Chapter 61
Spanish Town, Jamaica
The spasms in Anne’s lower back grew stronger, more intense. A consistent rhythm mounted between each pulse.
She knew little about what to expect, just what Mam had told her about her own arrival.
She knew enough to know it would hurt like the Devil.
But what could hurt deeper than the past four months she’d spent rotting in this cell?
She suppressed a scream as another wave knocked into her pelvis, its white-knuckle grip lasting for thirty miserable seconds before letting go.
Two guards approached with Captain Johnson. Finally. She raised her head, sweat pouring down her cheeks and an arm pushed against the stone wall.
“Are you …?” Johnson removed his ostrich-feathered tricorn. His thin lips paled. “Guards, is there not a doctor? Don’t just stand there! Call for the midwife.”
They stared in astonishment for a moment, then scurried away to follow Johnson’s orders. Once they left, Anne sucked air through her clenched teeth. “Stay,” she said.
Captain Johnson blanched.
“Not for the birth, you blithering fool,” she growled, then remembered herself.
The letters.
Damn this gowl. She needed him though. She needed him to deliver the—
“I only meant,” she heaved, “that this baby will wait, I assure you. I’ve been at this for half the morning.” She wiped her brow with her filthy sleeve. “Might not come until tomorrow.”
“You need to be moved. I’ll see to it,” the captain said, making to leave and fumbling with his words, losing his polished composure. “These conditions …”
“Captain,” she said, her eye catching his. “If you don’t make a fuss, then I won’t either. There is one more thing. One more—”
A cramp tore through her, cutting her off. “Please,” she wheezed. “Sit. Before the guards return.”
To her everlasting relief, he did, taking his usual stool. He looked cramped, shifty, and uncomfortable in his velvet waistcoat. But her body relaxed, waiting for the next swell to knock her over.
She’d use the time. If there was any time left, she’d use it well.
Clutching her stomach, she hobbled to retrieve the letters she’d hidden under the mattress. She took the stack of neatly folded papers and handed them to Johnson.
He studied them and the scrawled names, not saying a word.
“I’ve included instructions. Where these individuals might be reached.”
He flipped through the stack, speechless.
Say something. Her desperation blinded her ability to read him. She was all out of cards.
“Captain,” she said, taking a seat on the cot across from him. “I can appreciate the risks. But after everything I’ve shared with you, everything we’ve gone through—everything you’ll no doubt benefit from as you write your book …”
“Do I want to know what these letters say?”
“Nothing that connects back to you. Let’s just call it some final words to a few people of importance.”
He frowned, massaging the crease in his brow.
Please, Captain.
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “I came to tell you that I’ve been summoned back to England,” he said, lowering the letters to his lap. “I make for London at dawn.”
She felt a cramp rearing its head, ready to bite. She closed her eyes, letting it tear through her. “Then I guess this is goodbye?” she ground out.
“I suppose it is.”
As the spasms released, she looked at him.
Please, she prayed. She was still a bloody papist. Whatever the hell that meant anymore.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said. In advance. “You’ve been a boon to my spirit these past months.” A partial truth. Though it surprised her, how that truth—however partial—had rooted into something deep within her.
He tucked the letters into his bag, then sprang to his feet quicker than she’d ever seen him move, as if he couldn’t wait to be gone. He paused for a moment, then stretched out a trembling hand. She took it, shaking hard.
Clearing his throat, he said, “I hope—”
The sound of boots rushing down the corridor cut him off. They both turned, facing the incomers.
“How long has she labored?” a plain woman with gray hair asked the guard, who shrugged.
“Found her like this not five minutes ago,” the guard said, rubbing his neck.
“Goodbye, Captain,” Anne said with a nod as he backed out of the cell, his eyes wide and unreadable. She didn’t break his gaze, even as the midwife ordered her to sit.
Johnson placed his hat over his powdered wig, then bowed, scurrying away and out of view.
Minutes wore on like hours. Hours like years of starless nights. The pummels came like breakers, crashing relentlessly, violently, her whole being fighting back. A dirk against a dozen pistols.
A room with white walls, sheets that smelled like ash soap. A birthing stool. The stern midwife at her side, holding her hand, ignoring a thousand ear-bleeding curses. Anne squeezed hard enough to break bones.
Jack, she called into the cavern of grief within herself. He should have been here—beautiful, stupid fool. He should have been a better man. Still living, still at her side. Still her life’s greatest love.
Mary. Sweet Jesus, what of Mary? Anne rallied, throwing her crusted eyes open. Anne had to survive this. Had to—
A final push, teeth bared through a guttural scream. A child spilling out into the light.