The Pull Of Freedom (10 page)

Section 2

An Impossible Love

1736

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Robert Simmonds strutted into his living room and breathed a sigh of relief. He had just returned from the council meeting, they had discussed at length the topic of the maroon revolts and how terrible they were becoming—Robert Hunter, the governor of only two years, was turning out to be ineffective. The run away slaves were becoming a nuisance, he leaned on the window that overlooked his lawn and yawned.

He had accomplished most of what he wanted to accomplish in the past fifteen years, he was one of the most powerful men on the island and his advice was sought on many topics. He had proved to himself and his estranged wife, that he could make it without her father’s money.

Sugar cane was one of the most popular crops in Jamaica and he was fortunate that he had the foresight to see that it would do well—it was like gold. The other parts of the world could not get enough but the maroons could cost him his livelihood and he was not going to stand for that. He poured himself a drink and sipped it thoughtfully. 

Over the years he had a few runaways but was always fortunate enough to recapture them and make an example of them. He spotted his son across the lawn heading for the back of the house, where the kitchen was located, and sighed.

His only son and heir, now twenty years old, had no interest in the plantation business, he had no interest in anything but that slave girl they called Asha. He had encouraged Mark’s using of the slave girls, after all who was he to judge but the boy only seemed interested in that one girl, five years ago he had become alarmed at the attachment his son had with the girl so he had sent him to England to be with his mother for a while, but he came back with a fancy education and an unusual affinity for slaves—it was worrying. 

Mark had not spoken to him for weeks after he threatened to sell Asha.  Afraid of losing his only son, he had withdrawn the threat.

“Sir,” Mamee said behind him, “Massa Williams and Miss Bridget are in the drawing room to see you.”

Robert sighed and finished his drink, “tell them I'll be there in a minute.” Bridget and Harvey Williams were always visiting. When Elizabeth left all those years ago Bridget had taken it upon herself to mother Mark, turning him against his own father and putting pansy ideas in his head.

He always had the suspicion that she was a nigger lover but he couldn’t prove it. The Williams’ in all his years of knowing them had never had a runaway slave. His bastard son, of the slave girl he had sold to them, had been running things as if he were there legitimate child. He was never comfortable around them, he always felt spied upon.

He inhaled deeply and plastered a smile on his face while entering the drawing room.

“Oh Robert, there you are,” Bridget smiled at him and he gave her the perfunctory handshake.

He glanced across at her husband who was smoking a cigar, his jovial face weather lined, “Simmonds,” he said in his gravely voice and pumped his hand vigorously, “how was the council meeting?”

“It was good,” Robert said, sitting down across from the couple, “we decided to deploy more troops to the hills to capture or kill the runaways.”

“I heard that you have a new captain who has great military strategies,” Williams said winking, “I hope he is a little better than the last one.”

“I have no idea about him,” said Robert, “he will not be working on our side of the island, he will be deployed to the East. I heard his name is Stoddard.”

“Stoddard?” Bridget asked alarmed, “that’s the name of Liz’s friend Hilma.”

“He is more determined than most of the others to stamp out the runaways so maybe he has a motive,” Robert murmured. “I think he has a plantation here too.”

“Ah,” Williams said nodding, “if he’s Hilma’s husband she must have convinced him to get her revenge on the slaves no matter what.”

Robert shrugged; he was never interested in hearing about Liz the faithless, daddy’s brat. She was anathema to him. Her friend Hilma was probably from the same mould. He hadn’t seen her in fifteen years and he didn’t want to.

“The mulattoes are the ones that we should watch,” Robert said to Williams changing the topic. “Look at how they operate in Haiti. They have no slaves there now because of those mulattoes. They are a force to be reckoned with, some of them are almost as bad as the maroons.”

Bridget stiffened, she had adopted his child and the man was sitting their calmly talking about mulattoes as if a good percentage of them were not his offspring.

“Some mulattoes will own plantations,” Bridget said choosing her words carefully, “like our son Daniel, he is interested in treating his slaves right, not aiding and abetting the maroons.”

Robert cleared his throat and looked away sheepishly—Daniel closely resembled him and everyone knew he was his son by a slave woman. That was one of his most embarrassing mistakes—having the boy so close to where he lived.

He was saved from responding when Mark entered the sitting room. The boy was now a man; he looked proudly on his son and smiled. Broad of shoulders, slim of hip, his easy going manner and his congenial smile had all the females in a tizzy. Even the slave girls ran to do his bidding.

