Tender Fury (17 page)

On March 1, 1815, the
Windward
slipped her moorings and glided into the mist on a long delayed voyage to Martinique. If Gabby looked forward to a life of bliss and happiness she was in for a shock. A whole new world awaited her on the sun-drenched island of Martinique.

It was seven days before the
Windward
cut a path through the Yucatan Channel and sailed into the Caribbean Sea. It was another seven days before they approached a cloud-shrouded island that seemed to spark Philippe’s excitement.

“That’s Saba,” he pointed. “It’s the first of a chain of islands you’ll see as we near Martinique.”

“It looks majestic,” ventured Gabby.

“It’s a volcanic island. All these islands are. Some are desert and some are covered with dense jungle.”

“And is Martinique one of the jungle-covered islands?”

“Yes, so thick you need a machete just to take a walk. The first French settlers literally drove the jungle back to clear the way for the cane fields.”

“Then it truly is a wilderness,” Gabby said with dismay.

“Hardly a wilderness,” Philippe laughed. “St. Pierre is a favorite port for all the sailors in the world. If the wind holds out we should reach St. Pierre within two days.”

At first sight, each mist-shrouded new island to come into view seemed but a dim silhouette. As they drew nearer the beauty of bending palms and villages built on the shore as well as in extinct volcano craters took Gabby’s breath away.

Never had she seen such an incredible, luminous blue sea where water and horizon blended into the azure of the sky. Lush green islands surrounded by white rings of sand appeared to float atop the water. She lifted her face to the hot Caribbean sun that seemed to welcome her to paradise. Philippe’s arm tightened around her waist and for a moment she was truly content. She closed her mind to what awaited her on Martinique. Nothing existed now except the man by her side and her new life at Bellefontaine. Only time would tell if she was a child living with childish dreams, for at the end of their journey awaited… Amalie.

Just as Philippe predicted, two days later Martinique appeared as a misty gray shadow on the morning’s horizon. Entranced, Gabby watched as its mass grew and changed from blue and then to emerald in a turquoise sea. It wasn’t long before she could see the mountains and long, green spurs of land reaching like fingers out to the sea, the aftermath of ancient lava flows now overgrown with tropic growth. Philippe explained that the sweeps of gold plain in the jungle were cane fields. But the dominating feature was Mt. Pelee rising majestically more than 4,000 feet above the ocean, the dangerous, brooding giant that gave birth to Martinique. Gabby eyed the massive monster somewhat skeptically until Philippe assured her it was now extinct, its cone asleep in a bed of fluffy, white clouds.

St. Pierre was on the lee side of the island, in the shadow of Mt. Pelee. The town appeared to hug the white crescent of beach all but obscured by lush growth and tall swaying trees. Terraced tiers of pale yellow houses with red tile roofs rambled along narrow crooked streets shaded by towering palms. A high ridge circled the town from behind, thick with trees, overhanging vines, and brilliant blooms. Philippe pointed out two rivers running through the town into the harbor. It was like something out of a picture book.

“Look!” pointed Gabby excitedly, “Canoes are coming out to meet us.”

Philippe smiled when he saw a flotilla of canoes packed with naked brown boys come nearer. They appeared to be between ten to fourteen years old and were using pieces of flat board for paddles. Their precise movements were poetry in motion.

Gabby let out a small gasp when she realized the boys were nude but could not turn her eyes from the beautiful, lithe forms. Before she knew what he was doing, Philippe reached into his pocket and tossed a handful of coins overboard. The boys, who had moments before been calling out in Creole French, plunged into the water, diving after the coins until the sea around the ship was alive with small bodies thrashing and diving into the cool blue depths.

The ship continued to ease toward the pier and soon men began scurrying about preparing to dock. As soon as the gangplank was in place, Gabby gave one final backward glance to the place where she had been forced into womanhood before allowing Philippe to guide her down the gangplank.

Gabby’s passage through St. Pierre was an adventure of sights and sounds, a kaleidoscope of colors and of happy, smiling people whose skin ranged from light yellow to ebony. Laughter was punctuated by calls of women vending vegetables and fruits and carrying around loaves of bread from flat, wooden trays balanced on their heads. They wore plain robes of vivid hues, girded close to their bodies to leave their dark, flashing legs bare and free. Each bright costume was topped by a headdress consisting of a magnificent madras kerchief wound like a turban around the head with one corner pulled through the top at the front.

