Read Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish Online
Authors: Maggie Plummer
Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish (4 page)
Captain
Blanchard had ordered the women's hair secured into tight buns, so that the
bidders could better scrutinize them. Freddy's scalp hurt from the hairpins,
and her head was pounding. She would not, could not, look at any of the men in
plumed hats who had gathered around the Bridgetown pen on horseback and in
wagons. Bawdy seamen passed around a jug of rum. Freddy gritted her teeth,
pressed her legs together again, and stared at the
Three Brothers
,
silhouetted in the shimmering harbor. She wondered if the cursed death ship
would soon cross the wide sea back to her own sweet Éire. She pictured the
green hills, Mam, Da, and her sisters. Tears smarted as they trickled down her
sunburned face. Please God, she prayed, squeezing her eyes shut, may the sun
roast me right now, right here. It would be a welcome end to such as this.
Her
eyes still closed, she caught the scent of the horses in the square. How she
longed to comb Firewind, then soar over hill and dale on his back. If only he
were here. Freddy imagined his white tail flying as he galloped up this very
minute and whisked her away. His feathered legs and flowing mane would gleam in
the sunshine…
She
jumped at the captain's touch as he unchained her from the others. "Come
along," he muttered, attaching a separate chain to her neck ring. He led
her to a straggly-haired old woman who looked up Freddy’s nose, then into her
mouth. Freddy caught a whiff of rancid body odor and coughed. The woman looked
none too clean, her gray hair hanging in oily ropes that hid her wrinkled face.
"Move
yer hands aside," the hag grumbled, shoving her leathery hand between the
girl's legs and pushing a bony finger against her private place. Freddy willed
herself not to jump or cry out, even as her face burned with shame. She fixed
her eyes on the dirt at her feet and the edges of her vision blackened. The
earth slanted away precariously.
The
woman flashed a snaggle-toothed grin at the crowd. "She's intact, gents,
and healthy as a horse," she declared.
As
the captain pulled Freddy forward to a little hill, she staggered. "Here,
sirs, is a right lovely piece of goods," he bragged, grabbing the clothes
from her hands and tossing them on the ground. "Frederica is a savory
Irish virgin who speaks, reads, and writes the King's proper English. She can
translate and teach."
"Sir,
please," Freddy whispered frantically, "I'll do anything you wish, if
you'll take us back to Galway."
For
a reply he swatted her bare rump, sending a murmur rippling through the crowd.
"This tidbit is thirteen years old, gentlemen," he went on.
"Ready for breeding – and for pleasuring. Tall and strong, sure to produce
plenty of slaves." He pointed out the muscles of her arms and thighs.
Three
men closed in. Freddy could feel their breath on her skin. She kept her eyes on
the ground. She would not give them the satisfaction of reacting. Instead,
Freddy imagined kicking them with all her might, in their knees. Her leg
muscles twitched eagerly at the thought of it, and she struggled to remain
still. The men would writhe on the ground, howling in pain. She would spit in
their sallow faces.
Blanchard
was congratulating the tall one on a bargain well made. Looking pleased, the
captain handed Freddy over to a mulatto man who silently led her to the side of
the square, where a small fire crackled. He gave her a baggy white shift and
unshackled her long enough for her to put it on. The coarse material scratched
her legs.
The
brown-skinned man locked the chain back onto her neck collar and fastened her
to a low rail. As he selected a black iron from the fire, time slowed down.
Freddy watched, strangely detached, as he grabbed her right arm, pushed up her
sleeve, and pressed the iron to the skin of her forearm.
"Merciful
God!" she screeched, searing pain radiating down her arm. The stench of
her own burning flesh hit her, and again her vision blackened. This time she
fainted, slumping against the rail.
Freddy
slowly stirred, aware of a burning sensation on her arm. Her lips were parched
in the baking sun. She shifted so that she was leaning against the rail.
