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The White Witch of Jamaica
 Warm Breeze Jamaica by Desmond O'Hagan |
Annie Palmer, the white witch of Jamaica, was French by birth, becoming the mistress of Rose Hall through marriage. Surrounded by sugar cane and slaves, Annie Palmer ruled the Great House with an iron fist and a dungeon below. Each morning, her maid gently opened those majestic French doors, and Annie stepped out onto her bedroom balcony. There she stood, holding the power of life and death, issuing orders to the trembling slaves assembled for her inspection. They obeyed or faced torture in the dark, dank cells.
They had reason for dread. Annie murdered a series of husbands and lovers, using her slaves to carry their bodies, via a secret route, down to the white sand beach, there to bury them in unmarked graves. Perhaps history's first female serial killer, Annie's bed still waits for her next lover in the fully restored Great House. Some claim Annie and her victims still walk its corridors.
Annie's first husband, the original owner of Rose Hall, was also her first known victim. Their bed, a plantation rice bed, is surprisingly short and narrow for a marriage bed, reflecting the smaller size of the human frame in the eighteenth century. Raised high, it requires a step stool. Clothed in linens of white, its mahogany frame is quietly elegant, waiting for her touch, for another night of passion and slaughter. Its macabre aura is irresistible as I stand there, wondering at my morbid fascination: What was it like to be Annie Palmer?
Montego Bay is a lush Caribbean paradise. Rose Hall plantation extended thousands of acres, from the turquoise sea below high into the green hills above. The Great House faces the sea; its windows placed to catch the cooling tropical breeze; its thick stone walls strong enough to withstand hurricanes. Rising three stories, it is a monument to power and luxury. Every wall is white; every piece of wood is mahogany from Rose Hall's own forest: the floors, the library shelves, the dining room table. The chandeliers are fine crystal, their golden chains wrapped in velvet to protect them from the salty sea air.
To Annie Palmer, it might have felt like purgatory. Isolated in a foreign country, far from town, she might have longed for Parisian cafe society, wished for another woman to share confidences. According to the customs of the time, her fate was tied to the generosity of her husband. Was he cruel? No one cared. Did he beat her, rape her, ignore her? There was no remedy other than death.
She favored the knife, plunging its steely blade into soft flesh, alone in the bedchamber. Only after the grisly deed was done did she seek help--ordering her slaves to dispose of the bloody remains. Eighteenth century Jamaica was a lawless place. Pirates freely roamed the Caribbean waters, stopping to share their booty with local whores while celebrating their latest conquests during rum soaked revels. Life was harsh, death frequent and taken for granted. The disappearance of Annie's husband did not raise enough eyebrows to result in arrest.
 Jamaican Skies by Desmond O'Hagan |
Her prowess in voodoo and other magical arts earned her the nickname of "The White Witch of Jamaica." As such, she was feared not only by her slaves but by her compatriots. She wasn't a woman alone but a power to be reckoned with. As long as her murderous urges were confined to her own domain, no one intervened.
Her list of victims continued to grow, including two more husbands. Why were they enchanted by her wiles? Were they strangers, unaware of her ghastly reputation? Did they indulge in the male fantasy of domination and thus survival? Whatever their motivation, they too ended up in unmarked graves, dying by knife stroke, perhaps dying from the very same knife. Would she have kept it for sentimental reasons, or would she have buried it, selecting a new weapon for each victim? Serial killers tend to keep trophies of each kill. History does not record what her trophies were, other then added wealth, fresh land, more slaves, greater power. Perhaps those are the only trophies she would need.
As I strolled through the Great House, I wondered at each object. Was that chair a favorite of one of her husbands? Were those books last read by one of her paramours? Did she keep their clothes, their watches, their shaving gear? What was it like to caress their belongings, knowing she killed to possess them? Annie didn't tell me, remaining silent across the ages.
Looking down from her balcony, into the empty courtyard below, I could feel the fear rising from centuries ago. I could feel her power, magnified by standing so far above her slaves, could almost see their upturned faces as they waited to hear what the day would bring: an order to work in the fields or a sexual dance with death? These men weren't lured by her charms but hostages without choices. A refusal meant doom. An acceptance meant destruction. They could not have left riches behind as a trophy. They were her possessions, possibly purchased to be killed, her personal wealth lavish enough to allow this careless disposal of a valuable asset. Their fate was the ultimate expression of the power all serial killers seek.
The last of her lovers was one of these, a young slave engaged to the daughter of her overseer. This black was the most powerful man on the plantation. He hadn't protested her other selections, fearing his own death. He was offended by her current choice. Annie didn't care, bringing the young African to her bedroom, dallying with him for a while before becoming bored, then slaying him. Outraged at their helplessness and his daughter's grief, the overseer could stand no more. He entered the house, a forbidden act, sacrificing his own life and earning a place in history by executing the most powerful woman in Jamaica: Annie Palmer.
