Chapter Sixteen

 

They came down out of the central mountains, these black Maroons. They were a proud, fierce race, former slaves whose blood had mingled freely with that of their Spanish masters a century ago. The Maroons had never submitted to British rule. In fact, ever since the British takeover in 1655, they had constantly challenged British authority and domination.

For years the Spanish had supported the Maroons’ resistance with Spanish guns and supplies. Because the climate was one of the most ideal in the Caribbean, the Spanish backed the Maroons against the English, in hopes of regaining the island.

Nevertheless, the Maroons’ consuming objective was to secure the land for themselves and their children after them, not revert back to the tyranny of their former owners. Thus, for years the Maroons had carried out sporadic hit-and-run tactical maneuvers. Striking the plantations quickly under cover of dark, they committed murder and mayhem, pausing only long enough to burn and destroy crops and drive off cattle and other livestock. Their fame as terrorists caused the English to sleep with one eye open and pistols under their pillows.

This particular morning, on their way back from yet another pillaging, this swarthy band of guerilla fighters happened upon Rosalyn and the slave woman in the glade under a mango tree.

Her first morning in port, Tom Sanford had mentioned the Maroons to Rosalyn and Mercy on their way out to the Sanfords’ plantation. She knew instantly who and what these men were. Clutching the woman in her arms tightly, she waited for the blows that never fell.

The leader of the warriors who swooped down on her early that morning was an expert in guerilla warfare. Captain Cudjoe had led some of the most effective military sweeps of the countryside. He also had infiltrated the slaves’ ranks, serving the slaves on several plantations as their spiritual leader and Obeahman. This contact provided valuable information on British warships, troop movements, and the volunteer militia’s activities. He counted heavily on the slaves’ loyalty. When the right time came, by sheer numbers he planned to turn the tide against the British and drive them out.

Because of his dual role, the band’s multilingual leader had come to know the young woman lying in Rosalyn’s arms. His gift for practicing the Black Arts, as well as his knowledge of herbal medicines, had won the devotion of many slaves from the neighboring plantations, including the woman Minna.

Although his lieutenants’ first impulse was to lop off the pale young white woman’s head, Cudjoe stayed their hand with a powerful gesture that checked them and made them put up their weapons. For one thing, he read no fear in her face, only a defiant strength. Her dark hair and ivory skin reminded him of his own mother, a sensuous Castillian woman his father had abducted many years ago and made his concubine. Perhaps he would have time later to get better acquainted with this English beauty, he told himself. Right now, he and his men were in a hurry.

He bent to examine the unconscious woman in Rosalyn’s arms. This, too, seemed odd, that a genteel white woman should be found embracing a common slave. The bandages taken from her own petticoat, judging from the material, spoke to Cudjoe’s heart of a compassion he had thought long gone from his life. Whoever this remarkable woman was, she didn’t deserve the same ignominious death as the rest of the English.

The air bristled with tension, while he considered what to do with the two women. Even the birds seemed to have ceased their incessant warbling.

Rosalyn knew that her life—perhaps both their lives—hung in the balance. Everything depended on his decision. This was no time to show fear. Instead she took the initiative. She reached up and grasped him by his curly black beard. Pulling his face closer, she looked directly into his black eyes and spoke boldly: “This woman needs a doctor if she is to live!”

Cudjoe stiffened with anger that a mere woman would dare order a Maroon warrior about. Then he experienced a wave of grudging admiration for her courage. “I know her,” he said, speaking nearly flawless English. “She carries my friend Jose’s child.”

“I-I did what I could,” Rosalyn replied, “but she still may lose her baby. She needs good care right away.”

“I know a woman from Wortham Manor. An Obeahwoman.”

Rosalyn gasped. “Wortham Manor?”

“We paid a surprise visit there at daybreak,” he told her. “May the Sanfords burn in hell for all eternity!”

Rosalyn’s eyes fixed in horror on his swarthy face. She and Grant must have left only minutes before the raid, she realized.

“We raided three plantations,” he added. “Soon our attack will be discovered. We must go.”

“What about this woman?” she insisted. She dared not inquire as to the Sanfords' fate. Suddenly it occurred to her that while she could do nothing about her own safety, Grant might come riding any minute into the midst of this marauding band of cutthroats! She pressed the leader for a decision. “Please! Will you take her to this Obeahwoman?” she demanded.

Soon the British militia would be on his trail; he could not delay. Cudjoe shook his head. “No. I will take you both to the Maroons’ stronghold and summon her there.”

“How will we move her? I have only my horse,” Rosalyn persisted.

