Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish

by Maggie Plummer

  The minty salve was cool as the woman gently applied it to the blisters, then lowered the gown. The woman again touched Freddy's shoulder, and offered her two ripe bananas.

  Freddy rolled back onto her side. "Bless you!" she whispered, sitting up with her weight on one hip and gobbling one of the bananas. She hadn't eaten since morning.

  "Freddy," she murmured softly between bites, pointing to herself.

  "Birdie," the woman whispered in reply, her hand on her collarbone.

  "Thank you." Freddy held the woman's solemn gaze for a long moment. Then, without a sound, Birdie was gone.

  She sprang awake from a fitful sleep, her racing heart in her throat, as he pulled her gown up and stroked her thighs. Freddy covered her mouth to stifle any sound. She dared not resist. His riding crop and the big paddle were not far away. His hips pressed her down, his sharp knees prying her own knees apart. A single candle had been lit. All she could see was his hairy chest and his arms on either side of her head. His sour breath turned her stomach as he pushed his groin against her with a drunken curse. He was flaccid. Freddy gasped in pain as he grabbed her blistered buttocks and lifted her hips, rubbing himself against her as hard as he could. His skinny hip bones bruised her inner thighs as he pushed into her. Her breath caught from a splitting stab of pain as he entered her. Grinding her teeth, seething inside, her stomach lurching again, she held herself still and squeezed her eyes shut. Now his sweaty hands were on her breasts under the gown. As he thrust back and forth, the burlap pallet scraped her raw blisters.

  With a grunt he was finished. He got to his feet and pulled his nightshirt on. Grabbing the candle, he pulled the curtain aside and left.

  Freddy slowly turned onto her side in the black night and curled up into a tight ball, rocking, hot tears again flowing silently. She coughed, gagged, and vomited on the dirt floor. In the darkness she found the blanket, balled it up, and cradled her head with it. This was a different soreness, as if she had been turned inside out.

  A surge of desolate homesickness overtook her. "Mam…" she moaned, bereft.

  She turned onto her stomach and buried her face in the blanket, pulling it tight against her mouth as violent sobs racked her body. Soon her sobs escalated into fierce screams of white-hot rage muffled by the layers of blue wool.

  CHAPTER 8

  July 1653

  The estate horn blasted through the balmy pre-dawn, dragging Freddy from an exhausted sleep. She rubbed her eyes, which were swollen and crusty from crying. Her throat hurt from her screaming fit. Somewhere nearby, roosters crowed. Beyond the curtain, a fire crackled and popped in the rock fireplace. She sat up. Someone had lit a candle lantern and placed it in the alcove, along with a basin of water, a rag, and some white fabric. She leaned over, pulled the curtain aside, and stuck her head out. In the main kitchen Birdie squatted in front of the fire, mixing something in a big bowl.

  "Thank you," Freddy said. Birdie turned and flashed her wide smile across the room, then put a finger to her lips.

  Freddy cleaned herself and fashioned an undergarment with the soft white cotton. Trying to comb her tangled black curls with her fingers, she yanked impatiently at her unruly hair. It had turned to frizz. She quickly gave up, gathering it into a low knot at the nape of her neck. She bent down to separate the layers of her pallet and air it out. A spot of blood the size of a dinner plate stained the burlap. Suddenly she recalled Mam saying that a woman bleeds after her first coupling.

  In the light of the fire, several candle lanterns, and a dusty rose sunrise glowing through the open windows, Freddy joined Birdie at a large work table and watched her grind corn with a mortar and pestle. The woman's brown babe slept peacefully in a bleached muslin sling tied to her chest.

  "Here," Birdie said, pouring cornmeal into a large crock.

  Freddy touched her shoulder and smiled, trying to thank her for her earlier kindness.

  Birdie smiled back, gently touched Freddy's hand, and gestured that she'd better get busy grinding.

