ANNALEA
PRINCESS OF NEMUSMAR
Copyright Stephen James Shore 2009
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Other titles by WriteAbout StephenJShore available at Smashwords and the Author's website include, the Annalea series: an historical fiction trilogy where mystery, romance and adventure unfold in the remarkable Saga of Annalea.
ANNALEA, PRINCESS OF NEMUSMAR (this volume)
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ANNALEA, A PRINCESS IN EXILE http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1193
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ANNALEA, A JOURNEY THROUGH STRANGERS—AT JOURNEY'S END http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/3887
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Annalea, Princess of Nemusmar
by Stephen James Shore
Index
Annalea, Princess of Nemusmar
Chapter I - A Journey Through Strangers
Chapter II - Annalea
Chapter III - The Surprise
Chapter IV - Orke
Chapter V - The Savaging of Innocence
Chapter VI - Her New Tribe
Chapter VII - To Have This Thing Done
Chapter VIII - The Master Plan
Chapter IX - Carnage
Chapter X - A Captain's Prerogative
Chapter XI - Spaniards in the Larder
Chapter XII - To the Court of St. James
Index (continued)
Annalea, Princess of Nemusmar
Chapter XIII - Kingston!
Chapter XIV - A Good Deed Punished
Chapter XV - Conflagration
Chapter XVI - Evacuation!
Chapter XVII - A Princess in Exile
Chapter XVIII - "Our New Home"
Chapter XIX - When the Life Spirit Beckons
Chapter XX - Well Occupied
Chapter XXI - A Most Ravenous Jackal
Chapter XXII – Always, Dear Heart
Chapter XXIII - A Most Reluctant Visitor
Chapter XXIV - Vaya con Dios, Amigo
Dedication
I love all of those who love me,
and some of those who don't.
I dedicate this work to those
who've dedicated themselves to me,
and some of those who won't.
Stephen James Shore
Chapter I
A Journey Through Strangers
A summer's eve in 1701, it was. She was a mere slip back then–two or three. On board a ship for the first time. Bound for England from Bermuda aboard a cargo ship with a capable captain and a well-seasoned crew. Not more than two days out of port were they when we fell upon them. And "fell" is the word for it. Like a fisher hawk descends on the unknowing fish, we swooped down upon them. Unawares they were of our presence or intent.
A business, you know, that's what it is: confiscating booty from those who sweat no more than we to obtain it. But they like to sweat to death if they means to retain it. We give no quarter in such an enterprise, knowing none would be given us–save being drawn and quartered. And that summer's eve was no exception.
Our captain was the champion campaigner. He knew how to find the mark and come upon it as if invisible we were. He used the weather, the tides, the swells to place us where no one suspected. And when we appeared–we struck.
'Twas as being at war; your captain instructed you–you knew what to do and when to do it. And when the brig was struck, so you did–and not a thought 'til it was finished. So it was that eve.
It was quick, but it was hard and bloody. We lost four of our own–and good lads they were. That crew fought savagely for their lives. I'm sure 'twas not to save the booty. They rightly knew they could not surrender and survive; 'twas just the way of it. The passengers were the last to die, being they were below decks when we struck. They fought bravely–'though not well–and perished quickly.
But then there was her. 'Twas me that found her, you know. She was just a babe: no doubt asleep in her father's cabin when the fracas started. By the time she awoke, realized where she was, and started across the cabin, 'twas all over. Hands were seeking and gathering booty, as was I when I entered the cabin and came upon the child. First, I was as startled as she, and I thrust about in search of anyone else a-hiding. When I was certain there was just the child, I seized her up and started laughing. Bolting out of the cabin, I announced I had taken the only prisoner!
'Twas then that miserable cur, Jack Thuttlesarch, grabs the babe from me arms and runs his blade upsides her throat, declaring, "You knows the law; we takes no prisoners!"
That cold-blooded bastard, Thuttlesarch. You know, I sailed for twelve years with the bastard. Never did take to him. He was not a Christian man, 'though doubtless born one. He took fiendish pleasure in separating other men's bodies from their souls. I'd as like come to blows with him that summer's eve, aboard that ship. But, as to how the captain blew his block clear aways from his shoulders–to stay Jack's blade from slaying the babe–me quarrel with the bastard came to its end.
By dawn the next day, we were safe back at Nemusmar, with five lads gone (one to the devil, I'm sure), and a whale's belly full of booty. And our little "prisoner." Most of the crew–save the captain and me–would have as soon delivered her to the fishes, straight-off. Well, you can't blame them, you see. After the pitch of battle and exaltation of victory, when it's suddenly done, and your mind and heart and stomach are still aswirl in emotion, and you've lost comrades, and you are so hot and covered in sweat and blood–so much blood everywhere you don't know if the blood you wear is your enemies', your crewmates' or your own–and in this disoriented state, someone demands, "What's to be done with this whining little bitch? Of what use is she to us?"
