Black Heart of Jamaica

  Still, I refused to accept that coming here was a death sentence. With a defiant smile, I turned to face Pedro. I wasn’t going to let anything dent my pleasure today.

  ‘Well, good for them. I’m glad they’re teasing us buckras. It seems mild compared to what white men do to them.’

  Pedro offered me his arm to escort me to the disembarkation point. ‘Quite so. And I wouldn’t worry, Cat: I can’t see a fever getting the better of you. It wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Now gather round, everyone,’ called Mrs Peabody brusquely. ‘Once we’ve been cleared for landing, I intend to take us straight to the theatre in North Parade. My agent should have secured us lodgings nearby. The first performance will be the day after tomorrow, all being well.’

  As she was speaking, a boat carrying the customs officials arrived, backed by a small party of soldiers. One man went apart with the captain to discuss the ship’s manifest, a second officer took up the passenger list. He began a roll-call of names, checking our paperwork and ticking us off against the list.

  ‘Seems to be more or less in order, ma’am,’ the official announced to Mrs Peabody, handing back a sheaf of papers. ‘All of you are cleared for landing, with the exception of Miss Georgina Atkins and Mr Pedro Amakye.’

  ‘What!’ I burst out. Pedro elbowed me in the ribs to make me shut up. The soldier closest to us shifted the butt of his rifle.

  ‘And what is wrong with Miss Atkins and Mr Amakye?’ Mrs Peabody asked with icy hauteur.

  ‘I’m afraid, ma’am, that no free black or coloureds are allowed to enter Jamaica at this time.’

  ‘Since when, sir?’

  ‘Since March. By order of the governor.’

  I couldn’t contain myself. ‘But why ever not?’

  The official narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Are you Miss Atkins?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m Catherine Royal.’

  ‘Then you are welcome to disembark.’

  ‘But my friends –’

  ‘Your friends will have to remain on board. We can’t take the risk of contamination. We have to take steps against the spread of the madness currently ripping San Domingo apart.’

  ‘Contamination!’

  Mrs Peabody motioned me to hold my tongue. ‘I can vouch for both these young people.’ She drew a purse from her pocket and chinked it suggestively.

  The official cleared his throat. ‘Let me see the two in question.’

  Blushing, Miss Atkins stepped forward, Pedro standing proudly at her side.

  The man looked back down at the passenger list. ‘I believe you docked at Tortuga. Did either of you go ashore?’

  Pedro nodded stiffly.

  ‘No, sir,’ Miss Atkins murmured. ‘I did not, as the ladies remained aboard.’

  ‘In that case, I can make an exception for you, young woman, as you are unlikely to be infected with dangerous ideas. A quadroon, I believe?’

  Georgie nodded. ‘From Antigua, sir.’

  ‘Well, just you remember the loyalties due to three-quarters of your blood, rather than the unfortunate fraction.’

  The insufferable man! How dare he insult her so!

  The official next sized up Pedro. My friend did himself no favours by his defiant stance. ‘But I’m afraid the boy will not be allowed to land under any circumstances. That is my final word.’

  ‘No!’ I grabbed Pedro’s arm, dragging him with me. ‘You can’t do that to him. He’s friends with the Earl of Arden and he’s a star at Drury Lane!’

  The official looked at me with distaste. ‘I doubt that very much, young lady. In any case, the law is the law. If you don’t want to be parted from your friend, I suggest you resign yourself to a long stay aboard this vessel. Good day to you all.’

  With that, he returned to his boat.

  Mrs Peabody stood with her arms akimbo, watching the official’s departure. ‘Well, I like that! Not so much as an apology for ruining my plans for our debut! This place really has gone to the dogs since last year.’

  But what about Pedro? I wanted to scream.

  She patted my friend on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Amakye, but I have to release you from your contract. If this is the law in Jamaica, I fear that there will be no theatre open to you in the West Indies. I had no idea things had changed so much recently, but then we live in strange times. I’ll have words with the captain about your passage back to America. Perhaps you can work your way home?’

  Pedro gave a curt nod, but his eyes were shining with outrage. I squeezed his hand.

