Chapter Thirteen

 

A distant gong sounded early for the field hands to begin work. Hearing the light bustle of activity downstairs, Rosalyn cracked her eyelids and moaned, remembering her tour of the sugar works with Mr. Sanford at seven.

“Mercy, wake up,” she mumbled, turning to waken her friend.

Glancing across the bed, she discovered that Mercy was missing. Since this wasn’t at all like her friend, she sat up and ran her fingers distractedly through her tousled locks.

Seconds later, Stella popped her head around the dressing room door. “Your friend left last night on horseback, riding double with some sailor.” She arched like a cat, rubbing her backside against the door jamb, and looking quite smug.

“But she was to accompany me around the plantation this morning!” Swinging her long legs out of bed, Rosalyn rang for the maid. “Stella, are you quite certain she’s gone?”

“They flew away like a pair of lovebirds.”

Oh, that Mercy! How could she desert me at a time like this? Rosalyn thought. Searching through her trunk, she found a fresh chemise, a pair of knitted stockings and a modest gown. Since the maid was still nowhere to be found, she began to complete her toilette.

“At least she didn’t take her luggage,” said Stella. “She’ll be back.”

“That’s small comfort. She agreed to go with me.”

“Watch out for Papa,” Stella laughed, noticing Rosalyn’s mounting agitation. “He never can resist a pretty face.”

“Stella! How can you say such a thing about your own father?” Rosalyn scolded, refusing to admit that she had reached nearly the same conclusion at dinner last night.

Stella shrugged, idly examining her pretty nails. “That’s the way of it. He and Mama don’t sleep together, so—”

“I am sure Mercy will show up any minute,” said Rosalyn, cutting off the sensuous little chit, who had started pawing through her luggage. “But if she doesn’t, Stella, I shall expect you to go in her stead.”

“Don’t be a goose,” said Stella. “I have no wish to get all sweaty like some field hand.”

Rosalyn tried another approach. “How did things go with your mother last night?” she asked sweetly.

Stella’s mouth turned down in a pout. “Drat Tom for being such a snitch! Mama told me she is going to have Papa find me a husband. Any husband,” she added gloomily.

“That sounds like a fitting punishment,” said Rosalyn, having no patience with her. “Maybe that will teach you not to peek at naked men!” Pouring water into the basin on the lowboy, Rosalyn washed, then dressed quickly. “I am going down to breakfast, Stella. After that, I hope you will change your mind and escort me about the plantation.” She smiled, patting Stella’s hand encouragingly. “Please?”

“Perhaps,” said Stella, quite out of sorts. “But then again, why should I?”

Rosalyn hurried along the corridor, eager for a good cup of English tea and a light breakfast before she set out. Running into Grant in the upstairs hallway, she detained him, placing a hand on his sleeve. “Captain, I wonder if you might help me,” she began.

“My, but we’re formal this morning.”

“All right, then—Grant. I'm worried about Mercy.” After a furtive glance around, she confided: “She met Charles Lamb last night. Now, it seems she's vanished.”

“Don’t worry. I ran into her and Lamb in the garden last night—while you were toying with Tom Sanford’s affections,” he added with a wink. “I sent them off to Mademoiselle Bizet’s to spend the night.”

“You did what?” She stared up at him in horror.

He shrugged. “It seemed better than creating a scandal under the Sanfords’ roof.”

“I can’t believe it! You actually—?”

Grant paused before the hall mirror to give his cravat a final inspection. As he turned, he found Rosalyn blocking his way, her fists clenched at her sides. “Listen to me, Rosalyn.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her to one side, so he could pass. “Mercy isn’t above enjoying an occasional romp in the sheets. It would have happened anyway.”

“Well, you certainly made sure it would!” she raged.

His laugh deliberately provocative, Grant shook his head over the contrast between the prickly female confronting him this morning and the eager coquette in his arms last night.

“Maybe I should have taken you there instead,” he jokingly suggested.

“Ooh! I suppose you think I’d agree to such a thing?” Indignant tears sprang to her eyes.

In no mood for a fight, Grant decided to sidestep any arguments about her virtue. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Rosalyn,” he said. “And don’t be so quick to stand in judgment of Mercy.”

He tried to walk past her, but she grabbed his arm. “Couldn’t you at least marry them?” she whispered, so that nobody would overhear them. “After all, you are a sea captain."

