Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (12 page)

CHAPTER
21

September
1654

 Warm
rain slashed the night as the men crept up the hill, their flickering torches
held high. Still queasy from the dinghy ride, Colin wiped the back of his neck.
Lacoste had guided the darkened Alizé close to the beach, but the stormy sea
had almost swamped the dinghies. Resting one hand on his cutlass to calm his
trembling, Colin checked the flintlock pistol that hung in a holster from the
wide baldric that crossed his chest. Another flintlock weapon was tucked into
the red sash that encircled his waist. He was ready.

       Colin
suddenly recognized the soupy trail they were ascending – the very one he had
followed the night of his escape. The mature sugar cane, dancing in the wind,
resembled giant grass. Colin's drenched vest, shirt, and cut-off trousers hung
heavily. Like the others, he was barefoot. He rubbed his dripping beard and
flinched as a heavy limb from a wind-pummeled guava tree crashed to the ground
on his left.

       He
and Dika had thought this night would never come. But, by promising plenty of
rum and booty, they'd finally convinced the men to attack the Whittingham
Plantation.

       They
reached the level yard that he knew stretched across to the Big House. As the
men silently gathered in a circle of torchlight, awaiting the signal, Colin
listened to the nearby sugar mill creaking and groaning in the storm. He caught
Lacoste's eye and nodded toward the black shape that was the mansion. As the
last man joined them, they unsheathed their swords and cutlasses.

       "Pillez!"
the captain yelled, pointing his shiny blade toward their target. The gang of
buccaneers, seventy-three strong, broke into a howling sprint for the Great
House. Kicking in the back door, they swarmed through the manor, their shrieks
eerily harmonizing with the whistling wind. They stomped and screamed,
brandishing their weapons.

       A
disheveled Mr. Pratt appeared wide-eyed in one doorway, quaking in his
nightshirt as he aimed his musket at the captain.

       "Drop
it, pig!" Dika commanded, raising her pistol. With ten more pistol barrels
aimed at him, the butler lowered the gun. The men grabbed him, carried him to
his bed, and tied him to a bedpost. The captain, Dika, and twenty of the men
stood before him, dripping on the polished wood floor.

       "Where
be that bastard Whittingham?" Colin demanded in his fiercest voice. And
where was Freddy, he added to himself.  

       "Away…"
The butler tried to look brave but fell short.

       "Ach,
damn the luck," Colin boomed. "The scurvy hound's not here for the
torturin'! Another day, then."

       "What
of the driver?" Dika held the tip of her gleaming cutlass to the man's
throat.

       "In
his cottage." Pratt sounded as if he was choking.

       "And
your woman?"

       "England,"
he answered in a whisper.

       "You're
alone?" Dika asked incredulously.

       "God's
truth." 

       "Tout
seul!" She translated, glancing at Lacoste.

       "Pillez
tous le domaine!" the captain crowed, throwing his hands up. With a
deafening roar most of them ran to join the others, who were already swilling
rum, breaking windows, slashing curtains, cutting mattresses, and chopping
furniture.

       Colin
turned to leave, thinking of Freddy.

       "Regardez!"
Lacoste suddenly shouted, pointing to a window. Outside, one of the buccaneers
was trying to catch the estate's mulatto driver. "Saisissez le
mulâtre!"

       Without
a thought Colin and three others threw the window open and leapt out. They
quickly overtook Ben, tackling him in the mud. As he pinned the driver's arms,
Colin thought he spotted something white moving behind a guava tree on the edge
of the yard. He straightened, peered hard into the wet night, saw nothing, and
shrugged. He and the others returned to the Big House, two holding Ben's upper
body and two carrying his thrashing legs. They dumped the driver
unceremoniously on a chair, where he sat frozen in place, eyeing the six
pistols aimed directly at his head.  

