by Sarah Lark
“Aren’t they given anything to eat?” Nora asked, upset.
She now had also become aware of the stench emanating from the slaves’ bodies, which had obviously gone unwashed for weeks. Elias held a handkerchief in front of his face and also gave one to Nora.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Nora, of course they are given food to eat. They are valuable wares; no one is interested in letting them starve. But these are Ashanti. You will soon learn the difference. Members of other tribes are smaller and stockier. Not quite as efficient, but easier to handle. These men and women from the Ivory Coast, on the other hand … they know exactly how to deprive the dealers of their profit. They starve themselves to death deliberately.” Elias glared at the slaves angrily.
“But then they really are dead,” Nora said, realizing how stupid the remark sounded. “Then they don’t get anything more from it, from spoiling the traders’ business. They … they—”
“They are wicked to the bone!” Elias said between his teeth. “With every transport, some of them die, and the females lose their offspring if they are pregnant upon capture. Naturally, the captains try to force them to eat. Not a very nice job.”
Nora forced herself to look, as the slaves were now being handed over to a trader. The man immediately instructed his overseers to pour buckets of seawater over the “new wares” to wash away the worst of the filth and stench. In turn, they passed the task onto the black slaves, which they attended to without showing any emotion.
Nora trembled. She would write her father about it. This was inhuman, it was—
“Backra Fortnam, sir,” a shy voice said from behind them.
Elias turned around. “Ah, there’s our coach. Get in, Nora … Well, hurry up, boy. Hold the door open for the lady! Oh, dear, I was in London too long, I’m too used to trained staff. Of course you can’t count on it being the same here.”
The young man hastened to jump up and hold open the door to the coach. Unfortunately, even the horses were not as well-trained as Peppers’s team. The two grays danced around restlessly in front of the carriage, and Nora would have felt much safer if the coachman had just kept his hand on the reins. At least it distracted her from the sad procession of slaves, who were now being led in the direction of the city. Nora didn’t ask where exactly, as she was sure she would find out sooner or later anyway. For now, she was more interested in the coachman.
“The boy ‘belongs’ to Lord Hollister?” she asked quietly. “I mean, is he also—”
“The Negroes all belong to someone,” Elias answered coolly, but then a grin came across his face. “And here you can see right away that Hollister hasn’t borrowed this one.”
Nora briefly wondered how he could know, but it was not really her most pressing question.
“But he lets him roam free?” she continued. “Here, with the horse and carriage … he could simply take it and run away.” Nora timidly smiled at the boy on the box, who had just looked back. Apparently, he now took the duties of a stately coachman more seriously, and seemed to want to ensure that his passengers sat comfortably, and had no further wishes.
Elias laughed. “He could very well do. But when he tried to leave the city he would eventually be asked for his permit. And then he would be in trouble … big trouble …”
“Lord Hollister would beat him?” Nora asked.
“That would be least of it,” Elias said. “First and foremost, he would demote him. And believe me, the last thing he wants is to be a field nigger on the plantation. Compared to that, he lives like a king as a coachman. No, Nora, house niggers don’t run away, or only very, very rarely at most. It’s more necessary to keep an eye on the ones in the plantations.”
“Everything all right, Backra?” The driver inquired, anxiously.
Nora nodded to him. “Quite all right,” she reassured him. “What is …?”
She wanted to ask the boy his name, but didn’t know whether or not to be formal with him. In England, she probably would’ve addressed such a young servant informally, on a first-name basis. But then she had a chilling thought. Did these people even have names?
“Lady? Missis?” the boy asked anxiously. Nora took a breath.
“I believe the missis would like to know your name,” Elias helped her along. Nora almost felt gratitude.
The boy grinned. “Jamie, Missis, at your service!” His whole face was beaming after having apparently found the proper form of address.
Nora smiled, relieved. But had the boy really been called Jamie from birth? Did non-Christian families call their children things like James, Paul, and Mary?
