Simply Anna

by Jennifer Moore

  Horace sniffed loudly and let out a heavy breath which smelled of rum. “Admire yer determination, lad, but if ya don’t mind my sayin’ so, a soft-handed dandy like ye’ll not last the week.” He obviously wasn’t pleased with the idea of a supervisor.

  Philip felt his neck heat in a combination of offense at the man’s audacity and apprehension that his words would prove true. But it wasn’t up to the overseer to deem whether or not his superior was equal to the task. “That remains to be seen.” Philip bit off his words, attempting to keep his temper in check. “I wish to become acquainted with the plantation.”

  The overseer sneered. “As you like. It’ll be hot as blazes soon; we should have started earlier.” He turned to leave the room, and his gaze lit on Ezekiel, who looked at the floor and moved closer to the wall.

  Philip followed Horace into the main hall but stopped as he tried to remember what he had done with his hat and gloves the night before. He’d been exhausted at the end of his journey, but he must have handed them to someone. Come to think of it, who should he speak to about readying his horse?

  “If you please, my lord.” Ezekiel held out Philip’s top hat and leather gloves. His gaze was fixed on the ground. “I’ll fetch yo’ horse right away.” He scurried out the front door with his awkward rising and falling gait.

  Philip was surprised and a bit impressed that the boy so readily anticipated his needs.

  When Ezekiel passed Horace, the man swatted him on the back of the head, nearly sending the boy tumbling down the front steps. The overseer yelled after him in the pidgin language Philip had overheard people speaking when he’d arrived on the island.

  Philip was surprised at the man’s behavior but refrained from commenting on it. He did not know the history, and it would not be appropriate to question his overseer in front of the servants.

  He put on his top hat, strode down the front steps, and then turned to get a view of the house in the daylight. It was situated perfectly among shady palmettos. The impressive two-story white building showcased a balcony held up by white pillars. The style was so different than the heavy stone manor house where he’d spent his childhood. An explosion of colorful flowers surrounded the building and flowed from pots on the balcony. Slender palm trees with their large swaying heads lined the road leading to the front of the mansion. A swell of pride grew in his chest. He couldn’t believe Oakely Park was his own.

  Philip was still admiring the house when Ezekiel led the horse around the corner.

  Horace walked to the shade of a small grove on the side of the house to fetch his own mount.

  The horse Philip had purchased when he’d arrived in Kingston was saddled, and Philip could tell he’d been brushed down after the journey. He wondered briefly who cared for the animals. He would have to make sure the stable was one of his stops as he toured the plantation today.

  Philip inspected the girth straps, adjusted the stirrups, and swung himself into the saddle. He allowed himself a smile. He had chosen to ride in the carriage for the last two days, owing to the fact that he’d not been in the saddle for months. But today, in the sunlight, he could not help the warm contentment that spread from his chest as he sat astride the horse.

  The boy handed up a riding crop.

  “Thank you, Ezekiel.” Philip spoke absentmindedly as he took the crop in his hand, inspecting it before laying it across the saddle.

  “Yo’ welcome, my lord,” the boy said, and when Philip glanced at him, Ezekiel beamed. His teeth were remarkably white contrasted with his dark skin. “Will dere be anything else, my lord?”

  “No, that is all for now.” Philip noted a softening in his heart at the boy’s earnestness and hurried to squelch it. He’d obviously been out of society for too long and needed to take care to maintain the necessary distance between master and servant.

  “Do not dally, boy,” he said in a sharp voice, flicking his wrist in an indication that Ezekiel should move out of his path. The light in the boy’s eyes dimmed as he limped backward, but his smile remained. Philip felt a tinge of guilt. He’d never known a servant so eager to please. Most were content to do their duty and remain as invisible as possible. He thought many took deliberate pains to stay out of his way. When he glanced back, Ezekiel waved his hand.

  Philip turned his eyes quickly forward. He followed Horace at a gentle trot down the yellow dirt lane and up a steep hill nearly half mile from the house. They reined in, and the overseer told him that from this vista, he could view the entirety of his plantation, from the sea in the northeast to the Blue Mountains in the southwest.

