Rebecca: A Slave Story

By Annika Kinch

Slavery
Colonialism
Passion

It was in the days of injustice in The Indian Ocean during the late 18th century. Code Noir – The Black Code set the rules.
She was caught by a lasso – like the way you catch animals and sold into slavery.
Fleur de Lys was burned on her upper arm by the devil himself in the House of Evil.
She could read and write – the woman with grace and a body that could inflame any man’s passion.
She was the woman to whom many owed their lives.
She was seeking revenge on the horrific persons she have met. That occupied her mind, and that day would come...
Her name was Rebecca of Le Morne.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annika Kinch
• Release date: Jul 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005816599

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Rebecca_-_COVER.jpg

Copyright © 2022 Annika Kinch

First edition 2022

Published by Annika Kinch at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and descriptions of events are the product of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental.

Copyright ©Annika Kinch 2021, originally written in Swedish.

Translation to English by Maj Stenhammar – Piltz and Michael Meigs,

Copyright © Annika Kinch

Cover; Pastel painting by Siddick Nuckcheddy

PROLOGUE

Bel Ombre, Mauritius. Anno Domini 1819

A gust of wind caught her as she swung down from the horse’s back. The skies had darkened and the wind had risen. Lighting stuck in the distance. She wasn’t intimidated, remembering that time when a storm had saved her life thanks to the grace of all-powerful God. She quickly smoothed her wide red skirt, it sat snug and it perfectly draped about her hips. Above, she wore a low-cut white short sleeved cotton blouse which emphasized her bosom and womanly shape, offering teasing glimpses of bare middle and back. Her skirt was ankle length. She was barefoot as usual, and her left big toe was adorned with a gold ring inset with a glittering ruby. She unstrapped the jug of cactus oil from the saddle and carried it under one arm. Her head was crooked slightly to the right, and her neck curved visibly from time to time, but she had no trouble with her gait. Her movements were still graceful. She didn’t march but strode deliberately, as she always did.

The flicker of firelights filled the inner yard, and the scents of coriander and meat was all pervasive. They’d shared a weekly evening meal for the past six months, after which she’d spent two hours teaching them to read and write. The remarkable thing was that not a single one of the two hundred and fifty had objected. All enjoyed their time with her and most were eager to learn. Tonight, was a special evening, they’d all received their wages that day. Inspired by his humanitarian beliefs, plantation owner, Jean de France, was a shining example for the many other island’s sugar producers. Those who saw things in an entirely different light, were legion.

She raised her right arm and waved as she walked towards the courtyard, her usual gesture to attract their attention. A hush soon fell over the group. She set the jug of cactus oil on the table and slammed her fist against the wooden surface. Her head was throbbing the way it always did when she was angry or felt vulnerable. Tonight, she had both sensations.

"Each of you whose shoulder was branded with the Fleur de Lys must absolutely rub cactus oil on it twice daily. This elegant, but oh so evil flower marks you as state property." To be sure that everyone could hear her despite the permanent crook in her neck, she moved through the gathering and took care to speak with great clarity. Her message would have been clear even if she’d remained motionless.

It’s important to care for the scar even if your brand mark isn’t recent. I can assure you that the bastards who marked you didn’t bother to check whether the iron was clean or if anyone knew how to care for your blistered flesh. She felt momentarily nauseated and asked for a sip of water.

Understood? At least a third of them had indelible memories of the fearing branding iron. She could see that. Most were men.

The gathering settled cross-legged at some distance from the fire and they took their time to enjoy the meal. Eventually the soft chimes of ravannes sounded in the background, signalling that it was her turn now. The moment all had been waiting for, the recitation from the woman to whom many owed their lives. She stood up and took her stance in the centre. Once again, a quiver ran along her head and her neck, caused this time not by anger, but by strong emotions.

I’m going to tell you a story which I want you all to know. I don’t need to read it from a book, this epic is engraved in my memory. She took a deep breath. "He was born free, and was sold to slavery in his late teens and owned by a brutal master. He survived the worst treatment you can imagine and escaped from the slave ship Solidarity. He ruled the Republic of the Marrons up on Le Morne Mountain with an iron fist for many years. Hundreds of men, women and children owe their lives to him. They lived in tiny caves on the slope."

A young woman with matted black hair rose and took two steps forward.

You mean to say that families were living up there? Her voice was shrill and arrogant.

Only people without brains would try that. Surely no one could survive for long up on the mountain. The woman squatted and leaned forward. The firelight flicked across the wrinkles of her face, illuminating a bitter expression.

Oh yes they could, and they did, she answered quietly. Children were born there too’’. Tears filled her eyes. It’s time for me to go now’’, she said, choking back her feelings so that her voice didn’t break. I’m leaving the horse here. I have to stretch my legs after all that good food.

She took a torch and walked the four hundred metres up the hill. She wasn’t the least afraid to go unaccompanied. Anyone she might meet would know who she was. Her face was well known in these parts. She started to climb the steps to the porch but changed her mind and walked over to sit in the soft grass beneath the litchi tree. She surveyed the valley path and the sea. She felt free here. The wind had started to rise. It’s was a north-westerly coming from the mighty Le Morne Mountain. She tried to stretch her neck and throat muscles, but as usual she couldn’t remember the correct order. She repeated the ritual effort every evening, but it had never made a difference. The tilt of her head was always exactly the same. The deformity of her neck had resulted from their second encounter. Over the many years, since she’d come to understand that she’s been lucky it hadn’t happened at their first meeting.

