Spirited Away - A Novel of the Stolen Irish by Maggie Plummer Page A

scooped water to wash her face.
           "There
is a carpenter named Sean Gwynne here," Una continued, hesitating
slightly. "He speaks of maroons, the wild ones on the run who come out at
night to steal food and wage war on the colonists. Sometimes they hide
there." She jerked her head toward the cave. "Mostly they hide in the
woods. They steal boats or make rafts, and row to St. Vincent, the closest
island from here, and live among the Carib natives there. Others go to
Martinique and St. Lucia. Some escape onto ships in Bridgetown…"
     
     
    Freddy
shivered on the pallet, her mind racing. How could she be cold on such a sultry
night? Rolling onto her side, she curled up and folded her arms tightly. She felt
like her head was wrapped in a thick, steamy fog. Wondering how it could be
that the only time she felt warm on this pallet was when Master climbed on top
of her, she shook her head and listened. A night heron cawed above the drone of
tree frogs and mosquitoes. A low, scratching sound reminded her that earlier
Birdie had killed a rat as it scurried across the floor. Mrs. Pratt said the
island was full of rodents, wild cats, snakes, and wild boars. She shivered
again.
           In the blackness a puff
of fresh, rain-perfumed air drifted into the alcove. Inhaling the scent, she
heard the first big raindrops fall on the palm-thatched roof.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER
11
     
    September
1653
          
    "Rassawek,"
Birdie said, pointing to her babe in his sling and taking a bite of pineapple.
While the Pratts were busy serving Master and Millicent their midday dinner,
she and Freddy had stolen outside for a brief rest. In the shade of the lofty
mahogany tree that presided over the cookhouse yard, they perched on a gigantic
log so old its bark was long gone and its wood was worn to a smooth, silky
finish.
           "Rassawek…"
Freddy repeated, raising her head to savor the fresh breeze. This was the first
time she'd heard the wee one's name. She took a chunk of juicy guava from the
plate on her lap and popped it into her mouth. It was leftover from Millicent's
breakfast. One of the best things about being kitchen slaves was that they
could share uneaten victuals left on the shiny gold plates from the Big House.
Freddy wiped the back of her neck with a cool, wet rag. 
           "Monacan
name, my father…'between two rivers.'"
           "Beautiful."
           Being
a kitchen slave was hard work. They both had blisters and calluses on their
palms from constantly grinding corn. Their hands were dry and cracked from
scrubbing pots. But Freddy knew there was much to be thankful for. Besides food
tidbits from the Big House, they always had clean water to drink. Thank the
Good Lord Mam had taught her to read and write English. That knowledge was the
only thing keeping her from slaving in the fields under the whip, starving and
abused like Dika and Colin.
           The
plantation paddle, however, was always present. Last week Birdie had been
paddled because a roast chicken wasn't ready in time for Master's supper. Even
though the native woman was huge with child, Mrs. Pratt saw to her severe
punishment. That night Freddy had soothed her new friend, carefully rubbing
mint ointment on her blistered backside.
           Freddy
was blessed to work with someone as kind as Birdie. Every day she taught the
native woman more English words. Gradually they were talking more easily.
Birdie was teaching her Monacan words, too. "How ko-lah" meant
"hello friend." The word for good was "wash-teh," and
"she-cha" meant bad. When Birdie showed her a traditional basket
she'd woven with her own unique flower design, Freddy surprised her by
exclaiming, "Wash-teh!"
           Birdie was tugging on her sleeve. "You
help," she said, smiling as she tried to scoot herself off the log.
           Freddy stood, offered her hand, and pulled her
swollen-bellied friend up.
           "Ah," Birdie murmured,