He was already giving orders. In minutes his men had two sturdy poles cut and laid beside the blanket on the ground. Rosalyn was abruptly jerked to her feet, while the slave woman was strapped to an improvised travois behind her mare. Cudjoe looked savagely at Rosalyn, as if challenging her to run or oppose him in any way.

Sensing that she stood a better chance if she behaved, not as a prisoner, but as his equal, she quietly asked, “May I ride with you?”

His eyes gleamed, approving her courageous move. “Give me your hand, woman.”

Gathering her skirts, she placed her hand in his strong brown grip, and he swung her up in front of him. She had heard that Maroon guerillas sometimes murdered innocent people in their beds, yet this leader chose to spare her and the pregnant slave—at least for now.

At his command, they vanished into the forest and rode nonstop for several hours.

Rosalyn expected her captors to take her to a cave or crude lean-to. Suddenly they broke through the dense cover of tropical jungle vines into a clearing filled with blazing sunlight and savage tropical beauty. She could not have been more astonished. Still, she knew better than to underestimate the grave danger she faced.

Here on the side of the mountain, its existence unknown except to these Maroon rebels, was a large Spanish hacienda, long hidden from the British. Its plaster walls, now chipped and damaged by bullet holes and neglect, bore testimony to a grander past. Rosalyn blinked with disbelief. The sun overhead beat down on a dusty piazza and the tile roof of the house, its walls shining like burnished gold. In her exhausted state, it all seemed unreal, like a bizarre dream.

Before she could react, the leader dragged her down from his horse and roughly handed her over to a heavyset, barefoot woman dressed in a full skirt and peasant blouse.

“Come this way, Nina.” The woman took Rosalyn firmly by the arm and led her into a bricked outdoor courtyard. They entered a cool room with thick plastered walls, furnished only with a cot made of rough-sawn boards and no mattress.

Behind her, the heavy door banged shut with a booming echo. A wave of panic hit Rosalyn as she heard the latch slide in place on the outside. Already worried about her fate at the hands of these frightening looking Maroons, Rosalyn fought to remain calm. Her sudden isolation in this cell-like room made her realize how close she actually stood to death. She was entirely at their mercy, completely vulnerable.

What was to become of her—and the slave woman?

Stumbling to the narrow slit of a window, she gazed down on the village square. There she saw women and children clustered around the men, who had dismounted. Dogs barked. If she hadn’t known what kind of men they were, and the errand from which they had just returned, it might have seemed like any other domestic scene, tranquil and peaceful. She watched the Maroons laugh and exchange greetings with their families in the street.

Shivering, she returned to sit on the wooden cot. From her brief conversation with Cudjoe, she had a pretty good idea what had taken place at the Sanfords’ manor, and what their plans for her might include. How much time did she have left on this earth? By her own calculations, the sun was nearing the halfway point in the sky.

How long before Grant returned to find her missing? Would he even suspect what had happened? Thank God, he hadn’t returned to the grove while the Maroons were still there! He would have been slaughtered on the spot.

Any hope of being rescued from her abductors depended entirely upon him now. The hideaway was so well hidden from the rest of the world that she feared Grant might not find her before it was too late. She wondered if the Maroons meant to mistreat her and then kill her. Or perhaps they planned to hold her for ransom.

Exhausted and fearful, Rosalyn curled up on the hard wooden pallet and slept fitfully until early evening.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Old Mogaweh came as soon as she was summoned. With her came other slaves from Wortham Manor and the Palmer Estate who supported the overthrow of the British. They now pledged themselves to remain with the Maroons and fight to the death, if necessary, to gain their freedom.

Cudjoe himself led Mogaweh to the room where Minna lay. He had given the young woman a special tea of herbs, including juice steeped from willow bark. Now her heart beat more regularly, and her color no longer held the pallor of death. But she was still weak from the loss of blood, despite the white woman’s efforts. He knew his lieutenant, José Ortiz, held a strong attachment for this strong, lithe black woman. For that reason, he would do all in his power to heal her.

“She must not be moved, Cudjoe,” the old woman said after examining her. “De child in her still lives. We must call on de Obi spirit and his helpers to give power to our medicines.”

“You will preside with me during the ceremony?” he asked, defering to her great powers in the spirit world. She had strong magic. She would bring the dead spirits of their African ancestors together into elements gathered from the earth and the plants that grew there. He believed, too, that until harmony could be restored between the elements of the tangible and invisible worlds, Minna and her child would linger within this vail of pain and disease.

