If only Birdie would let her clean those bloody cuts. Freddy had never witnessed such a violent display of grief. That had been just this morning, but seemed like a week ago.
In the silence, she heard her own stomach growl, and looked down at it in surprise. She had not felt it. She was so empty, it was as if her stomach belonged to someone else. She could not remember when she had last eaten. But she knew she would be sick if she tried to eat.
Throughout the day, the two of them had mindlessly acted out the repetitive motions of their kitchen work with tear-streaked, grim faces. In the afternoon, Freddy stole back to the garden, got on her knees, and searched for Birdie's pendant in the dirt. She didn't know why, but she knew she must get her friend's necklace back to her. Freddy had picked it up, wiped it off, and studied it. It was strange. She had seen the pendant on Birdie's neck every day for months, but somehow had never really looked at it. She spit on the cylindrical glass bead and wiped it again, this time with her sleeve. Still on its leather string, the African trade bead shone dark blue with white and yellow painted stripes. Freddy tucked the necklace carefully into her vest pocket. She would keep it, she thought in a daze, hugging her son to her. She would make a new string, polish the bead, and surprise Birdie with it when the time was right. But she wondered if the time would ever feel right again.
The day's work was finally done and they were alone in the hut with the bottle of rum Freddy had pilfered. At last they could try to relax in peace. Raz and Laurie were sound asleep, curled around each other.
Freddy poured rum into a coconut bowl that was sitting on the plank table. With a deep, shuddering breath, she took a drink. Maybe if she drank enough rum she'd be able to sleep. The babe delivered a hard kick to her right side. She should find something to eat for the babe's sake. She set the coconut bowl down and held her rounded belly with both hands, then absently moved one hand up to finger the rosary she had placed around her neck earlier. Leaning back against the wall, she stared with unfocused eyes into the shadowy room.
The cursed humidity tonight was like a steamy blanket over her nose and mouth. She forced herself to take another raggedy breath. Since morning her chest had been tight, as if she were lying on her back with a heavy rock on top of her upper torso. In order to take a deep breath, she had to fight sob-like hitches and imagine lifting the rock from her chest.
She shook her head, wondering how it was possible that she would never see her handsome Kofi again, never feel his hard-muscled arms around her. Never steal off with him for a moonlit ocean swim. She lifted the bowl to her mouth. This time she gulped the rum too quickly. She coughed and sputtered.
Birdie raised her head, got up and carried the sleeping babe to the corner. She sank to the floor there, gently placing Efia on a pile of rags next to her.
Freddy poured rum into a second bowl and took it to her friend.
"Mmm," Birdie hummed after swallowing a taste. "Fire."
Freddy got her own bowl and lowered herself to the earth floor near Birdie. For a long time they silently drank, leaning against the hut wall.
"I think," Birdie slurred. "No bury, bad medicine. I take hair comb, make bundle."
Freddy nodded.
Birdie swallowed more rum. "Men die good. Spirits fly to Creator, in wind, ocean."
"They died doing what they believed had to be done," Freddy murmured, "…what is right, what still must be done."
"We bury things in slave place."
"The cemetery?"
Birdie nodded. "Night bury men things."
"Bury the men's belongings. Hmmm." Freddy hiccupped. "To honor them."
"Honor, yes."
Freddy sat up straighter. "Tomorrow night. Master is still away. We can tell Father Tomas. Good?"
"Good," her friend whispered into the coconut bowl, chopped chunks of hair again hiding her face.
"We'll gather their things, bury them side by side, and mark each place with their names. Father Tomas will help carve the markers and hammer them into the ground…"
Birdie curled on her side facing Freddy, wearily propping her head on a makeshift pillow of rags. Freddy finished her rum, blew out the candles, and lay facing her friend so that their hot foreheads touched. She hugged Kofi's nightshirt, pressing it against the little "V" above her swollen belly.
