"Well, good night then."
After a few minutes, the floor was quiet once again. Freddy grabbed the sack, opened it to make sure each knife was wrapped in cotton cloth, then carefully placed it in another sack, between several jars of dried herbs. She picked up the lantern and the sack, and climbed out. Placing the lantern on the kitchen floor, she closed the hatch. As she straightened, she caught from the corner of her eye something white flashing by, beyond the mosquito netting that hung across the cookhouse doorway. Had she imagined it? Perhaps it was a shadow in the flickering light. Or had that been Paulina's white dress?
"Paulina?" Freddy had to remind herself to breathe as she crept to the door and poked her head out. No one was about. She shook her head, snatched four chunks of salt beef jerky from the work table, tucked them between her breasts, blew out the lamp, and rushed back to the hut. The storm was blowing harder.
"May these and the sword of God above keep you safe," she whispered, handing the knife bundle to Kofi. He inspected the knives, nodded, smiled at her, and put one hand on her shoulder. Freddy handed him the salt beef. Heaven knew when he would get to eat again, or what. He took a ravenous bite of jerky. As he chewed, they huddled together on the plank bed.
"Mmmm," he hummed. Freddy rested her cheek against his broad chest. His big arm came around her, pulling her close. She embraced him back and kissed his jaw, then his cheekbone.
"God's grace on you, my darling," she murmured into his ear. Freddy could not bear how much she loved this man.
They turned to face each other. Her arms encircled his neck, her hands running through his hair. Tenderly stroking her swollen belly, he whispered an Akan word. Freddy lay her hand on his cheek. He resolutely stood and put the gourd horn into the sack. Freddy got up and wrapped her arms around his waist. He kissed the top of her head and again murmured something in his language. Holding her face in his large hands, Kofi searched her eyes and gave her a long, deep kiss. Then he gently pulled away, lifted the sack, and went to the door. He turned to look at her one more time, then opened the door and slipped out, closing it behind him. Freddy hurried to the door, opened it a crack, and watched him disappear into the black gale.
Just then a sharp clap of thunder awakened Laurie. He began crying. Freddy picked him up, crooning, and brought him to bed. She blew out the candle and lay on her side, her son curled snugly beside her. He immediately fell back asleep. She stretched her legs, listening to every sound. All she could hear was the moaning wind accompanied by pounding rain. The skin on her arms prickled with fear. She wanted to open the door but knew the rain would blow in.
She tried to doze. Laurie slept peacefully but Freddy could not. Her beloved was out there somewhere, facing the worst kind of danger. She carefully pulled away from the babe, got up, and opened the door a crack. There was nothing to see. But a minute later she heard the horns and watched as slaves swarmed through the compound. Freddy kissed the wooden rosary Father Sean had given her, then knelt on the dirt floor and fingered the smooth beads in fervent prayer for Kofi and the others.
When she finished, she felt an urgent need to see Birdie. As she bundled her son down the row of huts, Freddy spotted Paulina's white dress. The slender Creole woman was sprinting down a mud track that led through a cane field to the slave cemetery. Freddy stood still, rain dribbling down her face, and watched her. Militia men had been stationed in the cemetery for the past month. She wanted to run and catch Paulina, but here she was with one child in her arms and another in her heavy belly.
She scurried through the storm to Birdie's hut, where her friend welcomed her with a mug of mobby.
"I saw Paulina!" Freddy blurted, sinking to the floor and drying Laurie off. "I fear she is running to the soldiers in the slave cemetery!"
Birdie gave her a look of alarm. She put Efia down in her makeshift cradle. "I go?"
Freddy nodded, feeling horribly helpless. Birdie ran into the wet night. Freddy sat on the floor and ground her teeth, furious with Paulina and even more furious with herself. She should have been more cautious. Her mind racing in circles as she wondered what Paulina could have seen, she covered her face with her hands.
CHAPTER 25
July 1655
"I see nothing," Birdie said when she returned.