  As she crushed the hard kernels with the club-shaped pestle, Freddy looked around. Three of the pink-washed cookhouse walls had tall windows with hinged covers propped open with poles. The covers served as awnings, shading the windows from the scorching Barbados sun. Outside, a breeze rustled the leaves of a lone mahogany tree. Hanging next to the stone fireplace were black pots and a bellows. The plank floor had a hatch that probably led to a storage cellar. In one corner was a scattering of rat droppings. Across the room a rough sideboard held a stack of gold platters that gleamed in the firelight. Shelves held calabash containers, wooden spoons, and small bowls made from coconut shells. The top shelf overflowed with fruit and squash. Freddy recognized bananas, mangoes, papayas, oranges, and lemons. The kitchen smelled of ripe fruit and smoke from the fireplace, where Birdie was breaking eggs into a bowl of batter. The dry warmth from the cook fire felt good and the smoke had already chased the pesky mosquitoes away.

  Freddy poured the fresh meal into the crock, refilled the mortar, and continued grinding. Already her arms ached. She climbed onto a wooden stool to get a better angle for grinding. The two worked silently. Now and then Birdie checked on Freddy's progress, smiling and patting her on the shoulder. The native woman repositioned the baby's head so he could nurse. The only sounds were the soft thud of Birdie's spoon as she mixed the batter, the crunch of corn kernels Freddy was crushing, and an escalating chorus of birdsong from nearby guava trees.

  *

  "The kitchen is separate to lessen the risk of fire and to keep smells and heat away from the Great House," the housekeeper began, leading Freddy around the side of the mansion. After a hectic morning bustling from the kitchen to the Big House, serving Master and his daughter Millicent a breakfast of cornbread, ham, and sliced papaya, Mrs. Pratt was ready to show Freddy the grounds.

  "Here are the garden and orchard, which you and Birdie cultivate and harvest," the woman continued, pointing out long rows of corn, potatoes, tomatoes, plantain, cassava, okra, and more. A huge veranda wrapped around the front corner of the Big House, its flat roof serving as a railed balcony for the second story.

  Mrs. Pratt stopped. "You are to tutor Millicent, to prepare her for boarding school. Master Whittingham's wife died of malaria two years ago. He has not been the same since. He drives himself to make his fortune and return to England. He blames himself…" She shook her head slightly and straightened her shoulders. "You will help Master Whittingham by translating for the Irish slaves," she resumed in her clipped manner. "You will cook and wash, take rations to the fields, and muck out livestock sheds during the harvest. There are never enough men to work the sugar."

  The housekeeper cleared her throat. "You will produce healthy babes and raise them to be strong slaves." Her cheeks were bright pink as she cleared her throat again. "Well, then, this is the Great House." Located on a slight rise, the coral-colored manor featured hand-carved mahogany front doors flanked by red-flowering vines. Casement windows with white hurricane shutters faced a curving carriageway. Above three upstairs windows were the third story's small dormer windows, each inside a decorative gable. Stately palms and mahogany trees swayed above the roof line.

  "Here in St. Michael's Parish, the planters maximize sugar production," Mrs. Pratt was saying as she turned to face a semi-circle of outbuildings. "That is why the yard is none too big. There are the curing, still, and boiling houses. Over here are the stables, forge, and storehouses."

  As they walked across the dirt yard, Master called the housekeeper to the stable. The woman scurried to him, with Freddy on her heels. The planter leaned against a stall, stroking his black goatee and watching the new girl.

  "My dear Mrs. Pratt," he began in his nasal tone, "bring her to me."

  The housekeeper shoved Freddy forward. Before she could shrink back, Master had a painfully tight grip on her shoulders. He turned the new slave around in the golden light, and abruptly ripped her hair from the tidy bun. Freddy felt her face flush.

&nb
sp; "See that she wears her hair loose, only the sides tied up." He stood before her and pushed the front of her gown down to reveal the curving of her bosom. Then he walked around behind her, circled her waist with his other hand, and pulled her tight against him. Freddy froze, her hands clenched into fists. She tried to meet Mrs. Pratt's eyes, but the woman had averted her gaze.

  "She shall wear a tight bodice and a low neckline," Master was saying. "It pleasures me to view her shape."

  "Yes, sir." The housekeeper was now blushing furiously.

  "That will be all, Mrs. Pratt."

  Freddy watched the woman leave the stable. She yearned to call her back, beg for her help.

