1

Winter 1833–34
Cuba

Forty-five miles of carriage ride over rutted, red-dirt roads is as awful an experience as one would imagine, even in a Cuban volante, which has some spring to it. But when our calesaro points his finger down an avenue of palms, as grand as the columns of a Grecian temple, I forget all my discomfort.

“Niñas, La Recompensa!”

Recompense, reward. Can a slave plantation be such a thing?

My doctor has sent me to rest in Cuba’s tropical climate with my sister Mary, who will educate the children of the plantation owners for our keep. If I become well, I may instruct them in art. Madame Morrell is an old friend of Mother’s, and her husband, Dr. Morrell, will see to my health. The leeches, the opium, and the arsenic have not cured me of my recurring headaches, so this is a last resort. For fifteen years, my art and my infirmity have progressed in equal measure, with illness almost always following inspiration. When it was apparent early on that my pencils and paints could copy even the most powerful masters, my mother and my eldest sister, Elizabeth, saw to my education in the arts and humanities, under the tutelage of the most gifted artists of our time, and most recently with Washington Allston himself. Mr. Allston has been giving me instruction by allowing me to copy his landscapes; my efforts now adorn the parlors of our well-to-do Boston and Salem neighbors, and at twenty-four years of age, I have made a little money and a name for myself through exhibits and commissions. It was he who told me to record all I see in Cuba in the most exact sensory detail, so that I may create original art when I return. Just the thought of bringing my own imagination to life sets off the pulsing in my temples.

Two slaves, a man and a young boy, emerge from the shadows, wearing tattered brown cloth as skirts. In the setting sun, their features are difficult to see, except for the whites of their eyes. When I draw closer, the boy glances at the basket of oranges we have brought for the Morrells from the last outpost. His father turns the key to open the lock, and they pull wide the iron gates. The noise from the rusted hinges drives a spike into my aching skull, and I flinch. Mary wraps her arm around my waist.

“Almost there, Sophy,” she says.

After thousands of miles, weeks away from Mother and Father in Boston, an ocean voyage, a short stay in Havana, and travels across foreign soil, we are indeed almost there. My health aboard the ship was surprisingly good. The ocean muffled the noise of humanity, which so plagues me, and the magnificence of the sapphire waters, silvery clouds, and amethyst sunsets provided enough inspiration for me to fill many pages of my journal. Even the incessant bells of Havana and the shouts of slaves and military men did not oppress me as much as this scraping gate. Once it is open, the slaves stand aside with heads bowed, and commend us to God as we pass. I am so touched by their prayers that I reach into the basket and pass two oranges to the boy. His teeth flash in his smile.

“Gracias, señorita. ¡Gracias! ¡Gracias!”

As the volante proceeds down the drive, his small voice is muffled by the squawking of tropical birds. The tall palms invite me to sit straighter in my seat as I gaze up at their fronds, which ripple in the breeze like fingers waving to us. Even among the evening shadows, I can see the brilliance of the hibiscus, the coffee plants, the delicate laurustinus, and succulent orange trees. A recent rain shower has made the emerald leaves glisten like diamonds, and a rich, earthy smell and the fragrant exhalations of the soaked flowers fill my senses.

“I have never observed such colors in nature,” I say. “It is a pity the birds do not sing prettily, but I suppose it would be unfair for nature to apportion gifts so abundantly on just one creature. Though you, Mary, are the exception.”

Mary smiles, her skin a becoming shade of the fairest pink rose. I see that her ease has been restored now that we are on dry land. She was ill on the ship from seasickness, and it was a strange thing to be the sister in bloom, if only for a short time.

We reach the end of the drive and stop before a cracked, vine-covered fountain that still bubbles, though it appears as ancient as a ruin. It is bordered in pink roses, and tiny lizards slip in and out of its fissures. The gurgling of the fountain is an antidote to the screeching metal of the gate.

As we are helped down from the volante by the calesaro, Madame Morrell emerges with open arms from the long, rambling, lantern-lit plantation house. Her dark beauty and stately posture cause a twitch in my artist’s fingers, tingling with the anticipation of all they will record of this new world.

“My children,” she says, though she does not look more than a decade older than twenty-seven-year-old Mary. “Praise God for your safe delivery. I had dreams your dear heads rested at the ocean’s bottom, and I had the duty of sending notes to your mother about your demises. But, oh, your beauty and freshness! How is it possible you have been traveling for weeks and yet are so neat?”

“You are very kind,” says Mary. “You must not see the layer of dirt covering us because night has fallen.”

“I am sure you would love nothing more than to recline in a warm bath, take your dinner, and sleep for days, which is exactly what we have prepared for you.”

“That sounds like heaven, thank you,” I say.

I present the orange basket to Madame Morrell, and she receives it with great warmth and gratitude. Her manners are like those of a queen.