"Let us pray that I am wrong." The rebels' plan depended on surprising the militia. If Paulina somehow betrayed them to the soldiers, all could be lost. Birdie joined Freddy on the floor of the dark hut. They wrapped their arms around each other's shoulders and leaned their heads together, silently thinking their own thoughts. Father Sean had once described to Freddy what happened to slaves who were caught in a rebellion. She shuddered, reaching over to open the door just a crack. She held it in place with her bare feet, to keep it from blowing open and letting the sheets of rain in.
"Remember what we talked about, what we are to do if the soldiers come?" Freddy asked.
"Yes," her friend whispered, inclining her head closer to Freddy's ear. "You say…please."
She turned her mouth toward Birdie's ear. "Speak our native tongues, and pretend we neither speak nor understand the soldier's English."
"I remember."
"Is there anything in here to connect you or Kazoola to the revolt?" Freddy had already checked and re-checked her own hut to make sure nothing could be found there.
"No." Birdie shook her head. "Look!" The women leaned forward to see through the door, barely noticing the tepid rain gusting in. A crowd of men bearing sputtering torches poured into the compound. Freddy spotted a group of shirtless Africans in the middle of the throng, carrying Mr. and Mrs. Pratt prone. In the noisy storm, Freddy could not hear what the Pratts were shouting. The Africans, whose wet torsos gleamed in the golden torchlight like polished ebony, held the housekeeper and the butler high by their ankles, hips, shoulders, and wrists. Neither Kofi nor Kazoola was among them. Freddy squeezed her eyes shut and sent up another prayer for their safety.
Mrs. Pratt was fuming, waving her arms about, legs flailing and white lace cap askew. The more she thrashed, the higher her long apron and skirt travelled on her chunky white legs. Behind her, Mr. Pratt's wiry frame looked as stiff as a wood plank. His nightshirt was soaked and sticking to his skin, his bony shoulders hunched. His pale features seemed waxy in the torchlight, his long hair straggling down from his dripping, balding head. He held his mouth tightly closed.
As the slaves lowered Mrs. Pratt into a puddle, her white cap fell off in the mud. She continued to struggle. One of the Irish men slapped her hard across her mouth. Stunned, she sat still in the puddle and watched as they lowered her husband. The rebels bound the two house servants together, the whipping rain drenching all of them.
Freddy heard Master before she saw him.
"Unhand me, ye rancid curs!!" He bellowed slurred curses as the slaves carried him past the hut. The men stopped for one Irish slave to gag him with a long red scarf. Whittingham pitched his lanky body as the chanting Africans held him high above their heads. Finally Freddy was able to make out Kofi and Kazoola, gripping the planter's ankles. This night Master resembled an oversized scarecrow, his white shirt ripped and shreds of torn lace dangling from his wrists. Gazing at the spectacle, Freddy could not stop her own satisfied smile, God forgive her. The wind whipped the disheveled strings of Master's long hair into his shadowed eyes and black goatee. Gone were his plumed planter's hat as well as his boots and stockings. His big, pale bare feet glowed in the torchlight as he heaved his long legs against the Africans' grasp.
"Ye damned scoundrels, ye'll pay for this, every last one of ye!" Master roared, the cords in his scrawny neck standing out as he lifted his head, trying to see around him. His breeches shone black from the rain. He struggled against the Africans' firm hold on his wrists. The men tied the planter to the whipping post, securing each of his wrists to the 'T' bar with thick rope. Whittingham was so tall he could stand in the mud while tied to the post. Most who had been tied there suffered helplessly, dangling toes b
arely touching the ground. The slaves taunted the hated Englishman who had starved them and worked them almost to death. Some swung their torches close to his ragged white shirt. One came forward and kicked his kneecaps. The planter howled in pain. Freddy glimpsed a furtive movement in a doorway across the compound when an African woman's white turban caught the flickering torchlight.
The slaves were poised to slice Whittingham's throat when the thunderous roar of gunfire reached the compound. The men froze, then took off running up the hill, away from the road. During a pause in the gunfire Freddy heard the deep drum of countless horse hooves on the road. Somehow the babes still slept.
Minutes later a dozen militia men rode into the compound, their strapped rows of bullets reflecting the flames of their torches. Their brownish-red coats and filthy breeches wilted in the wet storm as they dismounted and released Whittingham and the house servants. Two soldiers helped the Pratts escort the planter, who swayed drunkenly, toward the Big House. The remaining militia men stood in a circle talking in low voices for several minutes. Then they got back on their steeds and galloped off toward the main road.