  Behind her, Master ran his strangely long fingernails up her side and ordered her to stand on two milking stools he had placed in front of a workbench. Lifting her gown and pressing her waist forward, he tore off her makeshift undergarment and pleasured himself. Freddy held her breath, unbelieving, as his bony knees pressed hers open wider. She braced herself on her elbows and covered her eyes with her hands, then realized she couldn't feel her arms or legs. It was as if she was floating beyond herself, watching from above the nearby stalls. The horses nickered softly. She could smell them, and the piles of hay, and the leather tack that hung on the walls. She imagined that she was hugging one of the horses around his big neck. Her blisters stung when Master smacked against her. But his hip bones didn't bruise her this way, she thought dully.

  It was over right away, with his muted grunt.

  He pulled her up by her hair. "This," he muttered into her ear, sliding his skinny hand between her legs, "is mine and must always be ready to pleasure me." She numbly fixed her eyes on the wood grain of the workbench in front of her. "You know what awaits if you disobey. Please me and I will free you in five years' time."

  Millicent skipped into the dining room, her blond ringlets bouncing from underneath a white cap, but stopped in her tracks when she saw Freddy. Twirling a pink hair ribbon around one finger, she inched over to Mrs. Pratt. The girl looked nothing like her father.

  "This is Freddy, your tutor," the housekeeper told her.

  The eight-year-old blinked her pale blue eyes. "I don't want her!" she shrieked, her face turning red. "I want a real teacher!"

  "You must ready yourself for England," Mrs. Pratt said, smoothing the girl's ruffled white pinafore, which covered an ankle-length pink dress. "You're to have your first spelling lesson tomorrow."

  The girl leaned against Mrs. Pratt's legs, her eyes narrowing to slits as she slowly looked Freddy up and down.

  CHAPTER 9

  July 1653

  Captain Lacoste couldn't sleep in the muggy night. Through the open porthole above his bed he listened to the sea's gentle lapping against the side of the ship. Usually the sound was enough to lull him into a peaceful doze. But tonight there was no soothing his edginess.

  This waiting grated on him.

  A refreshing breeze wafted in, surprising him. He got up and threw on his shirt, breeches, and boots to patrol the sloop.

  No one was about except for the mate who had night watch. After a few moments he heard the patter of large raindrops slapping the deck. He lifted his face to the inky sky, letting the welcome drops wash over his closed eyes.

  They had made good use of their weeks here, mending sails, going over maps, sharpening cutlasses, cleaning muskets, and planning. Now they were restless.

  The rain was a good sign. But they needed more. They needed a genuine tempest.

  CHAPTER 10

  July 1653

  "I was the first," Una whispered, her pale eyes and yellow hair shining in the candlelight. "That was before Birdie came."

  Una MacMahon was the chambermaid in the Big House, but she slept on a pallet in the kitchen. She and the other two house slaves were huddled on the floor around a candle lantern, slapping away relentless mosquitoes as big as thumbnails. Birdie had made a smudge to smoke away the insects, but the determined mosquitoes did not seem to notice it. Una was combing out Birdie's long black hair. It was late, the Big House was dark, and Birdie's seven-month-old babe slept peacefully on the native woman's pallet. Just outside the open windows a night heron called.

  "How can you bear it?" Freddy almost choked on the question.

  "Bear what?" Una asked absently.

  "Him." Freddy was feeling more like herself. She had been here only a week, but it seemed like a month. She feared that Master's crude attentions would make her lose her mind. Slowly the numbness in her arms and legs had faded. But the curious visions of floating above herself worried her.

  "Master?" Una snorted.

  Freddy nodded.

  "He is but a cockroach, to be crushed."

  Freddy waited for her to go on, but Una had fallen silent.

  "Where is Birdie from?" Freddy glanced at the handsome Indian woman, whose eyes were closed as Una stroked her scalp.

  "The Virginia Colony."

  "Is she with child?"

  Una nodded. "Master's, again."

  "What of your children?" Freddy asked, slapping at another mosquito.

  "I am barren from the yellow fever," Una replied matter-of-factly. "Master wanted to trade me off, but Mrs. Pratt was having none of it… Now he turns to you to satisfy his needs. May the devil cut off his cock and feed it to the pigs!" Una leaned forward and let out a ridiculous low grunt.

  Birdie covered her mouth with her hand, crumpling into a giggle fit. Soon the three of them were rolling on the wood floor, holding their sides and laughing so hard they were weeping and coughing. The more they tried to stifle their laughter the harder they giggled.

