Chapter Seventeen

 

Savoring the sweetness of her mouth, Cudjoe watched her eyelids flutter, as the potion took effect and her mind took wing into the spirit world. He exulted in knowing that her drug-induced trance would make her an ideal channel for the spirits to work through during tonight’s ceremony. First she must make intercession for Minna and the wounded men of his group. Till then, he must not offend the great Obi by merging his spirit with hers, though he was tempted.

“My wild orchid!” he whispered, running his fingers over her silky skin. Dressed in the white robe of an Obeahman, he flexed himself briefly over her, feeling her exquisite warmth beneath his powerful body.

Shaking inwardly, Rosalyn closed her eyes against the liberties he took, and the drugs bore her into Dionysiac forgetfulness.

In the courtyard, the drums summoned all true followers of Obi to worship. Cudjoe rose slowly, removed her clothes and, picking up her limp body, carried her outside into the open air. As he walked to the altar, his mind focused on his all-consuming mission: leading his people to freedom. Last night the drums had issued a call to action to plantation slaves, imputing to them superhuman courage for the early morning hours of terror. Empowered by their spirit gods, the slaves had joined with the Maroons, taking up knives, machetes, sickles and other farm implements. They felt their tools—a daily link between them and the woodland spirits—grow strong in their hands, as they invoked the invincible Obi to aid in their struggle.

Now these same men and women took up candles and moved in a slow, swaying rhythm into the courtyard of the hacienda. Great torches lit the altar. Old Mogaweh, also garbed in white, shuffled with a freedom of movement that defied her advanced years and heavy bulk. As the tempo of the drums began to quicken, the incantations grew louder, and the worshipers began to chant. She lit candles on the altar, sprinkled water on the ground, on the people. The drums pounded with vibrations that shook the dirt floor beneath the dancers’ feet. Soon Mogaweh began to conjure and invite the spirits to appear and possess the servants of Obi.

Rosalyn’s mind rioted with a thousand frightening images, as the worshipers parted to let Cudjoe pass through their midst. The strange ritual terrified Rosalyn with its pulsating drums, strange utterances, and the flickering torches set up around the courtyard. Hot breezes produced by dark figures madly whirling made her aware of her nakedness. Confused, she wondered when she could have mislaid her clothes.

She wanted to cry out, to break free of Cudjoe's strong arms, to flee, but her spirit was held prisoner in a lifeless body, unable to will herself to action. Her loose tresses nearly sweeping the ground, she felt herself borne along by the Maroon leader. He carried her the entire length of the courtyard and placed her supinely upon the altar.

The drums beat a loud, hypnotic rhythm, repetitious, full of complex sounds and tempos. Clapping and gyrating, the dancers gave themselves up more and more to the frenzied beat. They moved in a circle about a post decorated with emblems and magical properties belonging to their spirit gods. Hour after hour the brutal hammering blows of the drummers continued. One by one, the worshipers, captive to the spell of Obi, fell in convulsions of hysterical frenzy and trance-like states.

Cudjoe and Old Mogaweh moved among the maddened, ecstatic dancers. Ministering, they reassured those who spoke in a babble of disconnected utterances—the language of the mysterious underworld. The spirits were bestowing their invincible powers.

Finally in a litany of sacrifice and dedication, Cudjoe produced a live chicken with a dramatic flourish over his head. The drums buffeted the crowd with a crescendo of pulsating point and counterpoint rhythms. With a wild shriek of joy, Mogaweh twisted the neck, tossed the head aside. She sprinkled chicken blood over Rosalyn’s nude body and over the outstretched hands of Obi’s followers.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

During all the distractions of the Obeah ceremony, Grant Watermann and his three comrades took advantage of the confusion to scale the outer wall of the compound. No one guarded access to the hacienda on the upper level. From there, the men of the Fair Winds awaited the opportune moment to signal Gage’s troops and launch an all-out assault on the Maroons.

