Black Heart of Jamaica, Page 3

  ‘How far have you got with the psalm?’ she asked, patting her honey-blonde hair in place after the dishevelment of the sea breeze. When unbound it sprang into tight cork-screw curls. I had noticed that she kept herself to herself when the Peabodys were present. I imagined she found that life was easier if she did not attract attention; perhaps this was a lesson I should learn.

  I reeled off the first segment of the psalm word-perfect.

  ‘Excellent.’ Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled, making her even prettier. ‘I admire your memory, Miss Royal.’

  ‘Please call me Cat when she’s not around. Everyone else does.’

  Miss Atkins nodded. ‘I’d like that. Still, I’d also like to know your secret of learning so fast. Celia’s part is quite daunting.’

  ‘I learned the trick from Mr Kemble and Mrs Siddons,’ I said, naming the brother and sister acting duet at Drury Lane, well known to you, Reader, I am sure. ‘It’s like exercising a muscle: once your brain is warmed up, it’s surprising how much you can retain with the right kind of concentration.’

  ‘What else do you know?’

  ‘Oh, bits and bobs. Speeches from plays, poetry, English, French and Latin.’

  She laughed. ‘I can see your talents are wasted on a small part like Phoebe.’

  I gave her a cheeky grin. ‘And I also know lots of sea-shanties, not all of them decent.’

  ‘Perhaps you should teach me some.’ She leaned forward with a wicked smile. ‘But not on a Sunday.’

  I sat back and fluttered my hand in a missish gesture often employed by Hetty. ‘You shock me, Miss Atkins.’

  ‘Georgina, or Georgie, please. When she’s not around.’

  I gave a conspiratorial nod. ‘Georgie it is, then.’

  Feeling the ice had been well and truly broken, I yawned and threw the Bible aside. No need to pretend with her.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Georgie. How did you come to be part of Mrs Peabody’s hen-pecked ensemble?’

  The actress shrugged and took a place on the narrow bunk beside me. ‘She’s not so bad. I’ve known worse. As for me, there’s not much to tell. My quiet life in Antigua ended when my father died.’

  ‘Antigua?’

  ‘It’s one of the islands in the West Indies – we might be going there later on the tour.’

  ‘Do you have family living there still?’

  She shook her head. ‘My mother passed away years before, taken by the yellow fever. Father was in charge of supplies for the Naval Dockyard but left me with little – too honest for his own good when everyone else was lining their pockets. I was thrown upon my own resources, and being an actress was one of the more desirable options.’

  ‘What about marriage?’ I couldn’t believe that a pretty woman like her would have been without offers from the officers who passed through the island.

  Georgie tweaked her hair. ‘Did you not realize, Cat? I’m a mulatto. No man of decent family is going to offer for me, and the other sort of men I prefer to keep at a distance.’

  ‘A mulatto? Doesn’t that mean you have mixed blood?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But you look white.’

  ‘The memories of many people out here are very long. My grandmother was a slave – that makes me a quadroon.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A quarter African but, to many people, that’s the part that matters.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’ Not to say insulting: as if one kind of blood was better or worse than another!

  She smiled bitterly. ‘Isn’t it? You would not believe the minute categories they dream up on the islands to account for blood. You have to reach octoroon before you’re automatically free.’

  I gasped. ‘You’re not a slave, are you?’

  ‘No, no. My grandfather freed my grandmother and married her. But the taint remains, acceptable for an actress but not for a wife of a European planter or an officer.’

  ‘Does Mrs Peabody know?’

  ‘Of course. I would never hide such a thing from my employer. She hired me last year when the troop came to Antigua and I’ve been with the Peabodys ever since. They’re not bad sorts: infuriating but not cruel. So here I am.’ She spread her hands wide. ‘One very boring life. This voyage is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me and even I recognize that it has been pretty uneventful. Nothing by your standards, I’m sure.’

  ‘My standards?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘Pedro’s been telling me stories at dinner while you’ve been discussing the finer points of sailing with the bosun.’

  I laughed. It was true: I had been milking the crew for information about the ship at every opportunity.