“Yes. Bring de drums to me fo’ special sanctification. Dey must speak only of holy things.” Old Mogaweh bent over the sick woman. From the bag hanging between her pendulous breasts, she brought forth a potent concoction, which she placed on her patient’s distended belly. She spoke in an unknown tongue, invoking the spirit of her wise old grandmother. She carefully paid homage, beseeching her spirit for wisdom in treating Minna’s condition.

“Everything shall be as you desire,” Cudjoe said with a respectful bow.

He was already backing away from the bedside when Mogaweh spoke again. “De bandages are from a white woman’s petticoat?”

He nodded. “I found Minna with a white woman. In a glade near the Red Hills of Spanish Town.”

Removing the packing, Mogaweh saw that the bleeding had stopped. “She has good medicine. Her spirit is strong.”

Such discernment awed Cudjoe. He could only bow his head in reverence. Although he had earned his men’s respect and allegiance, he was young and respected this old Obeahwoman, for she had taught him the Black Arts. “Her spirit and courage draw me, as does her beauty,” he admitted.

“Perhaps she is de physical manifestation of de spirit living in one of de island’s field flowers.” Old Mogaweh smiled, also wise to the ways of men.

“More like an exotic orchid!” he exclaimed, his black eyes shining.

“And you would be like a strong vine growing around her, holding her to yourself?” The woman, her eyes full of humor and shrewdness, busied herself with her patient. “It pleases de great Obi to bring your spirits together, yes? Shall I prepare an aphrodisiac for you to place in her drink tonight?”

He nodded, feeling a powerful surge of desire in his loins. The fire in her body had warmed him during the long ride back to his hideaway.

“My potion will allow you to taste de sweetness of her pollen, but you must wait till dawn for her flower to open to you.” Her faded old eyes seemed to pierce his soul. “Your white orchid sounds like de woman I met yest’day at Wortham Manor. She, too, is a healer.”

“She has long chestnut hair, blue eyes, and skin that blooms like a magnolia blossom.” His voice grew husky with desire. “Tall, slender, sensuous to my touch.”

“Go slowly, my Captain. I am told she delivered a child in de field yest’day. I see her fo’ myself in de nursery.”

“She has the gift?”

She nodded. “She has a heart for our people, I think.”

“Then I must win her!” he said passionately. “Not just for myself, but to help our struggle.”

“Go rest now, Captain Cudjoe,” the old woman advised. “Now I mix my drugs. This evening I will take de potion to her myself.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Damn it, where is she? Frustrated when he couldn’t find her, Grant retraced his steps, fearing he had miscalculated. He might have missed the place altogether, were it not for the blue ribbon he spotted during his second search of the glade.

Snatching up Rosalyn’s hair ribbon, he glanced around, incredulous. The two women had simply vanished!

A careful search turned up several sets of hoof prints. All evidence pointed to several riders. They had been dragging a fair amount of weight between two poles.

Thankful that there were no signs of a struggle or bloodshed, Grant would have set off in pursuit at once, but first he needed help to launch a successful surprise attack on the Maroons’ own turf. He headed back to McManahan’s.

Waiting impatiently for troops, he began mapping out a strategy. He questioned McManahan’s slaves regarding the whereabouts of the Obeahman named Cudjoe. Using the threat of punishment, he learned that the Obeahman divided his time between visiting plantation slaves near Spanish Town and a well fortified hillside hideaway, which predated the British takeover of the island.

McManahan sent for another planter, Andrew Gowdrie, whose reputation for tracking runaways was second to none. He would prove invaluable, following the raiders’ trail through the jungle. Not wanting to lose the element of surprise, they decided against using bloodhounds.

By midafternoon a small company of British regulars and a handful of volunteers, including three men from the Fair Winds, had assembled at McManahan’s.

Grant placed Third Mate Bob Warburton in charge of loading cargo with the rest of the crew. Meanwhile he set out with Bill Garrison, Wally Smythe, and Gowdrie to pick up the trail, Lt. Colonel Gage and his men following close behind. Moving through the wooded chasms, the ride was difficult, even on good mounts. The hilly terrain was plagued with such a tangle of underbrush and trees that their progress slowed through the steep limestone foothills. Listening to the strange dialects of Cockney, Bristolian and Liverpudlian soldiers around him, Grant quickly uncovered the men’s fear and reluctance to face the Maroons out in the wilds. Ambush seemed uppermost in the minds of those who were most familiar with the Maroons’ hit-and-run tactics.

For miles Gowdrie led the way along a poorly maintained, winding trail, using broken branches and vines to track Cudjoe and his rebels. The Maroons’ use of unshod mounts and travois poles up the steep mountainside were leading them directly to the rebels’ retreat.

