm of all those s’s. His lordship called me by my proper name.
Epilogue
Demerara, October 1824
Holding Mary’s hand, I stand on the rail of the sloop watching Demerara grow bigger and the water change from blue to green to brownish white.
The heat sticks to me. My short copper-colored sleeves are plastered to my arms.
As the weather has warmed, we’ve changed from our heavy clothes to simple muslin gowns. I love the dry heat on this side of the sea.
Though I have a copy of the decree, Lord Bathurst used his admiralty to send word directly to Lieutenant Governor Murray to abolish the tax. I hear the foul man was removed from office in April.
That’s good, for I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to gloat. There’s no need to test the fragility of an old man’s ego.
Missing home presses my soul. For the first time in a long time I don’t feel like everything will be taken away.
Lucy Van Den Velden struts up to my side. “Mrs. Thomas, thank you for helping me return to Demerara.”
“You need to see your father. You need to get things settled right.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you.”
I nod and turn back to Mary. She’s staring at the water like Crissy always did. My youngest daughter says she and the major are in love, but they still haven’t married. That won’t end well.
“GaMa, I hear music.”
My eyes shut. My pulse explodes. The transport of slaves on those frigates is supposed to be no more. I don’t want to see men and women on decks forced to sing.
“GaMa, it’s pretty.” Mary’s tugging my skirt hard. “GaMa.”
With a mouthful of salty air, I let myself see. I look to the left.
No slave ships.
Then I let myself hear.
The rhythm is slow and sweet, cresting over the waves reaching me. It’s singers on the dock. My Irish hymn has more rhythm. It has drums and bits of Twi in the refrain.
I take Mary, and we twirl and dance until the boat anchors.
When we climb onto the dock, my son Harry is there with his wife. He did marry that widow.
“Welcome home, Mama. Well done.” He kisses my cheek, then picks up Mary and tosses her onto his shoulder and then gives her to the awaiting arms of her happy mother, my dear Charlotte.
“Why are they playing music, girl? What’s the occasion?”
“It’s for you, Mama.” Charlotte hugs my neck. “You’re the hero today.”
I look out at the jubilant crowd. It’s all my family and friends, cheering.
Rebecca Ritchie and her daughter are right up front.
My Eliza, Ann, Frances, and Mamaí and the scores of grands and great-grands are all here.
Mary Ostrehan comes up to me. “On behalf of the Entertainment Society, we would like to give you this silver plate to commemorate your leadership. You made change happen for us.”
For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to say. I stand there ready to cry, ready to laugh and sing.
The plate shines. It’s stars for my eyes. I hold it up and hope the sun catches it and gives dreams to everyone.
Polk is with the musicians. Good old Polk. That must mean he’s back from Barbados with Cells.
Scanning the crowd again, I don’t see Coseveldt.
Harry nudges me. “Come on, Mama. Say something.”
My shoulders shrug. “I’m happy to help. Thank you all. Thank you for your friendship and love.”
Walking and stopping for hugs and kisses, I hold this plate to my chest. It will go somewhere special. This silver is strong and unbreakable. That has to say something about this sisterhood of women.
I move a little deeper into the crowd, and I see Catharina. She’s here, and she’s clapping for me.
Hugging and kissing her, I wrinkle the black crepe of her dress. Another glance at the crowd, and I see no black hat.
My heart seizes.
I didn’t get to tell him good-bye. I didn’t tell Cells thank you. Or anything that matters.
Catharina clutches my arm. “Mama, what’s wrong?”
“Are Simon and the children . . . Are they all well?” My voice is breaking.
“Yes. They’re at Werk-en-Rust with Father. He’s back from Barbados.”
Coseveldt is alive. There’s another chance?
Pulling her into a big embrace, I kiss her forehead. “Then why the black drape?”
“It’s the finest thing I own, Mama. I wanted to look good for you.”
I kiss her brow again. “You are beautiful, and you are loved.”
When I release her, I offer my crying child a handkerchief from my reticule. The embroidered linen is right there next to my papers. I’ll never leave the house without them, but I hope one day I might not dread being without them.