The compound was once more empty and dark, but the gunfire went on and on. Sometimes it sounded distant. Other times it seemed to come from a large circle surrounding the estate. Birdie squatted in the middle of the room and lit a bundle of dried grass. Freddy retrieved her rosary, leaned against the hut wall, and silently fingered the beads. Birdie closed her eyes, wafting the smoke over her face again and again, her lips moving in prayer.
An hour later, the rain and the shooting had stopped. Laurie still slept. Birdie had just finished nursing Efia in the pink glow of dawn. Freddy opened the hut door and poked her head out. The silence was far from comforting. It felt ominous, in spite of lovely crimson streaks across the eastern sky. Even the birds were hushed this morning.
The peculiar stillness was interrupted by two uniformed soldiers galloping into the compound. They dismounted and tied their gray horses to the whipping post. Freddy ducked back from the doorway and sat on the floor where she could watch them. The men wiped their hands up and down on their sooty, blood-stained breeches. They looked around, raised their muskets to eye level, lowered them, and then strode over to a hut across the compound. Both had dark blond hair. They looked like brothers. Neither wore a hat, but they sported the dark red uniform jacket of the Barbados militia.
As the men made their way around the circle of huts, Freddy listened to the frightened cries of women and children. She heard thumping as the men apparently rummaged through each shack, tossing aside plank tables and shelves. Once more she pictured her own hut and could not think of any objects that would arouse suspicion.
Glancing at Birdie, now curled around Efia and Raz, Freddy realized that her friend was terrified of the approaching soldiers. She shook her head, quietly closed the door, and went over to her.
"No English," Freddy whispered, sitting on the floor.
Birdie sat up and nodded, her sloping eyes wide with fear.
"I think that they are not hurting the women and babes…they are only searching through belongings…" Freddy gently rubbed Birdie's shoulder.
The thuds and knocks grew louder as the soldiers ransacked the hut next door. Still touching Birdie's shoulder, Freddy leaned in close. "We must stay strong," she whispered.
The Indian woman's eyes flashed and she nodded her head.
One of the men kicked the door wide open with his black-booted foot, and the soldiers burst into Birdie's hut.
"What 'ave we 'ere? Two of ye?"
The two women stared at them.
"Where are the men?"
Freddy answered in rapid Gaelic.
"Speak the King's bloody English!"
Again Freddy said something in her native tongue, shrugging innocently. She concentrated on keeping a blank expression on her face.
"And you?" one asked Birdie.
She hugged Raz and Efia to her chest and mumbled a few words of Monacan. Raz whimpered.
"What the devil tongue is that?" he asked.
"Sounds some sort of native," the other muttered.
"Bloody hell, let's just get the search done."
The men kicked over the plank bed, and swiped the gourd containers off the crude shelf. Laurie shrieked. Freddy picked him up and hugged him to her, rocking her body and stroking his hair. He continued to cry, but more softly.
The soldiers shook out all the rags and blankets.
"We're not through with you." The taller of the two sneered at Freddy. She hugged Laurie tighter. The men smelled of unwashed bodies and horse manure. Pale whiskers stuck straight out from their chins. "We'll be back."
CHAPTER 26
July 1655
"Poor Master Whittingham faces financial ruin," Mrs. Pratt fretted, smoothing her gray skirt and glancing toward the cane fields. She and Paulina stood at a table in the cookhouse yard, cutting rags and mixing oils for polishing furniture. "Here it is planting season, and all those slaves lost."
"It's awful," Paulina murmured in agreement. "Did Master ride to Bridgetown?"
"Yes, indeed, and Mr. Pratt with him, in the middle of the night. Master Whittingham intends to see justice done. And he must purchase new slaves. One poorly timed sugar crop can cripple an estate for years—"
"Owwww!" Freddy cried, jumping onto one bare foot. Carrying a heavy black kettle of boiling water from the outdoor fire to the laundry tub, she had dropped it, sloshing the scalding liquid on her left foot. The steaming water spilled across the dirt near the table, and the housekeeper and house slave had to hop out of the way. Luckily Raz and Laurie were playing off to one side of the yard, breaking twigs and small branches that had come down in last night's storm. Birdie was scrubbing laundry across the yard.
