Tears came to Martha’s eyes. Lately, she was prone to cry over the smallest thing. She should have ran away with Cudjoe had she not been such a coward. At least then her baby would have been born free. She was inflicting upon her unborn child the same thing that was inflicted upon herself; bondage to another people. She sniffled and rubbed down Mark.
“Don’t cry, Martha,” Mark whispered. His green eyes were serious, he looked so grown up at that moment that Martha just had to hug him.
“I is alright little one,” Martha patted his back.
“You aren't alright and too blind to see it,” Mamee snorted, “you better hope that yer baby isn't dark skinned like its father or it will be a field slave fo’ sure.”
Martha ignored Mamee and continued to dress Mark. The silence was fraught with tension.
Mamee walked up to her and patted her shoulder, “I love you, that’s why I'm so concerned.”
Martha nodded.
*********
Robert and Elizabeth Simmonds were having dinner in the dining room.
“I had tea with Bridget today.”
Robert grunted. He wasn't interested in the trivialities that she concerned herself with during the days. He had more pressing matters at heart. He was going to have to order more slaves, the twelve that ran away left a huge gap. He needed to expand operations.
He had successfully bred and sold some slaves in previous years. Unfortunately, that was risky, many of the women died in childbirth. Not only did he lose a good breeder but the offspring as well. If he hadn’t sold Minto, his major stud, he would have more slaves than he had now. Some of them would be of working age. Probably he should mandate like some of his neighbours that women of childbearing age should have at least one child per year. Surely that would put a stop to his shortage problem. But it brought him right back to his problem of the good breeders dying.
The colony was such a challenge, labour was so expensive, the slave traders were asking more for the scraggly looking men they carried back with them each year. He hoped the growth of sugar cane as a crop would be viable or else he would be broke, he had sunken all his money into it.
“Did you hear me?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, I was thinking that the price of slaves had gone up,” Robert said absently.
“Why do we need them anyway?” Elizabeth asked.
“Why don’t we just go back to England and leave this place behind.”
“No,” Robert looked at her earnest expression. She was really becoming a nuisance. She bothered him every day about going back to England. His fortune was here, he could feel it. Sugar is going to do well, it had to. Then, he would be rich. Richer than he had ever dreamed, richer than her father, all he needed was more slaves.
“You don’t listen to me anymore,” Elizabeth whimpered beside him.
“Elizabeth! stop the whining and the tears,” Robert’s grey eyes flashed in anger. He picked up his fork to eat, “I'm tired.”
“You are always tired,” Elizabeth wailed, “I barely see you anymore. I have to beg for attention.”
Robert snorted, “you see me all the time. You sneak around as if you suspect me of doing some wrong.”
“You are doing wrong!” Elizabeth’s expression turned sour, “you have human beings in captivity, you impregnate them then sell them when they look like you.”
Robert got up and flung down his napkin, “stop talking foolishness woman.”
The footman hurriedly picked up the napkin and stood silently in the corner, his eyes snapping from one to the other.
“I know its true Robert,” Elizabeth sighed, “I sneak around because I know the sick games you play with the little slave girls. I sneak around so that I can rescue them from you. You are an animal,” she sobbed, “I hate you.”
Robert frowned at her, “then go back to England where you belong.”
“If I go I take my son,” Elizabeth said determinedly.
“Then I guess you will have to stay and witness my sick games then,” Robert said his eyes blazing; he was partially glad that Elizabeth knew about his addiction, at least now he would not need to hide around as he had been doing lately. “I will not allow you to take my child.”
Elizabeth ran from the room sobbing, her fashionable head dress that she had worn for dinner bounced on the doorjamb as she went through the door, which was opened for her by another footman.
“Claudius,” Robert snapped to the footman, “bring a brandy to my study now.”
“Yes sar, Massa Robert sar,” Claudius said obediently. He had many things to tell the other house slaves tonight.
Chapter Seventeen
Kes stared at Serena Braithwaite; she was just as he thought. Another colonist woman who was struggling to keep up with the current fashions in London. She was in a big tent like dress and her face heavily powdered. She had pale grey eyes and looked like an old woman, the weather obviously did not agree with her skin.
Her daughters, Hilma and Hilga looked like they could hardly breathe in their ridiculously corseted dress. Hilma couldn’t stop talking about her upcoming marriage. Hilga, on the other hand, kept looking at him and giggling. They were very opposite in appearance. Hilma was blonde haired and blue-eyed and was obviously the favorite of her parents while Hilga was a red-head with myriads of large freckles. Their brown spots made her appear as if she was a floral piece.
“This is the dining room,” Serena simpered, “and all of this gorgeous silver is real.” She pointed to a cabinet where a slave sat on the floor polishing the silver, he jumped up when he saw them coming.
“These stupid slaves do not know how to behave,” Serena said looking at Kes.
“Do you have any slaves Sir Kesington?” Hilga asked quickly.
Kes almost laughed aloud at her expression. No he didn't have slaves, he was once a slave, now he is a maroon.
“No I don't,” Kes answered sternly, “man should not be shackled to serve. He should work of his own free will and get paid for it.”