Reaching the balcony, Grant looked out over the religious frenzy in the courtyard below. In horror, his eyes fastened upon the naked figure on the altar, splattered with blood. Rosalyn, his beautiful Rosalyn! Exquisite, pale as death...naked, vulnerable, violated. Oh, desecration!

Seeing her like this pushed him over the edge of reason. All the dogs of war set loose in his soul. With a blood-curdling howl of rage, Grant hurled himself over the balcony railing, a cutlass in his right hand, a large club in his left.

“Rosalyn!” he cried. Landing on his feet like a cat, legs flexing like springs, he ran his blade through the first man to engage him in battle. Next he hauled off with the club, bashing heads with a strength not even given to the crazed followers of Obi.

Garrison and Smythe followed their Captain over the railing, using ropes, and joined in the free-for-all. Meanwhile McManahan took care of two men guarding the barred gates to the piazza and opened the heavy double doors so that Gage’s militia could secure the area.

The operation, calculated to ensnare this band of Maroons and slaves, worked like a charm. Over the next several minutes most of the men and women under Obi’s hypnotic spell were sprawled in the dirt, either wounded or dying.

A few Maroons fled in panic and barricaded themselves in a large room. When the British broke in, there were no prisoners to stand trial. The Maroons had elected to commit mass suicide, thus cheating their enemies of the satisfaction of hanging them.

Grant, thinking Rosalyn was dead, fought with a fury of passion that felled every savage who crossed his path. When Lt. Colonel Gage fired a shot to signal the successful conclusion of their surprise attack, Smythe and Garrison could barely restrain their Captain, who was maddened with grief and dealing out destruction left and right.

“Cap’n, it’s over,” Smythe shouted.

“We’ve landed most of the big fish,” Garrison started to say.

“Fuck 'em all!” Grant howled. “Filthy bastards!”

He tried to wrench free, but they hung on.

“Garrison, unhand me, God dammit!” he raged. “You, too, Smythe!”

Reluctantly his men loosed their grip on Grant’s straining arms. At that instant, he spotted the Obeahman rising from behind the altar. Gage and his men were busy placing Maroons and slaves in manacles. In the confusion, Cudjoe, bleeding and weakened by his wounds, saw his chance to escape. All he needed was a hostage. Retrieving Rosalyn’s limp body from the altar, he slung her over his shoulder and made for the back door.

Grant leapt forward, bent of revenge. “Follow me!” he shouted to his men.

Cut off, Cudjoe dragged his captive into the nearest room and barred the door.

“Open up, you murderin’ bastard, or I’ll break the door down!” Grant roared.

“Back off, if you want the woman to live,” was Cudjoe’s reply. He set down his captive so he could tend the wound on his arm.

A crude ramming device crashed like a hollow drum, shaking the door on its hinges.

Rosalyn, her eyes still glazed and wide, jerked her head convulsively toward the door. “Grant,” she whispered hoarsely through parched lips.

Another solid blow connected. The wall shattered, sending plaster and dust everywhere.

Cudjoe’s black eyes gleamed with cunning. “Back off,” he snarled, moving toward his captive, knife in hand.

Rosalyn struggled to comprehend what was going on. Even in her immobilized state on the altar, she had seen Grant’s incredibly reckless leap from the balcony. Dumbstruck, she had watched him lead the attack on the demon worshipers. Almost singlehandedly he quickly put a dozen men out of commission.

And now he was coming to rescue her!

She closed her eyes, trying to gather her strength. Then she spoke directly to Cudjoe: “You must...get out of...here.”

Cudjoe shook his head. “The only way out is through the window.”

“Save yourself,” she whispered, afraid of what might happen, if the two men fought.

“I must take you with me,” he insisted.

“No, leave me!” she cried, petrified that he meant to hold her hostage. “You don’t need me,” she tried to reason with him, “b-but...your people do! Hurry!”