“Actually I think Charles has marriage in mind. I tried to talk him out of it, but he’s a persistent chap.”

“As captain of the Fair Winds, you should be happy to oblige!” Rosalyn argued. “Or does it go against your principles?”

“Marriage works for some people,” he said with a cynical grin. “I just value my freedom too much.” He traced the bridge of her straight, slender nose with his forefinger, and she jerked her head back with a haughty glare. “Let’s not give them the bums’ rush, shall we? Anyway, she should be back tomorrow morning.”

“Two whole nights!” Rosalyn gasped.

“Yes, and one long, glorious day of —” The look on her face warned him that he’d gone too far. “Oops,” he said, cracking a grin.

“Who is this Mademoiselle Bizet?” she persisted. “Surely she objects to such carrying-on under her roof?”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as if plumbing the depths of her character. “Not everyone has your righteous streak, Rosalyn.”

“Where is this place?” she demanded. “It’s a boarding house, I presume?”

“You could say that,” he said, cautious now.

“Well, you will kindly take me there at once! I wish to speak to Mercy.”

“Look, kitten, it’s not exactly a boarding house,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “Mademoiselle is doing me a favor by letting them use my room there.”

Rosalyn’s face turned bright red, as a glimmering of the truth dawned. “You must think I am really dense. It...it’s a house of sin, isn’t it?”

He chuckled. “Not a brothel, if that’s what you think.”

“What, then?”

“Just can’t leave the subject alone, can you?" he sighed. "All right, if you must satisfy your itching curiosity— Nearly every white man on the island owns a mistress, even if he has a wife. Mademoiselle Bizet is the special property of Tom Sanford. And on occasion she entertains other men.”

“That is...so disgusting!” And to think she'd actually let him kiss and fondle her last night! Rosalyn shuddered at the thought. “You are an amoral cad,” she screeched. “I-I hate and despise you!”

“We men are a disgusting lot, aren’t we?” He uttered a mocking laugh and, leaving her to sputter and fume, headed downstairs to conduct business with Tom Sanford.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Feeling abandoned, Rosalyn picked at her breakfast. Mercy had gone her merry way, and once again she was at odds with Grant Watermann. Things were quickly going from bad to worse.

Suddenly a muffled scream at the back of the house brought her out of her chair. Alarmed, she looked around cautiously, righted her chair, and hearing nothing further, sat back down. Her nerves already worn thin, she looked up from spreading marmalade on a muffin, as Mrs. Sanford came bustling into the dining room a few minutes later.

“Was that a scream I heard?” she asked, knowing that it was.

“One of the maids. She dropped some stitches from her knitting yesterday. I was forced to give her a reprimand.” Mrs. Sanford nonchalantly poured herself a cup of tea from the silver teapot on the sideboard.

“Oh. Well, I suppose anyone can make a mistake,” Rosalyn said.

“If mistakes were tolerated, Mrs. Watermann, nothing would ever get done properly around here.”

Mrs. Sanford’s icy tones sent an involuntary shiver up Rosalyn’s back. “It must be difficult having to train and manage such a large staff,” she said.

“Pain is an excellent tool for keeping my slaves in line,” her hostess said calmly.

“Pain?” Thinking she must have heard wrongly, Rosalyn stared across the table in disbelief. “What do you mean—pain?”

“Applying a simple thumb screw on the left thumb of my house slaves usually keeps them in line.” Her hostess gave a casual shrug. “And it doesn’t interfere with the performance of their duties. It’s quite effective, actually.”

Suddenly queasy, Rosalyn found the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup worthy of careful scrutiny.

Proud of her disciplinary skills, Mrs. Sanford added: “For more recalcitrant cases, of course, sealing wax works wonders.”

“Sealing wax?”

“Heated and dropped on sensitive parts of the skin. Of course, I leave the really hardened cases to my husband or the overseer.”

Rosalyn set down her china cup, carefully avoiding eye contact. “Speaking of your husband, ma’am, does he still plan to show me around the plantation this morning?”

Mrs. Sanford shrugged. “I saw him over by the carriage house a few minutes ago.”

“If you will excuse me then,” Rosalyn said, rising. “I must get ready.”

