Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish

by Maggie Plummer

  When the wind was right, the women could hear voices from the bustling town square. Their view of the Barbados capital was blocked by the tall ships in port. Occasionally the aroma of smoking meat drifted out, making Freddy's mouth water. Warm breezes floated around the deck as they stuffed themselves with local victuals brought on board to plump them up and pinken their cheeks. That way they would bring a higher price. The higher the price, the better the planter, Silas had advised. With clean air and passable food, the young women recuperated quickly from the deadly ten-week voyage. Three more of their group had expired as the Three Brothers plunged across the sea.

  She and Aileen ate as much as they could. Their favorites were the strange tropical fruit, fried fish, and sweet bread. Aileen loved the juicy papaya, but Freddy refused to taste it. To her it was a bitter reminder: had she not been made the fool by that churl's promise of papaya sweetmeats, they would not be here facing God-knows-what fate.

  The group swabbed the filthy hold and washed away the voyage's stink in tubs placed on the main deck. The women hung aprons from a circle of lines, creating a bathing area curtained away from the men's stares. The welcome baths were delightful, in clear seawater warmed by the Barbados sun. Then, as they took turns rinsing their grimy clothes and hanging them to dry in the hot sun, the younger girls chattered about finding a planter who would become a decent husband.

  Freddy finished her bath, put on her clean dress, and left the women's private circle to perch on a deck crate and dry her thick black hair. The island was beautiful, she admitted to herself, gazing to the north and taking in the white beaches, lush mountains, and swaying palms. Terraced fields ruffled in the warm wind, above water so clear it revealed a pink bottom. The humid air was flower-scented and filled with birds. Near the Three Brothers, seagulls cried as pelicans glided by. Yesterday she and Aileen had watched a cluster of shiny dolphins splash near the ship, amidst the bay's blue and green stripes. Perhaps the others were right. Perhaps the West Indies could be a fine place, where a planter could turn out to be a worthy husband.

  But last night, frightful noises had drifted out from the town. Freddy had heard moans and the high cracks of a whip. Perhaps the island's sunny beauty was fickle and shallow, barely concealing the brutal undercurrent flowing beneath the surface. A painfully lovely place it was, the sort they dreamed of back home when chilled to the bone during months of driving rains and dank fog. But never had they dreamed of heavy ropes on their wrists, of being merchandise bought and sold. The tropical splendor was like a juicy piece of fruit that stuns with bitter poison. It was treacherous, like candied papaya promised to hungry girls on a County Galway beach.

  CHAPTER 5

  July 1653

  Freddy stood in the dusty pen, the sweltering sun blazing down on her shoulders. The captain had ordered them stripped. Aileen crouched in the dirt, the brown waves of her hair covering much of her body. Her cracking lips moved in silent prayer. A dark-haired lad was being sold to a planter astride a tall black horse.

  Freddy's tied hands gripped her bundled clothing in front of her. She pressed her knees together and shivered, staring at the goose bumps along her arms, even as sweat trickled down her neck inside the iron slave collar. While Aileen was but a girl, Freddy had already begun her courses. She would be sold as a woman. A woman! And her a right tomboy. Everyone said so.

  Captain Blanchard had ordered the women's hair secured into tight buns, so that the bidders could better scrutinize them. Freddy's scalp hurt from the hairpins, and her head was pounding. She would not, could not, look at any of the men in plumed hats who had gathered around the Bridgetown pen on horseback and in wagons. Bawdy seamen passed around a jug of rum. Freddy gritted her teeth, pressed her legs together again, and stared at the Three Brothers, silhouetted in the shimmering harbor. She wondered if the cursed death ship would soon cross the wide sea back to her own sweet Éire. She pictured the green hills, Mam, Da, and her sisters. Tears smarted as they trickled down her sunburned face. Please God, she prayed, squeezing her eyes shut, may the sun roast me right now, right here. It would be a welcome end to such as this.