  ‘I’ll come with you, don’t worry,’

  I whispered. ‘I’m afraid not, Miss Royal,’ Mrs Peabody interrupted. ‘You are still under an obligation to me and I cannot afford to lose you as well as your friend.’

  ‘You can’t keep me here against my will!’

  ‘No, but if you run out on me at this point I will seek payment for your passage out, food, lodging and so on – that comes to at least twenty dollars. Do you have such a sum?’

  Mutely, I shook my head.

  ‘Then I’ll be forced to have you arrested for debt.’

  I was fuming: how dare she!

  Pedro pulled me aside, out of earshot of the others. ‘Don’t worry about me. We can’t do anything about this law and it’s not Mrs Peabody’s fault. Don’t spoil your chance with her.’

  He was right, of course; but that didn’t stop me cursing her and the world in general. ‘But what are you going to do, Pedro?’

  ‘Nothing – for a few days. And don’t worry: I won’t do anything without letting you know.’

  ‘Will you go back to Lizzie and Johnny?’

  He gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Probably. But it does seem a waste of a long journey just to retreat with my tail between my legs.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of going to San Domingo – tell me you’re not.’

  He gave me a hug. ‘I’m not thinking anything at the moment. I need to catch my breath and work out what this all means. Just promise me you won’t worry about me and you’ll enjoy yourself.’

  I frowned. ‘I’ll try, Pedro. But it won’t be the same.’

  ‘No, it won’t.’ He pushed me away. ‘But remember, Cat Royal, the show must go on.’

  It was an order no theatrical person could ignore. I gave him an ironic salute. ‘Yes, sir.’

  I hated leaving Pedro behind on the Running Sally as the rest of us disembarked for Kingston. Resigned to his fate, he watched us depart in our little flotilla of boats transferring us to the mainland, a lonely figure on the empty deck. I waved until he was out of sight.

  Jim the flautist tapped my wrist to get my attention. ‘Don’t worry about Pedro, Cat. He’ll be fine, you’ll see. And he asked me to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘But who will keep an eye on him?’ I asked mournfully.

  We had nearly reached the quayside. Most of the wooden houses on the dockside were gaily decorated, somehow in tune with the bright colours of the sea and sky. White birds with enormous bills, sagging like overstuffed portmanteaus, fished from the shore. Pelicans, according to Georgie. The streets bustled with people going about their tasks. The majority of the black people I saw – slaves, I supposed – were dressed in simple linen dresses, shirts and trousers, a sober background of whites and blue to the peacock-rich planters and their wives and daughters. These fine folk were dressed European style. The ladies appeared to favour bright tropical colours, silks and satins rather than the insipid muslins in fashion in London. I was intrigued to see two gentlemen in tight buckskin breeches lounging on the veranda of the customs house smoking fat rolls of tobacco – or ‘segars’ as Georgie called them. In London men generally took snuff or smoked pipes; this was the first time I’d seen them spouting smoke directly from the tobacco leaf – it looked most barbaric.

  But the beauty of the scene was destroyed by a stark reminder of the other ugly reality on which the wealth of Kingston was built. As I watched, a party of newly arrived slaves shuffled along the quayside. They were dre
ssed in rags and chained together at the neck. No one paid them any attention, oblivious even to the disgraceful nakedness of the women.

  I nudged Georgie. ‘How can they treat people like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ she asked, wondering what had caught my eye.

  ‘Those slaves. The poor women have nothing to cover themselves but they’re being paraded in public. They’re not cattle; they must feel their shame.’

  Georgie watched the slaves tramp out of sight. ‘You mean the guinea-birds, fresh caught from Africa?’

  ‘I mean those men and women, those people, Georgie.’

  ‘You don’t have to persuade me they’re human; you forget my ancestry.’

  I blushed. ‘Sorry. I’m just not used to seeing my fellows being treated like beasts.’

  ‘You’re lucky. I’m so used to it, I’m no longer shocked. If it’s any comfort to you, the women are probably used to being lightly clad.’

  ‘Lightly clad! They’re practically naked.’

  ‘And when they’re sold, their master is obliged to provide them with suitable clothes – that’s the law.’

  ‘Hurrah for the law.’ That sounded no comfort to me.

