My Name Is Not Angelica Read online

  Below us, in the deep water between Whistling Cay and the cliff, lay a great ship. It was not Governor Gardelin's ship or a slave ship like God's Adventure. It was twice as big as both of them. It had dozens of guns sticking out from its decks. It had three tall masts and flags fluttering from them all. Men walked the decks in blue uniforms and red wide-brimmed hats.

  Konje and I looked at each other, speechless as the boy.

  On the ship's stern was a name, painted in gold letters. Three words I had not seen before. I spelled out the letters—R O I D E F R A N C E.

  "Do they mean anything to you?" Konje said.

  "Nothing," I said.

  We soon learned about the ship. Everyone at Mary Point had gathered around us. All had their weapons. Isaak Gronnewold, who had come back from Duurloo's before dawn and had decided not to awaken the camp with the bad news he brought, came and stood on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the beautiful ship. Then he opened his Bible and took out a paper.

  "This paper was written by Pierre Dumont, the captain of the ship that lies below us," he said to Konje. "The paper is written in French. One of Duurloo's slaves, who speaks the language, put it into Danish. It was given to me to give to you."

  He looked grim, but none of us who crowded around him expected the awful words that came.

  "The paper says that all runaways at Mary Point are to surrender within twenty-four hours and lay down their muskets and knives. If they disobey, they will be returned to their plantations and promptly punished."

  "Who are these people who tell us what to do?" Konje said, pale with anger beneath his dark skin.

  "Gardelin asked the French who own the island of Martinique for help. He begged them to send one of their warships and end the rebellion. The French are here with three hundred men and fifty cannon."

  "We'll turn them back the same way we turned back the Guards," Konje said.

  "The French have other ships and other men."

  "We'll turn them back also."

  "More will come."

  "Let them."

  The captain's paper fluttered in the wind. Konje reached out and tore it into pieces. The wind carried the pieces over the cliff. A cheer rose from the crowd: "Sno de mun, sno de mun, sno de mun, Français." Slave talk that meant, "Frenchman, shut your mouth."

  The words hung in the air for a long time. Nobody put down a knife or a musket.

  "Where have the Frenchmen gone?" Konje asked.

  "To Duurloo's. It's wise not to wait and fight them here," the bomba said. "Tonight we can take the trail to Water Bay. It's about a mile from here. Hide out for an hour or two. Make sure that the French are still at Duurloo's, then use the trail around van Prok's."

  "Van Prok is in St. Thomas with his wife," Konje said.

  "Good. We'll go to the plantation, take what food and rum we can find, horses and mules, if any are left, skirt Duurloo's in small groups, not more than ten—and meet Prince Foulah on his way from Great Cruz Bay."

  Konje had no chance to answer. Three soldiers came out from the turpentine trees and through the gap the cannon had made. One of the soldiers had a trumpet and one a drum. The soldier in the middle held a white flag tied to a pole. Behind them came a squad of soldiers, armed with swords and muskets.

  They marched past our empty huts and down through the meadow. We stood at the edge of the cliff, ready with our weapons, and watched them come.

  "What does the white flag mean?" Konje asked Isaak Gronnewold.

  "It means that they're here to talk peacefully," he explained.

  The soldier with the flag stopped in front of them. He wore a blue uniform that was too tight for him and shining boots. On both his cheeks were small red scars.

  "Captain Dumont commanded you to lay down your arms," the soldier said. "But here you stand with your culprits, every one of them armed, facing me with arrogant looks."

  "We were commanded to lay down our weapons tomorrow," Konje said.

  "Captain Dumont has changed his mind."

  "Does he change it often?"

  "As often as he wishes."

  "Mine I do not change," Konje said. "Tomorrow I will give Captain Dumont my answer, not today."

  He was fighting for time. He had taken Nero's advice. Tonight he planned to leave the camp, join Prince Foulah, and drive the white people into the sea.