  Her eyes still closed, she caught the scent of the horses in the square. How she longed to comb Firewind, then soar over hill and dale on his back. If only he were here. Freddy imagined his white tail flying as he galloped up this very minute and whisked her away. His feathered legs and flowing mane would gleam in the sunshine…

  She jumped at the captain's touch as he unchained her from the others. "Come along," he muttered, attaching a separate chain to her neck ring. He led her to a straggly-haired old woman who looked up Freddy’s nose, then into her mouth. Freddy caught a whiff of rancid body odor and coughed. The woman looked none too clean, her gray hair hanging in oily ropes that hid her wrinkled face.

  "Move yer hands aside," the hag grumbled, shoving her leathery hand between the girl's legs and pushing a bony finger against her private place. Freddy willed herself not to jump or cry out, even as her face burned with shame. She fixed her eyes on the dirt at her feet and the edges of her vision blackened. The earth slanted away precariously.

  The woman flashed a snaggle-toothed grin at the crowd. "She's intact, gents, and healthy as a horse," she declared.

  As the captain pulled Freddy forward to a little hill, she staggered. "Here, sirs, is a right lovely piece of goods," he bragged, grabbing the clothes from her hands and tossing them on the ground. "Frederica is a savory Irish virgin who speaks, reads, and writes the King's proper English. She can translate and teach."

  "Sir, please," Freddy whispered frantically, "I'll do anything you wish, if you'll take us back to Galway."

  For a reply he swatted her bare rump, sending a murmur rippling through the crowd. "This tidbit is thirteen years old, gentlemen," he went on. "Ready for breeding – and for pleasuring. Tall and strong, sure to produce plenty of slaves." He pointed out the muscles of her arms and thighs.

  Three men closed in. Freddy could feel their breath on her skin. She kept her eyes on the ground. She would not give them the satisfaction of reacting. Instead, Freddy imagined kicking them with all her might, in their knees. Her leg muscles twitched eagerly at the thought of it, and she struggled to remain still. The men would writhe on the ground, howling in pain. She would spit in their sallow faces.

  Blanchard was congratulating the tall one on a bargain well made. Looking pleased, the captain handed Freddy over to a mulatto man who silently led her to the side of the square, where a small fire crackled. He gave her a baggy white shift and unshackled her long enough for her to put it on. The coarse material scratched her legs.

  The brown-skinned man locked the chain back onto her neck collar and fastened her to a low rail. As he selected a black iron from the fire, time slowed down. Freddy watched, strangely detached, as he grabbed her right arm, pushed up her sleeve, and pressed the iron to the skin of her forearm.

  "Merciful God!" she screeched, searing pain radiating down her arm. The stench of her own burning flesh hit her, and again her vision blackened. This time she fainted, slumping against the rail.

  Freddy slowly stirred, aware of a burning sensation on her arm. Her lips were parched in the baking sun. She shifted so that she was leaning against the rail.

  With a start she realized that the girl secured to the rail ten feet away, wearing a gown identical to the one she wore, was her sister. Aileen's eyes were squeezed shut as a flaxen-haired man pressed an iron to her forearm. Her little sister's screams tore at her heart. Freddy instinctively jumped to her feet and lunged against the chain. Aileen sank in the dirt, retching. On her arm a blistered "AF" shone in the merciless sun. Struck dumb, Freddy stared at her own arm's "RW."

  The man disengaged Aileen's chain from the rail. "Come, little one," he said.

  Aileen vomited again, then slowly stood.

  "Where is he taking you?" Freddy was finally able to ask. Aileen stared blankly with a slight shrug of her shoulders, her eyes unfocused as if she were in a trance.
Her disheveled hair stuck to the sweat on her tear-stained face. Aileen tried to lick her blistered lips as the man led her toward the quayside.

  "Sir!" Freddy called, lunging again and looking around frantically. The planter who had purchased her stood a few yards away, drinking from a silver flask. "Sir, surely you meant to purchase my sister! She is just eleven years old, please…"

  He turned toward Freddy with a dangerous glint in his dark eyes and took another swig. The mulatto moved behind him, resting his brown hand on a coiled whip tucked into the waistband of his breeches.

  "You dare to speak to me, to look into my face?" the planter asked slowly in his clipped accent. His sharp features gave him a stern appearance. "You are to address me as Master."