  Georgie tweaked one of my stray curls. ‘Cat, don’t tell me you’re here to take on the institution of slavery? You won’t last long if you do. The whole place depends on it and has no tolerance for abolitionists. Growing sugar is difficult work: the planters could not manage without many hands.’

  ‘Many unwilling hands. Why can’t they pay wages like the rest of the world?’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me – ask a planter.’

  ‘I will,’ I muttered, vowing to do just that.

  *

  The theatre lay on the far side of a parade ground, a brisk walk from the pier. A string of porters followed with our luggage, before being rapidly despatched to our lodging house by Mrs Peabody’s agent, Mr Barker. Tanned and somewhat rumpled in his best jacket, he seemed an efficient enough sort of person. I noticed that bills for As You Like It were already prominently on display so he had not been letting the grass grow since hearing news of our approach.

  I pointed one out to Georgie. ‘See there: we’ve only ourselves to blame if we don’t get an audience.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t we?’

  ‘I fear that the sailors from the Running Sally might spill the secret of Hetty the Tree Stump. They were treated to far too many of our rehearsals to still be ignorant.’

  Georgie laughed. ‘Don’t worry. It will be all right, you’ll see.’

  ‘Will it?’ I feared I had far more experience of theatrical disasters than her. And I knew a flop when I saw one. In London, an angry audience threw orange peel and rotten fruit; I wondered what the good people of Kingston used to convey their displeasure. Melons? Pineapples? I made a mental note to improve my dodging skills.

  The theatre was a small house by my standards, comfortably seating some three hundred or so. Walking through the quiet corridors backstage was an unsettling experience as it had the same smell as Drury Lane – wood shavings, varnish, perspiration, powder and paint. If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe I had been transported home. If only . . .

  ‘Miss Royal, are you quite well?’ Mrs Peabody’s concern was belied by the sharp dig in my ribs. She just didn’t want any more casualties to her line-up.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. But smell that – doesn’t it take you back?’

  Mrs Peabody looked at me as if I were mad. ‘Take me back where, child?’

  ‘Mr Garrick’s theatre – London – Drury Lane.’

  ‘Oh. Oh,’ she said a second time with more emphasis, reminded to claim her credentials. ‘I suppose it does.’ She stood beside me and sniffed. ‘An unmistakable odour to be sure.’

  ‘Were you friendly with Mrs Abington or Peg Woffington?’ I probed, naming some of Mr Garrick’s most famous leading ladies.

  ‘Er, only in passing. Bit before my time.’

  That did not wash: no one backstage ever had a ‘passing’ friendship, not if they were in the same productions.

  ‘So when was your time, Mrs Peabody? Perhaps I know some of your acquaintances?’

  ‘I’m sure you do, but I’m afraid we don’t have time for that now, Miss Royal. Come, come.’ She clapped her hands twice. ‘Let’s go to our lodgings to take a well-earned rest. Rehearsal tomorrow morning at nine.’

  I noted that Mrs Peabody’s expression was far from friendly as I followed Georgie back out into the sunshine.

  ‘I don’t think I should do that,’ I said with a sigh.

  ‘Do what?’ asked Georgie, giving a soldier a cold look as he made to approach her. In Kingston as in London, actresses had to be very careful about encouraging the right sort of attention. She hooked my elbow firmly in hers as we trailed after Mrs Peabody and Hetty.

  ‘Test her on her origins. If that Mrs Peabody ever starred at Drury Lane then my name’s Sarah Siddons.’

  ‘You think she’s lying?’

  ‘Without a doubt. I know my own family history, and she isn’t in it.’

  Georgie giggled. ‘That would make sense. There’s many a person making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear here – black sheep of aristocratic families, fallen women, bankrupts. It’s not a bad place to make a new start and embroider it as you will.’

  ‘Then you think I should leave her to her little deception?’

  ‘Why not? It’s not harming anyone, is it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ I grinned, my spirits improving for the first time since having to leave Pedro behind. ‘But that won’t stop me teasing her: it’s just too much fun. She can be insufferable.’

  Georgie smiled. ‘She might think the same about you.’