Somehow she managed to walk, not run, from the room and up the stairs to fetch her bonnet. All she wanted was to escape this vicious woman. What influences had shaped her into a person who abused her position of privilege and caused her to treat her servants so cruelly? she wondered. She couldn’t help wondering how a woman of such obvious breeding and cultural advantages allowed herself to be overtaken by such...such . . .

“An evil spirit, that’s what it is!” she exclaimed out loud. Back home, Reverend Mather’s fiery sermons had made the existence of evil spirits seem too farfetched to be believed. But now she saw that there really was such a thing as evil. Not just sinful, but downright evil. And slavery was decidedly one of the manifestations of evil, she realized, recalling the hellish scene on the wharf. What else could explain the malevolent pleasure in Mrs. Sanford’s eyes, as she described torturing her maids?

The truth struck so forcibly that Rosalyn knew she had to leave Wortham Manor without delay. She must find Grant! Picking up her skirts, she ran straight for the front door, only to be confronted by Mr. Sanford.

“Ah, dear lady! 'Tis glad I am to see you’re on time.” Her host eyed her with grim satisfaction. “Punctuality is a rare virtue in a woman.”

“Mr. Sanford—good morning, sir! C-could you tell me where Captain Watermann is?" she stammered. "I must speak with him right away!”

“I’m afraid it will have to wait. He and Tom left only minutes ago.”

“But it can’t wait!” she exclaimed.

“There, there, my dear.” He captured her hand, patting her as if she were a pet spaniel.

Oh, dear God! This is intolerable. I cannot stay here another minute, she thought. “Perhaps I could catch up,” she stammered. “Could you lend me a horse?”

“It’s never safe for a young lady to ride in these parts alone,” he said.

If she felt deserted before, her fears had now doubled. She would just have to deal with her panic alone. Drawing a deep breath, she forced a weak smile. “Then I suppose I shall have to wait,” she sighed.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten my offer to show you around the estate. I am looking forward to showing you the sugar works.” With an affable smile, Sanford took her by the elbow and led her down the verandah steps.

Despite her misery, Rosalyn had to admire the magnificently groomed mounts Mr. Sanford had selected. They were sleek, curried to perfection, and easy to ride. On the way to the sugar fields, her host pointed out fields where fodder and various vegetables were grown. The gardens grew an assortment of plantains, yams, potatoes, corn, and cassada for the manor house table, as well as for the slaves. She soon realized that the rice and dried salted cod on board the Fair Winds was destined to feed slaves. “Slave rations,” Mr. Sanford grudgingly complained, “amount to a costly pint of grain per slave each day.”

“That seems a small amount, considering our sumptuous repast last night.” Rosalyn was appalled by the abundance of food that went to waste.

“There’s no profit to be made in sugar, my dear—unless you know where to cut costs. When food is no longer fit to serve at our own table, it is used to supplement the slaves’ diet.”

“No longer fit?” Rosalyn turned a stormy gaze on her overfed host.

“Fish spoils quickly in this climate,” he explained as they rode along. “In a day or so, it begins to stink. But once it’s made into a soup and thickened with meal, it’s quite nutritious.”

He went on to explain that about one-third of the estate was raw forest, so there would always be sufficient wood to burn cane trash and other refuse. They passed by crews of field hands, stripped to the waist and using machetes to cut ripe stalks of tall cane.

Rosalyn noticed that several men and women bore scars and scabs on their backs from whippings. She supposed beatings were inflicted for the same reason Mrs. Sanford routinely used thumb screws. As Rosalyn looked about, she decided that the cost of two teaspoons of sugar in her tea three times a day came at too high a price, in terms of human suffering.

Thin, stooped men and women worked uncomplainingly in the hot sun. She saw that a few lacked fingers, an ear, even a hand. Heartsick, she avoided probing too deeply into Mr. Sanford’s work ethic. All around her the evidence spoke for itself.

Suddenly as they rounded the end of a row of uncut cane, they came upon a young slave woman in labor. No more than perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age, she lay writhing and straining on the ground. Her spindly body was sweaty and dirty, her swollen belly convulsed in a violent contraction.

Rosalyn slid down from her side saddle, her feet landing on the soft earth. “Mr. Sanford, please help me get this child to a cabin,” she cried out. “We must fetch a doctor!”

“These people are quite healthy and usually deliver in a short time,” he protested mildly.

“But she needs to have her baby in a clean place!” she insisted.

