‘Silence!’ Hawkins slammed his palm on the table, making the cutlery jump. ‘I did not give you permission to speak!’
Billy rose and put his arm around me, pulling me to his side. ‘I warned you what would happen if you messed with my Cat. She’s leaving.’
‘I think not.’ Hawkins strode to the window and stood there with his back to us, arms folded. ‘It’s all legal. You see, there’s nothing you can do for her.’
‘Just as well I don’t care for legal then. And you can expect that mortgage to be called in today, mister.’ Billy turned to go, pushing me ahead of him.
‘I doubt you’d do that. You forget that I now own your pet cat and if you try anything against me, she’ll wish she’d never been born.’
Billy tugged on my arm, still intending to take me with him.
Hawkins chuckled. ‘Look outside, Shepherd. Do you think you’d just walk out of here with my property?’
Billy glanced out the window to see his horse surrounded by a dozen of Hawkins’ men.
‘They’ve orders to stop you stealing her – and no court will prosecute me for protecting my own so you’d better go quietly.’
Billy swore fluently under his breath. I began to tremble, understanding that my best hope of escape was about to leave without me.
‘In fact, I have to thank you, Shepherd. It wasn’t until you made your feelings clear on the subject that night outside the theatre, that I worked out a way to control your hold over me. If you make one move to call in that mortgage, then your friend here will know it.’
Billy pushed me aside to square up to Hawkins. I stumbled against the table. ‘You think I care enough about her to sacrifice my own business interests?’
‘That’s the gamble I’m taking. And yes, I do.’
To my surprise, Billy started laughing. ‘You’re a scoundrel, Hawkins. I like that in a man. You’ve won this round but you won’t win the next. It works two ways this deal: if you harm her, I’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks.’
‘I look forward to it.’
With a mocking bow to Hawkins and the briefest of nods to me, Billy strode from the room, calling for his hat. I couldn’t believe it: he was really going. I thought Billy Shepherd of all people would stand his ground with Hawkins, but it seemed not. Within seconds, the front door slammed and the hoof beats retreated up the driveway.
‘There’ll be no knight in shining armour for you. Back to work, gal.’ Hawkins waved me away. With an effort, I straightened my spine and marched out of the room with all the dignity I could muster.
Over the next few days, I became far more familiar with the workings of a plantation than I desired. Once I regained some of my old strength, I was taken out of the safe haven of Cookie’s kitchen and put to work alongside the other women. I was given into the particular care of the slave who had nursed me, a young woman who I now learnt was called Rafie. She showed me how to tend the vegetable and fruit plots. It was backbreaking work labouring for long hours in the hot sun, but I counted myself lucky I wasn’t in the cane fields with the men where conditions were much worse. They had the pleasure of the overseer Dawlish’s company – him and his bull whip. Few men had unscarred backs.
I was something of an oddity on the penn – Hawkins had no other white female servants. The white men served him in a variety of capacities: there was a carpenter, a manager of the distillery, and half a dozen stockmen. All of them were spared the drudgery of fieldwork. As the days passed and they got used to seeing me about the place, a few of them tried to strike up an acquaintance with me – until warned off by the overseer. Hawkins clearly wanted me kept isolated from any prospect of help or sympathy from free men.
The worst part of the experience – other than the loss of liberty – was, without question, the sun. In addition to sapping all energy with its heat, my pale skin burned after a few minutes outside. I tried to keep covered, wearing a straw hat and long sleeves, but somehow there was always a burnt spot on my neck at the end of the day. High summer – the time to lie in the shade sipping sherbet, not to water the wilting cassava plants, but I had no choice.
The mindless nature of the work left plenty of time for speculation. I wondered with decreasing optimism if anyone was doing anything to rescue me from this little hell. After Billy’s visit, I had harboured hope that he would return, but when nothing happened I began to think that he had expended his concern on that one attempt and given up. I tried to tell myself not to be surprised – this was Billy Shepherd after all, not the Good Samaritan – but I was still disappointed that our fledgling friendship had failed to fly. And Mrs Peabody’s troupe must be long gone, taking with them any help from that quarter. That left Jenny. What was she doing now? I hoped she had the sense to raid my meagre purse to keep herself in food and lodgings. But when that was all spent, what would she do, slave to an indentured servant? I shuddered to think.
