Across Captive Seas

by Michele du Barry

  It had felt strange to stand on dry land again after so many weeks at sea and at first Angela had trouble walking without the gentle roll of the deck beneath her feet. She laughed to herself, they must have looked a strange bunch lurching like drunkards on the dock until their legs had once again become accustomed to firm ground. But evidently the people crowded around to see the new arrivals saw nothing amiss and Angela had been well aware of the murmurings of the ladies over her fashionable clothes. They were sadly behind the times tucked away so far from England and their clothes were provincial and out of style.

  She had noted especially the auburn-haired beauty, her envious eyes coveting every stitch Angela had on, although her own clothes were expensive and more up to date than most others around her. But something about those cold ice-blue eyes had made Angela uneasy and she was glad to be gone from the press of people.

  There was a veritable potpourri of different nationalities abounding on the island and Angela had heard half a dozen languages being spoken. There were the Dutch, Spaniards, Chinese, Germans, Portugese, and English but by far the largest part of the population was made up of the black slaves who were still in bondage although the slave trade had been abolished two years ago. Before that Jamaica had been one of the greatest slave marts in the entire world drawing the plantation owners like flies to honey.

  There was unease among the white slave owners on the island because of the reaction of the Maroons, escaped slaves themselves, who insisted on stirring up trouble when there was none. As insidiously as their voodoo charms they instigated unrest continuously. They mistakenly believed that the law abolishing slavery meant instant emancipation, but that was not the case. There were still masters and slaves and the cruel inequality of one human owning another.

  The settlers had good memories and even though things were relatively quiet at the moment it hadn’t been that long ago when revolts had taken place. The Maroons took up residence in Cockpit country, a wild almost impenetrable part of the island where they fiercely fought for independence. After years of war and uneasy peace they were offered amnesty in 1796 only to have the guarantee broken when six hundred of them were shipped to Nova Scotia. The remaining Maroons disappeared back into their hiding places distrustful and fiercer than ever.

  The carriage lurched as they turned onto a long well-kept drive bordered on either side by huge royal palms, their straight silvery-gray trunks gleaming in the afternoon sun. After the regal drive the house was unpretentious, perched high on a green hill. The grounds were the real glory, lush and magnificent, spreading in flowered profusion, enhancing the house like a plain woman adorned with jewels.

  Vines of yellow and amethyst trumpet-shaped flowers climbed the spreading trellises shading the wide veranda from the sun but allowing the ever-present breeze to sweep up from a golden cove. A tiny birdlike slave woman greeted them, informed just an hour ago of their arrival. In her odd singsong English she welcomed them into the house with a broad smile and sparkling black eyes.

  Her name was Ruby, the housekeeper Scott had chosen to run the household. She chatted pleasantly while Angela concentrated, trying to catch the rhythm of the way she spoke. Despite the short notice everything was in readiness and Ruby showed them to their rooms. A bath was being filled in the master bedroom and cooling drinks miraculously appeared. A frown from Ruby silenced the giggling slave girls and as they left her alone Angela sank down on a chair sipping the refreshing beverage. The drink was sweet, but had a hint of tartness to it, a mixture of several fruit juices she would later learn.

  The room was large and square with a high ceiling and a polished hardwood floor scattered with curious woven grass rugs. The walls were painted white, and a pale green spread covered the bed which was draped in a canopy of mosquito netting. Tall louvered shutters stood open at the windows and the door that opened onto the veranda. From her room Angela could see the turquoise waters of the cove spread below looking like a giant thumbprint indented into the coast. The sandy beach beckoned invitingly recalling long-lost days in Italy, but that would have to wait.

  As Angela bathed she took in the rest of the room: the dark highly polished highboy and armoire, a mirror, several chairs and a table, a small desk. A spartan setting, relieved by the large potted plants and armfuls of artfully arranged cut flowers scattered in every corner of the room.