With
a start she realized that the girl secured to the rail ten feet away, wearing a
gown identical to the one she wore, was her sister. Aileen's eyes were squeezed
shut as a flaxen-haired man pressed an iron to her forearm. Her little sister's
screams tore at her heart. Freddy instinctively jumped to her feet and lunged
against the chain. Aileen sank in the dirt, retching. On her arm a blistered
"AF" shone in the merciless sun. Struck dumb, Freddy stared at her
own arm's "RW."
The
man disengaged Aileen's chain from the rail. "Come, little one," he
said.
Aileen
vomited again, then slowly stood.
"Where
is he taking you?" Freddy was finally able to ask. Aileen stared blankly
with a slight shrug of her shoulders, her eyes unfocused as if she were in a trance.
Her disheveled hair stuck to the sweat on her tear-stained face. Aileen tried
to lick her blistered lips as the man led her toward the quayside.
"Sir!"
Freddy called, lunging again and looking around frantically. The planter who
had purchased her stood a few yards away, drinking from a silver flask.
"Sir, surely you meant to purchase my sister! She is just eleven years
old, please…"
He
turned toward Freddy with a dangerous glint in his dark eyes and took another
swig. The mulatto moved behind him, resting his brown hand on a coiled whip
tucked into the waistband of his breeches.
"You
dare to speak to me, to look into my face?" the planter asked slowly in
his clipped accent. His sharp features gave him a stern appearance. "You
are to address me as Master."
"Please,
Master, where is he taking my sister?"
The
planter nodded to the mulatto, then turned his back.
"St.
Kitt's," the driver mumbled under his breath.
Her
heart pounding, Freddy fastened her eyes on her sister. They'd known they might
be separated, but not to different islands. "
Aileen!
" she
screamed, desperately pulling against the chain. Her sister looked back.
Freddy's shrieks echoed off the pastel buildings around the square. All eyes
turned toward her.
Master
nodded again to the driver.
"Silence!"
the mulatto barked. He unchained her, threw her over his shoulder, and carried
her to a waiting wagon. He dropped her into it, alongside three Irishmen.
"
No!
Aileen!
" Freddy thrashed and kicked.
"Hush
now, or it's flogged ye'll be," one of the young men in the wagon
whispered.
But
Freddy was beyond caring about that.
The
driver locked her into the wagon bed by her neck ring.
"
Aileen!
"
She struggled to sit up.
"We
gon' gag her, boss?" the mulatto asked as Master walked up.
"I
think not," the planter replied in a nasal voice, reaching into the wagon
to lightly tap Freddy's lips with the handle of his riding whip. "Another
proud Irish wench who must be taught her place. I shall watch as you are
thoroughly punished." The planter traced the line of her jaw with his whip
handle, turned away, and again drank from the flask.
Freddy's
green eyes streamed tears that reflected the gold of the slanting Barbados sun.
Her chest heaved with silent sobs and her heart pounded more wildly as she
watched her little sister being lifted into a dinghy. As Aileen's small boat
began to make its way toward a schooner anchored near the
Three Brothers
,
the wagon jolted into motion. Freddy focused keenly on her sister's silhouette
against the glittering bay until the wagon rounded a curve in the lane and she
lost sight of her.
CHAPTER
6
July
1653
Captain
Anton Lacoste sailed the Alize
́
into
Oistins Bay and anchored close to the fishing village. A few miles southeast of
Bridgetown, this was an ideal place to wait for the storms he knew would come.
He
raised his spyglass and scanned the white beach.
Dozens
of fishermen sat in their beached boats, fixing their nets for the next day's
catch. Lacoste lowered the spyglass and aimed his brown eyes seaward. Where
were the rains? Here it was July and still dry.
He
had promised his Irish crew vengeance against their former English masters here
on Barbados. It was a dangerous business, but on a buccaneer ship the crew
elected their captain.
They
could also depose him.
The
crew, mostly escaped slaves, was Hell-bent on raiding several of the island's
sugar plantations.
Lacoste
understood, having suffered in Hispaniola before escaping to Tortuga. And of
course, being French, he appreciated their hatred of the English.
