Willoughby addressed Scot with obvious reluctance. “As my overseer must wait for the slaver, I would be grateful if you could see to it that the ladies are settled in St. John's Hill. The unfortunate death of Mr. Johnson at sea has made it imperative that I consult with Mr. Byam before attending to my own affairs.”
“I would be happy to be of service to your guests, my lord,” Scot replied, a disarming light in his eyes when he looked at Aphra.
“That would be very kind of you, sir,” Elizabeth Johnson said. Apparently Aphra's mother still hadn't connected the two Scots — assuming she even remembered the elder, that is. Her mother was maddeningly unpolitical, and her sister Frances had the same pretty looks and self-centered world view.
Scot gave another infectious bark of laughter. “I'm being paid, madam.” Aphra couldn't help liking him more and more. She had a weakness for men who didn't mince words. But Thomas Scot's son ...!
Aphra looked at his close-cropped hair pointedly. “I see you are you a Puritan, sir.”
The way Scot smiled at her, she was sure he knew she'd guessed his identity. “Hardly. Despite the fate of my illustrious father, the length of my hair has no political meaning, merely practical. Fashion is a luxury I can ill afford in this climate. You will soon discover as much yourself.”
“I think I already have,” Aphra said wryly.
Lord Willoughby stepped between them and addressed her mother. “Excuse my lapse in manners, Mrs. Johnson. The gentleman who has agreed to accompany you to the plantation is Mr. William Scot. This is Mr. John Treffry, my overseer, and this is the present deputy governor, Mr. William Byam. Gentlemen: Elizabeth, Frances, Aphra and Stephen Johnson.” Bows and curtseys were exchanged, while the Johnson servants stood in the background, little more than furniture or part of the scenery. Aphra gave Katherine a wink as she rose from her curtsey, and Katherine smiled in return.
As Aphra looked away from her maid, she noticed Scot's eyes on her again. It reminded her of the way the merchant in London looked at her, the way Captain Wright looked at her — but Scot's gaze was open where the merchant's was confining. Or was it only that the admiration of a handsome man was a promise, while from an ugly man it was a threat? No, it wasn't just that. Scot's admiration was direct; that of the two older men consisted of stolen glances, ashamed and afraid and acquisitive.
Byam was looking at her with a more greedy admiration, a hint of self-satisfaction in his furtive gaze. Byam did not appear to be much older than Scot, but Aphra didn't care for his admiration at all. And Scot was the son of a regicide.
“Is there anywhere we might be able to freshen up?” her mother asked, looking at the few buildings beside the Indian huts with an expression of resignation.
“And change our clothes,” Aphra added.
The riverboat that would take them to Toorarica and then on to St. John's Hill was already docked at Noëlia Wharf. It sounded much more sophisticated than it was, Aphra reflected as they crossed the “square” of Paramaribo in the company of Scot. They were all in a state of shock at the barrenness of the conditions, but Aphra was feeling strangely refreshed, exhilarated even. The exotic flavors of coconut, mango and papaya offered them at the fort almost made up for the salt beef and brown biscuits of the voyage and the meager conditions of the town. Treffry had explained that few cared to settle this close to the mouth of the river, as the winds were deemed unhealthy.
Aphra gave her mother a look of sympathy. Perhaps it was good that Paramaribo was such a shock; it distracted her from the loss of a husband whom she had obviously loved, despite serious marital difficulties. Big-hearted, forgiving Bartholomew Johnson was hard not to love.
“Toorarica is much larger than Paramaribo, I assure you, Mrs. Johnson,” Scot said.
“It could hardly be otherwise,” Aphra said wryly, and Scot graced her with his wide grin.
Suddenly, a scream like she'd never heard stopped her in her tracks.
“What in God's name is that?” Aphra asked, the blood draining from her face.
All trace of humor had left Scot's expression. “I believe Mr. Byam finds it necessary to discipline the slaves again.”
Aphra whirled around and headed back towards the fort, her mother, sister and brother trailing behind. Scot caught up with her and grabbed her arm, trying to stop her. “You do not want to see this, Miss Johnson.”