“This one was,” Elias said. Nora asked him the question when Jamie was busy driving and couldn’t hear them. “He doesn’t come from Africa, he’s a mulatto, you see.”
“Mulattos are mixed Negroes and whites?” Nora checked. “How did it come about, I mean … one doesn’t marry his slaves, does he?”
Elias put his hand to his forehead and turned away shaking his head. “Nora, don’t play dumb!” he rebuked her firmly. “Instead, just think a little bit longer about how this could happen. The moment it comes to slaves, your mind seems to stop working! Of course marriages between blacks and whites are out of the question. What an idea!”
Nora wanted to vehemently respond that the thought of slavery was likely beyond the understanding of any normal-thinking human. But then the coach stopped in front of the Hollister residence, a lovely, white- and orange-painted house; with elaborate carvings and many cheery bays and turrets. Nora found it quite quaint, but when she then became acquainted with Lord Hollister, she was horror-stricken once more. The man seemed hospitable and jovial, but at a glance, it was suddenly clear how Jamie came to be. Apart from the color of his skin, the young slave was the spitting image of his master. Nora could only hope that similar surprises weren’t awaiting her on her own plantation.
Elias politely greeted Lord and Lady Hollister, and Nora got the impression that the lady of the house was rather cold. A close friendship between the families didn’t seem to exist, but that didn’t trouble her. Even between her father and his business friends, there was always a certain amount of rivalry that came along with the friendliness that made real warmth impossible. Their wives were usually approachable; Nora just had to wait until the men retired to the study at some point after dinner.
In fact, Lady Hollister did warm up when she was alone with Nora after quite a tasty light meal. The Hollisters hadn’t expected the visit, but their cook had, nonetheless, brought three courses to the table. Nora tried tropical fruits for the first time. Lady Hollister watched in amusement as her young guest first cautiously tasted it and then eagerly reached for more. The weather in Jamaica had no affect on Nora’s appetite like it did for so many other newcomers. On the contrary, she flourished in the warmth. Of course, it became cooler as the evening wore on, and Nora went out to look at the starry sky, after which the lady led her to an open balcony room where coffee and fruit juices were being served.
The girl who brought the refreshments also had a striking resemblance to the lord of the house. Nora intently avoided looking her in the face. Apparently, this was something that she just had to accept of her new homeland. Besides, there were still a thousand less inappropriate questions about Jamaica that she would have very much liked to ask Lady Hollister. But her hostess understandably preferred to hear something about her old homeland. And about Elias and Nora Fortnam! She first asked about London, and then tried to nonchalantly find out as much as possible about Nora’s unexpected wedding. Nora, well trained in dealing with gossip, answered briefly, and in turn, tried as inconspicuously as possible to get the lady to reveal information about Cascarilla Gardens and the position of her new husband in the Kingston society.
Nora knew so much already about the island, its history, flora, fauna, and the economic situation. What she really wanted to know was what lay ahead for her at Cascarilla Gardens — of that, she had no idea.
CHAPTER 6
&n
bsp; Nora and Elias spent their first night in Jamaica in a shared bedroom, and Elias took advantage of their first time alone after the long sea voyage to lay with his wife again. Nora gave into it again — this time, since she was no longer sore from the defloration, it hurt less, but it gave her no pleasure. Elias’s affections prior to the act were so brief that she was hardly aroused, and then he just fell asleep afterwards. Nora actually found the presence of the sleeping man beside her more annoying than the physical love-making — after all, Elias never dedicated more than a few minutes to his wife. His snoring, his smell, and his movements disturbed Nora much more — the former kept her from sleeping, in particular. However, she was hopeful that her husband would do as he had at the rented house in London and keep separate bedrooms. There he had only ever visited for intercourse, before returning to his own room.