My situation was not entirely hopeless. I had friends who would come looking for me eventually. I took comfort from the fact that neither Frank nor Syd would be content to just let me disappear without trying to discover my fate, but how long would it take them to realize I needed saving? Could I get a message to them somehow? No paper, no pen, no link to the outside world: my chances of succeeding were slight.
Straightening up to rest my aching back from the task of weeding the kitchen garden, my eye fell on Cookie scattering grain to the chickens outside the back door to the house. Emptying the bowl, she looked up and shaded her eyes against the glare. Then, turning her head slowly, she continued until her gaze fell on me some distance away. She gave me a slight nod, a gesture to come closer. My heart gave an answering leap of excitement as I recognized a new possibility beckoning. The white man’s world had failed me; what about the black? Would the Obeah man pass a message for me, at least to let Jenny know what had happened? That would be a start.
I volunteered to take a basket of mangoes to the kitchen so that I could grab a private word with my friend.
‘Dere you are, Cat,’ Cookie said, seeing me standing in her doorway. She tutted. ‘Your poor red nose: it look like it be on fire.’
I put the basket down and rubbed a grimy hand over my face. ‘It feels like it too. Cookie, there’s something I wanted to ask you.’
‘What dat be, honey?’ Watching my face closely, she poured me some cold water and waved me to a chair.
‘Do you remember where we first met?’
Her eyes widened a fraction and she nodded.
‘I need to tell my maid, Jenny, what’s happened to me. I’m worried she might not know what to do with me gone.’
Cookie smiled now. ‘Don’t worry about dat gal, Cat. She know.’
‘But how do you know that she knows . . .’ I paused, working it out for myself. ‘I see. The brotherhood knows everything, doesn’t it?’
After casting a nervous look over her shoulder to check we were truly alone, she agreed, ‘Everyting, Cat.’
‘So is she all right?’
‘She be fine. Gone back to de Englishman, Moses say.’
Returned to Billy: not a perfect solution but better than starving in my old lodgings.
I sighed. ‘That’s a weight off my mind. I don’t suppose that you can ask her to send a letter for me to a friend in England? The address will be among the papers in my valise. I’ve got to get out of here somehow.’
Cookie shook her head. ‘No need for dat, gal. Me been looking all day for a chance to tell you. Dere be plans for you.’
I felt a quiver of anticipation, a sense of something about to change. ‘For me? What kind of plans?’
She winked. ‘De brotherhood help de gal who made de massa free a slave.’
I tried to keep a hold on my feelings of relief and pleasure but my heart was racing. ‘Really? How?’
‘Dat be secret. Just don’t you give up hope.’ She leant closer. ‘Be ready tonight.’
‘Ready for what?’
She shook her head and pressed a b
iscuit into my hand. ‘Get back outside, Cat, before dey notice you be gone. Don’t want no problems before tonight.’
That evening I felt strangely light-headed with excitement as I bedded down early, tired out by hours of hard work. Something was finally happening and I cherished the hope that this was the last night I would spend in my cell. Despite my exhaustion, sleep eluded me. The moonlight silvered the wall opposite the barred window, casting long shadows that striped my skin where I lay on the floor, turning me black and white. I shivered and rubbed my arms to get warm. My temples were pounding. When my whole body started shaking, I realized with dismay that my symptoms were not due to the anticipation of escape: my fever had returned. Locked in each night to make sure I didn’t run, I had to thump on the door to attract help.
Dawlish shoved it open, none too pleased to be disturbed. ‘What?’
‘Fever,’ I whispered.
He cursed with all the fluency of a sailor. ‘You’re more trouble than you’re worth,’ he grunted. ‘If you’re still alive in the morning I’ll send a woman to you.’
He was about to close the door.
‘Wait! Your master won’t want me to die!’
He laughed. ‘I think he would dance at your funeral, gal.’
‘Not if Mr Shepherd calls in the mortgage.’