“I will have Tekla use these for your naranjada, or orange water,” she says.

An ancient, wiry slave woman appears and takes the fruit, bowing and thanking us profusely. Madame Morrell kisses Tekla’s wrinkled cheek before sending her away and turning back to me.

“If I did not know you were coming for your health,” she says to me, “I would not believe you had been ill a day in your life, though your mother wrote how you have suffered.”

“It is a miracle,” says Mary. “Since the moment we set sail, Sophy has been a new creature. She is considering employment on the brigs once we have fulfilled our contract with you.”

Madame Morrell smiles, but then her face becomes serious.

“The doctor sends his apologies that he is not able to greet you. We had a terrible accident when our volante turned over yesterday. Though he is much battered and bruised, I am well. He promises that as soon as he is better, Sophia’s health will be his utmost concern.”

“Thank heavens you are uninjured,” says Mary. “We hope he heals soon.”

“The air of the journey has already done much to restore me,” I say. “Please tell the doctor to worry only after himself.”

“I will pass along your well wishes,” says Madame Morrell as she leads us into the house and down a wide hall, plain and elegant in its arrangement. The rosewood sideboards are decorated with fresh flowers, and mirrors and tapestries adorn the walls. Candles and glowing gourds provide the lighting, and give La Recompensa an enchanting aspect. I step closer to examine these strange lanterns, and Madame Morrell lifts the lid to reveal luminous bugs.

“Curculios,” says Madame Morrell. “Like large fireflies.”

Mary recoils from the beetles, but I am fascinated.

“Everything is so new here,” I say. “How are we so fortunate to find employment in heaven?”

Madame Morrell gives me a troubled look that she arranges into a tight smile, but she does not address my comment. I wonder what I have said that makes her face look so dark.

I am at a loss for words when a slave woman, who must be younger than me but whose eyes reveal a longer lifetime of experiences, helps me to remove my clothing and wash in a wide tub. I watch through a crack in our adjoining doorway as Mary endures her bath. She protested such treatment earlier, but when her girl looked as if she would cry, Madame Morrell had to explain that to refuse their service is an insult. They heartily wish to please.

Once I am clean, my girl dries me, helps me into my chemise, and plaits my auburn hair. We will sleep suspended in beds called hammocks that are elevated above the ground and can be swayed like a baby’s cradle. They are lined in the softest fabrics, and are surrounded by nets to keep out the pesky tropical insects. My girl tucks me in more snugly than my mother ever has, and I know I must look very strange and wide-eyed to her. As she goes to leave, I reach through the netting for her arm, and grasp it to thank her, but she flinches so severely that I pull away.

“Gracias, Josepha,” I say.

She nods and whispers many welcomes and blessings from God as she leaves me alone in my room.

I lie awake trying to align myself to the customs of this place. How unused to luxury we Peabody sisters are! Our family has moved from Salem to Boston to Concord and back like vagabonds, because our dear father has no business sense to support his medical practice and his six children. My sisters and I earn our keep through educating students, making art, and even publishing books, with Mother overseeing and contributing to our efforts. She is the captain of our family ship, with Father a strange and inconsistent mate. It is as if he wishes to be in charge, but he cannot sustain the energy required to do so. Our family is respected in society, in spite of our unfortunate financial situation, because of the superior teaching abilities of Mother and Elizabeth. Both are quite outspoken and liberal, and I cannot imagine what they would say to see Mary and me being served by slaves and indulging in the luxury of a plantation. I am willing and able to adopt the customs of this place because I have promised Mother for the sake of my health, though I do not know whether she realized the extent to which I would have to live like my hosts. I have an internal strength that has been cultivated through years of physical suffering, and which allows me to endure in ways others cannot. Through the wall I hear Mary sniffling, her heart bruised by being waited upon by slaves, and I worry that my sister might not have the fortitude to survive this stay.

I awake with a clenched stomach, soaked in sweat, and worry that I have caught the dreaded cholera that has been infecting so many at home. But after a short time, my head cools and my stomach loosens.

The nightmare that woke me reasserts itself. It was of a beggar girl, a figure who has haunted me since my youth. I know not whether she is flesh or spirit, she who plagues me at every turn. It seems she has followed me to Cuba. I shall never forget her first appearance in my life. I was just a child, not yet in corsets, and the buoyant joy of freedom beckoned me. My grandmother had left the front door and windows of her Salem dwelling open that day to allow in the breeze, and it seemed as if angels and sprites called to me. I placed my pencils and sketch papers on the desk and slipped out while Grandmama was occupied. I thought I would venture just as far as the gate, no more, but a cardinal hopped along the path, so I followed him for a bit to study him for later sketches. Then I smelled the brine from the ocean, and wanted to study the sea for a painting. Before I knew it, and not properly dressed for an outing, I had crested Gallows Hill, where so many unfortunate females had hanged so long ago, but which now appeared to me as an Elysian plateau. I stood over Salem, the world and sea at my feet, warm from my awakening senses. Before long, I turned to go home so Grandmama would not notice my absence, but was startled by a girl in tattered clothing, with dirt on her cheeks. She stood not ten feet from me, and seemed to have an aura of darkness about her. I wanted to feel charity for the poor wretch, but her stern gaze made me afraid, so I looked at the ground and turned to leave.

