The smell of char seeped into my closed window. St. Patrick’s Day, the Irish holiday to celebrate the saint and his miracles in Ireland, was made hell in Montserrat. This wasn’t a simple uprising.
This was slaughter.
So many planters’ guns, all their numbers, overwhelmed the enslaved’s shovels and scythes.
The overseers boasted the troublemakers would die today.
The killing lasted hours. The blasts never stopped, nor the jeers. From my treasured window, I saw death on this side of Pa’s plantation. It was never supposed to be here.
Wished my pa or Cells would come.
Arms folded, I shuffled out of my room and sat with Kitty on the floor.
Mamaí was on her bench stitching another blanket, this one of an oriole with its wings stretched wide. If we lived, maybe I’d be able to sell it in town.
“Dolly, play with me?”
My sister rolled the metal banding from a barrel between her palms. Her teeth chattered. She knew death was outside.
“Stupid Cudjoe,” Mamaí said, “he’s gone and gotten everyone killed. All our men, anyone strong, they’ll kill tonight.”
Anyone strong?
I looked at Mamaí and realized she’d said this to me like I was older, like I was an adult.
My sister tugged on my flowery skirt of orange and red. I’d worn it to make the day seem normal. Should’ve found mudcloth black.
“Can we go outside tomorrow, Dolly?” Kitty asked. Her eyes stayed locked on her hoop. “Will it be over then?”
Who knew? I shrugged my shoulders. “Let me do your hair.”
“Again, Dolly?”
She pouted, but I’d tried and failed three times to finish plaiting her hair. Her fat braids were crooked. “I’ll take care of us. I always will.”
“You think Nicholas is safe, Dolly?”
Didn’t care if he was or wasn’t; I didn’t want him near Mamaí’s hut, not with the sweat of killing on him.
He had to know about the uprising as early as Mr. Cells but said nothing.
My friend had more care for us than my own brother. Since my neighbor wasn’t here, he couldn’t be hurt. So I chose a side. I wanted the rebels to win.
The door to the hut crashed open.
Two women came inside, one with a baby crying.
Mamaí welcomed them. “There’s stew if you’re hungry,” she said, pointing to the bowl over the fire bucket. The big pot of vegetables from her garden and salt fish I’d brought home from the market.
I recognized one woman—one of the gossips at the cistern. I wanted to turn them away, but Mamaí kept showing them kindness.
Hugging her baby to her big bosom, the gossip wiped at her eyes. “Thank you, Betty.”
That taught me something about Mamaí. Something new. Her heart was bigger than mine. Her forgiveness was much bigger too.
“Is the rebellion over?” my voice echoed.
“’Twas no rebellion,” the second woman said. “Planters shot men in the sick house. They’re killing all the Black men. They killed my husband. They did it because he complained to an agent of the council for putting me in stocks when I was so close to birth.”
The poor woman sobbed.
Her friend held her by the shoulders.
The shooting sounded louder. Were these two followed?
“They’re coming for my baby. They murdered—”
Mamaí clapped her hands. “Hush. You need something of your lover to survive? You have his son. That’s all you get tonight.”
Her words hung in the air, cold and true.
Cells had warned me. If only . . . If he had told me the whole of it, I could’ve gotten Mamaí and Kitty to his boat. I wouldn’t be afraid now. Maybe he’d let me work every day to earn the money to be free, not just after chores or Saturdays.
“They’re not done,” Kitty said. Her whisper, shaky and low, reached my ear. “Maybe they want us all to be Cudjoe, the girls, too.”
The door flung open.
My lungs stuttered then stopped.
It wasn’t Pa. Nicholas stumbled inside. Brandishing Pa’s long gun, he aimed at my heart.