Aphra shook him off with hardly a break in stride. “Oh, yes I do, Mr. Scot.”
As they came around the corner of the fort, another scream tore through the humid air. Byam was wielding a great whip with obvious relish, a brutal-looking instrument consisting of numerous cords. His victim was lashed to stakes on the ground, the skin of his back no longer chocolate brown, but instead a sea of red. The whip made a wet, thudding sound as it came down.
Aphra stumbled away, the exotic fruits from lunch rising in her gorge. Clutching a nearby tree for support, she became violently ill.
“Get water,” Scot said to Stephen. “And Lord Willoughby. But get water first.” He took Aphra's shoulders in a firm grip and held her as she heaved. “'Tis what we call a 'cat with nine tails',” Scot explained dispassionately. “For the marks that it makes, like the claws of a cat.” The practical tone of his voice soothed her somehow. He stroked her back as her heaves slowly let up. Stephen returned with water, and Scot began to bathe her face. “Thank you, lad. Now see if you can find the Lord Governor.”
“Aphra doesn't go to hangings or floggings. She was ever one to become sick,” Frances said, herself pale and shaken but managing to keep her lunch. “She often suffers from headaches too.”
“Frances, shush,” her mother ordered. “Is that kind of brutality truly necessary, Mr. Scot?”
Will Scot shrugged. “Byam seems to think so. But have no fear; you are not likely to witness such on Lord Willoughby's lands. His overseer, Treffry, is a good master. He disciplines the slaves, but he doesn't abuse them. He doesn't even force the female slaves who are unwilling.”
Aphra's mother gasped and her sister blushed, but Aphra, gradually recovering from her nausea, gave Scot a penetrating look.
Scot smiled down at her, with her face still wet from his ministrations. “Welcome to Surinam.”
12
As soon as I came into the country, the best house in it was presented me, called St. John's Hill. It stood on a vast rock of white marble, at the foot of which a river ran a vast depth down, and not to be descended on that side; the little waves still dashing and washing the foot of this rock, made the softest murmurs and purlings in the world; and the opposite bank was adorned with such vast quantities of different flowers eternally blowing, and every day and hour new, fenced behind them with lofty trees of a thousand rare forms and colours, that the prospect was the most ravishing that fancy can create.
Aphra Behn, Oroonoko
The house stood on a high ridge overlooking the river, a villa of beautiful dark wood that appeared almost red in the sunlight. Instead of the sound of street vendors crying their wares and horse hooves against cobblestones, the air was full of the raucous screeching of parrots. Their calls were loud and obnoxious, but Aphra loved the sound and the bright green sight of them, so different than anything she'd ever known growing up in Kent. No sewer in the middle of a street assaulted the nose; only the scent of orchids and lilies and other bright flowers for which Aphra had no name.
“That is St. John's Hill?” she asked in wonder. “Where we will stay?”
Will Scot smiled and nodded.
Aphra took her mother's hand. “It looks lovely, don't you think, Mama?” Her mother livened up some at the sight of their future home; until now, she'd seemed to desire nothing more than to turn around and head straight back for England. But the last thing Aphra wanted was to leave this rare, magical land as soon as she arrived, a land so full of the promise of adventure and new experience. She knew her stay in Surinam would be short, but she planned to make the most of it. In Canterbury, Aphra could hardly shake the blac
k and white of Puritanism from her soul, despite the positive effect of the new king. Here, in this land of color and fragrance, that could not help but change.
They had stopped at several houses on their three-day journey up the Surinam River, mostly white stucco with high-walled gardens and broad porches. The colony had many natural beauties to offer, but Aphra was somewhat less enthusiastic about the inhabitants. On the plantations themselves, the atmosphere was cultivated enough, although few settlers brought their wives and daughters with them. Toorarica, on the other hand — a “city” of a hundred houses, a chapel and a courthouse — had been something else entirely. Half the buildings were either taverns or brothels, and the only ladies were the kind who could be bought. The stench from the debris in the streets reminded her of the more unpleasant parts of London. It was like a festering wound on the landscape. Luckily, they'd only stayed long enough to buy supplies.