Well, any such outburst at a time like that brought lively response from our troop. Cool-headed as always, in the heat of any battle, 'twas the captain who belayed any further debate in the matter by calmly stating, "The child presents no threat, and she cannot bear witness against anyone–but she might serve. She might fetch a large ransom for the small price of keeping her alive."
So it was, she accompanied us safely back to Nemusmar. Oh, you'll not be finding Nemusmar on any map. When seeking safe haven, some years back–when first we traversed those waters–we were acquainted with that island and its sheltered cove by natives we held hostage to ensure services were provided by their tribe. The captain had promised them freedom should they guide us to such a place. And when they did, being a man of his word, he so did. Mind you 'though, there were many who protested as to how dead men keep better faith.
But as to that name–"Nemusmar"–when first they spotted that island, peering through the mist that arose around it, those bucks became agitated, pointing and shouting something the captain took to be "Nemusmar!"
I can't be saying they were shouting a name, a command or a curse, but the captain held on to that sound. When we put ashore, the bucks put up a squabble and would not place a foot on land. By its natural seclusion and the reaction of those boys, the captain figured it'd be free from intruders, native or European.
And so it was. For many years, we were free from the burden of uninvited guests (and royal patrols). But Nemusmar was no inhospitable hideaway–grudgingly sought, and simply endured. Far from that! There was no place more ideal in this world–save home.
If you have ever seen an orchid, put that flower in your mind. And in the heart of that orchid is where you be. And all around you–streaming towards you and away–are exotic colours: vibrant, yet somehow soft and soothing. And when the mist-laden petals of night fall about, you are wrapped up, safely hidden in a beautiful cocoon. Aye, that was Nemusmar!
Oh... aye, as to the girl. Well, she'd doubtless have fared poorly if Nemusmar was but a complement of sodden, rum-soaked seafarers, like meself–no matter the beauty of the island. But there were several women of varying type and virtue on Nemusmar, by that time.
Old Thuttlesarch was right. We took no prisoners, as a natural fact. But then on some of the raids, a woman or two would be taken as prize–or part of the booty, when plundering a port town. Not as prisoner, but something else: something different. And on occasion, we'd capture a small packet cruising 'twixt islands, for whatever we might get from her. Oft' times, there were a few slaves aboard. The "offer" (if you would) was freedom, if they cared to join with us. Leastways, freedom of the like they'd never see on the plantations. And oft' times there were women amongst those slaves; but we tooks both, the bucks and the wenches.
Whenever we put to port, the "landlocked"–as I took to calling them–would roust about to see what we'd brung back. The ladies, particularly, loved the bobbles and queued for first crack at silks, gowns, petticoats and the like. When they spied our wee "prisoner," their mouths liked to drop to the ground.
Mam' Tiére shouted to the captain, "From whose da chile?"
The captain replied, laughing, "She is the 'prize' from this venture."
And Mam' Tiére returned, "Den, for whose da chile?"
But the captain became distracted and did not respond.
There were a few young'uns on Nemusmar: slave young, a few mulattoes and some scruff from the joining of our mates with earlier "prizes." The captain, he discouraged that sort of thing: the mating, I mean. 'Twas not to say he did not enjoy a regular battening down of a wench or two–or more. He was every bit a man. But not a man of needs so much as a man of hunger. Well, let's just say he had a great appetite for wenches, and leave it be at that.
The captain was an intelligent man, and–as such–he knew it to be within the ways of most women to prevent the whelping, if they'd a mind to. For our treasured "prizes," this seemed to go without saying–if you'd pardon the occasional indiscretion. But with the slave girls, it was another matter. And that, at first, perplexed the captain, since he'd been many times told that the blackies had secret means that no white woman knew.
After some pondering on the matter of why, the captain decided, as he explained it to me, that these slave wenches were whelping deliberately. Many, if not most (he reasoned), had come from Africa and had not known kith nor kin since they were enslaved. Bearing all these pickaninnies give them a family: a sense of real freedom, self-determination–and roots. The captain had a gift for reading people, and while he might understand their plight–might even sympathize–he never let sentiment deter him from his true course.
Having settled on this understanding, and with his course of action clearly affixed in his mind, he called a gathering, one day, to instruct the landlocked as to their purpose and tenure. He purposefully directed the black wenches to come forward and stand just afore him. The captain expounded at length on the virtues of a seafaring life, and the freedoms it afforded those brave and smart enough to undertake it.