In the morning, the Hollister’s house slaves served dried cod and okra — initially, a strange combination for Nora, but it proved quite tasty once one became accustomed to the slimy consistency of the fruit, which was cooked into a kind of stew. After that, there was fresh fruit, which Nora and Elias ate, while waiting for the carriage to arrive. The driver must have set out before daybreak. Nora spotted a comely chaise; with a liveried black driver and a cargo vehicle that had transported a white overseer and four slaves — if the young men hadn’t been made to travel by foot. In any case, they didn’t seem exhausted. Two of them quite skillfully approached the horses, as the black coachman gave them instructions. Apparently, he was their supervisor and the overseer did not need to intervene. He had probably been more responsible for supervising the work at the port — the luggage and Elias’s diverse acquisitions had already been picked up from the ship and loaded onto the freight wagon. All of this before sunrise, Nora realized with some surprise. Now, the slaves were still carrying the traveling bags to the chaise, which the Fortnams had brought to the Hollisters’ house, and the Hollisters’ servant was stretching his legs, having likely been assigned to the same task. Meanwhile, Elias spoke with the overseer, after having briefly introduced him to Nora.
“Nora, this is Mr. McAllister, one of the gentlemen responsible for our field niggers. McAllister, my wife, Mrs. Nora Fortnam.”
Nora nodded to the man. It was apparent that no one expected a handshake. McAllister seemed to hold a similar politely friendly position on the plantation as one of the employees in the Reed house or offices. In contrast, Elias seemed to not see the slaves at all, only greeting the driver of the chaise with a curt nod.
“The new missis, Peter,” he introduced Nora to him, whereupon Peter most humbly bowed.
“You be most welcome!” he said politely.
Nora smiled at him. The man seemed to only speak broken English — and his skin color suggested purely African ancestry.
“His name has not always been Peter,” she remarked to Elias, as the carriage drove off.
They first passed over the well-kept streets of Kingston, but soon left the city and continued along a coastal road. Nora curiously surveyed the beach and sea.
Elias shrugged. “When I bought him, that was his name,” he said. “But you’re right, they often get new names. Especially the house niggers, as you have to be able to address them without straining your tongue. Look, there you have your palm trees!”
They were actually along the beach, at which Nora knew she would never tire of looking. The sea also fascinated her, she had already determined during their journey that it shimmered in different colors each day. This morning, it seemed bright blue, and the waves were a bit higher than yesterday. The snow-white sea foam made the beach more yellow. And the light forest, through which the road continued, was a thousand shades of green. Nora tried to identify the trees and shrubs, and guessed at mahogany plants. Elias confirmed it. He also showed her a logwood tree.
“That’s a blue mahoe — quite typical for Jamaica. We have one in the garden, but on its own, this tree grows more inland. The wood has a bluish tint, quite peculiar. But I hope you also like mahogany. I’ve had the furniture made from it for Cascarilla Gardens. My first wife didn’t like it much; she would have preferred we brought all the furniture from England.”
Nora felt embarrassed again, but said nothing about it.
“Well … heavy furniture wouldn’t suit the land,” she said instead. “Actually, I rather think none at all. Originally, people here … would mostly live outside, and—”
Elias glared at her. “What did you have in mind, a bamboo hut? Mats on the ground like in the slave quarters?” He snapped at Nora, just as he had on the ship, and she flinched. “Nora, I have already said to you once: you are a lady, behave like one! Of course our house is furnished like a civilized English household. There are proper carpenters in Kingston and Spanish Town; they can build any sort of English furniture one shows them.”
Nora went quiet and resigned herself to living in the same boring, dignified way that she had at her father’s house. And now Elias wanted to put out the statues and hang the paintings that he’d acquired in London. She wondered what the people who had been brought from Africa thought of it all.
After a good hour-long drive, they reached Santiago de la Vega, translated to Spanish Town by the English. Although the settlement was still the official capital of the island, Kingston was becoming increasingly important, undoubtedly because of the port. Santiago was further inland, and during their journey, Nora also got to see her first sugar cane and cocoa plantations. She was amazed by their size.