Pausing on a bluff overlooking the Old Harbour, Grant made out the road leading toward Guanaboa Vale and its plantations some twenty-five hundred feet below. Lazy ox-drawn wagons slowly moved between the wharfs and warehouses, carrying hogsheads of sugar to be loaded by barge onto a waiting merchant ship in the bay.

The peaceful, undisturbed scene was in sharp contrast to the violence and revolt that played such a large role in the islanders’ lives. Would to God his own ship was already loaded and on its way, with Rosalyn safely aboard!

While the enthusiasm of Lt. Colonel Gage’s company had begun to flag, as each mile placed them at greater risk, Grant’s fighting instincts heightened. Having learned his survival skills in some of the toughest waterfront dives in the West Indies, he felt more than ready, mentally and physically, to meet the enemy. Knowing the Maroons’ animal cunning, he knew to keep his wits about him. Cudjoe would have sentries posted. Once they penetrated the Maroons’ borders, they must be ready for anything. The Maroons’ reputation for daring and brutality exceeded even the cruelest Caribbean pirates.

“Colonel Gage, how much farther?” he asked during a brief stop to rest the horses.

“We’re getting close,” Gage affirmed. “Their hideout is probably a mile from here, two at the outside.”

“I suggest we go the rest of the way on foot,” Grant said, hoping to avoid detection.

Gage nodded, sweating profusely in the humid tropical forest. “We’ll leave Gowdrie and McManahan with the horses. The rest of us will proceed under my command of silence.”

“Right. Nothing like the element of surprise.”

When McManahan heard the plan, he flatl-out refused to remain with the horses. “I ain’t missin’ the best part, Colonel!” he insisted. “Nothing will please me more’n to slit them fellers’ throats an’ tear out their murderin’ hearts.”

Gage scowled. “We are civilized men, Mr. McManahan, not savages. They will stand trial for their crimes—if they survive our attack.” He turned to his personal valet. “Connell, remain behind with Mr. Gowdrie.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Men, we proceed on foot from here,” Gage said in an urgent undertone. “When we reach the enemy camp, take cover. After nightfall we’ll attack upon my signal. Now let’s move out!”

A half hour later, Garrison, scouting ahead with Grant, spotted two men stationed in the trees. Reporting back, Grant ordered the main body of soldiers to halt, while he and Garrison returned to deal with the sentries. A quick knife thrust quickly dispatched the first sentry, while Garrison, with a stealth learned during years on the high seas, used a strangling thong when the other man climbed down to investigate. A half-mile up, the trail divided, so Gage split his men into smaller groups. Grant chose Garrison, Smythe and the irrascible McManahan to help eliminate any Maroons guarding the compound, which was finally visible through the trees.

After that, it was only a matter of waiting until dark to scale the high walls and attack.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Despite Old Mogaweh’s maternal instincts, Captain Cudjoe ignored his fatigue. Instead he debriefed his lieutenants on the early morning raids. He saw to a number of pressing matters among those living in the jungle hideaway. Following their successful raid, several runaway slaves had joined the cause. Absorbing them into the rebels’ community required careful planning and the delegation of responsibilities. These tasks Cudjoe handled with his usual decisiveness. By keeping his people fully occupied, there was less chance for personal conflicts to arise.

His sources from the outside had reported a company of British soldiers, commanded by the formidable Lt. Colonel Gage, and heading toward McManahan’s place. This required a change of plans, for he considered the overthrow of leadership at that location one of his priorities. By exterminating white settlers at three or four plantations in each major region on the island, he hoped to send the British scurrying to book passage back to their homeland.

In addition, he knew that McManahan was planning to load a British merchant ship, the Fair Winds, with cargo which the Maroons could market to Spanish contacts in Cuba. The extra loot could provide his men with more weapons.

All afternoon Cudjoe conferred with other Maroon captains, as they returned from similar missions. Together they concluded that Gage’s troops made it too risky to raid additional plantations that night. Instead they must invoke the powers of Obi and his helpers to insure healing and victory.

As Obeahman, he decided it was time to visit the white woman in his custody.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The woman who called Rosalyn “Nina” awakened her, bringing bread and wine. Ravenously hungry, Rosalyn devoured every morsel and washed it down with the bitter tasting wine. Soon overcome by a puzzling lassitude, she closed her eyes to block out images whirling around in her head. She saw strange arcing lights and colors, and had overwhelming physical sensations of falling, drowning, losing control, and floating outside of her body. She blanked out, the loud racing of her heart roaring in her ears.