  She could picture Scott here with her and a hot welling up of desire tightened her breasts beneath the tepid water. It had been so long and he was so far away, would she ever find him at last? Would they once again lie flesh against fevered flesh, expressing with their kisses and caresses what words would never tell? Angela longed for the day, burned for the nights when they would be reunited at last in body as well as spirit. All those months when she had been dead inside were gone and like a young tree in spring the sap ran through her invigorating and awakening once again all the dormant passion.

  The brief rest here at their plantation between journeys seem too long already. Angela was anxious to be off again after only a few hours on shore. But there were those inconvenient contracts to be fulfilled. Captain Darnell assured her that they would depart within the month.

  The timing was right because although it was winter in Jamaica the Southern Hemisphere was in summer. They would sail south down the coast of South America and around Cape Horn. Then they would be in the South Pacific, a vast body of water broken only by small islands until the huge unexplored continent of Australia was finally sighted.

  She could have entrusted the precious pardon to Angus or some other servant and sent them off while she waited patiently at home, but that was not Angela’s way. Impatience compelled her onward, and soon she would be reunited with her husband. Then the separation would seem like only days, soon forgotten in their rediscovery of each other and their undying love.

  It was almost too easy to fall into the slow, lazy pace of life on the plantation. Slaves were at her beck and call to do any task for Angela no matter how small. But something about this oppressive system didn’t sit well with her. She would have to talk with Scott about selling their property here, since she had definitely decided she didn’t like being a slave owner. Maybe they could free some of the slaves, like Ruby, the delightful, ageless little woman who had taught herself how to read and write and managed the house with a quiet, self-assured air.

  Angela had come upon her one day when the rest of the household was indulging in the local custom of an afternoon nap. The book she had been reading in a quiet corner of the small library had slipped from her hands, thudding to the floor. The terror in Ruby’s black eyes had been fleeting but very evident, replaced quickly with defiance.

  For a slave to read and write was unthinkable! Keep them in blissful ignorance, was the byword of the planters, that way no trouble would start. If Ruby had belonged to someone else she might have been publicly lashed to death.

  But Angela wasn’t one of the high and mighty, always superior caste that must maintain their position or die trying. She had been too close with poverty herself in her childhood to ever look down haughtily on any person no matter what the color of her skin. Instead she had applauded Ruby’s nerve and daring, and in doing so made a fast friend.

  She had to admit the past two weeks had been a pleasant interlude, during which she went over the books with the overseer and inspected the plantation. Everything ran like clockwork and she credited that to the system Scott had set up and the initiative and honesty of the overseer, Matthew Grey. Angela was shocked at first to find the husband of the treacherous Sally in charge but that swiftly changed as she got to know him.

  He was nothing like his wife and despaired over the part she had played in having Scott transported when Angela informed him of what had happened. He was well rid of Sally and now lived peacefully with his Chinese mistress and their two small sons. She was as tiny and delicate as a doll, with slanted, almond-shaped eyes and long, straight black hair. A shy retiring creature, Angela quite intimidated her at fir
st but on her second visit she took Lorna and Robert who broke the ice in a manner only children could.

  Hibiscus, the roan mare that Angela had chosen to ride, trotted briskly along the boundary of Bluehills. She wasn’t quite sure where her plantation left off and Rosemont began. The stunning auburn-haired woman she had glimpsed on arrival was the owner of the adjoining plantation, reputed to be the richest and most lovely on the island. Annee Wallace was famous for her beauty and her colorful past. Married three times to rich, older men, her husbands died mysteriously and the word murder was whispered from slave quarters to the governor’s mansion. She was also credited with killing a number of her slaves either purposely or in fits of rage and her overseer-lovers came and went as quickly as her whims.

  Breaking out of the forest Angela came quite suddenly on a waterfall too breathtaking to believe. Clear blue water foamed and sprayed, gently cascading down smooth rock shelves, almost like giant steps. The air was much cooler by the waters and Angela couldn’t resist dismounting for a closer look.