  "Please, Master, where is he taking my sister?"

  The planter nodded to the mulatto, then turned his back.

  "St. Kitt's," the driver mumbled under his breath.

  Her heart pounding, Freddy fastened her eyes on her sister. They'd known they might be separated, but not to different islands. "Aileen!" she screamed, desperately pulling against the chain. Her sister looked back. Freddy's shrieks echoed off the pastel buildings around the square. All eyes turned toward her.

  Master nodded again to the driver.

  "Silence!" the mulatto barked. He unchained her, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her to a waiting wagon. He dropped her into it, alongside three Irishmen.

  "No! Aileen!" Freddy thrashed and kicked.

  "Hush now, or it's flogged ye'll be," one of the young men in the wagon whispered.

  But Freddy was beyond caring about that.

  The driver locked her into the wagon bed by her neck ring.

  "Aileen!" She struggled to sit up.

  "We gon' gag her, boss?" the mulatto asked as Master walked up.

  "I think not," the planter replied in a nasal voice, reaching into the wagon to lightly tap Freddy's lips with the handle of his riding whip. "Another proud Irish wench who must be taught her place. I shall watch as you are thoroughly punished." The planter traced the line of her jaw with his whip handle, turned away, and again drank from the flask.

  Freddy's green eyes streamed tears that reflected the gold of the slanting Barbados sun. Her chest heaved with silent sobs and her heart pounded more wildly as she watched her little sister being lifted into a dinghy. As Aileen's small boat began to make its way toward a schooner anchored near the Three Brothers, the wagon jolted into motion. Freddy focused keenly on her sister's silhouette against the glittering bay until the wagon rounded a curve in the lane and she lost sight of her.

  CHAPTER 6

  July 1653

  Captain Anton Lacoste sailed the Alizé into Oistins Bay and anchored close to the fishing village. A few miles southeast of Bridgetown, this was an ideal place to wait for the storms he knew would come.

  He raised his spyglass and scanned the white beach.

  Dozens of fishermen sat in their beached boats, fixing their nets for the next day's catch. Lacoste lowered the spyglass and aimed his brown eyes seaward. Where were the rains? Here it was July and still dry.

  He had promised his Irish crew vengeance against their former English masters here on Barbados. It was a dangerous business, but on a buccaneer ship the crew elected their captain.

  They could also depose him.

  The crew, mostly escaped slaves, was Hell-bent on raiding several of the island's sugar plantations.

  Lacoste understood, having suffered in Hispaniola before escaping to Tortuga. And of course, being French, he appreciated their hatred of the English.

  The embittered Irish told tales of brutality far worse than anything he'd seen. One of the men had trouble walking because the English planter had held a torch flame to the bottoms of his feet for the crime of oversleeping. Another watched his brother die of starvation and overwork in the cane field, then had to watch again, helpless, as his brother’s body was dumped into a swamp like garbage.

  Yes, the men would have their night of retribution. But the time must be right, and chosen wisely.

  CHAPTER 7

  July 1653

  Freddy lay curled on a pallet of burlap rags, a blanket, and a faded rug. The uneven dirt floor of the pantry was damp. Fading light from the tall cookhouse windows filtered through sacking that had been hung to separate the alcove from the main kitchen. As a warm breeze wafted in, the drape swayed slightly. Freddy pulled up her gown to cool her legs as best she could. It was so hot, she was tempted to take it off. But she wasn't sure who was about. Facing the wall and using her hands as a pillow, she stared at the bundles of nutmeg, cinnamon bark, and mint hanging on hooks above a pile of corn sacks. At least it smelled good in here.

  She could not stop the tears that streamed steadily through her fingers. She stretched her legs, wincing. Her buttocks and the backs of her thighs were blistered.

  In the yard behind the Big House, the driver had shown her the wooden paddle, then ordered her to remove the gown and lie face down on a board. Off to one side, Master had leaned against a wall sipping from a tall glass and smoking a pipe, his riding whip tucked into the waistband of his breeches. Numbly lifting the white shift over her head, Freddy had felt his hard eyes burning into her. It was the only garment she had left. Lying on the board, she squeezed her legs together as tightly as she could, closed her eyes, and shivered as a breeze floated across her sweaty back. Ben tied her to the board with thick, coarse rope.