“I suspected you thought so,” Serena sighed, “I told my husband that there was no possibility that we could convince you to change your mind and give you half the money if you overlook our slave ownership.”
“Well …” Kes said, pretending that he was thinking, the wig that he had donned upon coming into the house was scratching him fiercely. Why did they shackle themselves to this ridiculous fashion?
“Well what?” Hilma snapped. She was not the most patient of women obviously. He felt slightly sorry for the old bugger she was marrying.
“Well, I could overlook it, if you freed all the slaves and paid them a salary if they wanted to stay on.” Kes was thinking fast. This was a golden opportunity, it would probably signal the end of slavery on their plantation.
“No, never,” Serena said impatiently, “they would laugh us off this island—paying slaves.”
“They would be free,” Kes said patiently, “and you would still be getting their services.”
“They are not really human,” Hilga said hesitantly, “it would be like letting animals loose.”
Kes felt his temper rising, his head thrummed and he felt like pummelling Hilga. So that meant that he was half human. He tried to calm down.
He cleared his throat, “I do not hold that view Miss Brathwaite.”
Hilga looked down at the ground timidly. The slave who was polishing the silver gave him a fleeting smile.
He smiled back.
Serena saw that he was not amused and quickly showed him upstairs; he mentally took note of every item that he wanted for himself and for the maroon community.
Kes found Ibo in the stables brushing the mane of the horses.
“My good man, may I have a word.” Kes said for the benefit of the other men who were in the stable brushing down horses. The conversation had stopped abruptly when he entered the high roofed building made of logs. It was large and airy; the horses were obviously well cared for.
“Yes sar Massa sar,” Ibo
got up quickly from his seat on the ground and followed him outside, he bowed low and winked at Kes.
“Tell Nanny,” Kes whispered, “that I'm invited to stay here for a week but I will only stay for three days.” He straightened up and looked around, there was an overseer on horseback heading towards them; he had a squealing slave girl in front of him.
“No Sar no,” the girl squealed her coffee coloured face was screwed in consternation and tears streamed down her face.
Ibo stood still, his eyes ablaze.
Kes glanced at him and then looked at the overseer who was dragging the girl from the horse.
“What has the poor girl done?” Kes asked.
“Girl?” The overseer shouted, “this heifer wasn't present at roll call this morning, when I went to find her, she was holed up in her cabin proclaiming sickness. I'm going to give her four lashes for her impertinence.”
He grabbed a whip that was hung on the side of the stable and holding the girl by her hair he proceeded to lash her.
Kes and Ibo looked on with varying degrees of anger. If Kes intervened his cover could be blown, if Ibo intervened he would be whipped as well and probably killed.
The loud screams emanating from the girl drew the attention of Hilga.
She came around to the stable her polka dotted face alive with interest.
“Leave her Morton,” she said to the overseer smugly.
Morton who had raised his hand to deliver another blow stilled. His face which was red with anger, paled. He dropped the slave girl and the whip on top of her.
Kes swung around to see a grinning Hilga.
“Hello there Sir Floyd,” Hilga curtsied and then picked up the whip and rubbed it.
The slave girl started to howl harder as she backed away toward the stable door. “Please no,” she screamed, “not her the spawn of Satan.”
Kes looked again at Hilga who was laughing at the screaming slave.
“Lady Braithwaite,” the overseer whispered. “The last time you punished one of the slaves he died from the beatings. We are short as it is.”
“Shut up,” Hilga’s eyes looked unfocused, “get back to work.”
Morton grunted and jumped back on his horse.
Kes was slowly getting over the shock of the events that just unfolded before his eyes. He had seen slaves being beaten before, he was even beaten once but never before had he seen such pleasure anticipated at another’s pain. It’s as if they weren't there and Hilga was alone with her last meal.
“Miss Braithwaite,” Kes said feelingly, “if you subject that slave to more punishment I'm leaving right now and the money promised to your father will no longer be an issue.”
Hilga gazed at him still stroking the leather of the whip. “Why Mr. Kesington, I was just saving the poor girl's life, she looked at the sobbing slave. I hate the abuse of these cretins as much as you and Uncle Garfield, God rest his soul.”
Kes looked away from the insincerity in her washed out blue eyes. She was staring at him shrewdly as if she had been testing him. He sighed in relief. She couldn’t suspect that there was no Uncle Garfield could she?
Ibo breathed out beside him as if he too had felt the full-blown assessment that Hilga Braithwaite had just made him endure.
She dropped the whip, daintily curtsied and went back across the grounds to the house.
“Watch that one,” Ibo mumbled, “she is trouble.”
“Remember to tell Nanny tonight, we stand to gain much more by me staying than if I leave tomorrow.”
Ibo nodded and said loudly, “yes sar, massa sar.”
Chapter Eighteen
“How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,” Elizabeth was looking in the mirror and frowning, her skin was looking slightly leathery and weather worn, the poem by John Milton seemed to apply to her now.
Robert came behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, “stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!”