  "What if he hears?" Freddy asked breathlessly, collapsing into another spasm of wild mirth.

  They shook their heads and Birdie moved behind Una to comb out her flaxen hair.

  "He makes his visits late." Una dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her gown.

  Freddy's stomach lurched again at the thought of Master's visits. "What is the Big House like?" she quickly asked.

  "Fancy. Polished fans and mahogany, silver and crystal." Una's eyes flashed. "Yet our people starve and die in the cane…These planters will roast in the hottest corner of Hell for what they do, so they will."

  The crock of maize mash wobbled crazily as Birdie drove the donkey cart along the rutted lane. The midday sun glared down on the towering cane, burning the leftover mist like a fireball. It was so humid, Freddy felt like a steaming blanket was draped over her face. As the cart groaned forward, the day yawned like a dazed dream.

  Her eyes had widened when she first beheld the sharp stake fences enclosing the plantation yard. The wee slave shacks were excluded from the protective fence. As the cart slowly creaked past the slave compound Freddy surveyed the huts, which were thinly roofed with reeds and sugar cane trash. Atop the highest hill, she and Birdie viewed the curving white sand beach, the sea, and ominous-looking purple clouds on the western horizon. Even on the ridge there was no breeze.

  As they approached the sweltering field where the Great Gang dug cane holes, Freddy noticed Master stiff on his tall black horse, high above the bowed backs of the field slaves. His face was shadowed by his plumed hat. Freddy's stomach twitched and she averted her eyes. She recognized the black-haired lad she'd seen on the auction block in Bridgetown. He looked about seventeen years old. Like the other Irish men, he wore white trousers and worked his hoe alongside the Africans. The bare skin of his reddish-brown back was split open and bleeding from whip wounds. Two rows down, the mulatto driver was lashing a woman as she worked. Freddy realized that it was Dika, the Gypsy woman from the Three Brothers. The back of Dika's white shift was torn and bloody. With each crack of the whip, the rips and blood stains grew. Dika continued digging with nary a flinch. Freddy's stomach twitched again.

  The Africans' blue-black skin glistened with sweat that accented the criss-crossed whip scars on their backs. The black men wore two-paneled aprons slung low on their hips. The Irish men stood out, their burnished pink
skin and red whip scars glowing. The white women, who worked in a separate line, wore loose white gowns like Freddy's. Among the gang of 40 or so, only two were African women. They wore scarves wrapped high on their heads, and short skirts of bright fabric. Una said the field slaves toiled under the whip from dawn to dusk in the scorching sun and humidity, with one break and only water to drink. Sometimes it was dirty water that sickened them.

  The driver blew a conch shell and the gang stopped digging. Some sank to the baking ground, wiping their dripping brows with their arms. Others straggled to the edge of the field to ladle and slurp water from a wide barrel. Then they headed for the rations cart. Birdie readied the calabash bowls.

  "I'm Colin Shea Brophy, do you remember me?" a young man whispered in Irish as Freddy ladled his mash. She gave him a slight nod, careful to keep her eyes on her work. The driver, Ben, stood at the water barrel, splashing his face and watching them. "From the wagon after the auction," Colin continued. "You had eyes for no one but your wee sister…"

  Freddy met his piercing blue eyes. They were startling, set off by his bronze skin and thick black eyebrows. He was about five inches taller than her, with a broad chest and wide shoulders. He had a sharp chin, strong nose, and a prominently ridged brow. His wavy hair was pulled back into a black ribbon. She quickly dropped her eyes again. He leaned in and Freddy detected a faintly musky scent.

  "I will live to drink the blood of these English weasels," he murmured in his native tongue, grabbing his bowl and sauntering off to find some shade.

  Freddy leaned back in the silky water and sucked on a piece of cane, amazed by its sweetness. Through the trees an almost-full moon lit the spring pool, dappling it with silver streaks. Situated between two rock outcroppings on the hill above the cookhouse, the small pool was perfect for bathing. A stream trickled from a narrow cave into the pool. This was a refreshing relief, after a long day of sweaty work. She would try to bathe here every night. Although the sun had gone down several hours ago, the air was hot and humid. The weather seemed muffled, as if waiting for something.