  The squad of soldiers began to shuffle their feet.

  Aware that it was a dangerous moment, Isaak Gronnewold spoke out. "Where is Captain Dumont?"

  "With his army," the soldier said.

  "Where is the army?"

  "On the island of St. John."

  "Will you tell Captain Dumont that I wish to talk to him?"

  "Captain Dumont did not come here to talk," the soldier said and nodded to the trumpeter.

  24

  We stood among the rocks on the edge of the cliff. The sounds of drums and marching feet came closer. Captain Dumont and his army were not far away, between us and Maho Bay.

  The soldier raised his voice. "Lay down your knives and muskets."

  "No!" Konje shouted. "We do not surrender."

  We clutched our weapons.

  Among the turpentine trees, through the gap in the cactus, I saw a flash of helmets.

  "Captain Dumont and his army are at the gates," the soldier said to Konje. "They'll be here in moments. If you and your people confront them, there'll be trouble. Again I tell you to lay down your weapons."

  "I wish to talk to Captain Dumont," Konje said. "After we talk, I will think about the weapons."

  He tried to speak in a friendlier way. He must have realized that we were trapped. He had given up all thought of Nero's plan.

  The soldier said, "You have heard the orders of Captain Dumont."

  One of our men, I believe it was Jacob, who was old and very short-tempered, yelled, "Jeg lugter fisk," Danish for "I smell something fishy."

  The soldier dropped the white flag. He took his sword from its sheath and pointed it at Konje. Behind him a musket roared and a shot passed close above Konje's head.

  Preacher Gronnewold went to stand between the two men. In an act of friendship, he reached out his hand to touch the soldier. It was a terrible mistake.

  Whether from anger or fear, the man drew away. Preacher Gronnewold again put out a friendly hand. Once again a shot rang out. It struck Preacher Gronnewold in the breast and he fell to the ground.

  I ran to help him. He struggled to his knees and held the Bible high above his head. "This is the way," he said in a choking voice. "This is the only way!"

  The Bible slipped from his hand. He closed his eyes. He stopped breathing. Konje placed his body among the rocks on the edge of the cliff.

  I found my knife where I had dropped it in the grass and went and stood with the other slaves. There was not a sound. Silent, we waited for Konje to tell us what to do.

  The man with the flag took his soldiers away. We watched them go through the meadow, through the gap in the cactus and disappear.

  Konje said, "Soon the French will come. Stay where you are. Do not taunt them. Do not fire on them. First, I'll talk to their captain. If talk fails, then we will do what we must."

  25

  Clouds streaked the rising sun. A strong wind blew in from the west. Sounds like a great animal breathing rose up from Whistling Cay. Silently, we clutched our weapons and waited for Captain Dumont and his army.

  They came with flying flags, to the beat of many drums, through the gap in the wall and past our huts. Halfway through the meadow they stopped.

  I counted them. Ten soldiers in a row and more than twenty rows, carrying swords and long-barreled muskets. Other slaves counted them too, for small gasps went up everywhere. I glanced at Konje. His face had not changed. It showed no signs of fear.

  Captain Dumont, with an officer at his side, walked forward and stood in front of us. He had a pointed beard that was turning gray. He wore a three-cornered hat and a curly white wig.

  "W
ho is the man called Apollo?" he asked in a brisk voice, speaking Danish well.

  "Here I am," Konje said, but he did not move. "Have you come to talk?"

  The captain gave a small nod.

  "Do we talk as men, one to another," Konje asked, "or do we talk as slave and master?"

  "You're a slave, so talk as a slave."

  "I will talk as a free man or not at all," Konje said angrily.

  "Enough!" Captain Dumont said.

  He spoke to the officer beside him, who stepped out to put a chain on Konje's wrists. Without a word, with a single blow, Konje sent him sprawling.

  Captain Dumont turned pale. He stared at the officer, then at Konje, but said nothing. The army behind him must not have seen the blow or the officer lying dazed on the ground. There was not a sound from them.

