Receive Me Falling (8 page)

           
Out of breath, soaked, and limping
on the ankle she had twisted, Meg placed the old book on the table, removed her
wet clothes, and changed into a dry pair of shorts and a shirt. The wind had
ceased to blow so violently, but the rain continued to fall in a great gray
sheet.
 
Meg opened the slider and let the
sweet smell of the wet earth fill the villa in little gasps.
 
Quick flashes of lightning followed by soft
rumbles punctuated the hushing of the rain.
 
It was as if someone had flipped the “Thunderstorm” switch on a stage
for atmosphere.
 

           
Meg walked over to the bar and
briefly debated whether or not to make herself a drink.
 
She considered the
Hurricane
recipe on page 8 of Rum Recipes a sign to proceed.
 
Not that the little storm could be considered
a tropical storm, but it amused Meg, nonetheless.

           
Meg sat with her cocktail on the
couch facing the slider and opened the music book.
 
She poured over each page hoping to find
something else to go with the abolitionist handbook, but found only piano
sonatas.
 
Perhaps Miss Dall shoved the
pamphlet into the music book one day in a hurry to hide it from someone
entering the room, and then forgot about it.

           
Next to the music book was a Nevis history book she had been reading the night
before.
 
Meg remembered reading something
in
Swords, Ships, & Sugar
that
now reminded her of Eden.
 
It was an excerpt from a journal of some kind
that an American had written in 1895.

“…we came upon the ruins of a great stone mansion,
bare and desolate, with its eyeless windows boarded up.
 
On the hill behind it rises the tower of the
windmill, still intact, with its huge arms motionless in the air.”

Had
the author seen Eden
all those years ago, or was he referring to some other place?
 

           
Meg rummaged through her purse until
she found the number of the Historical Society.
 
Before deciding on the future of the house, Meg needed to find out more
about its past.

4

Monday
dawned overcast and stormy, reflecting Edward’s mood.
 
From where he stood on his balcony he had an
excellent view of his land and the surrounding neighbors.
 
Edward was displeased at the size and quality
of his plantation compared to Eden.
 

It was the topography of Nevis
that afforded Edward such a view.
 
At the
center of the island swelled the peak
of Mount Nevis.
 
Its cloud-covered summit reminded Spanish
explorers of snow—“nieves”—resulting in its name.
  
The densely vegetated land of Nevis
sloped downward in steps, upon which the largest plantation homes rested near
the top, and the lesser homes on the low-lying areas.
 
The base of the island plunged into the sea
at various cliffs and beaches.

Owning an entire expanse of land from Mt. Nevis
down to the sea was quite an accomplishment.
 
Only the Dalls, Ewings, and Halls belonged to that class of
planter.
 
Most of the major plantations
had failed due to the poor, stone-infested earth.
 
The three great plantations remaining on the
island, however, thrived due to a rich deposit of volcanic soil.

The sugar plantations in the Caribbean
were advanced manufacturing machines.
 
An
army of slaves planted, harvested, clarified, cured, and distilled cane through
a network of mills, boiling houses, curing houses, distilleries, and
storehouses.
 
Sugar cane was a
particularly difficult crop since it required well over a year to ripen and
would rot if production did not occur within several hours.
  

Edward contemplated these things as he walked down
the dirt path to the mill.
 
He was
beginning to resent his mental output over such details as keeping enough cows
to provide sufficient dung for the fields, equipping the slaves with enough
tools to be efficient at harvest time yet busy during the off-season, and constantly
having to replace the boiling house slaves when they would get burned or killed
by the scalding sugar.
 
Edward’s chief
overseer had died several months ago after falling from his horse, and Edward
had yet to find a suitable replacement.
 

“I
don’t understand the drop in production,” said Catherine to her father as she
brought him the columns of numbers.
 
“The
sugar output of Eden
has fallen by thirteen percent since last season.
 
I know our strongest harvest season is just
beginning, but I can’t see how this could be.”

“My dear, I wish you wouldn’t trouble yourself
about such things.
 
It is not becoming in
a lady of your stature,” said Cecil as he reclined in a hammock on the back
porch.
 
A half filled jug of rum and
empty glass lay on the table next to him, and his beard and shirt ruffles
glistened with spilled alcohol.

“It must be the rats,” said Catherine. “Phinneas
said that the good weather and plentiful crops are allowing them to multiply
beyond reason.
 
I have organized several
slave rat-catchings, but none have been effective.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“I have been reluctant to employ this method, but
I feel we have no choice.
 
We must lure
the rats to the center of one of our fields, and burn the field from the
outside inward.
 
It’s the only way to
thoroughly wipe out a pesky rat population.”

“Catherine, you must be mad.
 
Burn an entire field?
 
That would cost us more than a slight slip in
production due to a few troublesome rodents.”

“I disagree.
 
Field D is about to re-sprout for the third time.
 
The sugar it would yield would be less than
half that of newly planted cane, and it would be of an inferior quality.
  
Field D is also more isolated than the
others, and would pose less chance of catching other fields on fire.
 
If we lure the rats to the center of D, and
burn the field from the borders inward, we will not only eliminate our rat
population, but we will create soil rich in nutrients for a brand new
planting.”

Cecil looked at his daughter in perplexed
amazement.