“Curtsy,” she said.

I could not help but turn. “Pardon me?”

“You will curtsy to me.”

Indignant, I said, “I will not.”

She made a move at me with fingers like claws and threatened me bodily, at which time I ran from her as fast as I could, all the way home, horrified that I had left safety for the dangers of the world of which the elder women in my family so often spoke. I saw the same girl out my window another day and again she threatened me, and though I have not seen her since, I often imagine her during times of distress. But why has the beggar girl returned when I am so happy? Is it because this freedom is like that which I experienced when I ran away? Was her image a warning? Should I stay always at my mother’s skirts?

A sound from some strange animal distracts me from my fretting. At first I think it is a cow that has wandered out of the grazing plain and gotten its leg stuck in the brambles along the lime hedges, but then the sound turns high, like a crying cat.

My chamber faces the back of the house, overlooking the coffee fields. The windows have no glass, since it is far too expensive, and impractical in the strong tempests, but I do have shutters that are closed to the damp night air. Madame Morrell believes that taking in the evening breezes and fragrances from nocturnal flowers is dangerous to a lady’s health, but I recognize that as superstition.

I slip out of my hammock and step across the layers of moonlight gleaming through the shutters on the polished wood floor to peek out the window. Before my hand reaches the clasp, I hear the unmistakable slashing sound of a whip, followed by a groan that I know now comes from no animal, but from a human. I am immobilized, and do not want to see what is beyond the window, but dark curiosity causes me to lift my hand. When I hear another slash and cry, I bring my knuckles to my mouth and decide that I must not look, but I hear the door to Mary’s room open, and she is at my side.

“It is a nightmare,” she whispers. “I cannot sleep for the terrible whipping that poor Negro endures.”

She reaches for the shutters, but I stop her.

“This is going to be a very long stay here if we look on those things that are not our business,” I warn.

“How can you say such a thing?” Mary steps from me to open the shutters.

She draws in her breath and I cannot help but look, though I regret my action.

Moonlight and torch fire illuminate the hellish scene. A Negro is tied to a post while a slave woman and children watch in tears. The mayoral, or overseer, continues to apply the whip, though it is clear by the way the slave hangs at the post with blood pouring over the dirt that his lesson is learned. As if this horror is not enough, I notice Madame Morrell clutching the arm of a man who must be the doctor himself, standing on the gallery and watching. He flinches with every crack of the whip while she sobs at his side, but he does nothing to intervene. I cannot help but cry out, and before I can cover my mouth, Madame Morrell turns and sees us in the window. Within moments, she rushes to our chambers and wraps her arms around us, staining our nightclothes with her tears.

“My children, I am so sorry you have to witness this, and so soon after your arrival,” she cries. “This is something I myself have not seen in years—my doting father and husband have always spared this cruel necessity from me—but our temporary mayoral does not understand our ways.”

“Why does the doctor not stop him?” asks Mary.

“He will stop him soon, once the punishment is complete. And I will insist he never watch again. I hate for Dr. Morrell to be so disturbed.”

How strange and terrible that Madame is more worried over troubling the doctor than the physical well-being of her slaves. I look at Mary, who has begun pacing.

“Punishment?” says Mary. “Cruel necessity? What could the poor man have done?”

“It could be because of the volante accident. He was driving.”

“How could an accident necessitate the murder going on outside?”

We turn our heads back to the horror, where the doctor has called out and the whip has ceased to pollute the air with its gruesome noise. Mary joins me back at the window with Madame Morrell, and we watch as the woman and children of the ravaged man lift him and carry him into a long, low hut. Madame Morrell crosses herself.

“The doctor will care for him well in the infirmary,” she says. “La Recompensa has the finest slave hospital in Cuba. We have the best-treated slaves. I wish you could understand.”

I am sickened by what she has called the best care of slaves on the island, and it feels as if a fire that began on a fuse in my breast has climbed up to my skull and exploded. I clutch my head and nearly fall, but Mary is at my side and escorts me to my hammock.

“You should not have seen this,” she says. “I am sorry for opening the shutters.”

Madame Morrell calls to her slave, old Tekla, who comes in, exclaiming her sadness in rapid Spanish. Madame Morrell silences her and requests she bring dampened palm leaves to wrap around my head to ease the ache. I want to tell her that the origin of this pain is not in my head, but in my heart.