Aphra felt Scot's gaze on her again, admiring but not predatory, and she turned to him with a smile. It was a pity he was the son of a regicide, but it didn't seem fair to visit the sins of the fathers on the sons. Besides, the greater sin lay with Lady Willoughby, who had betrayed her own husband. Will Scot was amusing and attentive, a good conversationalist, a plain dealer — and he was attractive. Aphra felt she'd known him much longer than three days.
Scot returned the smile, pleased with his progress and his prey. Three days on a boat with the copper-haired beauty had only served to strengthen the resolution made on the dock of Paramaribo. He was growing very attached to the light in Aphra's dark, laughing eyes, the way she watched everything with enthusiasm and interest. When the Johnson family had arrived in Paramaribo, something about Aphra led Scot to the mistaken impression that she was the elder of the two sisters; her height or her self-assurance, perhaps. He'd learned later that the pale blonde one, Frances, was three years older, and a widow to boot. Frances was pretty enough, though nowhere near as striking as Aphra. But she was well-bred and female, and, if so inclined, she could have her pick of the settlers in Surinam, although there was no dowry for either of the Johnson sisters. Unfortunately. He might have considered remarrying for a smile like Aphra's.
“Aphra! What have you done to your hair?”
Aphra shook her head at her mother, making the short curls bounce. “I had Katherine trim it for me. Quite practical, don't you think?”
“But it was so beautiful!”
“Ah, mother, 'tis much too hot for such a mass of hair. No matter how I wore it, it clung to my neck all the time.”
Elizabeth Johnson looked at her daughter with an expression of despair, which Aphra could only return with impatience. In the weeks since her father's death and their arrival in Surinam, the only thing her mother had energy for was eating. The plump comeliness that had captured the attention of one man too many was quickly becoming too plump for beauty.
Frances seemed about to say something critical, but Aphra forestalled the attack by announcing, “'Tis time we made our way to Parham House, don't you think?”
Despite the distance between plantations, entertaining was an important part of colonial life, and Treffry had very graciously organized a dinner in honor of “his” guests. It was very nearly true. It was Treffry who had obtained lodgings for them at the closest house to Willoughby's seat, and he showed more responsibility toward them than the Lord Governor.
When Aphra and her family arrived at the neighboring plantation, a large company, especially by Surinam standards, was already assembled. Will Scot was there with his brother Richard and Richard's wife, Bathshua, a reverend's daughter who exuded disapproval. Aphra's Thurston cousins, who had a plantation just south of Toorarica, were there as well, despite the fact that the English branch of the Thurstons and Denhams had disowned Elizabeth Johnson for marrying a barber under such scandalous circumstances. But the Thurstons of Surinam were more than happy to receive an invitation to Lord Willoughby's plantation. Colonel George Martin had come in the company of a man introduced to Aphra as Captain Riede. He had a long face and a German accent, but his conversation was fascinating: he knew Surinam like the back of his hand, from the Dutch to the German to the English settlements. Riede's relatives owned a plantation on the Commewena River, and he had even been to several Indian settlements.
Aphra was distracted from her conversation with the captain by the sound of Treffry's voice rising in enthusiasm.
“'Tis unbelievable!” Treffry was telling Scot and some of the ladies. “An African prince who speaks fluent Portuguese and French and has a modest command of English as well!”
“Can we see this paragon, Mr. Treffry, or have you reserved him for your own entertainment?” Emilia Thurston asked.
“Oh, do let us speak with him ourselves, Mr. Treffry,” Aphra joined in. “An African prince!”
Smiling widely, Treffry sent for the royal slave, obviously pleased to have such an attraction for the ladies. It was a rare preponderance of femininity for the colonies, and Treffry was not above strutting a bit.
“I have called him Caesar,” he said. “You will see, it is a fit name for such a man.”
“What was his African name?” Frances asked.
Treffry shrugged. “Barbaric. Not to be pronounced. I could not even understand it when he told me. But he accepts Caesar as a recognition of his rank. He has an enviable grasp of history as well as languages.”