  “And how long have you been at Oakely Park, sir?” Philip asked.

  “Going on seventeen years. Ye’ll not find another what can manage the place as well as me.” He wrinkled his nose and made a slurping sound as he sucked at something in his teeth.

  “I certainly don’t intend to take your position from you.”

  “As if a whelp like you could do this job.” Horace dug his fingernail into the gap between his teeth and then studied closely whatever it was that he removed.

  Philip tightened his jaw but did not acknowledge the insult. He turned his gaze to the fields below separated from one another by thorny hedges. The vivid green stalks in various stages of growth swayed back and forth in the wind. Oxen and mules pulled creaking carts heaped with loads of sugarcane toward a collection of buildings whose stone chimneys discharged gray smoke. Horace explained that these were the sugar works. Above them, latticework frames covered in canvas sail cloth rotated slowly atop the windmills.

  “I did not see any windmills as I passed other plantations. Are they typical for sugar manufacture?” Philip asked.

  “’Ere on the north side o’ the island we’ve a steady wind. Most others use animals or manpower to turn the crushers.”

  The overseer pointed as he identified the various areas of the property. Past the main house was a small collection of buildings. Among these were the overseer’s house, bookkeepers’ offices and apartments, workshops, livestock barns, storage buildings, and a hospital. Even farther down the hill was a village of huts surrounded by greenery—the slaves’ quarters.

  “’Ave ya ’ad enough then?” Horace said, turning his horse and starting back down the hill toward the Great House.

  “I should like to view it all firsthand,” Philip said.

  Horace shrugged his shoulders and nudged his horse back up the hill. Philip didn’t miss the way the man blew out his cheeks.

  Horace led him first to the sugar works. They dismounted and stepped beneath the thatched roof. Inside, huge rollers rotated, powered by the windmills. Dark-skinned men and women scurried about in an orderly sort of chaos, some unloading the cane, some feeding it into the rollers, some removing the crushed chaff.

  Philip strode around the building, marveling at the immense machinery and the manpower required to run such an operation. When he watched the large rollers smash the sugarcane and squeeze out the juice into a waiting trough, he widened his eyes and leaned forward then quickly put himself in check, not wanting to appear too inexperienced in front of his workers.

  Philip took a half step back, and as he did an immense man turned to face him. Not only was the man incredibly tall, his arms and neck were corded in muscle beneath his shiny black skin. His short hair was peppered with gray at the temples, and small wrinkles pulled at the sides of his eyes. Lines of raised scars ran along the ridges of his cheekbones, around his eyes, and over his forehead. Philip tried not to stare.

  “Tribal marks,” Horace said, pointing to the man’s face. “Brutes damage their skin on purpose in Africa.”

  Philip had never seen anything like it. The marks were both fascinating and fearsome.

  “This here’s Malachi. ’E’s the headman of this gang.” Horace explained how different gangs performed various jobs on the plantation. Today, Malachi’s gang ran the sugar works.

  Philip assumed Malachi’s age to be around forty—likely one of the oldest
workers in the mill and certainly the strongest. Unlike the other slaves who moved around the building, Malachi met Philip’s gaze with confidence instead of ducking his head.

  The largest man Philip had ever laid eyes on, Malachi possessed a calm manner, a sureness unexpected from a slave. In the few moments Philip observed, he saw that the others looked to Malachi, a natural leader. Philip was reminded of stories of slave revolts on the islands that he’d read about in the newspapers. The idea of having Malachi for an enemy was terrifying. He hoped he would earn Malachi’s loyalty.

  Horace spoke to the large man in the pidgin language. Although Philip couldn’t understand his words, the tone and gestures were unmistakable. Horace was berating Malachi. He held up a horsewhip, shaking it as he spoke, as if to emphasize his words.

  The sight of the whip made Philip twitch uncomfortably. He did not think Horace actually had need for physical discipline at the moment. But perhaps there was something he did not understand about the way the mill was being managed.