“Catharina, tell your father that I want him to come to supper and to bring his hat. Tell him I have a place to put it after all. I’m not afraid anymore.”
The poor girl squints at me. She must think I’m crazed, but I’m happy. I have more time. “Tell him. He’ll understand.”
“Papa didn’t come because he wanted you to have this moment. He needed it to be about you, and you alone. He said you’d know what that means.”
I did, and it’s wonderful.
“Supper tonight. Let him know.”
My people surround me. We hum and sing of peace all the way home.
Author’s Note
Dorothy Kirwan Thomas
Dorothy “Dolly” Kirwan Thomas was born in Montserrat in 1756 and died in Demerara in 1846. Dorothy was a survivor of slave rebellions and experienced the wars that shaped the Atlantic world. She was a complex, conflicted woman who overcame every obstacle, even her vulnerabilities, to change history. Her story needed to be told. A single chapter centered on this woman’s extraordinary ninety years is not sufficient to dispel the myths and misogyny that surround women of color, Black women, who endured colonialism and slavery. I am honored to be able to tell the world about her extraordinary life.
From legal transactions, newspaper articles, published anecdotal accounts, and legal records drafted at her direction, I have reconstructed her life. Mrs. Thomas was articulate, astute, and business-minded. She was a woman of passion who struggled with functional illiteracy, heart-wrenching losses, and betrayals. She was an original code-switcher who used simpler words with servants and family (like her favorite, tarn) and saved her polished parlor conversations for admirals, businessmen, and the gentry who sought her company. She was a passionate woman dealing with the issues of her time: racism, enslavement, incest, sexuality, marriage, entrepreneurialism, land ownership, taxation, and women’s rights.
My author’s note includes an extensive bibliography.
Women of Color: Who Tells the Story Matters
The first time I read Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, a contemporary author of the early 1800s, I fell in love with the time period. When reading her last work, Sanditon, I learned of Miss Lambe, a wealthy mulatto West Indian woman. This character of color is the wealthiest person in the book. Upper-crust suitors (white suitors) are scheming to marry her, which is counter to the prevailing narrative that Blacks (Blackamoors) were not desirable, had no access to money, had no ability to socialize in the upper classes, and had little agency as they were either slaves or lowly servants.
As a person of color, a Black woman, a Georgian and Regency history student, and a girl of Trinidad and Tobago heritage, I felt found discovering Mis
s Lambe, but now new questions arose. Was this character a creature derived from a progressive author’s creativity or was this character based on persons of color that Austen learned about or saw or interacted with in her community?
If the answer was the former, it cemented my lifelong love of Austen. If the answer was the latter, then my ancestors had been victims of the whitewashing of history.
Whitewashing or the sanitization of the past occurs because the victors (those allowed to tell the story) more often than not cast history through the white gaze, a.k.a. the lens of white men. These narratives often describe rape of the enslaved by slave masters in terms of consent, even in cases of incest. You’ll never imagine how many scientific papers and history books I’ve tossed against a wall as the author chose to call these violent unions relationships.
I’m not a fan of book burning, but nothing makes me long for the scent of kerosene and carbon more than reading paragraphs of how the wanton enslaved woman enticed her massa to satisfy dark cravings of her oversexualized body, a body that is often painted as not experiencing pain like others.
My quest to find Miss Lambe took me on a ten-year journey. Finding Dorothy Kirwan Thomas, the women of the Entertainment Society, and so many other Black women who had agency and access to all levels of power has restored my soul.
Now I possess two truths. One: Jane Austen was a progressive author. Two: The narratives of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries whitewashed the roles of my people—the adventurers, leaders, and rule breakers—which were occupied by women of color.
Fictitious Characters vs. Real-Life People Depicted in Island Queen
Dorothy Kirwan Thomas left no diary. To discover her life, I had to rely on her legal documents, particularly the birth registries/birth order of her children and secondary accounts of people interacting with Dorothy.
The characters of Polk, Mr. and Mrs. Ben, Mr. Lionel, Overseer Teller, Mr. Johnson, Miss Smith, Mr. Runyan, and Mrs. Randolph are inspired characters or a mix of different true persons that I’ve found in my research of the times, traditions, and the inner workings of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century life.
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