Some of the light-skinned women wore rich finery more opulent than any worn in the courts of France. The loose embroidered blouses dipped low in front to reveal smooth skinned, golden bosoms, and skirt, called jupes, rising shorter in the front, hugged slim supple hips that swayed provocatively as they walked. Below the brilliant yellow or stripped turbans, huge dangling earrings glittered in the sun. Some wore as many as five strands of gold beads around willowy throats rivaling the flash of earrings.

Philippe

The shiny skins of the men glistered with health, their trim figures bereft of the slightest bulge except for rippling muscles that corded arms and thighs. They wore little more than modesty demanded, their entire costume consisting of a single pair of trousers cut off or torn at the knee and held with a rope belt.

Gabby’s head was awhirl by the time they reached Philippe’s townhouse, a pale yellow structure with thick, stuccoed walls and red tile roof. The house was in a quiet section of town built around a garden shaded with silk cotton trees and tamarinds. Gabby found it tastefully furnished and more comfortable than any home she had previously known.

A staff of three was in attendance; cook, maid, and butler, and they welcomed her with a show of childlike affection. Speaking in a corrupt form of French called
patois,
Matilde the cook insisted on preparing a true Creole meal for them while Jeanette, the pretty mulatto maid, fluttered about the bedroom clicking her tongue over what she called her new mistress’s woeful lack of adequate wardrobe.

Gabby was hard put to follow the
patois
spoken by the house servants. Mainly she waited for Philippe to translate for her.

True to her word Matilde set out a tempting feast for the newlyweds. There was a gumbo soup, called
calalou,
fish broiled with pimento, peppers and onions, and a pudding of molasses and manioc flour called
matete.
When Gabby exclaimed over the simple but delicious meal Philippe told her that the meal was little more than country fare, that at Bellefontaine meals would be more elaborate, prepared mainly in European style. Still, Gabby ate with shameless gusto, each tasty morsel a delicacy after the monotonous fare aboard the
Windward.

“Are there many servants at Bellefontaine?” Gabby asked after the meal was concluded and they were seated side by side on the settee in the salle.

Philippe swirled the amber liquid around in his glass a moment before answering. His thoughts seemed only on the excellent brandy he was about to consume. “Altogether there are five hundred slaves on Bellefontaine,” he said slowly. “Twelve or so are house slaves and the rest work in the cane fields and banana groves.”

“Philippe!” gasped Gabby. “You said slaves. Do you own these people? Have you bought and paid for them? Are they yours to do what you will with them for the rest of their lives?”

“Just as I have bought and paid for you,
ma petite,
to do with what I will for the rest of your life,” jibed Philippe thoughtlessly.

Gabby’s head shot up and she drew back as if slapped, the sharp intake of her breath audible in the stillness of the room. Once again he had stunned her by his cruelty. “I am your wife, Philippe,” she lashed out defensively. “Surely I am more to you than your black slaves?” The knowledge that he had paid her father for her still rankled as did the idea that he owned other human beings as well.

Suddenly aware of the hurt in Gabby’s eyes Philippe was immediately chastised. What made him say such a cruel thing? he wondered as he sought to soothe her bruised feelings. “Forgive me,
mon amour.
I don’t know what made me speak to you like that,” he apologized, taking her into his arms. “I do not enjoy owning another human but it is the way of things here. Without slaves it would not be possible to run our plantations or work our fields. We, on Martinique, are completely dependent on slave labor. Someday, though, I foresee a time when all slaves will be free, but at least on my plantation I know they are happy, well fed and well cared for. You shall see the truth of my words for yourself once we are at Bellefontaine.”

Somewhat mollified. Gabby relaxed in the protective circle of Philippe’s arms, ignoring the small tugging deep within her heart. It was difficult to believe Philippe could speak so harshly to her after what they had shared, after his declaration of love. Or was he still punishing her for Rob? Finally, his lips, insistent upon hers, dissolved her plaguing thoughts into nothing more than vague misgivings as he led her into a world of delight. Philippe made love to her with slow, dizzying passion, his hands and lips fanning the embers of her feelings into leaping flames until her mind could no longer function.