       "First
things bloody first, eh?" Dika muttered, walking over to Ben. She leaned
down, grabbed a fistful of hair on the back of his head, and planted her mouth
on his in the legendary death kiss of a woman pirate. He squirmed and groaned,
his eyes wide with fright as she pressed her teeth into his lips, drawing
blood. Still gripping his head, she held her face inches from his and glared at
him. "Remember me?" she hissed, seizing the coiled whip from his
waistband. She rose, roughly wiped her mouth, and tapped the whip handle on her
hand, pacing like a panther before him in her dark trousers, ruffled white
shirt, and purple velvet vest. The whites of Ben's eyes reflected the torch
light.

       "Colin,
has revenge ever tasted so sweet?" Dika's gleaming black eyes were locked
on the driver.

       "Never!"
he grunted in reply. Again the men hoisted the mulatto, this time carrying him
to the whipping post in the slave compound. They tied him there as he had tied
so many others, helpless, his toes barely touching the mud. In the flickering
torchlight Dika turned Ben's own whip on him with all her might. The driver's
moans were lost in the night wind as Colin took a turn.

       One
by one, the hut windows lit up. Some of the slaves opened their doors. Colin
glanced at the circle of huts. Shadows moved in the doorways, but quickly
vanished. "It's me, Colin Shea Brophy," he hollered in Irish.
"This is a night for escape. Show yourselves. We mean ye no harm."

       Now
to find Freddy.

       A
dozen men emerged from the shacks. "Make yer way to the strand and
quickly," he shouted over the wind. "Dika will see ye to the
ship."

       They
left the driver tied to the post, his head hanging and his body swinging, the
blowing rain running in black rivulets down the bloody whip marks on his back. 

Colin
dashed into the cookhouse and was surprised to find coals still glowing dark
red in the fireplace. He lifted his torch and glanced around the room. The
light caught a pair of gleaming eyes peering through the cellar hatch. Held
open just a crack, the door quickly closed without a sound.

       "Freddy
O'Brennan, is that you?" Colin held his breath.   

       Freddy
opened the hatch again, just enough to see out, her eyes wide with alarm.
Realizing how altered his appearance was, with deeply tanned skin and buccaneer
garb, he held the torch close to his face and pulled off the green bandana.

       "Colin?"
she finally whispered.

       "At
your service," he said with a courtly bow.

       "What
a sight you are!" Holding a candle lantern, she climbed the cellar stairs
and closed the hatch firmly behind her. "I prayed you made it to
Montserrat…" Wearing her white shift and tight bodice, Freddy stood in the
middle of the kitchen facing him.

       Colin
moved to the hearth and propped his torch in a large kettle. Slowly he walked
over to her, his eyes locked on those almond-shaped eyes of hers. "I told
you I would see you again, Frederica," he said in a low voice, picking up
her hands and kissing them. They embraced, and he could feel her trembling.

       "Thank
the Lord you're alive," she whispered. She pulled away too soon, full of
questions as ever. "What happened?" She touched his black beard,
leather baldric, and silver earrings, her creamy skin radiant in the glow of
the wavering torch flame. But something was different about her, a certain awkwardness.
Was it merely the passage of time since they had last seen each other? Or
something more?

       "We
were intercepted by Captain Anton Lacoste of the Alizé. He saved our
lives."

       "And
now you are a pirate?"

       "A
buccaneer, as is Dika."

       Freddy
covered her mouth with her hand.

       "She
is the captain's woman, too."

       Freddy
shook her head. "You, you look…robust, Colin. That life agrees with you
then?"

       "It
does. There is much to tell, but we must make haste to the ship." Holding
her hand, he started toward the door.

       She
stopped him. "The ship?" she asked faintly.

       "This
is the night for escape."

       Her
eyes filled with tears and she covered her face with her hands.

       "What
is it, Freddy?"

       "I
cannot…" she sobbed.

       "What
can you mean?"

       "The
babe." Her voice was muffled. He gently took her wrists and lowered her
hands.

       "Tell
me."

       "Laurie.
My son. He is ill with yellow fever."

       Biting
his tongue to keep from asking who the father was, he gazed into Freddy's
weeping, jade-colored eyes. A flash of possessiveness bolted through him like
lightning. He swallowed hard. He had seen the way Whittingham looked at Freddy,
and had feared for her. It was likely no fault of hers. Or was there another
man?