The
embittered Irish told tales of brutality far worse than anything he'd seen. One
of the men had trouble walking because the English planter had held a torch
flame to the bottoms of his feet for the crime of oversleeping. Another watched
his brother die of starvation and overwork in the cane field, then had to watch
again, helpless, as his brother’s body was dumped into a swamp like garbage.
Yes,
the men would have their night of retribution. But the time must be right, and
chosen wisely.
CHAPTER
7
July
1653
Freddy
lay curled on a pallet of burlap rags, a blanket, and a faded rug. The uneven
dirt floor of the pantry was damp. Fading light from the tall cookhouse windows
filtered through sacking that had been hung to separate the alcove from the
main kitchen. As a warm breeze wafted in, the drape swayed slightly. Freddy
pulled up her gown to cool her legs as best she could. It was so hot, she was
tempted to take it off. But she wasn't sure who was about. Facing the wall and
using her hands as a pillow, she stared at the bundles of nutmeg, cinnamon
bark, and mint hanging on hooks above a pile of corn sacks. At least it smelled
good in here.
She
could not stop the tears that streamed steadily through her fingers. She
stretched her legs, wincing. Her buttocks and the backs of her thighs were
blistered.
In
the yard behind the Big House, the driver had shown her the wooden paddle, then
ordered her to remove the gown and lie face down on a board. Off to one side,
Master had leaned against a wall sipping from a tall glass and smoking a pipe,
his riding whip tucked into the waistband of his breeches. Numbly lifting the
white shift over her head, Freddy had felt his hard eyes burning into her. It
was the only garment she had left. Lying on the board, she squeezed her legs
together as tightly as she could, closed her eyes, and shivered as a breeze
floated across her sweaty back. Ben tied her to the board with thick, coarse
rope.
"Lay
it on full, else you'll feel the sting of my crop yourself." The planter
had slurred his words.
At
first she managed to stifle her cries, but as the beating dragged on she
couldn't keep them in. The stinging blows seemed to shred the skin of her
backside.
When
Master was finally satisfied, he sent Ben away. "Frances!" he roared.
Freddy
remained tied there, bare and trembling, unsure of what would come next.
"Mind
that you obey the rules of the house," he snarled, removing the iron
collar from her neck. "I have paid dearly for you. You are my property.
Flogging a slave to death is not a crime. Our soldiers torture runaways with
double neck rings and public hanging. Do you understand?"
As
she nodded, Freddy heard someone come out a door. Then she felt the ropes being
untied. A tall woman waited and Master watched as Freddy shakily got on her
feet and pulled the loose gown back over her head. The woman nodded to Master
and silently led Freddy into a detached kitchen building behind the Big House.
The woman's long skirts swished as she walked. Her thin salt-and-pepper hair
was gathered into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, and her white apron was
starched and ironed.
"This
is where you'll sleep," she said in a no-nonsense English accent, pointing
to the alcove. "I am Mrs. Pratt, the housekeeper here at Whittingham
Plantation. Rise at the first sounding of the horn and wait for me here."
She
began to leave, but turned back, her lips pursed into a thin line. "If I
catch you practicing your heathen Catholic ways, you'll be flogged within an
inch of your life."
Resting
now, Freddy was keenly aware that the blisters were not the sorest part of her.
Her chest ached with loss and fear in the place where her heart was hammering
too hard. The day's dizzying events pressed on her breast so heavily she could
barely breathe. Was it just this morning when she and Aileen had huddled
together on the ship's deck and eaten ripe mangos? It hadn't been so very long
since the sisters had relaxed on the moist sand of the village strand, arms
around each other's shoulders and cheeks pressed together, watching
Galway-bound ships pass by.
It
had been years ago, but Freddy could still feel Aileen's little arms around her
neck as they played their favorite game in the hay. She would pretend to be a
horse, crawling around the barn with her little sister on her back until they
both collapsed into a giggling heap. The family would gather around the hearth
come evening time.