The days that followed were happy ones for Gabby. Whenever Philippe wasn’t busy at his office on the docks he took her about in the carriage to show her St. Pierre. She was charmed by the city even though they were obliged at times to leave their carriage behind and walk through the narrow streets broken by steps that ascended the ridge of dark lava rock now overgrown with vegetation. The same clear water that bubbled along the gutter cooling the city fed the sparkling fountains.

Once again Gabby was struck by the beauty of the dark skinned people. Particularly the quadroons, those having one-fourth Negro blood, whose dresses were the richest and most ornate. Philippe explained that even French girls of good breeding were able to walk the streets in safety as long as they were accompanied by a chaperone.

The marketplace was in the savanne, a paved square around a fountain where every manner of fish was sold as well as vegetables and exotic fruits, most of which Gabby had never seen before. Some were identified to her as guavas, mangoes, avocadoes, and nutmeg.

Of times they stopped at a sidewalk café? for a cool drink before returning to the townhouse. At first Gabby disliked the taste of the concoction Philippe ordered, called
bavarois,
a mixture of mostly milk with a touch of rum and sugar and whipped to a foam, but before long she came to savor its refreshing taste. Always they returned to the townhouse by midafternoon, sleep and the cool interior of the stucco building the only reprieve from the afternoon heat. Gabby grew to enjoy the long naps to awaken refreshed as the sun hung low in the western sky.

Many days were spent at the dressmaker on Rue des Urselines, for Gabby owned nothing suitable for her role as wife of an important sugar planter. The dresses Philippe ordered from Madame Corday were cool, feather light, and of the most expensive fabrics. They were feminine, adorned with rows of lace and shirring. A parasol to ward off the hot sun accompanied each costume. The lingerie was whisper soft, extravagant and quite immodest to Gabby’s eyes. But she did not protest, taking girlish delight in the lavish profusion of light, airy costumes Philippe chose for her. The cost seemed a small fortune to her, which in fact it was. When she ventured to mention his extravagance he told her that if she must take her place in society she must dress accordingly. One day she would be obliged to be his hostess, to entertain other planters and their wives.

Little occurred to mar Gabby’s happiness during those weeks spent in St. Pierre except a small, plaguing physical complaint that she tried hard to hide from Philippe. At first the mild bouts of nausea that struck shortly after he had arisen and left for the office weren’t hard to conceal, but as time passed they occurred with frightening frequency, becoming more and more virulent. Still she would not tell Philippe of the strange malady. It was only by chance that he discovered her illness. He had already departed the house one morning when he realized he had left an important manifest at home. Retracing his steps back to the bedroom he found Gabby, weak and pale, retching into the slop bowl, her trembling body bathed in sweat as waves of nausea convulsed her slight form.

“Mon dieu,
Gabby,” he cried in alarm as he rushed to her side. “You are ill,
ma petite.
Why haven’t you told me?” Tenderly he brushed strands of damp hair from her white face. “How long has this been going on?” he asked, gesturing to the slop bowl.

“Nearly a fortnight,” Gabby grimaced, her hand to her roiling stomach.

“A fortnight!” Philippe repeated angrily. “And you have not told me? Don’t you realize you may have contracted some dread tropical fever or disease? Get back in bed,” he ordered, softening his voice when he saw her stricken face, “and I will summon the doctor immediately.”

Dr. Renaud, a kindly mannered, white-haired man with a droopy mustache, regarded Gabby from merry blue eyes for some minutes before abruptly dismissing Philippe from the room. Then he addressed Gabby in a fatherly tone, putting her completely at ease before asking some rather pointed questions that left her pale cheeks becomingly tinged with crimson. His examination was through and he grunted in satisfaction when his probings seemed to confirm his initial diagnosis. Such was her innocence that Gabby gaped in wide-eyed wonder when the doctor disclosed the nature of her illness. A baby! She hugged the thought to herself, picturing in her mind’s eye a miniature of Philippe; someone all her own to love who would love her in return with no reserve or recrimination. Gabby and the doctor discussed at length such things as the date of birth and precautions she should take to assure a healthy child and safe delivery. Then he left her to her own happy thoughts.

Dr. Renaud found Philippe in the salle nervously pacing the floor, rum glass in hand, positive that Gabby suffered some fatal, rare disease. He started violently when the doctor announced his diagnosis.