  "Lay it on full, else you'll feel the sting of my crop yourself." The planter had slurred his words.

  At first she managed to stifle her cries, but as the beating dragged on she couldn't keep them in. The stinging blows seemed to shred the skin of her backside.

  When Master was finally satisfied, he sent Ben away. "Frances!" he roared.

  Freddy remained tied there, bare and trembling, unsure of what would come next.

  "Mind that you obey the rules of the house," he snarled, removing the iron collar from her neck. "I have paid dearly for you. You are my property. Flogging a slave to death is not a crime. Our soldiers torture runaways with double neck rings and public hanging. Do you understand?"

  As she nodded, Freddy heard someone come out a door. Then she felt the ropes being untied. A tall woman waited and Master watched as Freddy shakily got on her feet and pulled the loose gown back over her head. The woman nodded to Master and silently led Freddy into a detached kitchen building behind the Big House. The woman's long skirts swished as she walked. Her thin salt-and-pepper hair was gathered into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, and her white apron was starched and ironed.

  "This is where you'll sleep," she said in a no-nonsense English accent, pointing to the alcove. "I am Mrs. Pratt, the housekeeper here at Whittingham Plantation. Rise at the first sounding of the horn and wait for me here."

  She began to leave, but turned back, her lips pursed into a thin line. "If I catch you practicing your heathen Catholic ways, you'll be flogged within an inch of your life."

  Resting now, Freddy was keenly aware that the blisters were not the sorest part of her. Her chest ached with loss and fear in the place where her heart was hammering too hard. The day's dizzying events pressed on her breast so heavily she could barely breathe. Was it just this morning when she and Aileen had huddled together on the ship's deck and eaten ripe mangos? It hadn't been so very long since the sisters had relaxed on the moist sand of the village strand, arms around each other's shoulders and cheeks pressed together, watching Galway-bound ships pass by.

  It had been years ago, but Freddy could still feel Aileen's little arms around her neck as they played their favorite game in the hay. She would pretend to be a horse, crawling around the barn with her little sister on her back until they both collapsed into a giggling heap. The family would gather around the hearth come evening time.

  And Firewind, sweet Firewind, her closest friend. Freddy had spent every spare moment astride his back. Streaking over the ripe fields in a smooth gallop, she would
give Firewind his head and hang on to his long mane, letting him run where he would. He always took her to a shady stream bank where they would rest in amiable silence. Da understood what Mam called her tomboy ways. Freddy was like him. He knew that need, that craving for an outdoor life free of society's conventions.

  Freddy wondered where Da was now. She could still see him working the springtime fields with the old plow horse, waving to her with his cap as she flew by on Firewind's back. She prayed that he was alive and faring well.

  "God, please protect us all," she whispered.

  She jumped when someone touched her shoulder, and quickly rolled on her stomach to face the curtain. Next to the pallet a dark woman squatted, one finger pressed to her lips, her wide-set brown eyes pleading for silence. Freddy froze. She'd never seen anyone like her. The curve of the woman's eyebrows arched into a prominent nose. With her high cheekbones, it gave her the look of an exotic eagle. Her black rope of a braid curled over her shoulder and hung down to the dirt floor. The white gown tucked up between her legs revealed bare feet that in the dwindling light were the color of chocolate. She held a small bowl in one hand and was gesturing toward Freddy with her other hand.

  "Who are you—?" Freddy began. The woman put her hand over Freddy's mouth and glanced toward the main kitchen, her sloping eyes showing alarm. Her hand smelled of mint. Again she pressed one finger against her own lips, looking behind her.

  She pointed to the small bowl and to her own buttocks, then to Freddy. She pulled Freddy toward her so that she lay on her stomach, and tugged on her gown. Freddy looked at the woman for a moment, then pulled it up. The woman touched her shoulder to get her attention, and again put a finger to her own lips. Freddy nodded.