  Georgie kicked off her shoes. ‘I must say it is very odd to be cabin-mate with a girl who, though younger than me, has seen far more of life.’

  My smile faded. I wondered if she meant that as a veiled insult. In our society, girls were not supposed to be worldly; we were supposed to be sweet innocents without an original thought in our head. But as her face glowed with genuine interest, I decided she had not meant to censure me.

  ‘Everything that’s happened to me has always been a bit by accident,’ I confessed. ‘My friends think I attract trouble.’

  Georgie clasped her hands to her chest. ‘How wonderful!’

  ‘Not always. Sometimes it can be terrifying.’

  ‘But still, you’re really living, not drifting as so many of us do. How I would like to live an adventure, not just act in one!’

  I laughed. Miss Georgina Atkins was quite a surprise.

  ‘In that case, I think we should make a pact against the forces of dullness and decorum,’ I suggested, nodding towards Mrs Peabody’s chair. ‘Though we outwardly conform – or at least you do,’ I amended, ‘inside we will know that we are free; we’ll grab our adventures before they pass us by!’ I spat on the palm of my hand in a true Covent Garden gesture of deal-making. ‘Agreed?’

  Georgie hesitated for a fraction then spat delicately before shaking my hand. ‘Agreed.’

  Sailing with the Turk and Caicos Islands to the east, two hundred and fifty miles north of Jamaica, the Running Sally continued to make good progress. When not required for rehearsal, I often stood watching the slow unfurling of the wake behind the ship and once was rewarded with the glimpse of the stately wave of a whale’s tail before it slapped down on to the waters and disappeared. Inside the reef protecting the islands, the sea glowed turquoise; out in the channel where we were sailing it was a deeper blue. The sun shone in a sky smudged by only a few puffs of cloud like powder marks on an azure gown. Revelling in this chance to travel, I fell in love with the boundless horizons and sense of freedom you can only find on the ocean.

  Our first port of call was approaching. The captain hailed a passing trading vessel and the two ships drew in canvas for an exchange of news. Our route to Jamaica would be taking us to the troubled French colony of San Domingo and he did not want any unpleasant surprises when we called in to off-load some cargo. Whatever the other captain told him was clearly a matter of great concern.

  ‘Apparently the whole island of San Domingo is in uproar.’ Pedro filled me in on the details during a lull in our morning rehearsal. ‘The mulattos are fighting for their rights, the slaves are demanding their freedom; it’s revolution, Cat, and the French masters can hardly complain because the people are only following the example set in Paris.’ Pedro grinned. ‘I can’t tell you how proud it makes me to hear that some of my people have finally done what we all wanted. They’ve taken their freedom rather than waiting for it to be handed to them.’

  I bit my lip, watching Mrs Peabody going through Hetty’s part with her for the hundredth time. The girl had a brain in which no words would stick. ‘I don’t know, Pedro. What if the masters get back in control? Their revenge will be terrible.’

  ‘Then the slaves must not lose.’

  ‘I hate to sound pessimistic, but when have you ever heard of a successful slave revolt?’
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br />   ‘There always has to be a first.’ Pedro’s tone was brittle. He was taking my doubt personally. ‘The main point is that Le Cap where our captain had thought to make port is too dangerous with all these different groups running wild. He’s making for the Ile de la Tortue.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Tortoise Island – you might have heard it called Tortuga. It lies to the north, just off the mainland of San Domingo, so he thinks it will probably have escaped most of the turmoil. He’s dropping off some cargo there and then will take the Windward Passage to Jamaica.’

  Tortuga I had heard of, yes. It sounded a most intriguing destination. From what the old tars on board had told me, the island had been the centre of piracy in the early days of our century. That was the heyday of buccaneers: a time when you might’ve met Blackbeard and William Kidd drinking at a local Tortugan tavern. Since then, the French and British Navies had imposed some order on the Caribbean, but there were still plenty of disreputable privateers ready to walk on the wrong side of the law when no one was looking; and I had heard that Tortuga was still a notoriously lawless place. I very much doubted that Mrs Peabody would let us girls go ashore.