She was known by many names; Rosa’s lassie, the pickpocket, the guardian angel, the show – piece and the spy. She took a vial of cactus oil from her skirt pocket and pulled down the left shoulder of her blouse. Even though her head was tilted in the opposite direction, she could clearly perceive the mark left by the red-hot-iron. The scar in the shape of the lily of the Fleur de Lys, burned into her by the devil himself in the House of Evil. It was no longer distinct, but had become one undifferentiated wound. She dabbed it with oil twice daily.

She decided to continue her tale about the leader of Le Morne Mountain in the morning. The story came directly from her inmost heart. It was her own.

Her name was Rebecca of Le Morne.

The Code Noir initially took shape in Louis XIV’s edict of 1685. For the most part, the code concentrating on defining the condition of slavery (passing the condition through the mother not the father) and establishing harsh controls over the conduct of those enslaved. Slaves had virtually no rights, although the code did encourage masters to take care of the sick and old.

Article XXXVIII

The fugitive slave who has been on the run for one month from the day his master reported him to the police, shall have his ears cut off and shall be branded with the Fleur de Lys on one shoulder. If said, slave commits the same infraction for within month, counting from the day he is reported, he shall have his hamstring cut and be branded with a Fleur de Lys on the other shoulder. The third time, he shall be put to death.

Chapter 1

Off the coast of Isle de France, Anno Domini November 1795

The fog swirled along the reef as the Liberty lay ten nautical miles off Port Louis harbour. Rigger got up from deck and did fifty rapid squats. He opened and closed his right hand the same number of times. Spread his fingers and pulled them one by one and rotated his arm all the way from his shoulder and down. Flexibility and suppleness were essential. His right arm was his source of income. It was what he used to lasso the black livestock.

An unpleasant sound rang in his head before he got two substantial wads of cotton in place, one in each ear. He had taken the last of the cotton left as a parting gift by Shelton as Rigger left Louisiana three years earlier. Rigger smiled as he kicked the empty crate overboard. They had shaken hands and Shelton had proclaimed the company dissolved. They both had a feeling that they would meet up again.

Rigger leant against the railing, opened a bottle of Rum, and took a hefty swig and let out the vapours through his nostrils. It didn’t taste as good when he had no one to toast with. In the old days, they had a few drinks in celebration when the cargo was in place. Now he drank by force of habit. He and Shelton had been partners for fifteen years, going by the name of Black & White. Everyone involved in the slave trade knew them. They were the leaders of their chosen trade and always went for quality before quantity. They always offered the most robust slaves for sale. Shelton was black, big and muscular. Those who got a taste of his whip remembered it forever.

Rigger rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble. He went to the stern and opened his leather bag that contained most of what he needed to get him through the day. A mirror was tidily put topmost. He hung it from a peg on the mast, then lit a candle and begun to shave. Rigger always paid careful attention to his appearance. Not that he himself cared much if he was unshaven, but early on he had realized that his whole aspect, the combination of impeccable grooming and his hunting methods was unbeatable, at least in the circles where he took his trade. Rigger commanded respect with his thirty-nine years, his trim build, slightly under average height. His skin was fair and his hair was blond. In a few short hours, he would have reached Isle de France and the slave market.

Rigger and Shelton had made four trips together as hired slave overseers on different ships in the Senegal – Louisiana trade before setting up their own company. The cargo holds of the ships were filled to bursting. If one didn’t know it was humans, one might just as well have thought it to be four hundred sacks of sugar or cotton stacked closely together, horizontally and vertically. Every parcel of flesh and blood occupied a space no wider or longer than its own shape. Women and children had smaller spaces of course.

On the first page of the ships log-book were five columns, but only four were of interest. A passenger list, the crew roster, a third column with notes indicating how many passengers were still alive upon arrival and able to proceed on their own, and a forth column assessing how many were acceptably fit. The fifth column and last was a rough estimate of the number of corpses thrown overboard. No one was too picky about this figure. Rigger was down to earth, not being given to white washing. A slave ship was quite simply what it was. None of those held captive in the abyss had a personal name. All had the same identity, slave. In the best circumstances, only about a third of the original cargo survived.

The voyage was weeks of famine and thirst. People heeded natures call in place, and if they felt sick, they vomited where they lay. The stench of these ships could be smelt for kilometers. The rattle of chains and shackles, as well as the continuous moaning and complaining had given Rigger an incessant buzzing in his head. He was anything but frail, but this noise he found extremely grating. It made him testy and impatient

While Rigger finished with the razor, he reflected that the Black & White Company, unlike others had seldom had any significant loss of cargo. He had never seen any sense in shipping corpses, they were a dead loss. Rigger was good at choosing his prey and lassoing the healthiest and most muscular ones. They had had the strongest will to live.

He and Shelton had abandoned Senegal when Louisiana put stop to the slave trade. Yes, they could have continued a clandestine trade for specific customers, but they concluded that would pay far less. Besides Shelton was fed up with the long voyages at sea and was more than happy to a position as chief overseer for one of their best clients. He thoroughly enjoyed himself at the plantation on the Mississippi delta, where he terrorized several hundred every day.

Rigger had purchased a smaller vessel to operate between Madagascar to Isle de France. The trips were short and the regime in Madagascar made no objection. They knew of his methods, though they were spoken of the sly which were never openly discussed. Rigger was no middlemen, he always hunted for himself.

He lit another candle and glanced again at the regulations defining the status of a slave trader. One had to have attended a slave market ten times with one or several slaves or a single market with at least ten slaves. Rigger shook his head, he had never bothered to count the number of markets he had attended. He was more than qualified for his task.

There was a sudden outcry from below deck. When Rigger descended he found Joe, a guard, writhing on the