When she awoke, she found only ominous darkness outside the window of her narrow cell. Her mind gradually came to focus on the brown face suspended above her. Instantly awakened memory and recognition brought renewed panic. Sitting up shakily, she studied his swarthy features. A thin scar marred his left jaw. His tightly curled beard and black hair, his strong nose with its high arch and flaring nostrils, and the brutal curve of his mouth suggested a proud heritage. It could have been a handsome face, marked by intelligence, were it not for his commanding air of arrogance and. . . ruthless brutality. His eyes burned into hers, searching...demanding.

Seeing her emerging from her drugged stupor, Cudjoe smiled. But the effect did nothing to calm her fears. His shrewd, piercing gaze reminded her of a dangerous predator sizing up its next victim.

“You will be pleased to know Minna is doing better,” he told her.

She nodded, shivering from nerves. “I-I’m glad. She will be all right, then?”

“Yes.” He sat at the foot of the cot, and she noticed he had exchanged his rough clothing for a white robe. “You interest me, woman. My sources tell me you helped a young African woman give birth at Wortham Manor yesterday.” His eyes roamed over her as if trying to determine where her sympathies lay.

“Where am I?” She licked her lips nervously. “How long do you plan to keep me here?”

“As long as you serve my purposes. Providing you cooperate,” he emphasized.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said, stalling.

“My people call me Cudjoe—or Captain Cudjoe, if you prefer. And you are?”

“Rosalyn Morgan...uh, Watermann,” she said, stumbling over her last name. “I had hoped to sail from Kingston in two days’ time—on the Fair Winds.”

Smiling, he leaned closer, searching her face. “So, Rosalyn Morgan Watermann. Any relation to the pirate Henry Morgan?”

Oh, Lord—no! Not another one of her uncle’s admirers! she thought.

“My great-uncle. We never met,” she added discouragingly.

His eyes lit up. “My father admired Morgan's fighting skills. They met in battle, years ago.”

“I suppose men enjoy violence. I do not,” she said stubbornly.

“Ah, but you show such courage by fighting injustice, if all I hear is true.”

“I despise slavery. I suppose that's why you and your men wage war against the plantation owners?”

“Our goals reach far beyond freeing slaves,” he confided. “Long ago our fathers were freed by the Spaniards. We plan to get rid of all foreigners and set up independent rule.”

“Do you think killing and burning will accomplish your goals?” Rosalyn countered.

“We use whatever means are at our disposal. The colonists will regret the day they ever came to our island.”

“Well, I have seen much oppression here, but I don’t see how your actions are justified.”

His lips curled in a bitter sneer. “How else can we drive the English out?” he asked.

“I assure you, I am one Englishwoman who will be happy to leave Jamaica, if given the chance.”

“Ah, but I need you here, Wild Orchid,” he crooned. “Think of the good you could do, caring for my people in times of sickness.”

She tried to focus on his words, for her head had begun to pound again. “No! I know nothing about medicine.”

“I and Mogaweh, the Obeahwoman, will teach you the mysteries of our African ancestors, who heal by using the spirits in local plants—”

“Please—no! I-I sympathize with the problems of your people,” Rosalyn cried out in desperation, “but I can’t help you! Please let me go!”

He reached out, trailing his dark, tapered fingers over her smooth skin. “I only ask that you stay with me a few days and consider what we’ve been talking about.”

Mogaweh entered with a cup of warm, simmering broth. Smiling, Cudjoe took the cup from the old woman, who inclined her head respectfully and left the room.

“Here, drink this.” His voice contained a command. “All of it. It will give you strength.”

Rosalyn was afraid to refuse. She couldn’t afford to incur his wrath. Everything depended on him releasing her unharmed. He stood watching Rosalyn drink the broth dutifully. Almost immediately her head began to throb in a slow drumming pulse.

He stood, gathering his robe around him. “I must prepare for tonight’s meeting.” He leaned close, his gaze hypnotic. “The spirit of Obi will assist us in our cause.”

“Meeting? What meet—” The empty cup slipped from her numb fingers, and her body drained of energy. “Wh-what is happening to me?” she cried out, disoriented, as the potion in the broth took effect. She reached out, clutching at him for stability.

“It’s old Mogaweh’s way to prepare you for tonight’s ceremony,” he grinned.

In her drugged state she offered no resistance when he lowered his head and covered her mouth with a savage kiss. She was floating way up high, like an impersonal witness looking down from somewhere outside of herself. And as her body grew increasingly paralyzed, she found she no longer had the strength to cry out or fight him.