       She
crossed the room and stirred something in the steaming pot that hung over the
coals. "This is why I am still awake at this hour – preparing medicine for
the babe. We cannot travel." She turned and gazed pleadingly into Colin's
eyes, as if asking for forgiveness.

       "You're
sure?" He watched her closely. He knew how much she yearned to get off
this island.

       "It
would be dangerous for him…" She threw her hands up in frustration,
shaking her head. "The time is not right."

       Colin
made a swift decision and joined her at the hearth. "Freddy, I owe you my
very life. I will return for you another day, if that is what you wish."

       She
nodded wordlessly.

       He
gently wiped her tears. "You have but to send a message to Silky's Tavern
in Tortuga. It may take time, but I will write back. I will come for you…I
would do anything for you." 

       "Silky's
Tavern, Tortuga. I will write it down." She tried to smile.

       "I
abhor leaving you here."

       Again
she nodded, gulping.

       "Now,
you must go to the slave compound. That is the only safe place." He strode
to the table, tossed three gold serving platters and a pewter plate into a
burlap sack, and heaved the sack over his shoulder. He turned, came back to
her, and covered one of her shoulders with his free hand. "Promise you
will write," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. 

       "I
promise." In the flickering light she was luminous, beautiful. As he had
that other night, he leaned in and pressed his cheek to hers. Lowering the sack
to the floor, he pulled her into a tight embrace.

 The
men ransacked Whittingham's finery, guzzling rum and parading around his
bedchamber in his plumed hats. From Millicent's bedroom they grabbed silver
trays, crystal decanters, and jewelry. The rain blew in, the fierce wind
sucking the shredded velvet curtains back and forth through the splintered,
jagged window panes.

       They
forced Pratt to tell them where the money was stashed. In the library, hidden
under a fake pedestal, they found the locked wooden chest. Pratt swore
Whittingham alone knew where the key was. The captain ordered the chest carried
to the ship, and went along to secure it in his own locked quarters.

       Colin
and the others pilfered weapons, artwork, a gold serving bowl, and silver
utensils. They smashed some of the imported china, but seized other pieces.
They hacked the mahogany furniture, untied Pratt, and set fire to the Big
House, the sugar works, and the fields. Then they turned all the livestock
loose.

       Blustering
sheets of heavy rain quickly doused the fires, leaving a smoky mess of
smoldering soot.

CHAPTER
22

September
1654

Freddy
hurried through the storm, clutching the urn she'd filled with Laurie's herbal
syrup. Since the surprise encounter with Colin, her mind had spun in an
internal tempest as fierce as this tropical storm. No, she told herself
sternly, wait until later to think about that. Right now she must get this
medicine to Laurie.

       Blinded
by tendrils of her hair whipping around in the wind, she stumbled on the muddy
path but caught herself. She pushed her wet hair off her face and spotted Mr.
Pratt silhouetted by a burning section of the Big House. He stood completely
still, musket in hand and still in his nightshirt. The slave compound was a
spot of darkness surrounded by glowing fires that hissed and belched swirling
smoke. The estate's chickens, usually penned for the night, squawked and
scurried through the bushes. Further down the hill, four horses galloped full
speed next to the flickering sparks of a smoldering cane field. The buccaneers'
column of torch lights snaked down toward the silver beach.

       The
acrid smoke stung her nostrils. She held her sleeve to her nose, her eyes
watering as she reached the compound. A light wavered next to the flogging
post. Freddy recognized Paulina's high-collared white dress in the glow of the
torch the house slave held high. The skirt of her dress whipped around her legs
as Paulina stood on a crate trying to untie Ben. Freddy shielded her eyes and
squinted into the driving rain. The driver still appeared insensible. Freddy
shrugged and hurried on her way.

