Chapter Eleven

 

Jamaica, December 1697

 

A pale lunar rainbow arched perfectly before the bow of the Fair Winds, as she pursued her course through the Windward Passage. Late that night she veered in a southeasterly direction toward Point Morant on the easternmost tip of the island. Soft tropical winds blew gently like some ancient siren summoning crew and passengers to a land of mystery and enchantment.

Around the ship the phosphorescent glint of teeming tropical fish set the waves ablaze with a myriad of hues. Flying fish skimming the waves winged their way over the side of the ship, their exquisite blue and silver bodies quivering on the deck.

As the crew prepared to lay to for the night just outside the harbor, Grant leaned against the mainmast, already planning his trip ashore at Kingston.

“As a precaution, we’d best set a double watch tonight,” he quietly told Garrison.

“With two cruisers in the harbor, do you think it's needful, Captain?”

“Let’s err on the side of safety.” Grant knew the worst of the buccaneers had probably relocated to the other side of the island, but he wasn’t taking any unnecessary chances.

Scanning the starboard bow, he spotted Charles Lamb and Mercy Wallins with their heads together, sparking. Their romance seemed to be prospering, while his rift with Rosalyn only deepened. But alas, 'twas fruitless to get himself tied in knots over his father’s widow.

He wrenched his thoughts back to the business at hand, arranging the exchange of all the dried, salted cod and rice on board for sugar and rum. By leaving out the wholesalers and dealing direct with a landowner or overseer, he stood to make substantially higher profits. Then they'd sail back to his father’s wily old friend, Belmont, and then away to England! He'd already decided against carrying gold. There was a very good chance Belmont, known for his double-dealing, might waylay the Fair Winds at sea, if he carried gold. Certainly there would be less danger—from Belmont, at any rate—if he carried tobacco.

As for his persnickety partner, she’d likely put up a fight if they left Carolinas without a bit of gold in her pocket. Aye, ‘twas a good thing he had the final say in such matters. By trading sugar for tobacco, he'd get to England much faster—aye, and part company with Rosalyn permanently. After all, that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

But first he must contact a few plantation owners here in Jamaica. A little friendly competition should drive up the rate of exchange quite nicely.

As dawn broke the next morning, the blue mountains rose some eight thousand feet out of the mist, like the re-emergence of a lost continent. As the men hauled in the anchor and prepared to sail into the harbor, even Rosalyn couldn’t resist showing her face out on deck. Leaning over the side, she marveled at the Portuguese men-o’-war floating, their translucent, filmy bodies and slender tentacles, bright pinks and lavenders trailing over the surface of the water. The clarity of the sea revealed a world alive with plants, fish, and other creatures she could never have imagined in her wildest dreams.

As they passed by the ruins of Port Royal, she noticed that the sea was full of broken-up ships and even the debris of sunken houses. It was a sobering reminder of the transiency of men’s sweat and toil beneath the hot sun.

“Good morning, Mrs. Watermann!”

Turning, she saw Charles Lamb bearing down on her, with Mercy at his side. “Good morning,” she smiled. “I had begun to worry where you two disappeared to last night.”

Mercy blushed. “It was such a beautiful night, we stayed up late talking.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t fall overboard,” Rosalyn joked, pointing toward the churning sea where several sharks, some ten feet long, swam beside the ship. Larger than a man, the grey marauders patrolled the area like an offshore salvage crew.

Mercy looked fearfully to Charles for reassurance. “Are there many of those creatures around here?” she asked with a shiver.

“A few,” he shrugged.

Rosalyn shifted her attention from the happy couple. As the Fair Winds prepared to lower the longboats, a curious mixture of industry and commerce met her gaze under the broiling sun. New buildings were going up everywhere. The wharfs at both Port Royal and Kingston were crowded with laborers, as well as several sailing vessels and their crews. Even more astonishing to her was the preponderance of dark-skinned men and women. Back home, Rosalyn had occasionally seen Indians of the Wampanoag and Mashpee tribes, and even a few slaves, but in insignificant numbers compared with the people of color here on this island. Here the English settlers were clearly outnumbered four to one.

The Africans appeared to be strong, handsomely built people, dressed in bright homespun, but none that she saw wore shoes. Indeed, a great many were only partially clothed. Although this semi-naked state of dress was strange to her experience, she couldn’t help noticing the gleaming, muscular bodies of the dock workers, sweating under what appeared to be back-breaking loads.