“They might as well be trees!” she marveled at the sugar cane, in particular.
Elias laughed. “Botanically speaking, they are grasses,” he informed her. “Which is good for us since, unlike trees, they grow back. If a tree is cut down, that’s it, but sugar cane can be cut annually. It’s also easy to grow, as long as one has the necessary manpower.”
Nora already saw the workforce on the first plantation. In one field, dozens of slaves hacked at mature plants; on another, they planted cuttings. They were all dripping with sweat, which was no great surprise. The sun beat down on the men, scorching hot. To every twenty or thirty slaves, there was a white overseer who mostly stood in the shade. Nora wondered why the blacks didn’t overthrow them. They already greatly outnumbered them and had machetes! She knew better than to ask though, and could well guess that the punishment for an attempted escape would be harsh.
Spanish Town seemed a bit more colorful and less orderly than Kingston. Although the Spanish influence was still strong, the central point of the city was the newly built Saint Catherine’s Cathedral. The first Anglican Church in Jamaica was fundamentally English and could have been located in London. On this first day, Nora only got a small impression of the city and church, as Elias wouldn’t stop the carriage. Now, they were just a few miles from Cascarilla Gardens, and the road led them exclusively through sugar cane fields.
“I had thought that our grounds would be along the sea,” Nora remarked with disappointment — after her initial amazement, the endless plantations seemed overbearing and the roads in between, dusty and drab.
Elias nodded. “That it is, but there’s no coastal road, so we access it from inland. And we also haven’t built right on the sea, it’s not recommended, as there are hurricanes and giant waves that could simply wash the house away if it’s too close to the beach.”
Nora thought with embarrassment of her dream hut with Simon. It had probably been quite shortsighted to settle directly along the water. But, on the other hand, such a hut was easy to reconstruct if it were to be blown away. She smiled.
Elias straightened himself up. “This would be it, by the way,” he said. “We just passed the border. Up to here, the land belonged to the Hollisters. From this field on, it’s mine. Welcome to Cascarilla Gardens!”
So, the Hollisters were not just friends, but rather neighbors, Nora registered. Or had they not actually owned their house here at all? That was rather unlikely, keeping in mind the lifestyle of other planters,
such as Wentworths. They had a townhouse in London, a country house in the parish, that Lord Wentworth had acquired along with his title of nobility, and of course, their plantation in the Virgin Islands. Elias seemed to be the only one who didn’t seem to think much of accumulating houses and titles. That didn’t mean there was any shortage of money. According to Thomas Reed, Elias Fortnam was one of the wealthiest planters on the island.
Nora looked around expectantly, but saw nothing of her new home other than unending rows of sugar cane — until they finally turned onto a sort of road, lined with mahogany, cedar, and even a few logwood and palm trees. The trees formed the shaded driveway to the manor house. A massive one-story stone house, with a mansard roof and columns. Nora realized with the sting of disappointment, that she could have been looking at a house in England. And, like at home, the coachman now stopped the chaise in front of the imposing entryway, and the servants swarmed out to greet the master of the house. They were all black and their uniforms had quite an old-fashioned cut — probably selected by Elias’s first wife. She suspected that the kitchen staff didn’t always wear them, since they didn’t seem particularly worn-out. Nora let her eyes briefly wander across the faces of the men and women. At least her worst fear had not proven true. No one here looked similar to Elias Fortnam and there was no one as light-skinned as Jamie.
Despite hoping he would, Elias didn’t feel introductions were necessary. Her husband briefly inspected the row of house slaves, nodded to them, and introduced Nora as the new missis without mentioning her name.
“Ask Addy for whatever you need,” he said to Nora gesturing to a large, sturdy black woman in a cook’s apron, who was standing between two slender, young girls. She pushed forward one of them who was perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old.
“This is Máanu, Missis … um …you call her Kitty. Daughter of Addy. I thought Missis would like her as a maid.”