Will the white men find us here?
It’s possible, Joseph said. The men who own the ship will most likely come looking for survivors. However, the Spanish don’t like the British and they skirmish all the time along the border. Joseph spoke to a young man, one with a rifle. He pointed to it and explained that if the slave hunters set foot on their island there would be a bloody fight. They, the former slaves, were not going back. They would fight to the end and would die on their island.
Joseph had been captured and sold when he was seventeen years old. He came ashore in Savannah and was sold to a family that owned a large plantation where they grew rice, peanuts, and cotton. He lived and worked there for almost twenty years and learned to read and write and speak English. Compared to most owners, the master was a fair man who wanted his slaves to become Christians. He allowed an older slave to teach the children the basics. The overseer, though, was a cruel man who enjoyed using the whip. All the slaves in Georgia, especially in the southern part, dreamed of escaping to Florida. Joseph saw an opportunity and ran away. That was about ten years ago. He made it to the island, their island, and was welcomed by the others. There were about fifty then. Now, the number had doubled.
Joseph waved his hand at his people. You are welcome here.
There was a commotion at the trail. Half a dozen African men appeared and were dragging three white men, all of them dirty and bloodied. They were bound at the wrists with their hands behind them and a bamboo pole rammed between their bent elbows.
“We found them,” one of the Africans said. “Hiding in the woods near the water. They are from the ship.” The people surrounded the white men and waited for Joseph to inspect them. A boy handed him a heavy stick.
The men were unshaven, filthy, and shoeless. Their ragged clothes were stained with blood. Cuts, knots, and insect bites covered their arms and legs. “Stand up,” Joseph said. They awkwardly struggled to their feet.
Nalla inched forward in the crowd for a closer look at the man in the middle. It was the one they called Monk, her rapist. She covered her mouth with her hands and gawked in disbelief. He saw her, made eye contact, then looked away.
“Where are you from?” Joseph demanded, toying with the stick.
“Virginia,” one of them said.
“So you know English. You are colonists.”
Two of them nodded. Monk stared at his gnarly feet.
Nalla stepped forward, took the stick from Joseph, and clubbed Monk three times on the head, each blow drawing blood and painful grunts. The villagers were startled by the attack. Then she hit him again and again and he fell to the ground. Loosa, another woman from the ship, stepped forward, took the stick from Nalla, and began beating one of the other two. Nalla whispered to Joseph and explained that the men had repeatedly raped them on the ship. It was time for revenge.
Joseph explained this to the others. Some of the other women began crying because they too had suffered the same assaults on their voyages over.
Joseph began barking commands. Ropes made of aged tree vines and slumber grass were wrapped around the ankles of the three captives. They were hung by their feet from the same branch of elm tree in the center of the village. The younger mothers took the children to their homes.
Nalla began chanting in an unknown tongue and walking in tiny steps in circles around the men. Everyone else backed away. They recognized what was happening and gave her plenty of room. She began an odd little dance on her toes as she swayed and chanted and bounced around the men. Her eyes were closed and she was in another world.
A witch doctor stepped from the crowd and placed a wooden bowl and long knife on the ground. He said something to her and she nodded as if to say thanks. She continued her ritual, her dance, her curse. The voodoo was in her blood, passed down from her mother and grandmothers.
The three white men, upside down, were suffering intensely and watching Nalla as best they could. When it was time, she placed the wooden bowl under Monk’s head, who squirmed but had no place to go. She held the knife high for all to see and kissed it. Then she squatted, grabbed his mangy hair, spat a curse in her African tongue, and sliced his throat.
When the bowl was filled with his blood, she lifted it and followed the witch doctor out of the village and back to the beach. With Joseph and the rest behind them and watching from a distance, she walked along the surf, dipping the bowl and leaving a trail of blood in the sand.
When the bowl was empty, the curse was complete. Woe to any white man who ventured onto their island.
By morning the other two were dead. Joseph ordered them cut down and dragged to the small dock hidden from the ocean. Using a boat they had confiscated from the last slave traders who’d paid a visit, they took the bodies out to sea and dumped them without ceremony.
The island had no place for a white man, dead or alive.
6
The meeting was sure to be one of the more unusual ones in the history of Bay Books. Bruce tidied up his office, cleared away the debris from his desk, and straightened all of his first editions on the shelves. He had hundreds of them, but never enough.
Mercer and Thomas arrived first and took seats at the wine-tasting table Noelle had found in the village of Ménerbes, in Provence. Most of his furniture had been selected by his wife and came from the South of France. Her store next door was packed with fine antiques, so many that she often displayed the extras at the bookstore. It was not at all unusual for her to sell a beautiful table Bruce was using to display his bestsellers.
Steven Mahon was next and coffee was poured. Bruce cautioned them that the meeting might not go as planned. According to Miss Naomi, Lovely was hesitant about discussing important matters. “And, I’m not sure she really trusts white people,” Bruce said.
“Can’t blame her for that,” Steven quipped.
“No, I’m serious. Several years ago Miss Naomi tried to convince her to prepare a will. Lovely has no blood heirs, supposedly, and no one knows what happens to Dark Isle when she dies.”
“Could be a real mess,” Steven said.
“No doubt. But she wouldn’t do a will because there’s not a black lawyer on the island.”
“That’s been a problem all over the South,” Steven said. “It goes back generations, and it’s the reason a lot of land owned by blacks has been foreclosed. No last will and testament, too many distant heirs, no clear title, so the land gets sold for unpaid taxes.”
Thomas looked at Steven and asked, “You think she’ll trust you?”
“What? Look at this face. The glow of complete honesty.”
“Sorry I brought it up,” Bruce mumbled as he stood. “They’re here.”
The kids’ section of Bay Books took up half the ground floor and always had customers. Busy moms could drop off their kids for story time or just to browse and forget about them for an hour or so. The staff was always ready to read to the little ones and gently shove new releases to the older ones. Other than bestsellers, the kids’ section was the most profitable in the store.
Miss Naomi’s granddaughters loved the place and were excited to visit.
They were lost in books by the time she and Lovely entered Bruce’s office and said hello. He introduced them to Mercer, Thomas, and Steven, and offered coffee. They politely declined and took seats at the table.
Lovely was stunning. She wore a bright yellow robe that flowed almost to the floor. On her head was a tall turban-style wrap that set high and was a mix of loud colors. Her necklace was a row of large shark’s teeth.