Dawlish slammed the door but my words must have had some effect because, before an hour passed, I was once more back in the care of my kind healer. Rafie gave me the bitter medicine and bathed me in cool cloths to reduce the raging heat that burned under my skin.
Coming out of my delirium for a moment some time later, I heard her debating with Cookie whether to cut my hair to keep me cooler.
‘Please don’t,’ I whispered.
Rafie combed it with her fingers. ‘Like de sunset it be,’ she said softly. ‘Shame to cut it off.’
My hair was given a reprieve but that did not lessen my distress. Cookie had told me that I was to expect help tonight and here I was laid low by malaria. Surely it would be too late to delay the brotherhood?
The little boy, Manny, came running to summon Cookie back to her kitchen. She bent over me and pressed a kiss to my brow. She smelt of new bread, flour puffing from her apron as she moved. ‘Trust us, Cat,’ she murmured. ‘It be all right.’
I had no choice but to put my faith in my slave allies as my fever rose once more, rendering me unable to do anything but groan. Imagine someone drilling into your head, Reader, and you will then have some comprehension of the pain I experienced, tossing and turning on my mat in that miserable cell. My only relief was the snatched periods of deep sleep in which I was unaware of my surroundings.
Reports must have reached Hawkins of my illness because I was honoured with a visit just after supper.
‘How’s the patient?’ he asked my nurse brusquely.
‘She need de doctor, massa.’
Hawkins harrumphed. ‘Dammit. Move her to the house. I can’t afford to lose her just now.’
I felt strong arms – I don’t know whose – lift me up and carry me to a real bed in one of the servants’ chambers. Sighing with relief, I fell straight back to sleep, this time in more comfort. Sometime later, cold hands started prodding me, feeling for a pulse in my neck. I batted them away feebly.
‘Lie still, girl. I’m Dr Hillard.’
Reassured, I quietly submitted to his examination.
‘What do you think, doctor?’ barked Hawkins from the doorway. ‘Will she live?’
‘I expect so, sir. But the malignant humours of the swamp fever have taken hold and she doesn’t look very strong. I’ll bleed her and then we’ll see.’
‘No.’ My protest was so weak I’m not sure anyone heard.
I must have fainted when the doctor made the incision in my arm. Consciousness did not return until the small hours and only because a bell was ringing urgently outside.
‘Fire! Fire in the barn!’ I heard someone yell – Dawlish, I think – and then banging on the back door.
I could now smell smoke and prayed that it would not spread to the house. It was bad enough burning up with fever without finding my room on fire when I was too weak to move. Yet somehow the danger seemed very distant. I wasn’t sure I would even be bothered if the house did burn to the ground. It all seemed so unreal. The only thing I could focus on was my suffering. Added to my headache, my arm was sore where I had been bled. I knew many doctors across Europe and America swore by that treatment but I felt no benefit; if anything I was even feebler than I had been before.
Back I drifted into dreams that curled through my brain like wisps of smoke.
‘Cat?’ A hand was shaking me awake.
I groaned. My arm flopped over the edge of the mattress, boneless and aching.
‘Gawd, girl, what’s the matter with you?’
The thought crystallized in my mind that the voice sounded very like Billy Shepherd. Confused, I imagined I must be back in the Sparrow’s Nest in Drury Lane. That was my home after all.
‘Leave me alone, Billy. Mr Sheridan won’t like you setting foot in his theatre again,’ I mumbled.
‘What you talkin’ about, Cat? I’m not leavin’ you ’ere. It’s that bleedin’ fever again, ain’t it?’
‘No, no more bleeding,’ I moaned.
Billy scooped me up. ‘Hush, Kitten. I’m getting’ you out of ’ere. Your slave mates ’ave just set light to the barn to create a distraction, so don’t waste it.’
I was dimly aware of being carried down the corridor towards the back door. It didn’t smell right for Drury Lane but I still didn’t understand where we were.
Billy’s plan to distract the household with the fire and make away with me unobserved wasn’t going to be as simple as that. Not everyone was outside fighting the flames.