Cudjoe stared at her, amazed. Her luscious high breasts gleamed like white alabaster in the dimly lit room. Her beauty spoke volumes to his heart, and he saw her in that moment as the embodiment of a mysterious, gracious visitant from the spirit world.

Could it be that she shared his concern for his people? She knew the worst there was to know about him, yet she seemed eager to see him go free! Surely she understood that behind this reign of terror, he was fighting for a noble cause: his people’s independence! In that moment, Cudjoe loved her as he had loved no other woman.

Stooping with a softened expression in his eyes, he kissed her hard. "Adios, mi cara!” he breathed, and vaulting over the sill of the casement window, he vanished into the night.

In the next heartbeat Grant, with the help of Garrison and Smythe, sent the door crashing. Surveying the room at a glance, he saw Captain Cudjoe make his escape and instantly turned his attention to Rosalyn, who lay on the floor, filthy and disheveled, covered with the blood of animal sacrifices.

“Grant,” she cried, still too drugged and weak to care about her nakedness.

“Turn your backs, men!” he ordered gruffly. Stripping off his shirt, he covered her quickly, then ripped a thin curtain from the window. As he began to dress her in a makeshift fashion, she kept falling over, and he noticed how wild and dilated her eyes were.

“Oh, Grant,” she slurred. “I knew...I prayed you would come.”

“You’re safe now.” He tried to cover his emotion with brusqueness, but failed miserably. In her present state, he could only suspect the worst had befallen her among this pack of murdering, raping fiends. A lump formed in his throat, as again he blamed himself for leaving her unprotected in the grove. What a fool he was to think she could fend for herself against such barbarity! And now she would have to live the rest of her life, haunted by memories of the nightmare she had survived.

“I’m safe with you here.” She nuzzled up against his bare chest while he clumsily buttoned his shirt over her breasts. “Grant, why, your hands are shaking,” she said in a puzzled voice.

“Please forgive me, Rosalyn!” he burst out passionately, clasping her to his heart. “I can’t bear that this has happened to you.” His voice broke.

She gave him a drunken grin. “S-sure, I’ll f-forgive you, if that’s w-what you want.”

“Wait till I catch that Cudjoe!” he threatened, taking refuge in warlike utterances. “I’ll make sure he hangs for doing this to you!”

“Let him go, Grant. He’s only one man.”

“What?” He stared at her. Had she lost her sanity? No, more likely she was drugged and talking crazy out of her mind.

Rosalyn hiccupped. “I saw you, Grant.” She waggled her finger at him. “You looked m-magnificent, coming to rescue me.”

“More like a damned besotted fool,” Grant muttered, suddenly angry at them both. Did she not understand the possible consequences of her ordeal? He was about to give her a tongue lashing, but then he saw the uselessness of that idea. She had fallen asleep.

“Cap’n, what now?” asked Smythe, gawking sheepishly.

“There’s not much we can do until Colonel Gage and his men finish up around here. Then we’ll be taking Mrs. Watermann back to civilization.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Early the next morning, exhausted and half-starved, Gage and his men marched thirty-four Maroon prisoners and escaped slaves toward Passage Fort. Grant and his party, after dropping Mr. Gowdrie off at his place, took the road to McManahan’s plantation. Riding with Rosalyn drowsing in his arms, Grant wished now that he'd kept his feelings for Rosalyn a better secret during the heat of battle. Not that he'd ever allow his private thoughts concerning her interfere with how he ran his ship or his other affairs. If anything, the raid on the Maroons’ stronghold only reinforced his opinion that women brought a man nothing but bad luck.

His first mistake had been letting her come aboard the Fair Winds. His second mistake was leaving her to fend for herself in the glade. And his third mistake? Hellfire! He'd take that secret to the grave before he ever admitted it, but his third and most fatal mistake was falling in love with her.

Damn her eyes! The more time he spent around her, the harder it became not to drag her into his cabin and have his way with her. But that would only stir things up worse—her railing at him about this and that, and him taking her guff for the sake of a little slap and tickle. A fine example that would be to his men! His reputation as a fighter and a scrapper would be in ruins!

