While the sun went down, we tasted the good smells from the roasting meat. Everyone sang and danced to the sounds of the gombee drums. Konje and I danced together. For me it was like dancing with the north wind when it blew down from the jungle across Barato and I couldn't breathe.
When the dancing stopped, Konje went to check on his sentry. He thought that the Guards might come back in the dark. While he was gone, I boldly asked Preacher Gronnewold if he would marry us. No matter what happened, we would be together.
After Konje returned, Minister Gronnewold took us by the arms. He told us to hold hands. He opened his Bible. But an odd look came over Konje's face and slowly, he backed away.
"What's wrong?" Isaak Gronnewold asked him.
Konje didn't answer. It seemed that he couldn't think of a word to say.
"In Barato," I explained, "a man can't marry until he's thirty years old. Konje is only twenty-eight."
Preacher Gronnewold laughed. "Listen, young man, you are not in Africa and likely you never will be. Step up here and give me your hand."
Konje still was silent. A crowd of women, who had gathered around us, began to make fun of him. "He looks forty years old," one of them said. "Fifty years old," another said.
I went out and sat down by the fire, far from tears but angry. I turned away from Konje so he couldn't see my face. Suddenly I was swept into the air and whirled around and around. The north wind was blowing through the jungle again.
Isaak Gronnewold smiled and told us to put our hands together. He opened his Bible. He read some words and Konje said something and I said, "Yes."
"You are now man and wife," the preacher told us.
A small silver moon hung low overhead. Streamers of black clouds, rain clouds, hovered around it. A night bird called to its mate and was answered.
"Good omens," Konje said, with a kiss.
Toward dawn, as I lay tight in his arms, I heard a wind in the monkey-pod trees, rattling the pods. Then it was quiet. Then the wind swept down upon the camp, lifting the leaves on the roofs. From Whistling Cay came shrieks and moans that sounded like tortured people.
The sun rose in clouds of fire. The clouds turned black and tumbled across the sky. Gently, it began to rain. Then the rain ceased and started again. By nightfall water was running through the camp, pouring over the cliff in a muddy stream.
It rained for more than a week. The meadow became a lake. The files of cactus, taller than men, turned a bright green. You could feel them drinking up the rain, storing water for the next drought.
The wind never ceased. The moans and shrieks that came from Whistling Cay were so loud that we couldn't tell whether Duurloo's drums were talking or the far-off drums at Little Cruz and Coral Bay.
Konje, sure that his papa drum would be heard despite the wind, sent out messages. They were always the same: "Slaves, we need you at Mary Point. Bring guns, bring food. Do not wait."
A woman came, bringing ten loaves of bread she had baked with stolen flour over a fire in the hills. Two men came with food they had stolen at Great Cruz Bay—hundreds of hard biscuits wrapped in cloth sheets, sheets stained with blood. They also brought news they had gathered along the coast.
The storm had washed cliffs into the sea and destroyed all the trails. Fighting at Great Cruz Bay had stopped. At Duurloo's fort loyal slaves watched the runaways across a wreckage of trees, stone, and mud. The Civil Guards waited for powder from Governor Gardelin in St. Thomas.
Konje had a meeting at suppertime with Isaak Gronnewold and Nero. It was the first time since I had been in the camp that he had asked for advice. The three of them sat on the ground in front of the cooking hut, eating the daily pot fish.
Konje said, "I hear from the men who brought us fish this morning that the trail from Maho Bay is washed out. When the Civil Guards get their powder from Gardelin and start up the trail with their cannon they'll go no farther than Maho Bay, not until the trail can be used. Which means that we have a few days to get ready for another attack."
Isaak Gronnewold shook his head. "This time they'll come with more men. With more cannon and more powder. If you run them off, if you kill all of them, Governor Gardelin will send more men. He'll not stop until there's not a single runaway left on Mary Point. If by chance he fails, the King of Denmark will send a governor who will not fail."
Konje stared at the preacher. He did not believe what he had heard. "You mean that we should give up and return to the plantations? Have our legs cut off? Have our bones broken with a hammer?"
"No," Isaak Gronnewold said. "I'll go to St. Thomas and talk to the governor. I'll tell him that hundreds will die if the fighting goes on at Mary Point. That you are strong here. That the runaways at Great Cruz Bay are strong. They have already killed planters. It's wise, I will say to him, that the harsh punishments he wrote into law be rewritten so the slaves are treated like humans instead of like beasts of the jungle."
Konje laughed, a bitter laugh that chilled me. He did not answer. He turned to Nero, because the bomba had lived a long time on the island and knew the plantations and their owners.
"Do not stay and wait to be attacked," the bomba said. "If you do, if it takes a month or a year, they'll finally kill everyone on Mary Point. You have more than a hundred men with muskets. Lead them out of this trap and join the runaways at Great Cruz Bay. Together, you can drive every white from the island of St. John."
Konje took his advice. He drilled the men for nearly a month, until the trails could be used. The women were drilled, too. We had cane knives and were taught how to use them.
It was during one of these drills, as the sun came up in a blaze of fire, while I was marching with a knife clasped in my hand, that I decided to tell Konje what I had known for days, that I was carrying his child.