Surrounding all this human activity was a tropical paradise. Great groves of coconut palms, bananas, and oranges dotted the hilly terrain, along with flowering bushes and trees in brilliant hues such as Rosalyn had never seen before. An immense mountain covered with lush tropical vegetation and dotted with great houses and modest shacks threatened to overwhelm her senses with the primitive beauty of the island.

“Time to go ashore, Mercy.” Rosalyn nudged her friend and pointed to the longboat being lowered away over the side. Grant had sent an advance party ashore upon their arrival and she watched it return now to the ship.

“It’s so beautiful here,” said Mercy, her blue eyes riveted on Charles.

Garrison approached, touching his cap politely. “Ladies, we’re ready when you are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Garrison. Charles, could you bring our trunk from our cabin?” Smiling, Rosalyn walked to the launching area. As soon as she and Mercy were situated in the second boat, it was lowered away. She gripped the sides nervously.

“I’m a perfect goose,” Mercy said, laughing at her fears. “What if I get seasick in port?”

Four men slid down the ropes and took their places at the oars. Next came Charles Lamb with their trunk. Ruddy-complected with a cheerful mien, he made no secret of his infatuation with Mercy. “We’ll be spending a few days here, Mistress Wallins,” he said, leaning forward over his oars.

Mercy blushed. “I look forward to it.”

Rosalyn tried not to stare too obviously, as their faces came close each time Charles put his back into each oar stroke. Having escaped the Captain’s wiles, would she now be forced to watch these two gooney birds duck and weave in their odd courtship? It was almost too much to bear! Even at nine in the morning, the sun already beat down on them unmercifully. Feeling quite warm, she snapped open her parasol and steeled herself against the rough surf, as the boat bottom scraped the beach.

Assisted out of the wobbly craft, Rosalyn stood with one hand shading her eyes against the glare. Even her parasol was insufficient protection to combat the sun’s rays as she looked about. “Thank you, Mr. Garrison,” she said crisply, trying to sound like an old hand at such travels. “Now, if you would kindly point us toward a decent inn?”

“Certainly, ma’am. There’s a hotel of sorts on East Street. But if you don’t mind waiting here a moment, I’m sure more suitable lodgings can be arranged at one of the plantations.”

Mercy looked hesitantly at Charles. “Rosalyn, would it not be easier to explore the island, if we stayed in town?” she asked.

Just then two well dressed gentlemen approached, bowing low. “You must be Mrs. Watermann,” the taller man said with an ingratiating smile. “And this must be your charming companion, Mistress Wallins.”

Judging by their fashionable attire, both gentlemen were well-to-do, and the one introducing himself as “Mr. Thomas Sanford” was downright handsome!

“This is my friend, Mr. Robert Andrews. We just this minute learned of your arrival from Captain Watermann,” he said. “We would be delighted to show you around the island.”

“That's most gracious of you, sir,” said Rosalyn politely. “But first we’d like to freshen up a bit from our journey,”

“That is precisely why we’re here, ma’am! My mother would think it most remiss of me, if we didn’t invite you both to stay as our guests at Wortham Manor.” With a bow, Tom Sanford gestured invitingly toward an open carriage.

“How delightful! We accept, most happily,” Rosalyn replied, ignoring Mercy’s longing glances at Charles Lamb.

“Good! Then I shall see to your luggage right away,”

Since Charles Lamb had been tagging along with their valises and trunk, the matter of luggage was easily disposed of. In no time he was dispatched, along with household provisions and three African slaves, in a wagon bound for the plantation manor house. As Charles bumped along the knotted dirt road, he looked forlornly back at Mercy, standing beside Rosalyn. In minutes the two dandies had managed to spoil the lovebirds’ tryst!

Eager to impress, Thomas Sanford and Bob Andrews pointed out the many changes taking place in town. The new seaport was literally rising from the ruins of the 1692 earthquake.

“We saw all the debris from ships and houses in the harbor,” Rosalyn said, fascinated.

“Nearly three thousand lives were lost and over two thousand dwellings,” said Andrews. “’Twas a calm day like this. The earthquake caused waves five fathoms high!”

“People simply vanished from the face of the earth,” Tom Sanford added, not to be outdone. “Why, ma’am, I could introduce you to a Frenchman named Louis Caldy, who was buried alive by the first shock. A second shock wave threw him into the sea. Fortunately he is an excellent swimmer, or he never would have been rescued.”