       She
burst into the hut. Kofi was huddled in one candlelit corner, his eyes wide,
the sleeping babe in his big arms. Freddy grabbed a spoon from the table and
squatted to hug them both to her. Tears of relief spilled down her face as she
searched her son's face and felt his forehead. His color was better and he felt
less feverish. Freddy slipped a spoonful of syrup between Laurie's lips. The
babe stirred and protested sleepily, but settled down again. She caressed
Kofi's wiry hair, kissed him all over his face, and rubbed her cheek against
his. He pulled her onto his lap, crooning to her in his language.

       "Thank
the Lord you are both well," she murmured back, snuggling against his wide
shoulder. Cradled in his strong arms next to her sleeping babe, she sighed with
a deep shudder. She smoothed back her dripping hair and nuzzled Kofi's neck. In
spite of the warm night, she was trembling.

       Kofi
put the babe down. He pulled Freddy to her feet, led her to the dry nightgown
hanging on one wall, and peeled her wet clothes off. As he rubbed her arms to
warm her, they heard a shout outside. Freddy quickly tossed the nightgown over
her head and pulled it down.

       Kofi
opened the door. Through the slanted rain they watched Mr. Pratt and Paulina
cut Ben down from the post. The driver collapsed in the mud and the butler
helped him up. They shuffled to Kazoola's hut, with Paulina on their heels.
Over time Birdie had become the one the entire estate turned to when they
needed doctoring. As Kofi and Freddy watched the sheets of rain gusting by the
doorway, he stood behind her and resumed rubbing her arms to stop her
trembling.

       "You
there!" They heard Pratt holler as he emerged from the hut with Kazoola.
The butler held his musket on a group of African men walking across the
compound. "There is much to be done this night." He prodded Kazoola
and the others with the gun, then whipped around and pointed it at Kofi. Freddy
gasped.

       "You!
Come," Pratt ordered. Kofi joined the others being marched toward the
smoldering Big House. She folded her arms, tried to calm her shivering, and
wondered if any of them would be allowed to rest before the day's relentless
chores began once more.    

In the
light of a peach-colored dawn, the babe appeared much improved. Freddy held him
close as she sat in a dim corner watching the sunrise through the hut's open
door. Kofi and Kazoola, just back from working on the fires, sat across the
room drinking tea and talking excitedly. Their voices rose. They pointed toward
the open door, their animated eyes wide under scowling brows.

       Freddy
had picked up a few Akan words but wished she knew more. There was never enough
time for such things. She spooned medicine into Laurie's tiny mouth, then
sipped from a pewter cup of mobby. It was unusual to drink it at dawn, but this
had been an unusual night. Still reeling from the raid and from seeing Colin,
she needed to sort her rattled thoughts. Freddy leaned against the wall, rested
her head, and took a deep breath. She watched Kofi's animated gestures and
noticed how carefully Kazoola was listening to his words. Through half-closed
eyes, Freddy gazed at Kofi and suddenly wanted him to herself. She silently
pleaded with Kazoola to leave, blushing at her own thoughts. Too soon it would
be time to go to the kitchen.

       She
lay Laurie down on the floor, and the image of Colin's tanned face beneath his
green bandana popped unexpectedly into her mind. How could she think of him
while desiring Kofi so? In the kitchen last night she had melted when Colin
turned his blue eyes on her. Freddy took another deep, ragged breath. He had
said he would return for her, do anything for her. His words thrilled her. She
raised the cup of mobby to her mouth, this time gulping greedily.

       Perhaps
she had finally been rendered insane.

       She
was utterly in love with Kofi. Their unspoken bond reached beyond any language
barrier. Freddy knew she should have told Colin about her African man. But
there had been no time. She began trembling again, remembering how her heart
had pounded when she'd realized it was Colin in the cookhouse. She had to
honestly confess that she still hungered for his humor, his handsome Irish
face, his ways that pleased her so. Colin was a link to her homeland, her own
ways. As a wee girl, when she and her sisters had imagined their future
husbands, they had dreamed of strapping men such as Colin Shea Brophy. 