Scot shook his head. “If it were not you telling this tale, Treffry, I would not believe it for a minute.”
“The man is not of the usual class of slaves. Caesar was betrayed into slavery by an English trader to whom he sold his own captives of war. The captain of the slaver invited him on board for a dinner to celebrate the deal, and then set sail with the prince aboard. If Lord Willoughby had not already left for Barbados, I would have consulted him immediately about freeing Caesar.”
“Lord Willoughby has already left?” Elizabeth Johnson asked. Aphra looked at her mother sharply.
“Why, yes,” Treffry replied. “He rarely stays more than a few days in Surinam. The last time he was in Parham was months ago. Ah, but there is our royal guest.”
All eyes turned to the towering figure of the man who had just entered the room. He was darker than any Moor Aphra had ever seen, nearly the color of ebony, the whites of his eyes so startlingly bright against his skin that it was uncanny. The expression of those eyes was one of checked anger, but he came forward with all the grace in the world to greet them in a very courtly fashion, despite the fact that he was only wearing a loincloth. Aphra stifled a giggle, it was so incongruous. But he was a fine figure of a man, perfectly formed, and she was not above appreciating what the sparse clothing revealed. His face, with its high cheekbones and broad nose, was a stark collection of planes and angles — hardly handsome according to European standards, which prized decorum, soft lines, regularity and proportion of feature. But it was commanding, a face that demanded acknowledgment of an unfamiliar standard of beauty. His hair shone as if oiled and was combed out to fall in tight curls to his shoulders. Above all, it was the way he carried himself that made it obvious he was the prince he claimed.
As Caesar leaned over Aphra's hand with the manners of a courtier, she noticed a kind of decoration at his temples like a pair of raised flowers, apparently carved into his skin. She touched the pattern lightly. “What is this, Caesar?”
“Many do this in my country,” Caesar explained slowly. “It is a sign of nobility.” He spoke English with a slight hesitation and an indefinable accent, like French but with an exotic, guttural touch. Turning to Treffry, he spoke in what appeared to be fluent Portuguese. Aphra knew some Spanish, and certain words sounded familiar to her, but Caesar's Portuguese was well beyond her abilities. She caught the English word “pattern” before Caesar returned his attention to her. “We carve the skin in patterns, some more, some less.”
“We have another slave on the plantation with the same kind of raised designs on the skin,” Treffry said. “'Tis i
ncredibly beautiful, very fine work.”
“You have another with such patterns?” Caesar asked, his jaw tight and outrage in his eye.
Treffry nodded. “We call her Clemene. Surely the most beautiful slave in Surinam.”
“She was also betrayed,” Caesar said with conviction and a hint of wrath. “We do not sell our nobility. Bring me to this Clemene.” Such was the commanding nature of Caesar's presence that Treffry immediately called another slave and ordered him to show Caesar to Clemene's lodging.
“She may not be there, though, Caesar,” Treffry warned him. “At this time, most hands are still in the fields.”
“Then I will seek her out later.” Caesar graced the company with a bow and departed.
Aphra watched the transaction with surprise and approval, pleased with Treffry for treating the man like the prince he so obviously was, even though he easily could have had the slave whipped for his tone of voice.
After Caesar left the room, Aphra turned to Scot, laying a hand on his arm. “What say you, Mr. Scot? Is he the royalty he claims to be?”
“Royalty or not, he will not make a good slave.”
“Neither should he be. He was betrayed into slavery, not sold.”
Will Scot shrugged. “Why should someone the man captured in war be sold into slavery and not this Caesar himself?”
“Are you saying Caesar should be a slave?”
“No, I am not saying Caesar should be a slave, I am merely questioning your distinction between the prince and his subjects.”
Aphra had no time to answer. Treffry claimed Scot's attention about a possible job he had for him, and Scot took his leave from her with a bow that somehow communicated sarcasm. It would have been hard for her come up with an answer anyway. The regicide's son may have declared his own politics ruled only by self-interest, but growing up a parliamentarian had obviously made him a freethinker.
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