“Goodness gracious!” Mercy exclaimed, already happily resigned to spending the morning exploring the city. Fortunately the two gentlemen were most attentive, so that Charles’s disappearance down the street seemed only a minor impediment to her enjoyment.

Rosalyn smiled, recalling her infamous relative, whose name was thought scandalous in her father’s house. “My great-uncle was the famous pirate, Henry Morgan,” she said, revealing the family skeleton. “Whatever happened to him?”

Sanford chuckled. “Morgan died before the earthquake and was sent back to England in a barrel of rum. I’m sure that suited the old rascal right down to his toes!” He winked at Rosalyn. “So the blood of one of our illustrious adventurers runs in your veins! I find that fascinating!”

“Oh, do tell us more about the earthquake, Mr. Sanford,” Mercy begged.

“Not a single ship survived,” said Bob Andrews. “One British warship wound up on top of a couple of houses. Over there,” he said, pointing toward Port Royal.

“When did all this happen?” Mercy asked with a worried frown.

“Midday, June 7^th, 1692. I will never forget that date! I had just left the boiler house at Wortham Manor and was on my way to the overseer’s house when the earthquake hit.”

“Did your plantation suffer damage?” Rosalyn exchanged a mischievous glance with Mercy. Tom Sanford’s story was so well rehearsed, he must have been fond of telling the tale.

“In the three minutes that it lasted, nearly everything was destroyed,” Andrews affirmed.

“Every plantation on the island suffered damage. All the official records at Port Royal, all the rich treasures imported from Mexico and Peru—” Tom raised his hands in a dramatic shrug, “—all destroyed.”

“No!”

“Alas, yes. All the goods sitting on the wharf were either buried or swept out to sea.”

As they stood chatting, Rosalyn spied Grant Watermann striding up the dusty road toward them.

“The town has changed since I was here last,” said Grant, pausing to shake hands with his friends.

“Progress comes with a price. And how’s your father?” Andrews asked.

“There’s that question again.” Grant said with a cryptic smile. “The old Man made the fatal mistake of getting married again. You could say the excitement quite literally killed him.”

In the stunned silence that followed, Tom and Bob looked at their friend quizzically, not sure if this was another of Grant’s practical jokes, or if he was serious.

Quietly seething behind her smile, Rosalyn decided not to let his remark pass. “What Captain Watermann really means is that he can’t forgive me for marrying his father.”

Tom Sanford attempted to rescue an awkward moment. “I’m damn sorry to hear he’s passed on, Grant. I know how close you two were.” He gripped Grant’s arm companionably.

Grant shrugged dismissively. “Since you’ve met my charming passengers, I shall leave you to enjoy their fatal charms. Bob, I’ll see you later on. Now if you will excuse me, I have business to attend.” He bowed and strode away toward a nearby warehouse.

“That was awkward,” Tom Sanford laughed. “Well, ladies, shall we be going?”

“An excellent idea,” Rosalyn agreed.

Tom beckoned toward a slave, who was holding a team harnessed to a small carriage. The man shuffled slowly, as if weighed down by many years. As he led the horses toward them, Rosalyn and Mercy exchanged a shocked look. The slave’s painfully stooped posture was caused by heavy irons around both ankles and a welded neck collar with three protruding hooks.

“Mr. Sanford, why is that man wearing leg and neck irons?” Rosalyn demanded. Clearly her host felt that she had created a faux pas. But since the weights caused the slave such obvious pain and impairment, she felt compelled to pursue the subject. “Unless he is a violent criminal, why? What possible reason could there be for such cruelty?”

Sanford’s eyes grew steely, yet he answered as if amused by foolish questions posed by ignorant females. “You mustn’t trouble your pretty head with such matters, ma'am. It’s best to leave the problems of dealing with unruly slaves to experienced men like myself.”

Mercy, who knew first-hand the humiliation of involuntary servitude, stood silent. Even so, Rosalyn sensed that she, too, was horrified by the slave’s physical torment.

Sanford’s smile turned indulgent. “If you must know, he tried to run away after his wife died during a flogging. He is lucky I didn’t order one of his feet cut off.”

Rosalyn felt her temper rise. “It seems to me that humane treatment would be more productive,” she said, no longer making any attempt to hide her indignation.

She was about to express her opinion at greater length when an ebony figure darted across the open town square with a white man in close pursuit. The African dove into the water and tried to swim out to one of the ships lying at anchor.