‘Where do you think you’re going with my servant, Shepherd?’ Hawkins stepped out of the shadows, a pistol trained on us. The recollection that I was in Jamaica came back to me with a jolt. Gasping, I struggled to sit upright.
‘I’m taking her home, where she belongs.’ Billy eased me to the floor, propping me against him with one arm.
Hawkins shook his head. ‘No you don’t. If you take her from this house, I’ll have you arrested.’
‘Your mistake, Hawkins, was to think I care a fiddler’s jig for the law.’
Fever-mad, I was finding it hard to take this situation seriously. Perhaps I was still dreaming? Hawkins looked so cross, Billy so grim – and I was standing in my nightdress. Bare toes – how unseemly. Mrs Peabody would have kittens if she saw me.
The slaver cursed. ‘I’ll hunt you down, Shepherd. She belongs to me. I have a deed to prove it.’
I swayed drunkenly against Billy’s arm, the ground spinning. ‘No you don’t, mister. Not a deed with my name on it. You own “Kat” with a “K”; “Cat” with a “C”, that’s me.’ Laughter bubbled up – I have no idea what I found so amusing. ‘I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.’
‘Shut it, Cat,’ whispered Billy, eye still on the gun barrel.
‘You look so silly, Billy,’ I chirped. ‘Hawkins, Forkins, Porkins – no, I can’t think of a rhyme. He is beyond rhyme – or reason.’ My chuckles at my own wit subsided into shivering hiccups.
‘Are you sure you still want her?’ Billy asked Hawkins, raising a brow at my idiotic antics.
‘I’m sure.’ Hawkins raised the gun level with Billy’s heart and cocked it. ‘Let her go and step away.’
‘All right.’
Without warning, Billy released me and I crumpled to the floor as he knew I would, momentarily distracting Hawkins. With his free hand, Billy now unsheathed a knife and threw, burying it deep in the slaver’s arm. Giving a cry of pain, Hawkins jerked back and the pistol exploded; Billy dived left and the bullet passed overhead to embed itself in the ceiling. Billy sprang up and followed through with a punch to the jaw, sending Hawkins reeling. The slaver collapsed against the kitchen door and fell back. Billy leapt after him and I heard another thud,
then silence. Too weak to get myself up off the floor, I waited. Within moments, my rescuer returned, brushing his hands off against his jacket.
‘Gawd, I’ve been wantin’ to do that for days.’
Picking me up once more, he stepped over Hawkins who was stretched out on the kitchen floorboards and we made our escape through the courtyard.
For some reason, I felt this an appropriate moment to start singing. A large hand settled over my mouth.
‘We’re not safe yet,’ Billy hissed. ‘Blimey, Cat, ain’t you got a shred of sense?’
Rolls of choking black smoke billowed across the yard. Silhouettes of men darted in front of the flames.
‘Are you taking me to Hell?’ It seemed quite a reasonable question in the circumstances: I’d always thought Billy a devil and the scene was reminiscent of Dante’s Inferno.
‘Nah, I’m takin’ you to the Medici.’
Next thing I heard was splashing as Billy waded into shallow water. I was passed over to another man and bundled in a blanket. I felt the boat rock as Billy climbed in and then oars creaked in the rowlocks. I curled up on the damp floor wondering when I was going to wake up from this strange dream. Sea water trickled under my burning cheek; the pains in my bones rose to excruciating proportions. Out of control, my body began to twitch and quiver violently.
‘Damnation, what’s the matter with her?’ I heard Billy ask.
‘It is the fever, Shepherd.’ That was Captain Bonaventure’s voice, I thought distantly. ‘It will bring on convulsions. We have got to get her temperature down.’
Before I knew it, I was tipped over the side of the boat and immersed in the water. Mercifully my weak hold on consciousness failed and I slipped away, dreaming that I was drowning in cold, dark water.
SCENE 2 – PIRATE
I woke up many hours later to find myself snug in a cabin on board the Medici.
‘Not dead then,’ I whispered in surprise.
A skirt rustled and Jenny’s face appeared, hovering over me like a guardian angel. ‘You wake, missis?’
Black Heart of Jamaica Page 15