  The large man simply nodded and returned to work, pointing and speaking in a low voice to the other members of his gang.

  “What did he do wrong?” Philip asked when they stepped back outside.

  Horace shook his head. “Naught.” He snorted lustily and swallowed. “Need to remind ’em who’s in charge is all.” He tucked the whip into his waistband and lifted his shirt, revealing a pistol. “Ye’d do well to remember, it’s up to us, the backra—white men—to keep the lazy Negroes in line.”

  Philip was becoming even less impressed with his overseer as the moments passed. The workers seemed hardworking and capable, but when he and Horace had approached, he noticed a decided tension in the air. Philip wondered if it was just a natural reaction to the presence of a supervisor, but something about it seemed off.

  As they toured the different buildings in the sugar works, it seemed as if the overseer watched the slaves, hoping for a chance to rebuke them instead of supervising their production.

  The men led their horses down the hill, following the Roman-style aqueduct where the sweet-smelling cane juice flowed into large copper pots. Some men and women, but mainly older children, tended fires in the brick furnaces beneath the pots and stirred the boiling cane juice. The long-handled spoons they used to remove the foam from the liquid’s surface were nearly as tall as the children using them.

  As midday approached the heat was nearly unbearable. Philip eyed the workers’ light clothing with something close to jealousy as beads of sweat rolled down his spine. His woolen jacket and waistcoat were damp and heavy in the island humidity. He couldn’t imagine how hot it must be standing near the fires. Thank goodness for the breeze.

  Horace was explaining that after the impurities were removed from the syrup, Barbados white clay was used to color the sugar crystals in the curing house in order make the white sugar used in baking and tea. Philip listened with one ear. His mind raced, and he felt completely overwhelmed. How would he ever learn all he needed to in order to manage the plantation?

  While Horace droned on, Philip watched a group of women use poles to remove a pot from a fire. One of the women lost her footing and dropped her pole. The pot tipped, dumping boiling cane juice over her leg.

  She screamed in agony, clutching her leg as other workers pulled her out of the way and righted the hot copper pot.

  A child cried out, “Mama! Mama!”

  Philip started in her direction, but Horace pushed him aside, rushing toward her. Assuming Horace was in a hurry to offer assistance, Philip was horrified to see the man instead seize the injured woman by the hair and beat her across the neck and back with his horse whip.

  The woman cowered beneath the blows. The other women trembled.

  The child screamed but was held back by a young girl.

  A man ran forward, standing between Horace and the woman. He held his hands up. “No. Doctor! She needs doctor!” He turned to inspect her scalded legs.

  “How dare you!” Horace snapped the whip on the man’s back.

  Revulsion flooded Philip. He was appalled by such cruelty. He rushed forward and grasped the overseer’s arm. “Stop that immediately!” He wrenched the whip from the overseer’s hand, his muscles quivering with anger. “I will not tolerate such brutality, Mr. Braithwaite.”

  The overseer’s eyes bulged, and his face was red. “Need to keep ’em in their place. Ye show one bit o’ tolerance for bad behavior, and they’ll walk all over ya.”

  Philip glared at Horace as he pushed past, shoving the whip at him. “Step away, sir.” He instructed one of the women to fetch a doctor and another to bring water to the injured woman. He knelt beside her and lifted her face. Her eyes were wide with pain and fear. The child ran to her, weeping. His stomach sickened at the overseer’s behavior to the young mother. Philip would not even treat an animal so poorly.

  The woman returned with water, and Philip left the injured woman to her care after being assured the doctor was on his way.

  Philip marched his overseer out of range of the workers’ hearing and turned to him. “Mr. Braithwaite.” Philip fought to keep his voice calm. He stood close to the overseer, looking him directly in the eye. “I forbid any such beatings or floggings at Oakely Park. This woman did nothing wrong. She simply tripped.”

  Horace narrowed his eyes. “You’ve no idea what schemes the Negroes will invent to get outta work. Can’t allow ’em to dupe ya. They’re cunning.”