Rosalyn shuddered, remembering the sharks she'd seen in the harbor. He must want to escape very badly, she thought, unable to tear her gaze from the scene. Then, as other men came to the aid of his pursuer, she saw the man being captured. Struggling and crying out in a strange language, the black man was dragged up onto the wharf.

Andrews snickered, “Runaway slaves! Now there’s a prime example of what we have to deal with continually.”

Rosalyn and Mercy stood frozen, unable to tear their eyes from the frenzied scene that transpired on the wharf. Men were kicking and pummeling the slave, who tried in vain to protect his head with his arms.

“What are they doing?” Mercy covered her mouth, her eyes reflecting horror.

Bob Andrew spoke up: “They’re teaching him to obey his master.”

The slave, now subdued, was hoisted up by a crane, the rope around his wrists drawn high above his head. The weights tied to his ankles barely allowed his feet to touch the ground.

Tom Sanford offered his hand to escort Rosalyn to the carriage. “This is no place for ladies,” he said coaxingly. “Please allow me to escort you to Wortham Manor.”

Rosalyn shook off his hand. Her lips tightened as she walked to the edge of the wharf, where she stood, a witness against such blatant cruelty toward a fellow human being.

Another black dockhand had been summoned to apply the lash.

“Now, slacker,” ordered the overseer, who was still dripping sweat from the chase. The dockhand reluctantly looked from his fellow slave to the white man. He didn’t raise the whip. “Either lay on that whip with all the strength that’s in you, or I’ll give you the same,” the overseer threatened.

Upon hearing this threat, the black dockhand began to deliver a series of forceful blows. The whip flayed the flesh unmercifully from the trussed-up man’s back and buttocks all the way down to his heels. The whip’s thorns, made from ebony bushes, left deep wounds to fester.

Unable to contain her outrage, Rosalyn strode forward and confronted the man who was supervising this brutal beating. “By what authority do you justify such barbarism?” she blazed.

“He’s my property. If I want to put a lead ball in his brain, or carve him up, or whip the hide off him, I have every legal right. Now step aside, madam.”

“No! British law requires that a man be charged, tried, and convicted before receiving punishment. You are nothing but a common criminal yourself!”

Irritated, the man surveyed the slender young woman standing before him with such a brazen display of courage. “As overseer, I am in charge of this runaway. I’m only doin’ my job as I see fit,” was his surly reply.

“Then there is something dreadfully wrong with your intelligence,” Rosalyn snapped. “If you skin this man alive, what kind of service will he be fit for?”

“There’s plenty more where I got him,” he snarled. “Now get out of my way, so I can have done with him.”

“Wait! What if I purchase him from you?” she asked, surprised that she hadn’t thought of it before.

“He cost me forty pounds sterling. But he’s a worthless son of a—”

“I’ll pay you thirty-five—not a tuppence more,” she warned. Though stunned by her own boldness, she knew she was doing the right thing. “As you said, he is used goods and certainly not much use in his present condition. Now cut him down!” she ordered.

The overseer stared at her, clearly furious at being publicly challenged by an opinionated female.

Rosalyn refused to flinch, even when he spat in the dirt at her feet. “Well?” she demanded.

Whatever his reason, he finally relented. “Sold!”

“Good.” She glared. “I shall send someone from the Fair Winds directly. You shall get your money then. In the meantime, give this poor man water and get him into the shade.”

Realizing that Mercy, Bob Andrews, and Tom Sanford had followed her, she turned to enlist their aid. “Mr. Sanford, would you be so kind as to find Captain Watermann and bring him here? I’ve just done something rash and impulsive.”

As indeed she had, for it had just occurred to her that she had no money. “Mercy,” she whispered, drawing her friend aside. “I can’t believe I bought a slave! I didn’t know how else to stop the beating. But now I must come up with thirty-five pounds.”

Mercy’s eyes widened. “Rosalyn, have you taken leave of your senses? What will we do with a slave?”

“I don’t know.” Rosalyn glanced around, aware of all the curious stares they were attracting. “Perhaps I could free him.”

“But what will keep him from being forced back into slavery, once we leave Jamaica?” Mercy asked with a worried frown.

“Then we shall simply have to take him with us,” Rosalyn decided. “But first I need money. Do you think Captain Watermann might help me?”

Mercy smiled at her friend’s reluctance to approach Grant. Though after her ferocious stand against brutality, she was clearly equal to anything. “Do you really want to ask this favor of him? You are not on the best of terms,” she reminded her.