"What ails you, clumsy child?" Mrs. Pratt scolded. "Do take care! I am in no mood for your vexing mischief. Birdie, we expect luncheon in exactly one hour."
"I am not feeling well." Freddy's stomach was nervous and upset. She placed her hands on her belly and felt the babe kick. Earlier she'd had frightening cramps, but thankfully they had passed. She had two months more before giving birth to this one.
"I suppose you wish to rest, but this is no time to be idle," the housekeeper sniffed.
As the older woman turned back to Paulina, Freddy and Birdie exchanged a quick look. The Indian woman silently ducked into the cookhouse and grabbed a clean linen bandage from a shelf. Freddy leaned against the wall and lifted her injured foot so Birdie could wrap it. Her friend pointed through the open cookhouse window to a pile of fresh cassava on the kitchen counter that was due to be soaked. Freddy nodded and limped inside, sat on a high stool and began peeling the white cassava roots.
Much as she hated to agree with the odious Mrs. Pratt, she had to admit it was true – she had been dreadfully awkward all morning. It was as if her mind had turned to heavy stone. There had been no word of the men. All they'd heard was the thunder of more horses on the main road. She had not slept. This waiting and worrying was horrid. Even Birdie looked terrified, with her bloodshot eyes. Just after sunrise they had heard noises coming from the road, and walked through a cane field to see what it was. From the field above the road they stared at the militia men on horseback, who were marching long columns of black and white slaves in ankle irons toward Bridgetown. The women looked for Kofi and Kazoola, but had not seen them. They could not find Father Tomas, either. The metallic shuffle of the men's chains had broken the morning's eerie silence.
"Stop that this instant!" Mrs. Pratt's shrill voice rang out. From the open cookhouse window Freddy watched the housekeeper rush to Raz, who had just stomped through the warm mud where the water had spilled. Mrs. Pratt grabbed the little boy's arm and wrenched him out of the muck, which now covered his lower legs and had splattered onto the table and the polishing rags. "Do you need a good paddling? Do you?" She clutched his little shoulders and shook him. "Don't think I won't give you a whipping!"
Raz, stunned, star
ed open-mouthed at the older woman. Birdie dropped the shirt she was washing and hurried to him, wiping her soapy hands on her gown. Freddy jumped off her work stool, but stood there transfixed, not knowing what to do. From the far side of the yard Laurie came running to her. He hugged Freddy's legs tight, whimpering quietly as she stroked his hair. Birdie's face looked calm as she reached out, took Raz's little hand in hers, pulled him to her, and placed one hand on his shoulder. The boy had not uttered a sound.
"You're far too indulgent with him," the housekeeper reproached, wagging her finger at Birdie. "You had best teach him to behave, or I will!"
Birdie said nothing, but her eyes narrowed.
Paulina studied the Indian woman's face. "I have seen many a naughty slave child sold at auction in Bridgetown," she commented in a feigned lilt.
Birdie glanced over at Freddy, who shook her head.
"I will tell Master Whittingham you're too soft with the little one," Mrs. Pratt threatened. "Mayhap he will sell him off. Lord knows he needs the money, to buy strong slaves for the planting."
Birdie shot her friend an alarmed look, but quickly lowered her eyes to the ground as she turned and led Raz to the laundry tub.
"Now I have a headache," the housekeeper complained, returning to the table with a loud sigh.
Freddy kept her wide eyes fixed on Mrs. Pratt, her hands once more gaining strength as a river of boiling rage flowed like molten lava down her arms. Her fingers itched to claw and strangle those two. She shifted her gaze to the fields that terraced down to the sea and imagined herself leading all of her loved ones to the beach, where a tall ship would rescue them from this hellish pit of a plantation.
"What was it I was going to ask you?" Mrs. Pratt was mumbling absently to Paulina. "Oh yes, I remember. Have you heard of Ben's fate?"
"No…"
"He was found in his cottage covered in blood, his throat slit ear to ear."
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