  The overseer’s rashness and disregard for his authority heated Philip’s blood further. “I will not allow such a thing, Mr. Braithwaite. If you cannot abide by my rules—”

  “Rules?” Horace sneered. “The only rule is that the white man is in charge and must maintain order.” His eyes narrowed as he lifted his whip again. “Negroes are easy to replace. ’Ere’s no need to worry about punishing ’em too harshly.” He snapped his whip in the direction of the man and young woman on the ground to make his point.

  Philip held up his hand. “That is enough, sir,” he said in a quiet voice. “If you cannot abide by these rules, I am prepared to terminate your employment immediately.” The man’s words and actions disgusted him.

  “Blasted rich brat!” Horace yelled. “Ya think ye can waltz in and steal Oakely away from under me? After all I’ve done?” He reached beneath his shirt and withdrew the pistol from his belt.

  Philip stumbled backward in shock. His heart pounded so forcefully he thought it might explode in his chest. What kind of place had he come to? He looked around wildly, his senses heightened to the point that his fingers hurt.

  Instead of aiming the pistol at Philip, the overseer pointed it at the young woman sitting on the ground holding her child and the man crouching next to her.

  Horace sneered at Philip. “You’ll learn. You gotta keep ’em afraid. ’Is here’s the only way to control ’em.” He pulled back the hammer with his thumb at the same moment Philip—fueled by hot rage—leapt at him, pushing his arm upwards.

  The blast from the gunshot tore through the air, and Philip’s ears rang. He wrestled the weapon from Horace’s hand and pushed him to the ground. “Leave Oakely Park immediately, sir. I do not want to see your face on this property again, or I will report you to the constable in Port Antonio.” Philip was shaking so badly he didn’t even know if his words were clear. He towered above the overseer, holding his gaze without blinking.

  Horace stood slowly; his small eyes were dark bits of flint. “Ye’ll regret this day,” he said in a snarling voice that sent a chill skittering down Philip’s spine. He turned his gaze to the workers, waving his arm around. “All of ye!”

  Philip and the servants watched Horace mount his horse and ride toward the overseer’s house. His ears continued to ring, and his trembles turned violent. He sat heavily upon a large rock to calm himself. The excitement over, his limbs became heavy with exhaustion. What on earth would he do without an overseer?

  A group of men ran up the hill toward them, and Philip stood, knowing
he needed to take control of the situation. One man introduced himself as the plantation surgeon, Dr. Bevan, and Philip set him to tending to the woman’s injury. The other men were bookkeepers who had heard the gunshot and come to see what had happened.

  Philip sent them to ensure that Horace Braithwaite indeed left the property, and he turned down any offers of assistance. He would meet with the bookkeepers tomorrow. He mounted his horse, wanting nothing more than a cold drink and a long nap. He turned the horse toward the Great House but paused and glanced up the hill behind him.

  Malachi stood in the doorway of the crushing house. The large man held his gaze, bending his head forward solemnly, then returned inside.

  Chapter 3

  “My lord, there is something on the beach—over there on the rocks.”

  Philip glanced from Tom Norton toward the jagged shoreline. There was indeed something on the rocks, partially submerged. It resembled a bundle of linen. Whatever it was must have washed ashore, perhaps from the storm two nights earlier. He did not allow the lump to concern him; the rising tide would wash it away soon enough. A mass of textiles hardly registered among the cares tumbling about in his mind—not the least of which was a dinner invitation for that evening with his new neighbor John Stapleton and John’s daughter, Clarissa.

  Tom dismounted and walked closer to the beach, his hand shading his eyes.

  If nothing else, Philip would acknowledge Tom Norton to be observant, another reason he was pleased with his decision to promote the bookkeeper to the position of overseer, in spite of the man’s age. He was only a few years older than Philip.

  Philip nodded. He had made a good choice, even though the man seemed abnormally interested in flotsam washed ashore by the sea. But Philip could overlook Tom’s quirks, as long as they didn’t impede his ability to manage the plantation.