“Really, Mercy! What else could I have done? The man would have been killed, if I hadn’t intervened.”

“Rosalyn Watermann, what’s this I hear about you putting your sweet arse on the line?” said an amused voice that made Rosalyn jump self-consciously. She would have known that deceptively soft drawl anywhere.

Spinning around, she snapped defensively, “Must you always use such crude language?”

“Oh, I forgot,” he said, coolly baiting her. “You’re too hoity-toity to associate with us common sea dogs.” He winked at Andrews and Sanford, drawing a chuckle from both men.

Blushing, she gazed up at Grant. “Since we’re business partners, I wonder if I might borrow thirty-five pounds sterling? I just purchased that slave.” She gestured toward the crumpled, bleeding man on the ground.

“And what do you plan to do with him?” His mouth twitched with grim amusement.

Sanford and Andrews nudged each other, expecting Grant to turn down her request.

“I-I thought you might need another sailor,” she said, thinking fast. “We left Boston a few men short, as I recall.”

“Aye, but this man needs a doctor, not hard work.” He glanced at the black slave casually, then turned his attention to clipping the end of his cigar.

Rosalyn’s heart sank. Did the slave’s pitiful condition mean nothing to him?

“He will heal fast,” interrupted the overseer, who'd been eavesdropping.

“Still, he’s not worth any thirty-five pounds.” Grant handed the overseer a cigar and lit it for him. “I apologize for my overly zealous partner here.” He winked. “Frankly, I have little use for a man in his condition. What do you say to settling this matter for twenty-five pounds? That way he won’t be a total loss to you. Take it, or leave it.”

To her surprise the man snapped at the chance. His attitude was markedly altered, now that he was dealing with a sea captain, instead of a mere woman. “I’ll take it, Cap’n, but I’m losing money.”

Casual indifference seemed to ooze from every pore in Grant’s body, as he crossed his boots at the ankle and leaned against a wagon on the dock, flicking cigar ash.

Rosalyn glared at him, infuriated by his attitude in the face of such injustice and cruelty.

“You must realize, my good man,” Grant drawled. “I wouldn’t shell out five pounds for the bloke, if I weren’t humoring the lady.” He grinned over at Rosalyn, who was angrily muttering under her breath. “Take the man to the doctor’s house and have him seen to. I’ll have your blood money for you this afternoon.”

“As you wish, sir.” The overseer withdrew, shoving his victim, who could hardly stay on his feet, up the street ahead of him.

Looking bored, Grant turned his back on the overseer and waved his hand to get rid of an annoying horsefly. Then he turned to Rosalyn and Mercy. “Are you satisfied, ladies? Now that we’re a bunch of bleedin’ hearts?”

Rosalyn stared at him in amazement. “Do you honestly think I should have looked the other way?” she blazed.

“I hope it’s not your intention to buy up every damn slave on the island?”

“No. That’s not possible—!”

“Make no mistake, ma’am: We can ill afford to buy even one slave. Don’t forget that pirate Roberts made off with all the money I had,” he added, more gently.

“You’ll think of something,” Rosalyn said. “Perhaps one of your friends could advance you the funds.”

At this point, Mercy stepped between them. “No need for that, Captain,” she chirped. “Abner Morgan gave me money for any emergencies Rosalyn might encounter on her voyage.”

Incredulous, Rosalyn watched her friend pull the required sum from her tiny purse and hand it to Grant. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

Mercy blushed. “I thought you’d be upset that I accepted money from your father.”

Grant patted Mercy’s shoulder. “Let”s consider it a loan until we get to England.” Sticking his cigar between his teeth, he counted out twenty-five pounds and pocketed it.

Rosalyn tossed her head, unwilling to involve him in the transaction. “No, Captain. He’s my property. There is no need for you to pay.”

“Spoken like a true slave owner,” he mocked. “And who do you suppose is going to feed him?”

“Oh, for heaven sake! Must we quarrel about everything?”

He shrugged. “I suggest we let him work off the price paid for his freedom by earning a wage—when he’s fit, of course. That way he won’t have to surrender his pride. It’s better than making him an object of charity.”

“Agreed.” She nodded. “Finally we agree on something!”

“Aye, well—it’s a start. Look,” he proposed, “I’ll take care of everything here. You ladies go along now with Tom and Bob. And mind you, no more extravagant spending! We’re on a tight budget!”