And
Firewind, sweet Firewind, her closest friend. Freddy had spent every spare
moment astride his back. Streaking over the ripe fields in a smooth gallop, she
would give Firewind his head and hang on to his long mane, letting him run
where he would. He always took her to a shady stream bank where they would rest
in amiable silence. Da understood what Mam called her tomboy ways. Freddy was
like him. He knew that need, that craving for an outdoor life free of society's
conventions.
Freddy
wondered where Da was now. She could still see him working the springtime
fields with the old plow horse, waving to her with his cap as she flew by on
Firewind's back. She prayed that he was alive and faring well.
"God, please
protect us all," she whispered.
She
jumped when someone touched her shoulder, and quickly rolled on her stomach to
face the curtain. Next to the pallet a dark woman squatted, one finger pressed
to her lips, her wide-set brown eyes pleading for silence. Freddy froze. She'd
never seen anyone like her. The curve of the woman's eyebrows arched into a
prominent nose. With her high cheekbones, it gave her the look of an exotic
eagle. Her black rope of a braid curled over her shoulder and hung down to the
dirt floor. The white gown tucked up between her legs revealed bare feet that
in the dwindling light were the color of chocolate. She held a small bowl in
one hand and was gesturing toward Freddy with her other hand.
"Who
are you—?" Freddy began. The woman put her hand over Freddy's mouth and
glanced toward the main kitchen, her sloping eyes showing alarm. Her hand
smelled of mint. Again she pressed one finger against her own lips, looking
behind her.
She
pointed to the small bowl and to her own buttocks, then to Freddy. She pulled
Freddy toward her so that she lay on her stomach, and tugged on her gown.
Freddy looked at the woman for a moment, then pulled it up. The woman touched
her shoulder to get her attention, and again put a finger to her own lips.
Freddy nodded.
The
minty salve was cool as the woman gently applied it to the blisters, then
lowered the gown. The woman again touched Freddy's shoulder, and offered her
two ripe bananas.
Freddy
rolled back onto her side. "Bless you!" she whispered, sitting up
with her weight on one hip and gobbling one of the bananas. She hadn't eaten
since morning.
"Freddy,"
she murmured softly between bites, pointing to herself.
"Birdie,"
the woman whispered in reply, her hand on her collarbone.
"Thank
you." Freddy held the woman's solemn gaze for a long moment. Then, without
a sound, Birdie was gone.
She
sprang awake from a fitful sleep, her racing heart in her throat, as he pulled
her gown up and stroked her thighs. Freddy covered her mouth to stifle any
sound. She dared not resist. His riding crop and the big paddle were not far
away. His hips pressed her down, his sharp knees prying her own knees apart. A
single candle had been lit. All she could see was his hairy chest and his arms
on either side of her head. His sour breath turned her stomach as he pushed his
groin against her with a drunken curse. He was flaccid. Freddy gasped in pain
as he grabbed her blistered buttocks and lifted her hips, rubbing himself
against her as hard as he could. His skinny hip bones bruised her inner thighs
as he pushed into her. Her breath caught from a splitting stab of pain as he
entered her. Grinding her teeth, seething inside, her stomach lurching again,
she held herself still and squeezed her eyes shut. Now his sweaty hands were on
her breasts under the gown. As he thrust back and forth, the burlap pallet
scraped her raw blisters.
With
a grunt he was finished. He got to his feet and pulled his nightshirt on.
Grabbing the candle, he pulled the curtain aside and left.
Freddy
slowly turned onto her side in the black night and curled up into a tight ball,
rocking, hot tears again flowing silently. She coughed, gagged, and vomited on
the dirt floor. In the darkness she found the blanket, balled it up, and
cradled her head with it. This was a different soreness, as if she had been
turned inside out.
A
surge of desolate homesickness overtook her. "Mam…" she moaned,
bereft.
She
turned onto her stomach and buried her face in the blanket, pulling it tight
against her mouth as violent sobs racked her body. Soon her sobs escalated into
fierce screams of white-hot rage muffled by the layers of blue wool.