“Dad,” Mark nodded to his father, “Aunt Bridget,” he kissed Bridget on her forehead and hugged Williams. “I can’t stay to chat,” he said easily sitting down, “I promised to look on a sick horse for Temple, the carriage man.”

Robert nodded, “we were discussing the council meeting.”

Mark hurriedly jumped up, he was tired of council meeting conversations and the railing and ranting against people who only desired their freedom. He was always pro-maroon and inevitably that angered his father.

“Be seeing you folks,” he headed toward the door.

Bridget smiled at him proudly, a look of understanding in her eyes when Williams grunted.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“What are you doing Asha?” Mamee asked the girl as she bent to pick flowers, they were all bunched up in her hands and her face was glowing.

“Mark said that he was going to visit Temple and you know that Temple’s wife has a stomach problem, I just thought that I could help out by sending flowers.”

Mamee folded her arms and glared, Asha did'nt act like a slave, she considered the world in rosy hues as if she was just helping out around the house instead of being compelled to do so.

She had tried with Asha but as the girl got older Miss Bridget had asked to spend more time with her, after each session the girl seemed a bit more brainwashed. Massa Mark was no help either, he had taken Asha as his playmate when she was a baby; he was still attached to the girl, so much so that Mamee was becoming uncomfortable.

Asha was turning into a young lady, her breasts were filling out and she was taking a more womanly shape. Her eyes were big and brown and very expressive and in them Mamee could see the love for Mark she could barely hide. The young man was no better either, he always made excuses to be around her, always touching her hand and laughing with her, oblivious of his father’s disapproval.

And here he was coming; walking with the swagger of one who knew his subjects adored him. A wave of resentment welled up in Mamee for Mark. She had helped to grow him when his mother had fled Jamaica like a scalded cat and now he was out to get the one precious thing left to her, her granddaughter.

He was going to hurt her; Mamee could see it.  He filled the girls head with impossible dreams of them being together. Everybody knew that a black and white relationship could not work in this society.

“Stop frowning woman,” Jamelia said coming up beside Mamee, she had a basin filled with potatoes and a sharp looking knife. “What you should do is find work for the girl to do, she will be so tired she will not have time for the Massa’s son.”

“You are right,” Mamee murmured. “Asha” she said out loud, “could you peel these for me?”

Asha turned around her eyes alight with laughter, she had seen Mark coming and her heart had picked up speed. He was so handsome.

“Sure Mamee,” she said, “I will give these flowers to Mark to take to Temple.”

Mark stopped beside her and smiled, “are those for me or Temple?”

Asha blushed and handed them to him, “Temple’s wife.”

Mark took them from her and held on to her fingers, “can you meet me by the stream?” He was aware that Mamee was watching them and that she did not approve of his attention to Asha. “I have something for you.”

Asha nodded and then turned around and mouthed, when?

Mark smiled and held up two fingers. That meant in two hours; Asha knew what he meant and nodded.

Mark walked slowly towards the section of the plantation where the carriages and the horses that pulled them were kept; he was deep in thought and barely took note of the landscape. He was in turmoil, as far as the eye could see was sugarcane, the source of his father’s wealth and yet it was the source of his sorrow.

He had a deep-seated resentment of slavery and since his sojourn from England he was even more resentful of the practice. He had not wanted to leave Jamaica to stay with a mother he barely remembered. He remembered begging his father to let him stay or to at least carry Asha. His father had retorted that Asha was the reason why he was sending him away to get her out of his system.

For his five years in England he had pined away for her, his childhood playmate, only to return and to realise that she was no longer the little girl with the coltish legs and the wide brown eyes who used to hero worship him but that she was turning into a beautiful girl. Her dusky caramel coloured skin and pink lips kept him dreaming of her in the nights, her laughter was like music to his ears and he feared that they would never be together.

He would probably be required to marry a nice, placid daughter of another plantation owner and to suppress his desires for Asha forever or watch as she became a breeding mare for one of his father’s black slaves. The thought stopped him in his tracks and he felt dizzy. He would not allow that to happen, he would rather die than see Asha used that way.