The weeping began softly. Birdie moaned a high-pitched wail into the rag pillow, trying not to awaken the little ones. Freddy pressed her nose into the nightshirt and inhaled Kofi's scent. Curled up tight, she moved the wadded shirt to her mouth and surrendered to racking sobs and cries of rage. She stifled the raw sounds with Kofi's shirt, her lamentations echoing her shattered spirit.
CHAPTER 29
July 1655
Two days later Freddy and Birdie were butchering a pig in the side yard when the unmistakably nasal tones of Master's cursing came from the front of the Big House. They exchanged a quick look, laid their butcher knives on the table, and moved further away from the cookhouse to view the front carriage drive.
"Damnation, man, unhand me!" Whittingham lay on the ground beside his black horse, kicking one stocking-clad foot at Mr. Pratt, who was trying to help him up. The planter's left riding boot perched, empty, in the stirrup and bounced as the horse twitched and took nervous steps backwards. "Take hold of the blasted high-strung bastard or else, on my oath…!" Master struggled to sit up, his sweaty face dark red against his fashionably high, wide shirt collar. Again he drunkenly fell back.
"Black-hearted buffoon," Freddy mumbled to herself. His planter's hat was streaked with mud, the purple plume drooping down almost comically. Below the hat, his long hair was loose and stringy. The fancy purple vest he wore was dusty and crookedly buttoned over a once-white shirt streaked with dirt and yellow perspiration stains. He wore filthy beige breeches of a style Freddy had never seen before, with ruffles and ribbons around the waist and knees, like a sinister court jester.
Pratt scurried to grab the loose reins. Whittingham finally managed to sit up, bracing himself with one arm. With the other he lifted his silver flask and took a long swig.
"There you go," the butler crooned to the fidgety horse as he pulled the animal forward, tied it to a post, and retrieved the boot. He began helping Master put the boot back on.
"Leave me be!" The planter kicked his bootless foot again. "Gather up the slaves…over by that wagon…"
Pratt hurried off toward the compound.
"And bring me a bottle of the good rum!" he commanded, slurring. He yanked the boot on and immediately fell back to the ground again.
Freddy and Birdie retreated to the outdoor table, where they covered the pig carcass with a sheet of white fabric, tucking the ends under the meat to keep the insects off. By the time they joined the others, Master was staggering back and forth atop the wagon bed. Mrs. Pratt stood with Mr. Pratt and Paulina off to one side.
"Be warned," the planter bellowed, waving his pewter mug. The rum sloshed over. He pointed a skinny finger at the group. Only a handful of men were left. "Take heed of what the Queen's authorities do to rebels here on Barbados. That goes for any of you…"
Freddy could smell him from where she stood, a sour alcohol stink mixed with stale smoke and days-old sweat.
"Our militia is unmatched," he bragged in that pinched voice she despised. "They took care of the rebels all right…"
She held her breath.
"Two of the ringleaders were from here." He swaggered across the wagon bed again, and stared drunkenly into the group of slaves. "Accursed Coromantees. Never again! I am banning them and will sell off any of their kind."
Freddy lowered her eyes and held her belly. Would he include her unborn, half-Coromantee babe in his ban? Then what? From the corner of her eye she noticed that Paulina had turned her head. The Creole was smirking at her and Birdie, her eyebrows arched. Freddy shrugged one shoulder and shifted her gaze back to Master.
"Our militia made an example of them," he was saying. "They cut off their black rebel heads a
nd mounted them on posts in the Bridgetown square. They remain there for all to see…"
Another wave of fury engulfed Freddy. She wanted to holler at the top of her lungs that Kofi was superior to any of these evil wretches. She imagined shouting into the wind that half of her very soul had been chopped off with a machete, like a stalk of sugar cane. Once more the fiery rage was building in her like a boiling river about to flood. She could strangle that scrawny imbecile, and Paulina too. Holding her white-knuckled fists at her sides, Freddy clenched her teeth together, stiffening her jaw. Her chest was still tight and now her throat ached. She had not slept well for days. Struggling to breathe, she pulled at the tight bodice constricting her chest and loosened the lower laces to accommodate her growing mound of a belly.