  After weeks of travel, the temptation to put foot on dry land was strong. I hadn’t come on this voyage to spend my time staring at the walls of my cabin. As we drew into the main port on the island, I squinted into the shafts of evening sunshine. Cayonne was a ramshackle place in the shelter of the turtle-backed mountain, a jumble of taverns and shops serving the sea-going vessels, but to me it didn’t look very threatening – no worse than the places I’d visited on Bermuda on my voyage out from England. I sighed. No point getting myself thrown out of the company for disobeying Mrs Peabody without good reason.

  When Pedro returned from shore-leave at dawn, he was a good deal richer but I sensed that the visit to Tortuga had disturbed him profoundly. Lucky, then, that the Running Sally was not lingering; cargo unloaded, the captain was already making preparations to sail.

  Pedro stood at the ship’s side, drumming his fingers on the rail.

  ‘What was it like?’ I asked curiously, tugging him out of the way of a sailor busy with the task of casting off.

  My friend drew his hand over his brow. ‘The usual collection of dirty inns and drunks.’

  ‘So why the long face?’

  ‘I just feel as though I should . . .’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘Everyone’s talking about this rebellion on San Domingo; I think . . . no, I know that it’s a cause I would give my life for and I can’t say that about anything else, except perhaps for my friends.’ He squeezed my hand then let it drop. ‘Just think: if they succeed here it could mean the end of slavery across the West Indies as rebellion spreads from island to island.’

  I was taken aback by his vehemence. I’d never seen Pedro in this mood before. ‘What happened, Pedro? Who did you meet?’

  ‘Am I so easy to read?’ Pedro gave me a fond smile.

  ‘Only to me.’

  ‘Well.’ He slumped down with his back to a barrel, rubbing his head with both hands, elbows on knees. I sat down next to him. ‘There was a man in the second inn we went to – an escaped slave. I got talking to him about San Domingo. He told me that people of my colour were gathering around a leader called Toussaint. He’s hiding out in the interior; he’s training up an army of slaves.’

  I whistled. ‘A risky venture.’

  Pedro shrugged. ‘Of course. The slaves won’t get freedom without sacrifice.’

  ‘That might be true, but it sounds as if there’s going to be a lot of blood spilt.’

  ‘What about the blood being spilt already – every day on the slave plantations?’

  I didn’t have an answer to that.

  ‘I think this Toussaint is right,’ continued Pedro, fists clenching. ‘We have to grab freedom rather than wait for white men to grant it to us. The masters will squeeze work out of the slaves until they no longer have use for them. Only then will they think about giving us our freedom – too late.’

  ‘But you are free, Pedro.’ I took his hand in mine, smoothing out his fist and feeling the calluses on the pads of his fingers from his violin-playing.

  ‘Yes, Cat, but don’t you want to do something to help?’

  ‘Maybe. But what could I do?’ I caught his eye, guessing what he was thinking. ‘And what use would you be to a soldier?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looked longingly at the San Domingo mainland just a few miles off our bow. ‘I don’t know. As you said, I’m free but I feel I’ve got to use my freedom well. I owe it to my people. It seems wrong not to try.’

  ‘What about your promise to stay with me?’ I said lightly.

  He bent his head. ‘You’re right. It’s just a mad dream of mine – a way to slay the dragons of my past.’

  ‘I thought you’d slain them when you won your freedom?’

  ‘So did I, Cat. So did I.’

  SCENE 2 – KINGSTON, JAMAICA

  By tacit consent, we avoided the tricky subject of the San Domingo rebellion for the rest of the voyage. A favourable breeze blew us down the Windward Passage as the ship sprinted the sea miles to Jamaica. The disquieting scenes in Tortuga fell behind as the island slipped below the horizon. The ensemble enjoyed watching the dolphins leaping in outrageous display alongside the ship. What a shame we couldn’t put them on stage: we’d be guaranteed a sell-out. Pedro appeared to settle into the familiar routine of rehearsals and forget his desire to fight for the slaves. We had plenty to keep us busy. He was providing the accompanying music for the ballads in As You Like It and I had been given a couple to sing. In my humble opinion, our contribution was the best part of the play. Nothing could disguise the fact that Hetty Peabody had not inherited her mother’s talent for acting, if that even existed. Hetty had the figure to carry off the costumes, but what use was that when she had all the acting ability of a tree stump?