“Well, by all means, let’s proceed.
 
I’ll inform Phinneas of the plan.
 
You be sure to get word to our neighbors so
they know what’s going on.”

The conversation was interrupted by the
announcement that the Silwells had arrived.

“Ah, gentlemen—you’ve arrived just in time for a
great rat bonfire,” called Cecil as he poured himself another drink.

James and Albert looked at one another with
confusion.
 
Catherine rolled her eyes and
explained what they were about to do.

“The bonfire will not be held until a future date,
I’m afraid.
 
We must prepare the field,
lure the rats, wait for the weather to clear, and wait for the sun to go down.
The fire will be better managed if we can see all its embers, and the moist
night air will aid us in preventing the fire from spreading.
 
Also, our neighbors must be notified of what
we are going to do.
 
I wouldn’t want them
rushing over with buckets of sand and water in their nightclothes.”

“I hope you brought your journals, gentleman,”
said Cecil as Catherine helped him out of the hammock.
 
“You will learn much about life on the sugar
plantation from my daughter.”

Catherine thanked her father and excused herself
to the parlor so that she could begin composing notes to her neighbors.
 
The Silwells turned to accompany Cecil to the
cane fields.
 

As Catherine sat at her writing desk, a noise
caused her to turn.

“Miss Dall,” said James.

“Yes?”

“Word of your advanced knowledge of plantation
life has reached us from many different sources.
 
You are known for you business savvy.”

“I know more than I care to,” said Catherine as
she turned back to her desk.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I would not have chosen this role.
 
It has been set upon me.”

James shifted uncomfortably and again attempted to
lure Catherine into conversation.
 
“I
hope to speak with you at length about how you manage.
 
There is much I wish to learn about the sugar
system.”

“Certainly.”

Seeing that Catherine was intent on beginning her
letters, James turned to leave until her voice stopped him.

“Interesting, really, Mr. Silwell.”

“What’s that?”

“St. Christopher has put a hold on land purchases
for plantation development in light of Britain’s recent coolness toward
slavery.
 
I hope to speak to you at
length about how your father managed to secure such an estate.”

Catherine looked hard at James as he wiped a
sweaty line of perspiration from over his eyes.
  
A wooden clock over the fireplace mantle
began an eerie tinkling to announce the half-hour, and a gust of wind blew into
the room, sending Catherine’s writing papers blowing about all over the
parlor.
 
James rushed to gather the
papers as Catherine watched him with amusement, and she was grinning at him as
he rose from his knees.
 
James relaxed
into a smile.

“It is an interesting story,” he said. “However, I
must catch up with our fathers.
 
They
will fear the wind has thrown me over the cliff if I do not join them shortly.”

Catherine smiled and turned back to her desk as
James left the parlor.

Dust
thick with mud and blood was clumped in hunks of coarse, sweaty, black hair and
puffed skin.
 
Dust was curdled in black
eyes under lids swollen and stiff above a broken, crusted nose.
 
Dust filled her mouth with its arid, earthen
taste and lined her teeth like moss on filthy gravestones.

Esther breathed in staggered gasps on the dirt as
she awoke from her black-out to the sound of male voices on the nearby
path.
 
The thick foliage blocked the
faint light of the cloudy morning while concealing Esther in the shadows like a
forgotten animal crawled away to die.
 

But I
will not die
, she thought.
 
For her injuries—though throbbing and
fresh—were shallow.
 
It had been so long
since her last beating that she had forgotten how tender skin could be.
 
Her last beating came before Leah’s birth,
before Catherine, before Eden, on a slave ship
carrying her to Nevis, more than twenty years
ago.
 
Of course, she had been abused and
violated for the last twenty years—but not beaten.
 

Esther felt every muscle in her body groan as she
began to push herself to a sitting position.
 
She closed her eyes once she was upright to block out the spinning trees
before her.
 
Once the world seemed to
steady itself, she again opened her eyes as much as possible and looked over
her battered body to survey the damage.
 

Sharp pains upon inhalation alerted her to a
broken or bruised rib, and bloody welts ran up the back of her legs and
back.
 
Mercifully the switch had been
applied with some degree of restraint.
 
The wounds would heal quickly.
 
Just a warning,
he had said.
 

But the pain of the beating was not what
frightened Esther most—it was the anticipation of Leah and Catherine’s
reactions to the beating that most sickened her.
 
Leah was thin-skinned and tender from her own
demons.
 
She would be further damaged
once she knew the source of her mother’s suffering.
 
Leah had grown up too close to Catherine, too
comfortable for a slave, too educated for her lot—her recent violations had
nearly pushed her over the edge.

And Catherine’s illusion of control was about to
be shattered.
 
Esther feared Catherine’s
reaction when she learned of the beating—she feared the head-strong girl would
place herself in a dangerous situation.
 
Perhaps she could hide herself from Catherine, but not from Leah.
 
Esther just hoped Leah had already gone to
the Great House to begin her work for the day.
 

Shuffling behind the vines and bushes, Esther made
her way to the slaves’ lane.
 
The
stiffness in her body was sliding off her bones as the strength of circulation
returned with each passing step.
 
The smells
of cornmeal browning over fires, the curious babble of the slaves, and the
shrill scraping of knives on stones foretold her arrival at the slave
village.