“My hasting days fly on with full career,” Elizabeth brushed her hair and grinned at him. This was the husband she knew and loved.
“But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.” He took the brush from her hand and ran it through her ink blank strands.
“Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth.” She picked up the other line of the Sonata seven and closed her eyes. She missed London so much.
“That I to manhood am arrived so near;” Robert’s eyes were swimming with warmth, regret gripped him at the way he had left her earlier.
“And inward ripeness doth much less appear,” Elizabeth finished the last line of the first stanza and sighed, “I'm happy that Father had me tutored with my brothers.”
“That was what I found so fascinating about you at first,” Robert placed the brush on the dressing table and stared at her. He was taught that wives were helpmates who should ensure that husbands were happy. His wife wanted it all. She demanded equality in their relationship. This he blamed on Lord Howard, the indulgent father, who taught her how to be one of the boys. Now he was stuck with her, his freedom severely hampered by her liberated presence. She was probably waiting for him to apologise for shouting at her earlier.
“Robert I … ” Elizabeth did not like it when she was stared at for long periods of time and now her husband was doing it, a look of resignation in his eyes. She cleared her throat; “I think I am going back to London.”
Robert straightened up from his crouching posture on her dressing table and glared. “You are not taking Mark.”
“I will send him back when he is of age,” Elizabeth said stressed, her green eyes were filled with tears and she wrung her hands, “father wrote and he said that I can come home whenever I want, he will send his ship for me. I just need to say the word.”
“Father this, father that.” Robert said strolling around the room. “I'm used to Mark being here. I will miss him if you take him. You are escaping like a frail debutante from hardship back to your father’s secure wealth.”
“What about me?” Elizabeth asked dully facing her husband, her face pale and her hands trembling, “will you miss me?”
Robert paused, “I used to see you every year at Yule tide before you took it upon yourself to come to the colonies.”
“That was not enough,” Elizabeth said defeated, “I wanted us to live like a regular couple.”
“You can not handle the lifestyle here,” Robert said raking his hand through his hair, “you are impossible to live with. The customs here are different from London.”
“What custom is that? Sleeping with your slaves?” Elizabeth looked at Robert hard, red colour crept from his neck up to his face, “I won’t stand for it Robert, it is wrong and immoral.”
Robert stalked to the door and flung it open; a frightened Martha who was just about to knock scampered out of his way.
“You can go,” Robert swung back and looked at his wife, “but Mark stays. I bid you goodnight madam.”
Martha went tentatively into her Mistress' room; the poor lady was crying her eyes out, her small body hardly made a dent into the bed.
“Close the door,” Elizabeth wailed and flung a pillow over her tear streaked face.
Martha closed the door and stood in the room, she was there to help the lady dress for bed, she had heard that there was a mini-quarrel in the dining room and that her Mistress had stalked off to bed. It seemed to her that white women were no better off than the slaves in this awful world. She looked at the embittered woman on the bed and sighed.
Elizabeth got up and looked at Martha, “I'm leaving this country. I can’t take Mark but I will still go. Could you pack for me Martha, my trunk should hold all that is necessary. I will go to London where there is culture and fun.”
Martha nodded heading for the area where her Mistresses dresses were kept.
“Don’t pack now,” Elizabeth sniffled, “I will tell you when I'm leaving but it will be soon.”
Martha headed for the door, “is that all ma’am.”
&n
bsp; “No,” Elizabeth sat up in the bed her red-rimmed eyes sad, “am I a bad person?” She looked at Martha imploringly, “I just can’t live like the other wives in this society. I can’t turn a blind eye. I just can’t. How can you sell your own child? I guess I'm not strong enough to endure such inhumane practices. Surely, God must punish men for that evil. The children are not slaves anymore, they are half yours. Yet they treat them as you would any other person in the gutter.”
Martha stood silently listening and nodding.
“I'm going back before I am totally ruined.” Elizabeth got up from the bed slowly. “Probably when a little more refinement and culture arrives here I'll come back.”
Martha looked at Elizabeth and thought how naïve she was, going back to England would make the situation worse. Her husband would go on living like he was before and more than likely indoctrinate his son into his practices when he had free rein of the household. Running away was a bad idea. She imagined Mark’s innocent face and her skin turned clammy. He was not going to do well if he grows up without his mother’s guidance. All these things were going through Martha’s head as she watched her selfish mistress.
“You will take care of Mark for me,” Elizabeth said to Martha, “you will teach him the correct values.”
Martha nodded contemplatively. They called them slaves and ordered them around and yet they allowed them to rear their children. “I will ma’am,” she said out loud.
Chapter Nineteen
They were around the dining table at the Braithwaite’s house. Hilga was once again acting like her sister’s shadow. Her eyes were downcast over her meal as if today she hadn’t, with boldness, held a whip with the sole purpose of whipping a slave—anticipation alight in her eyes.
Hilma spoke non-stop about her upcoming nuptials. She had never met the man she was going to marry but he was well placed in the society and that alone was enough for her.
“Did you know my intended is related to the Duke of Edinburgh?”
The Pull Of Freedom Page 6