  Tethering Hibiscus to a tree she walked slowly around the sapphire pool into which the waterfall emptied. The temptation was too much! With quick sure movements she began unfastening her dress, pulling off her boots until her garments lay like flowers on the green velvet grass. Testing the water with her foot Angela found it pleasantly cold and a moment later swam and splashed joyfully in the lovely virgin setting only nature could have formed.

  Swimming to the first ledge she let the water cascade over her and then hauled herself up to sit on the slippery rock, the spray foaming over her legs and hips. It felt wonderful and she wished once again Scott was with her. The memory of another watery encounter flashed through her mind, but she had been unwilling and reluctant then. She wouldn’t be now.

  Slowly, carefully lest she slip on the smooth slick stones Angela climbed up the steps, which had been carved with human hands. She paused when she got tired, sunning herself, never giving a thought to being discovered. The sun was hot on her bare skin and in contrast the water was icy. Cupping her hands she took a long refreshing drink, gazing with unabated wonder at the beauty surrounding her.

  It never ceased to amaze her when she discovered the new and different beauties the world had to offer. The green rolling hills and flowering trees of her native Kent, the regal splendor of London, the desolate wildness of the Highlands and now the lush, tropical paradise spread out below her. What would Australia be like? She had read the reports of a harsh land, but every place had its own wonderful characteristics and unique beauty.

  Angela reached the top of the staircase, standing knee deep in the stream feeding the waterfall. More jungle spread out endlessly on either side of the stream. A crashing disturbed the silence, birds flying skyward at the sound and Angela stood frozen as a huge slave broke from the forest at a run and sprawled full length into the water.

  He gulped down the water noisily, panting as if he had run a long way. Hurriedly Angela turned and poised for a moment before arcing through the air and diving cleanly into the pool below. She surfaced hoping he hadn’t seen her, after all he had been quite a distance from her. A splashing commotion above caught her attention and before she could move the man jumped into the pool shattering the peace of the day.

  He had seen her! With powerful strokes he swam to where she cowered half hidden from sight beneath an overhanging vine. She opened her mouth but a large wet hand clamped over it.

  “Don’t make a sound!” he said pinning her against the rock ledge. “I won’t hurt you as long as you are quiet.”

  Angela frowned, making no effort to free herself. He was a muscular giant, his brown skin glistening in the sun, his pleading eyes desperate. But the way he talked was not the way all the other slaves spoke. His voice was cultured, the words crisp with just a hint of a French accent. Could it be possible he was a runaway, a nègre marron?

  He stiffened as the sound of barking dogs became evident in the distance and then she was sure he had escaped. With sign language Angela indicated she would be quiet and tentatively the hand moved from her mouth. She didn’t know who he was or who he belonged to but the dire situation communicated itself to her and she knew for a certainty that if she were a slave she would run too.

  “My horse,” she whispered, “is just out of sight over there. Take her!”

  His grip on her loosened and for one second aqua and amber eyes met in mutual understanding. “Thank you, lady!” He flashed a brief smile. “I will never forget you!”

  “Hurry,” Angela urged, “and good luck!”

  He disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared, running into the jungle in the direction Angela had pointed. She heard Hibiscus give a soft whinny and wondered if she would see the horse again. There wasn’t time for thinking now. The dogs were closer and she had to get dressed before someone saw her. It would be a long walk home too, in the hottest part of the day.

  She dressed and began walking briskly back home. Her hair hung wet and heavy down her back soaking the riding habit but at least it kept her cooler. Breaking out of the woods, she was once again on familiar ground and made her way through the cultivated fields.

  Dogs on long ropes broke into the field dragging a dozen men after them. A woman on horseback followed, sighting Angela immediately. She rode forward stopping in front of her, gazing down contemptuously at the bedraggled figure.

  “Have you seen a large slave man anywhere?” asked the auburn-haired woman condescendingly.

  “No,” lied Angela looking up at her, knowing immediately who she was. If what they said about her was true it was no wonder he had run away. “Have you see a roan horse?” Angela put on her most superior air, the one that had cut short even Thurston Vaughn. “I’m afraid Hibiscus was stolen while I went for a swim.”