No, he had best get them out to sea without delay. The sooner he got Rosalyn safely settled in London, the better. Otherwise, she’d start telling him how to run his business—things like that. Turn him into a regular gentleman. Aye, a man had to protect himself against such abuse, or lose his self-respect!

Having settled his mind on the subject, he left his father’s widow in the housekeeper’s care at the great house. Heading down to McManahan’s wharf, he was gratified to discover that Warburton had loaded most of the cargo in his absence. While the crew finished up, Grant, Smythe, and Garrison sat down to a sumptuous breakfast with their host and Rosalyn.

Stunned to learn that Rosalyn had been held captive by the blood-thirsty Maroons, Mercy had come back from the ship at once. “Oh, Rosalyn, forgive me for deserting you!” she cried, embracing her friend.

“Nonsense, Mercy,” Rosalyn told her. “Who knows? If you'd stayed with me at the Sanfords’ place, we probably would have been murdered in our beds.”

“But you were kidnapped!”

Rosalyn nodded. “Yes, but everything is all right now, as you can see.”

“What were the Maroons like?” Mercy asked, dying of curiosity.

“Fierce. And desperate enough to do just about anything, I suppose, including commit murder.” Ravenous after a day with nothing to eat, Rosalyn stuffed a bite of ham in her mouth.

McManahan grunted his disapproval. “Don’t waste your sympathy, ma’am. They’re a bunch of cutthroats, murdering, burning, breaking the law—”

“Yes, our laws,” Rosalyn pointed out, helping herself liberally to everything edible in sight. “Perhaps we might react like them, Mr. McManahan, if Spain or some other country took away our land and tried to impose their laws on us!”

Trying to head off an argument between his lovely but intoxicated partner and McManahan, Grant stuck in his oar. “Let’s remember, Mrs. Watermann has just been through a terrible ordeal. She is not herself yet.”

“I don’t need you making excuses for me, Captain Watermann.” She glanced around the table at all the long faces. “What now? Have I suddenly grown two heads? I am truly sorry if it offends you to hear a contrary view, but the Maroons believe they have a just cause. Not that it justifies what they did,” she hastened to add.

Grant snorted. “You’re defending Cudjoe? The man who drugged you and— Oh, forget it,” he said, throwing his napkin down on the table. “Excuse me, but I have business to attend on the wharf.” He turned abruptly and left the room, followed by McManahan.

Frowning, Smythe and Garrison gave a quick tug on their forelocks and followed their captain outside. Waiting until the men had left, Mercy turned to rebuke her friend. “Rosalyn, I cannot believe you said that to him! Why, he saved your life!”

Rosalyn leaned back in her chair and popped a morsel of buttered scone in her mouth. “Can I help it if he’s jealous?” Reveling in her ability to torment Grant, she nudged Mercy with her elbow. “I do believe my little adventure topped yours,” she couldn’t resist saying.

“Rosalyn! What has come over you?”

“Why, Mercy," she echoed. "I didn’t know you could be so easily shocked!”

Following breakfast Rosalyn let Mercy pamper her by pouring perfumed oils into her bath water. As she lay back in the tub, listening to the incessant buzz of insects outside the open window, memories of her captivity came back like waves crashing in upon her consciousness: the strange pagan ceremony, Captain Cudjoe, everything...

Especially vivid was that moment when Grant’s wild battle cry had penetrated the fog that enveloped her in a drug-induced stupor. She had looked up to see . . .Grant Watermann, leaping down from the second story balcony into the courtyard!

Dear God! she exulted, he was magnificent! Recalling his agility and ferocious fighting gave her goosebumps. Still ringing in her ears was his loud heart-wrenching cry in mid-air: “Rosalyn!”

In that electrifying moment everything else had ceased to exist for her, except the thrill of knowing that he was her champion, come to fight for her. She shuddered, wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t arrived in time.