        Kofi's
deep voice brought her back. Some might call her passion for this African man
like that of an animal, but she knew theirs was a spiritual union as well. Was
it possible to love two men equally, at the same time? Two men from completely
different worlds. Two men who tugged at her very core, their contrasting worlds
bumping together like the crushing ironwood rollers of the sugar mill. Lifting
her wide eyes to the streaked crimson sky framed by the open door, Freddy
finished her mobby and wondered what Mam would think of all this.

       Today
she would seek Father Sean's counsel. His soothing words would be the next best
thing to Mam's insights. 

Freddy
sank to the chair and held her head in her sooty hands, the piece of ragged
parchment fluttering down onto Father Sean's table. The empty cottage was
serene in the midst of the day's bustling chaos. It was only midday and already
her back hurt from hours of scrubbing at the smoky mess in the Big House.
Laurie was with Birdie, who had gone to the kitchen. Freddy wearily lifted her
head and gazed at the note. Sunlight poured through the open window and onto
the dirt floor. The storm had broken up into a brilliant blue sky punctuated by
puffy clouds.  

       "Hell's
everlasting fire," Freddy muttered, picking up the piece of parchment. She
reread Father Sean's loopy script, this time aloud: "
Fare thee well,
friends. I must make haste. Trust that all will be well. Yours in faith, Sean
Gwynn.
" He'd gone last night on the buccaneer ship, then. Many a time
he had spoken of Montserrat, where the Irish openly practiced their Catholic
faith and a priest could help his people. She imagined him saying Mass there,
surrounded by an adoring, devout throng.

       "God's
fresh blessings be upon him," she whispered with a sigh. "
Trust
that all will be well,"
he'd written. She wondered what he meant. She
would try her best to follow those cryptic words. "Alas, but we'll miss
him, that's no lie," Freddy mumbled. Another wave of homesickness washed
over her. She leaned back in the chair and wondered if this heartrending
melancholy would ever ease. Today was September 8, 1654 – a year and four
months since she had seen Mam and her sisters – since the morning she had made
her terrible mistake on that strand on Galway Bay. It had been even longer
since she'd laid eyes on Da. Freddy's eyes filled with tears, the sharp sting
of longing consuming her. Oh, to have them back! To feel the cool wind on her
cheeks as she rode Firewind over the hills and home again. To see Mam in her
usual spot by the farmhouse door, watching her boisterous daughter and smiling
with a resigned shake of her head.

       Freddy's
heart leaped into her throat when she heard voices from the path. She quickly
ducked down to the floor and listened as the voices faded. Now, back to the
cookhouse before she was caught! For months Freddy had not seen the paddle, and
she didn't want to now. Grabbing Father Sean's note from the table, she folded
it and tucked it inside her bodice.

"They
made off with Judith's jewelry?" Master's voice shrilled through the back
of the Big House. "You led them right to the chest, Pratt?"

       "They
were set to kill me, Sir," the butler answered in a low tone, setting a
plate of food on the table in front of the planter.

       Freddy
nudged Birdie as they worked on their hands and knees, scrubbing the blackened
hall floor just off the dining room. Rain water had dripped down from a ragged
burn in the roof, and left brown stains on the sooty wall and floor. The field
slaves had patched the roof the day before. Freddy rolled her eyes toward the
sound of Master's fury and made a face. Birdie smiled silently.   

       "God's
blood, man, you will suffer for this treachery!" Whittingham yelled,
pounding the table with both fists. "How stupid of me, to put my faith in
such as you." He shoved the plate aside and pounded the table again,
harder. "I cannot eat this swill! Fetch something edible – bread and cold
meat, and more rum! The whole blasted place stinks. It makes my head
sore."

       Pratt
scurried from the room, almost tripping over Freddy in his rush to the
cookhouse.

       "
Paulina
!"

       The
mulatto girl hurried in. "Yes, Master?" 

       "Get
to your room."

       "I
await your pleasure, Master." A smiling Paulina swept out of the room. Again
Freddy rolled her eyes. Birdie stifled a giggle.

       "Wanton
yellow wench," they heard Master mutter. "But she is loyal. The rest
will pay dearly. Where is that wretched butler? I need a real manservant,
someone who won't betray me…"