Sanford smiled indulgently at the beautiful young woman glaring up at him, feet planted in the soft, rich earth, and her skirts clutched in her slender, fisted hands. “They don’t require the same care as do our English or colonial ladies.” He shrugged. “Besides, it would be bad for morale to remove her from the field now.”

“But the risk of infection—” Finding it pointless to argue with the man, Rosalyn dropped to her knees beside the young slave, who was moaning incoherently. The girl had begun to push, and her contractions were coming in nearly continuous waves.

“Mr. Sanford, do you know how to deliver a baby?” she demanded, squinting up at him. He still sat his horse, as indifferent to the girl’s agony, as if he were watching two crickets mate.

“Mr. Sneed!” he called to his field supervisor. “Send another woman over here.” He dismounted, reluctant to muddy his boots in the fetid soil. “Mrs. Watermann, I must ask you not to interfere.”

“Mr. Sanford, I am appalled! Have you so little compassion?” she stormed.

Her face damp with perspiration, she reached down and tucked the girl’s discarded skirt beneath her gleaming buttocks. “Push, child. The baby’s nearly here,” she urged, as the baby's head crowned. No time now to be concerned with modesty; it was all happening so quickly now, out in the open under a merciless tropical sun.

A piercing scream rent the warm, moist air.

The young girl lay back, faint and exhausted, while Rosalyn and a field slave with filthy hands and broken nails guided the head and shoulders of a newborn male infant onto a piece of torn peasant cloth. Covered with slime and the raw earth, the infant lay still for a long moment. Finally, coughing up phlegm, it uttered its first frail, piercing cry beneath the cloudy sky of its captivity.

After Rosalyn delivered the afterbirth, she sat back on her heels, unmindful of the filth and blood on her dress. As she watched the older slave woman place the tiny infant to its mother’s breast, she saw birth as the beginning of every man’s struggle for a place under the sun. This young girl, still shaking with exertion and fright, and her baby had as much right to survive and be treated with dignity as any squalling brat born between satin sheets in a king’s palace!

“Mrs. Watermann!”

Hearing her host’s exasperated shout, she rose from her crouched position, brushing her hands against her skirt. She looked thoughtfully toward a group of field hands who continued their work as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in their midst.

“What did I tell you?” Mr. Sanford’s voice implied his vindication. “Within the hour she will be back at work. They’re healthy as animals.”

We are all animals, it seems, Rosalyn thought bitterly. “This morning has been quite a revelation, Mr. Sanford. Would you care to show me anything else?” she asked, her eyes daring him.

“We’re not far from the water mill and boiling house.” He shot her a strangely quelling look. “I'm sure you will find our processing methods most enlightening.”

She remounted, and they started toward the sugar factory. Along the way, Sanford tried to reintroduce the subject of his son Tom’s interest in her. “He’s quite smitten, I assure you. And just when I thought he was ready to settle down with Bob Andrews’ sister Cynthia,” he chuckled.

Rosalyn took refuge behind her status as a widow. “You mean to flatter me, Mr. Sanford, but I am still in mourning.”

“These days it is not unusual for a young widow to remarry, sometimes in a matter of weeks,” he hinted.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said coolly, “But it’s quite out of the question! I-I shall never marry again.” How dare he broach such a subject? she fumed inwardly. Any attentions his son had paid her the night before had long since lost their appeal, especially after learning that Tom and his family were so much alike, beneath the surface.

“Tom tells me Nathaniel provided handsomely for you financially,” he went on, undaunted.

“Your son is misinformed,” Rosalyn said blandly. “I am quite without funds and must rely on my share of the Fair Winds to keep myself afloat.”

Mr. Sanford looked unconvinced. “According to Tom, you purchased a slave yesterday morning in Kingston!”

Her temper flared at such impertinent prying into her affairs. “My friend and companion, Miss Wallins, advanced me the sum of twenty-five pounds from her own purse.”

“I must say, you drove a shrewd bargain! I often bid as high as fifty or sixty pounds for a strong male worker.”

Having arrived at the mill, which was operated with the use of oxen, Rosalyn decided to ignore this last remark. One group of slaves was busy grinding the ripe cane, while another group carried away what was left after the juice was extracted. The juice, a pale ash color, was then conveyed through hollow wooden tubes to the boiling house, where huge copper kettles received it. These kettles, heated over fires, clarified the juice and started the granulation process. It was truly amazing to observe the various stages. Moving on to the distillery, she noticed that thicker drippings, carried off during the cooling period, had been mixed with other feculent material, which she watched as it was skimmed off the top of the kettles in the boiling room.