But already his attitude was changing. Once more he held himself aloof. He seemed critical and guarded, almost as if he were afraid— How absurd! Grant Watermann, swashbuckling and shrewd, cynical and sinful, why, he feared nothing! Unless— Rosalyn laughed softly, realizing what her name on his lips signified. Had the victor been vanquished, then? By a mere Puritan maiden? Was that divine justice, or what?

“Mercy, he loves me,” she confided, submerging in her warm, relaxing bath. “It’s eating him alive, wondering if anything happened between me and Cudjoe. He is insanely jealous!”

Mercy handed her a sponge. “I think you’re balmy, sweet Rosalyn.”

“You know how I know?” Rosalyn blew a handful of bubbles into the air. “He found me stark naked. Without doubt, he and every other man who was present last night thinks I was ravished. And I very nearly was—by Captain Cudjoe. But the truth is, Mercy, as terrible as everybody thinks it was—” She blushed furiously, remembering how close she'd come to being violated. “It was much worse watching Grant fighting for my honor, and being afraid that he’d be killed. He risked his life to save me.” She burst into tears. “He did it because he loves me, Mercy! But now he’s convinced I’m ruined, and he...he—”

“Are you saying that nothing happened?” Mercy perched on a boudoir chair, struggling to believe her friend’s version of what had happened.

“What happened is that I survived!” Rising from her bath, and feeling deliciously clean, Rosalyn wrapped a large linen towel around her dripping curves. “And thanks be to God, I’m still a virgin.”

“Oh, I believe you, Rosalyn—truly I do.” Mercy rolled her eyes. “But can you blame Grant for thinking the worst?” She handed her friend a box of lavender bath powder.

“Who can predict how a man’s mind works?” she shrugged. “After all, he very nearly had his way with me himself! Could that be why Grant is so angry?”

“No!” Mercy stared at her friend with dawning respect. “I had no idea things had gone that far.”

Rosalyn very busily filled the air with bath powder to cover her embarrassment. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, Mercy. I know all about you and Charles Lamb.”

It was Mercy’s turn to blush. “I know it’s wicked of me, but we're very much in love.”

“It’s written all over your face. Anyway, all your warnings about discovering passion—”

“What? With Grant, or that Maroon?”

“Don’t be silly! With Grant, of course. But he mustn’t ever find out how I feel about him. Promise you’ll never tell?”

“I promise, only—”

Rosalyn’s eyes grew misty again. “Grant and I can never be anything more than business partners. Don’t you see, Mercy? He thinks I’ve been...used. So if I were to give myself to him now, well—I know how his mind works,” she said darkly. “He’s not the marrying kind, and I’m not interested in being just another of his conquests. It would break my heart.”

Mercy jumped to her feet, her usually gentle eyes now snapping. “How two people can be so stubborn is beyond me!”

“No, Mercy, say no more. Grant and I are better off being business partners. He must never know.”

Rosalyn quickly dressed in the gown Mercy had brought her from the ship. Much refreshed, she picked up Grant’s shirt and examined it. “I need to wash and return this,” she mused. Kneeling by the tub, she plunged it into the bath suds, rubbed it with soap, and scrubbed vigorously to get out all the chicken blood. Rinsing it in a separate basin, she glanced defiantly at Mercy. “I tell you one thing: Grant owes me a new dress for leaving me to get kidnapped, and I mean to collect. A very expensive one, too, when we get to London.”

“I hope you’ll wear it as my bridesmaid,” said Mercy, smiling.

With a happy cry, Rosalyn embraced her companion. “Oh, Mercy, I’d be delighted to be your bridesmaid!”

A soft rap on the door interrupted their excited exchange of confidences. A heavyset woman entered with bed linens draped over her arm and closed the door quietly behind her. Mercy took it in stride, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. But Rosalyn recognizing the woman, recoiled.

Speech failing her, she clutched her friend’s hand nervously.