  “Damn!” cursed Annee Wallace. “The runaway probably took it. I’ll stake my life he did! Where were you—at the waterfall?”

  Angela nodded and Annee wheeled shouting orders to the men, galloping off without another word or a backward glance.

  “I hope he escapes, you bitch!” Angela hurled after her, though she knew she couldn’t hear her above the barking and howling of the dogs. She stood watching for a long time after they had gone, then turned and trudged towards home.

  The billowing clouds were luminous, the color of iridescent pearls scattered haphazardly across an azure sky. It was early, the air cool and refreshing as Angela stood on the veranda wrapped in a thin robe and troubled thoughts. Those thoughts had kept her up most of the night and her eyes were heavy-lidded with fatigue.

  Ruby appeared with a light breakfast, setting it on a small rattan table. Angela smiled her appreciation and sipped a cup of hot, spiced chocolate. The beach below glowed in the morning sun, gently ruffled by the surf and the ocean glinted like shattered glass. The tall poinciana trees with leaves as delicate as Irish lace cast long shadows, shading the lawn from emerald to forest-green. Palm fronds clattered in the breeze blending with the buzz of bees and the twittering of the birds.

  She had tossed all night contemplating the fate of the runaway slave she had met so briefly. Angela shuddered to think of what would happen to him if he was caught. A slave of Annee Wallace’s would be severely punished. She hadn’t liked the woman ever since her first brief glimpse of her on the dock and yesterday’s encounter cemented the feeling. Those blue eyes had been cold and furious, angry at Angela for allowing her horse to be stolen. She wondered what Mrs. Wallace would do if she knew she had aided the man to escape.

  That instant decision haunted Angela. What if the man actually was dangerous and hurt someone in the process of fleeing? That would make her partly responsible, but somehow those strange amber eyes inspired confidence. Whatever the case she would have to find out what, if anything had happened. She could not stand being in such a state of suspense much longer. Asking about her horse would be as good an excuse as any to find out whether he had been caught during the night.

  Finishing brea
kfast Angela bathed and dressed in a new riding habit the color of a robin’s egg. The blue broadcloth was cut severely accentuating the perfection of the wearer, sure to cause envy in the eyes of the fashion conscious Mrs. Wallace. The heels of her polished black boots clicked impatiently on the wooden floors as she strode through the house and out the front door.

  Another horse was waiting for her at the stable, a gray gelding, saddled and ready to be off. She mounted and started on her way, controlling the frisky animal with a sure hand. She let him run until they entered the forest and then slowed his pace. Angela was oblivious to the scenery today, anxious to get to Rosemont and find out what the situation was. She got lost once and wasted time wandering about until she found a faint trail. Following it she soon broke out of the trees, galloping across the fields where slaves looked up briefly at her passing. They were soon back to work when a man with a large whip applied it liberally to several backs.

  Cruel, thought Angela, that was no way to control slaves or servants. A little common sense and a firm hand was much more logical and made for willing workers. Bluehills ran wonderfully well although by most standards Matthew Grey was an overly lax overseer in the meting out of discipline. He was too soft, a bad example, most of the planters thought, only admitting grudgingly that the plantation seemed much more profitable than the majority.

  Rosemont was in the distance a large, classical, two-story house of mellow pink brick. Large white columns supported the obligatory veranda, and the lawns in the immediate area of the house bloomed with hundreds of different colored roses. It was truly a charming place with an elegance almost too severe for the carefree atmosphere of the island. It wouldn’t have been out of place transplanted to a hilltop in England.

  Angela rode up the newly raked gravel drive. The place seemed deserted and she sat quietly for a moment undecided as to what to do. Slipping off the gray she tethered it and went up the wide front steps. Even the heavy brass door knocker was shaped like a rose and she let it fall sharply, the sound echoing in the hall beyond. She had to knock several times before a distraught maid appeared, her eyes wet with recently wiped away tears.