Next to her, Birdie moaned softly. Freddy reached for her hand and clasped it firmly. The Indian woman squeezed back.
Master was still boasting about the island's militia. He was enjoying this, Freddy realized. Another, even hotter wave of wrath swooped through her. The planter relished the soldiers' show of power. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood, and let go of Birdie's hand to wipe her mouth.
Master rambled drunkenly about his plans to purchase more field slaves. "We must work hard to make up for the time that's been lost," he was saying.
Freddy stood there with the others under the blazing sun, nostrils flaring and jaw muscles flexing. Her eyes shone with livid tears that trickled down her cheeks to the sides of her mouth, which was fixed in a grim downward curve. Under the black mourning scarf, her hair was matted and soaked with sweat that dripped down her face and mixed with her tears.
She closed her eyes, felt the gentle breeze on her wet cheeks, and pictured Kofi. That first evening, the slanting late sun had turned his skin a golden toffee as his deep-set eyes followed her every move, his slow smile and gentle manner surprising her. Then there had been that night in the moonlit sea. She could still taste the saltiness of his skin and feel his solid arms holding her.
She thought of the midnight burial ceremony she and Birdie had held in the slave cemetery. The African women had chanted softly in the dappled moonlight under the mahogany. The stately tree presided over the graveyard like a sheltering umbrella, its top so high and round it looked like lofty clouds above them. As they buried the men's humble belongings – a few pieces of clothing, Kofi's white clay pipe filled with his favorite tobacco, Kazoola's necklace of shells and fish bones – a soft rain had begun to fall. It had seemed right, as if the gentle moisture would nurture the makeshift graves as it did the wild roses and flowering almond tree that grew along the edge of the rocky cemetery. On the other side of the graveyard, someone had planted an orchid tree with purple blossoms that looked gray in the moonlight. That had reminded her of another night…
Freddy's throat burned so that she could barely swallow. She realized with a start that the others, including Birdie, had wandered away. Tears still streamed down her face. From the wagon bed Master gawped at her with narrowed eyes, swaying on his feet.
"What ails you, wench?" His voice dripped with contempt.
She could not speak.
He grunted, clumsily stepped down from the wagon and staggered across the yard to the Big House, where he flopped into a love seat on the veranda.
Freddy remained motionless, studying his sprawled drunkenness. The big butcher knives they'd used this morning were razor-sharp. She had seen to that yesterday. Earlier the shiny blades had flashed in the sun as she helped Birdie butcher the pig, the edges effortlessly slicing through the meat. How easily such a knife would pierce Master's pale skin. How delicious it would be to stab him straight through his callous heart…
"I fear I will murder him." Freddy whispered to Father Tomas, having lost her normal voice. "And Paulina. Father, I am going mad. I imagine spearing them with a butcher knife…I cannot pray. I only rage against God…" She placed her trembling hands on the priest's table and tightly folded them. "Why would God take Kofi away?"
Father Tomas leaned forward and covered her clenched hands with his own. "Grief disrupts one's ability to think. The mind shuts down…"
Freddy met his pale eyes in the candlelight. "You have felt this way."
He nodded. "This is what faith truly means – believing even when there are no answers."
She bowed her head.
"Be patient with yourself, Freddy. You have been dealt a huge blow."
She nodded and leaned back. "Perhaps it is my condition, making me a right barmy idiot…"
"Your condition does not help matters." The priest patted her hand.
"I fear for this babe. Master vows to sell off Coromantees and their mulattos. Would he sell me off as well, with the babe? What of Laurie? Father, the time has truly come for me to get away from this place! But…where can I go? I yearn to live near my sister on St. Kitt's, but Coromantee mulattos are outlawed there."
"When is the babe coming?"
"September."
"We have two months and longer. Surely Whittingham would wait until the babe has finished nursing?"
"To fetch higher prices, if for no other reason." Freddy agreed, embracing her belly. "I vow, this child will be proud of Kofi's African blood."