“What is it, Rosalyn?” Mercy asked.

The woman set down her pile of bedding and approached. Though a slave, she bore herself with dignity, and a strange inner power seemed to emanate from her.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Rosalyn asked in a strangled voice.

“Captain Cudjoe sent me.”

Suddenly faint, Rosalyn sat down abruptly on the bed. “Don’t come any closer!” Terrified, she held up her hand as if to ward off an evil spirit.

“Have no fear, mistress. He only sends his thanks.”

“Oh?” Shaking visibly, Rosalyn noticed Mercy staring at her strangely, as if she had lied about her relationship with the black Maroon. She licked her lips nervously, wondering what the woman’s visit really portended.

“Cudjoe say you give him de greatest gift—his life. For this, he sends thanks.”

“I see! Well, you’ve delivered his message. Please go now.”

“He say bring you small gift.”

Rosalyn shook her head frantically. “Please—no gift!”

“I bring de gift of prophecy. For you and your friend.”

“Then will you go?” Rosalyn stammered, feeling quite desperate.

Mercy beckoned to the old woman. “You tell fortunes?” She winked mischievously over her shoulder at Rosalyn. “This should be interesting.”

Rosalyn shook her head wildly. “I don’t believe in such foolishness!”

Old Mogaweh smiled, the lines in her ancient face crinkling. “Give me your hand, mistress,” she said, “and I will share my gift.”

“I thought you were taken into custody with the others.” Hiding her hands behind her. Rosalyn backed away.

“The spirit of Obi made me invisible, so I was not taken.” Mogaweh turned to Mercy. “You like me to tell your fortune?”

Mercy held out her hand with an amused air. “Tell me, O wise one. What do you see in my future?”

The Obeahwoman pored over the outstretched palm, felt a few small calluses, and smiled almost pityingly into Mercy’s soft blue eyes. “Child, your life has not been easy. I see much sorrow in de past. And your love line—" She shook her head ruefully. “You de most unluckiest person in love.”

Mercy laughed, clearly amused. “And my future?”

Sighing, Old Mogaweh released Mercy’s hand gently. “Not to worry about de future. Enjoy de present.”

Mercy looked puzzled, but then her face lit up again with mischief. “Now it’s your turn, Rosalyn. Come on, 'tis all in fun!”

“Oh, very well,” Rosalyn said, resigning herself to a bunch of mumbo jumbo. “But I don’t believe in superstition, Mercy Wallins, and neither should you.”

Peering intently at the outstretched hand, Mogaweh chuckled. “Strong lifeline.”

Rosalyn shot Mercy a triumphant look. “Wasn't I right? Sheer rubbish!”

Mogaweh’s black eyes gleamed wickedly. “You can’t run from your fate, mistress. ’Tis written in yo’ hand. Right here.” Her gnarled forefinger tapped Rosalyn’s palm.

“Surprise me with more of your great wisdom,” Rosalyn mocked. Her nerves were already shattered. What more could this strange woman do to her?

“I see a great love," said the old woman. "You travel de whole wide world, but you cannot escape de passion you feel for dis one man.”

Suddenly everything went very still inside Rosalyn. As if someone had walked on her grave.

“It is written.” Mogaweh got to her feet heavily, her pronouncement delivered with an air of finality. “Now I go.” From the doorway she smiled at them both. “I tell my grandson Cudjoe I come see you, Wild Orchid.” And then she was gone.

Ignoring Mercy’s curious stare, Rosalyn began to brush her hair. “Pay no attention. That old woman has no powers. She makes things up.”

Quietly picking up her shawl, Mercy draped it around her shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Rosalyn demanded, not wishing to be left alone after such an unsettling encounter.

“I’m off to see Captain Watermann. Wild Orchid—hah!”

“Mercy Wallins, you come back here!”

But her friend only laughed. “Some promises are made to be kept, and some are meant to be shared. Sorry, love!”