  We had a number of other plays in preparation, but As You Like It was supposed to be our grand debut in Kingston. I feared that if things went ahead as planned, we would have a very unprofitable tour playing to empty houses. I wondered how long it would take Mrs Peabody before financial realities outweighed parental blindness. Reader, I had no desire to be left destitute in the West Indies because she had lost all her money puffing the hopeless cause of her beloved daughter.

  At least Pedro and I had the camaraderie of the other members of the troupe to sustain us. He had palled up with a couple of musicians: a young Bostonian called Jim who was a skilled flautist, and Douglas, a Scot, who played the trumpet. I had made a good friend in Georgina Atkins and was very soon able to be of service to her when she abandoned efforts to rehearse her lines with Hetty – the girl could not remember her own, let alone cue in another player. Instead, I found myself playing Rosalind to Georgie’s Celia in spare moments. I was already familiar with the part, having seen numerous productions in Drury Lane. The famous comedy actress, Mrs Jordan, had made the role her own, not least because she looked very dashing in breeches, so I modelled my performance on hers. Georgie and I had such fun together; it brought home to me just how much I loved this life and how right it felt to slip into the role of actress. I knew what we were doing was a feeble echo of the brilliance of a London production; as the days passed I found that acting did not satisfy but rather sharpened my longing for home.

  This pleasant holiday from reality was but a brief interlude. The moment of truth was fast approaching when the Peabody Ensemble would face the verdict of the Jamaican public. In the last week in June the island appeared on the horizon, giving me my first glimpse of one of Britain’s richest colonies. Our destination of Kingston sat on one side of a natural harbour, a settlement of brightly painted houses, fringed by lush mangroves, set against the backdrop of the Blue Mountains of the Interior. Across the bay on a protective spit of land lay Port Royal, a naval base and centre of shipping. The bay was a thicket of masts as ships waited to off-load the ‘black ivory’ of slaves a
nd take on cargoes of sugar, coffee, tobacco and other plantation goods. Small boats plied the water between the sea-going vessels, offering fresh goods for sale. The sea sparkled blue under a cloudless sky; the wind was warm and spicy. I felt as if I could purr with happiness at the tantalizingly exotic scene before me. It lived up to all my dreams of foreign lands: dramatic scenery, strange sights and sounds, the promise of adventure.

  The Running Sally slipped into her mooring with a rattle of the anchor chain, our long voyage finally over. I couldn’t wait to set foot on dry land.

  As we gathered our belongings in preparation to disembark, the strains of singing floated across the water from an approaching canoe. I rushed to the side, charmed by the harmonious female voices coming from the boat, punctuated by rhythmic clapping.

  ‘Can you hear that, Pedro?’

  Pedro plucked at my sleeve, his face sombre. ‘Come away, Cat. You don’t want to listen to them.’

  I laughed, surprised that my musical friend did not want to linger. ‘Why ever not? They’ve got beautiful voices.’ I strained my ears to make out the unfamiliar words sung by the black women.

  ‘New-come buckra,

  He get sick,

  He tak fever,

  He be die

  He be die.’

  The tune ended with the girls bursting into gales of laughter at the passengers’ bemused faces.

  ‘That’s not a very happy song. What’s a “buckra”?’ I asked.

  Pedro had once been the property of a Jamaican slave owner and was familiar with the local Creole language. ‘That be you, Cat – and all the white men.’

  ‘Oh.’ The women were still laughing at us, holding up melons to tempt the sea-wearied passengers. I hadn’t considered that I might fall sick on this adventure. I knew that Jamaica was infamously bad for European constitutions, but I’d never thought of myself as delicate, having grown up on the streets of London and come safely through most infant maladies from chicken pox to scarlet fever when other children had succumbed. But the West Indies was home to the far more lethal yellow fever, as well as malaria, caused by the foul air of the swampy ground. Newcomers were said to drop like flies.