  Konje backed away to the very edge of the cliff and stood between two towering rocks. He was no longer angry. He glanced at Captain Dumont in his three-cornered hat and curly wig. At the captain's shining soldiers that covered the meadow.

  His eyes fell for a moment upon us, huddled silently together, clutching our knives and muskets. There was a look on his face I had never seen before. As if he were high in the heavens. As if he were God looking down upon his people.

  I watched him look for a time at the waves washing over the rocks far below us. I watched him draw back from what he saw.

  Nero, who stood beside me, said, "Why does he stand there? What is he waiting for? There's fighting and dying to be done."

  Konje raised his musket and pointed it at Captain Dumont. Then he flung it on the ground and told us to do the same with our weapons.

  "We do not honor you with a battle," he said to the captain. "Nor do we surrender."

  Captain Dumont did not answer. He didn't move when our weapons clattered to the ground, when Nero held tight to his ironwood club. He seemed not to believe what had happened before his eyes.

  Konje came and took Nero back to the edge of the cliff. They talked for a moment, bracing themselves against the wind that threatened to sweep them away.

  For a while they were silent, gazing out at the sea and the far horizon. Then Nero flung his club at the French army. In one leap, he was in the air, falling toward the rocks below.

  "Like Nero, it is time for all to go," Konje said. "To leave this brutal bondage."

  "Yes, yes," slaves shouted.

  "And go away to greener shores and freedom."

  "Yes, yes, yes."

  I heard no moans and saw no tears, though it was clear to everyone by now what we were to do.

  Five girls came. They put their arms around each other and leaped, singing a joyful song. I heard their voices for a long time.

  Old Jacob came out of the crowd. He shouted an insult at Captain Dumont, brandished his walking club, and was gone. My friend Lenta waved to me. She had her son by the hand. He looked frightened and held back, but she swept him in her arms, and they too were gone. Men and women swarmed over the cliff.

  The French sailors in their bright blue jackets leaned quietly on their shining muskets. Captain Dumont watched with his arms crossed upon his chest. I believe he was glad that the slaves were leaping to their deaths, that he would not have the trouble of taking them back to the plantations, to be pinched with hot irons and to have their legs cut off.

  Clouds hid the sun. Sea hawks hovered in the gray air. Our people had gone. Konje and I were alone.

  He held out his strong hands and I went toward him. But I took only a few steps. Suddenly, slowly, for the first time, I felt our child stir. I stopped and braced myself against the wind.

  "What's wrong?" Konje said.

  "Nothing," I answered.

  "It's something." He looked down at me with his burning eyes. "The child?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't think of the child, for we all go together—the three of us, to a better world and happier days."

  "Happy days will soon be here."

  "Never, not on this island. Come, it's time to leave."

  "No," I said.

  He grasped my hands. I thought he meant to drag me over the cliff. I did not move. I could not move. A stricken look crossed his face and he backed away. He stood among the rocks on the edge of the cliff, but in a moment he was gone. The gray sky enclosed him. I ran to the cliff, praying that I had dreamed an awful dream.

  From far below rose a faint sound. I imagined that it was his voice calling to me. I took one heavy step, but my body stirred again. And I moved no farther. Our child bound me to the earth that I stood upon, bound me to life forever.

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  Afterword

  When Captain Dumont learned that Jost van Prok had fled the day before his home burned to the ground, he took Raisha to the French island of Martinique. Here she worked in his household, caring for his children. Her daughter was born some months later. After a year, under the French laws, she was no longer a slave. She was free and her daughter was free.

  Scott O'Dell is a Newbery Medalist, a three-time Newbery Honor Book winner, a two-time winner of the German Jugendbuchpreis, winner of the deGrummond and Regina medals, and a recipient of the Hans Christian Andersen Author Medal, the highest international recognition for a body of work by an author of children's books.

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