"We are welcome on Montserrat, as are Coromantee mulattos, to the best of my knowledge."
"What of going home to Éire? Would a mulatto child be accepted there?"
"I fear not." The priest sighed deeply. "I have considered returning across the wide sea, if I could but raise the funds. But what is there to return to? Cromwell has destroyed our life there, transplanting Englishmen onto our lands."
They fell silent, watching the candle flames. Freddy wondered if Mam was still living with Aunt Kate. She tried to imagine Aileen and her husband on their plantation, but somehow she could not picture her sister's face. She shook her head.
"What would we do on Montserrat?" She finally whispered weakly.
"That I cannot answer, but things would be better there. You and Birdie would have me and Father Gwynne watching over you. Shall I write to Father about this?"
"Oh, yes. May I write a note to him as well, to be included?"
"A delightful notion. Let us pray, then set pens to paper."
CHAPTER 30
July 1655
Freddy opened a cookhouse window to another misted sunrise, and leaned out as far as she could to view the gold and pink swirls ascending into the sky and blending with a pale haze. The plantation was quiet. It had been since the rebellion. No new slaves had arrived and there had been no sign of life from Master for days. The only sounds in the kitchen this morning were the maddening whine of the mosquitoes and Birdie's knife chopping as she halved grapefruits.
The twirling streaks of rising color were a sign from God, Freddy mused. They were a message that all was well and Kofi was now in a better realm, lifted to the heavens. She closed her eyes, touching her black armband and saying a quick prayer.
Birdie was quiet. Freddy, knowing that her friend could not be rushed or coaxed out of a mood, silently placed a crock on the stool next to the table and squeezed grapefruits into it. Mrs. Pratt said that Master must have fresh grapefruit juice with breakfast this day. Freddy rubbed one finger that stung where the juice had seeped into a small cut. Gazing again out the window, she waved away a swarm of insistent mosquitoes that kept landing on her face. The pesky insects were worse than usual because there was no fire in the fireplace or in the side yard, and therefore no smoke to drive them away. Instead of smelling smoky, the kitchen was filled with the scent of citrus. Breakfast would be the juice, cold sweetened tea, leftover ham, and cornbread with pineapple sauce. All they had to do was make the juice, dilute it slightly, and sweeten it just right. The cookhouse was cool, for once, but the humidity was oppressive.
Freddy took two grapefruit halves, sprinkled them with sugar crystals, and took them across the room to the toddlers. They were playing happily with wooden bowls and spoons. Efia slept in her sling. Carefull
y adding spring water to the crock, Freddy stirred in a handful of sugar, and tasted a spoonful.
"Mmmm," she said, offering Birdie a taste.
The Indian woman sipped, then smiled for the first time this morning.
Freddy continued squeezing and adding water and sugar, tasting frequently. She took larger and larger swallows from the wooden ladle.
"I hear spirit," Birdie said in a hushed tone. "Say go away, make Efia safe." She put a finger to her mouth.
Freddy nodded. "I have been pondering the same," she whispered. "I fear what will happen to Kofi's babe."
Birdie peered out the window and wiped her hands on her apron. "This," she pointed to the ethereal vapor, "like home. Mist climb mountain. Spirit call people to mountain."
Freddy just listened.
"I go home, for Efia, Raz." Birdie stopped halving the grapefruits, put the knife down, and wrapped her arms around the baby sling. She began speaking Monacan. Freddy placed a comforting arm around her friend's shoulders and nodded as if she understood what Birdie was saying.
"Mama?" Raz tugged on his mother's gown, a worried frown on his russet face. He had passed his second birthday several months ago and looked less babyish every day. This morning he wore only the blue breeches Birdie had made for him. His wiry legs were already too long for them. Birdie pushed the fruit to one side, placed a clean white towel on the table, picked him up and set him in front of her. She stroked his long braid and pressed her cheek to his, her hand on the top of his head.
"Son," she murmured, returning to English, "home is river, blue mountain. Rassawak, big people place, good medicine."
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