He wandered to the property line that separated his father’s property from the Williams’ and leaned on the fence. The flowers that he had gotten from Asha were crushed in his hand. He tried to straighten the tiny blossoms but they had wilted. He couldn't foresee a way for him and Asha to be together in the society in which they lived. There association would be frowned upon everywhere except probably in Haiti but Asha was not even strictly mulatto, her skin was like dark honey, she could not pass for white.

Might be she doesn’t even love you the way you do her
, a little voice whispered in his head. She is still young and has stars in her eyes; sheltered by Mamee she has no idea how cruel the world can be.

He sighed and closed his eyes; his feelings for the girl were too strong, he couldn't imagine leaving Jamaica when she was here.

“You have it bad old boy,” Daniel said, looking down from his perch atop his horse. “You did not even hear me coming.”

Mark glanced up at Daniel and smiled. He used to play with Daniel when he was small. Now the boy was about sixteen and undisputedly his brother, it was ironic how much Daniel resembled their father and also comical how Robert Simmonds took pains to avoid the lad.

“Little brother,” Mark said grinning, “I have been back for two months and I have seen you only once.” Mark had always acknowledged their connection and made sure that Daniel did the same.

Daniel alighted from the horse and went over to Mark. “I was in Spanish Town with Aunt Beatrice. She is not as dour when she eats.”

They both laughed at the picture he drew of Bridget’s sister who became quite ornery if she was hungry.

“So what has you sighing like the hero in a romantic opera?”

“Asha,” Mark said unabashedly. He trusted Daniel not only because he was his brother but also because he was always easy to talk to.

“Oh, the black and white issue,” Daniel rubbed his beardless chin and posed contemplatively. “Mmmm … let’s see … ”

“Stop it, you goof,” Mark pushed him, “I missed you when I was away.”

“I know,” Daniel said seriously, “Ma used to read your long letters to me. You complained about the cold, you complained how shallow the existence of the Londoners were and you complained about your mother. I could only imagine that you missed us here and the fun we used to have.”

“My mother is an airhead.” Mark twirled an imaginary lock of hair, “she throws parties regularly and she speaks to me as if I am deaf, I think she is unhappy and a bit uncomfortable with me. One night she said she thinks I'm judging her.”

Daniel chuckled and placed his foot on a tree trunk. The sun was directly overhead so he was glad for the rest and the shade of the tree. “So do you judge her?”

“Nah,” Mark said easily, “I had Aunt Bridget and Mamee and Asha while growing up. I wouldn’t have wanted to live in London anyway, it’s filthy and the air is not as fresh as here. The members of the ton, to which my mother belongs, are all energetic gossipers. Everything is a scandal, but the slave issue is generally met with blank stares and vacant expressions. It's not fashionable to talk about slaves.”

“At least now you can stop resenting her for leaving you,” Daniel said wisely.

Mark grimaced, “I was stupid at one time, I really stopped wanting to live with her when you and Asha were old enough to be my play-mates. There is just so much to do on a plantation; London was not good for me. It took me a long time to get back my tan, which by the way is not fashionable there either.”

Daniel grunted, “I think you should leave Asha alone.”

Mark looked at him open mouthed, “I thought you were on my side.”

“And hers too,” Daniel said warily, “I like Asha, she is beautiful.”

“You want her for yourself?” Mark asked indignantly, his own brother and yet it made sense. Daniel was half white, he could probably get away with being with Asha.

“No,” Daniel held up his hand, “I like her that’s all. If you pursue her, your father might sell her. Anybody with half an eye can see that you are in love with Asha. You practically glow with it. I saw you once since you came back and you spent all the time talking about her.”

Mark sat down on the ground and leant toward the fence and closed his eyes. He still clutched the mangled flowers, “I'm doomed.”

“You can always keep her as a mistress,” Daniel suggested.

“No,” Mark mumbled. That would not be enough for me, I wouldn’t want her as a slave either, I wish I were black or she was white. I'm killing myself over her and I don’t even know if she likes me.”

Daniel shrugged, “I saw her talking to Milo.”

“The peddler?”

Daniel nodded, “he might offer to buy her from your father and then you will find someone else to love.”

“That’s a heartless statement,” Mark said forlornly. “So when are you coming to my house for dinner?”

Daniel laughed, “now that’s a heartless statement; I am not welcomed in your house. Your father does not enjoy seeing the bastard offspring of his loins.”

“He is such a hypocrite.”

“That’s life big brother,” Daniel got back on his horse, “that’s life.”