  ‘I’m sure she does. Pedro was always the better part of the bargain she made with us and now look what’s happened. She’s stuck with me and he’s not able to set foot on dry land.’

  Georgie scanned the harbour, seeking the Running Sally among all the other ships at anchor. ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can only hope so.’

  To our delight in the allocation of rooms among ensemble members, Georgie and I were given a room together at Mrs Edwards’ lodging house on Harbour Street. A tiny chamber, it faced on to a quiet yard at the back where a few chickens scratched in the dirt and a housegirl was hanging out the washing. But as I had been afraid of being billeted with Hetty, I thought our room a slice of heaven.

  Tired out by travelling, Georgie said she would pass the time till dinner sleeping. I was too restless to settle. Worried for Pedro, I decided to take a turn to the waterfront to see if the Running Sally was still where we had left her. Perhaps I could persuade a boatman to take a message. Thanks to my wages as an actress, I was in the unusual position of actually having some money in my pocket for once.

  ‘I’m just going out for a few minutes,’ I announced.

  My friend already had her eyes closed. ‘Is that wise?’ she asked languidly.

  ‘I’m not going far.’

  She was asleep before I left the chamber.

  I know, Reader, Mrs Peabody had warned us of the danger to unescorted females wandering the streets of Kingston. But it was three in the afternoon: what possible harm could befall me? Completely unafraid – except of a tongue-lashing if caught – I slipped out the front door on to the blazing heat of the pavement and headed to where the water danced in the sunlight. A little adventure suited to an intrepid traveller, nothing more – that was what I told myself.

  What a fool I am! I failed to notice that my emergence on the street was of great interest to two sailors lounging opposite. Blithely unaware of any threat to my person, I tripped down the sidewalk, lured on by the gleam of the sea. I passed the entrance to an alleyway . . .

  Whoosh! All went black as a sack was thrown over my head. Before I could cry out, I was bundled on to a man’s shoulder. He set off at a run – in what direction I could not tell, but as no one protested I gue
ssed we had left the main road. Heart pounding with shock and fury, I screamed and kicked to no effect. Changing tactic, I listened to my captor’s voice: he was speaking French to his accomplice.

  French? In Kingston?

  I went as limp as a dead fish, my mind whirling.

  Noticing my lack of resistance, the second sailor asked, ‘Is the little one all right, Claude?’

  My abductor poked me in the ribs, forcing an indignant squeak from me.

  ‘Oui, the little cat is fine. Not long now, ma petite.’

  That gave me more food for thought. How did they know my name? What on earth was this about?

  Footsteps thumped up what sounded like a springy gangplank and I was taken into a cabin and placed carefully on the floor. Though it was reassuring to find that no immediate harm was intended, I still could not work out why anyone would go to the trouble of snatching me off the streets.

  ‘Did you get the right one?’ a man asked.

  ‘Bien sur, mon capitaine. I remember the little redhead very well.’

  ‘Bon. Let us see her then.’

  The sack was untied and whisked away. I found myself looking up at Captain Bonaventure, master of the Medici, the very vessel I had sailed aboard when I escaped from Paris the year before. A handsome man, his white-blonde hair was neatly fastened back with a black ribbon and his skin tanned by months of sailing. His fine clothing was a little more weather-stained than I remembered, a natural consequence of such a long journey.

  ‘Mademoiselle Royal, it is a pleasure,’ he said, offering his hand. His smile, as always, was calculating. I’d last seen this expression on a stallholder in Covent Garden known for cheating his customers with his smooth talk.

  I withheld my hand. I wasn’t moving until I knew what was going on.

  ‘Captain, the pleasure is all yours. Could you not have invited me aboard for a friendly chat rather than pluck me off the sidewalk?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He waved the suggestion away with a flutter of his beringed fingers. ‘But we thought there was a danger you might refuse.’

  ‘We?’ I had a sudden flash of hope. ‘Is J-F with you?’ I had first made Captain Bonaventure’s acquaintance thanks to a friend of mine who enjoyed the rank of King of the Palais Royal Thieves in Paris. If by some twist of fate he was here, then there was no need for me to be afraid of the notoriously unreliable captain.*