“These will ferment and provide us with wine,” Sanford explained over the noisy process. “After a second distillation, it is placed into puncheons and sold as rum.”

“Which brings a better price: sugar or rum?” she asked.

“We get fifteen pounds per hogshead of sugar, and ten pounds per puncheon of rum.”

“It sounds lucrative. What else have you to show me?” she asked, looking around.

They returned to their horses and began leading them across the busy compound. “There’s not a great deal more to see,” he said. “The overseer’s house is nearby, along with the workshops for our coopers, smith, wheelwright and carpenters.” He gave her a condescending smile. “Lest you think me quite heartless about that pregnant slave, perhaps you’d care to see our hospital?”

“You have a hospital on the premises?” Surprised, she wondered facetiously what type of humanitarian care it might provide.

“It is one of the best in these parts,” he boasted. “The surgeon makes his rounds weekly. Generally we manage quite well, except when several come down with the fever at the same time. It becomes more difficult, when we’re short-handed.”

“Is there a great deal of illness?” she asked.

“Mostly during the rainy season. But the cost of replacing slaves is not prohibitive—should the need arise.”

Rosalyn followed Sanford to the hospital. When a male child of perhaps six or seven came to take their horses’ bridles, his frail appearance prompted another question: “Mr. Sanford, are there many such children here at Wortham Manor?”

“Oh, my, yes. In fact, we have a nursery where all infants from one month up through age five are cared for. A woman who is too old to work the fields anymore watches about forty babies each day.”

In spite of what she had already seen, Rosalyn felt drawn to see the nursery. “May I see the children, please?”

Entering a large room, Rosalyn was totally unprepared for the squalor and noise. Larger infants and toddlers rolled and crawled about the dirt floor, while smaller infants lay in neat rows on trays arranged a few inches off the ground. A large woman with kinky white hair and enormous breasts sat on a box in the midst of her charges, doing her best to keep order.

“After the mothers nurse their children in the morning, they drop the babies off here and go into the fields,” Sanford explained. “Old Mogaweh tends them until the mothers return in the evening.”

Incredulous, Rosalyn asked, “How many hours between feedings?”

Sanford smiled. “Twelve or thirteen. But lest you overly concern yourself, my dear, the babies’ cravings are well taken care of with a little pap full of sugar, bread and flour. They can suck on it to their hearts’ content.”

“No wonder they’re so thin!”

“Thin, but wiry.” He winked, clearly pleased by his efficiency. “We discovered these women were overly fond of nursing their children—up to three years, if they were allowed to get away with it! Nursing deprived us of their labor for extended periods in the fields and also prevented them from bearing additional children.”

Rosalyn looked about the room in dismay. So many abandoned tykes! “I can see why they might not want to have too many children,” she said.

“It’s a matter of economics. We now offer incentives for women to have more children. It seems to be worth our being lenient.”

“What incentives, if I may be so bold?”

Mr. Sanford sighed. “Lud, woman, you’re inquisitive! But set your mind at ease. My methods are not only practical, but humane.” He leaned forward as if he were letting her in on a great secret. “After the first baby, a woman is excused from picking grass part of one day a week. For the second child, she might be excused one whole day every week. She receives additional time off for each succeeding child. However, if any of her children dies before it leaves the nursery, she loses her privileges.”

Rosalyn could find no suitable reply, and so she turned and left the building. Leaning against a tree outside, she wiped her eyes, which stung from the heat and stench of urine in the nursery, mingled with her tears. An overwhelming fatigue now consumed her, and her head throbbed painfully.

By the time her jovial host rejoined her, she knew she couldn’t take any more ‘enlightenment.’ “Thank you, Mr. Sanford. Could we go back now?” she pleaded, and he helped her remount.

As they returned to the main house, he paused, evidently determined to put the best possible face on things. “I know our ways must seem quite foreign to you, but if you lived here awhile, you’d soon realize why our way of doing things is an absolute necessity.”

Rosalyn tasted the bile and vomit rising in her throat, just before she pitched head-first out of the saddle into thankful oblivion.