He explained how we had to be more than simple seamen, consigned or conscripted to serve another master. We were men at war with those who would suppress us. Our freedoms and our livelihood required a willingness to sacrifice everything: to the point of life itself. This willingness give us a distinct advantage over any man what might hesitate, or pull back, when he may escape with his life. And most of our enemies–be they merchant seamen or in the employ of the crown–are such men as will blink at the most critical moment of decision.
Beyond our fighting attitude, the captain continued, it was as much necessity as advantage for him to keep our ship and crew fit and trim. Afore ever we put to sea, the captain had determined our course and object. He knew what we sought, how it was fitted and where we'd find it. He'd brook no surprises, conjuring in his mind the setting, the chase, the attack and battle response, and the outcome–the whole of it, afore we'd set sail. And it always came to pass as he said it would. The man was a marvel!
The landlocked, especially, were spellbound by the captain's words. His exuberance in speech, as he detailed the seafaring life, culminating in the battle clash of warriors, was as watching while a calm sea suddenly erupts in swells of monstrous waves that crest at mast-height and crash down violently on the decks beneath your feet–verily washing you away! So, by the time he turned their attention to the purpose of them left ashore, they were captivated and fully attending his every word.
The captain, he said we were all buccaneers—they aship and they ashore. And each man and woman served fully in our aforementioned battle, whether sailing or fitting the ship to sail, whether fighting or fitting out a fighting man. And each man and woman would share equally in all we held, when our object was reached. In this, he included hisself as an equal partner in our endeavours: entitled to no more than an equal share of these holdings. He cautioned there'd be no provisions for any children's shares, save those who might reach maturity and serve fully in our cause. Then the captain set up to elaborate our purpose for coming together, and our object.
"Every man and woman among us," he said, "was set here by one cause and only one: the alternative life–or death–we left behind was unacceptable. We have at our means the ability to better our circumstances and prosper. We must be like a tight-knit family that works in harmony toward one, set object. But we are no community of settlers, and Nemusmar is no colony–nor promised land. Idealic as it seems, Nemusmar is but a stopping point on life's journey: a buoy, not an anchor. Our object is to appropriate the wealth and means for each member of our band to return home, or to some other part of the civilized world, vastly improved in station. And, as idealic as Nemusmar is, once retired from the 'trade,' 'twould be impossible to remain self-sufficient–even in Paradise. But I vow that those once enslaved shall be settled down with their equal shares, as free men and women, in a place where the slave trade can never touch you again."
Then he cut to the heart of the matter, imploring the women to use their wiles and ways to keep our membership from increasing.
As the captain came silent and gazed upon his audience, Mam' Tiére spake out, "We fo' da cap'n!"
And the rest responded, "For the captain, aye!"
In a softer voice, Mam' Tiére spake again, "May be thay no mo', Cap'n, but fo' whose da chile?"
"Which child, Mam' Tiére?" he responded.
"Da li'l princess in silks ya brung fo' prize."
"These two days gone, she's been in the keep of Mr. Crockett. Think you he is not a fit 'mum' for the lass?"
Mam' Tiére seemed indignant. "He be no fit 'mum' fo' Mam's ass, leave be dis angel chile!"
Her remark caught the captain's humour. "Methinks your ass is more in
need of a sire than a 'mum!'"
This brought a roar of laughter from those assembled.
Glaring at the captain, she said, "Is yo' offer'n' to be Mam's buck?"
Steeling hisself against laughter, the captain replied, "A man must know his limits, Mam', and you are well beyond me meagre means."
With her answer, "Tha's all bucks on dis island–eager but meagre," those assembled disbursed to nurse the pain of belly laughter.
Now, I took no true offense at Mam' Tiére's doubts for me mothering ability. Her spiteful tongue protects and disguises her tender heart. And the Lord is witness to me lack of domestic arts ("inept" was a title I took for me own). So, as to providing for the wee one, it sort of fell to me as the captain's right hand in extraneous matters. But she was not the trouble I suspected of her. She seemed to quickly recover from the terror I saw in her eyes, that first night we took her. Once peace was restored and her belly was filled, I allowed for the wenches to come by and attend her needs. This female attention seemed to settle her mood and belay her fears.
I was of the opinion that in her few years of life she'd not known the care and nurturing of a loving mother. There were no women aboard that brig from whence we took her. I established the relationship to her father and uncle from documents in the father's chest. These documents contained nary a woman's name, nor any reference to female kin. Me opinion was that she shuttled about with her father; her general care being given over to convenient women–white or slave: a journey through strangers. Her quickness at adapting to our wenches, and the comfort she found in their company, affirmed me opinion.
We continued in those circumstances for near a fortnight. As we were ashore the whole time–fixing, mending and preparing for our next venture–I became happily accustomed to having me small "ward" following me as I went about me routine; clipping at me ankles, she was chattering and chirping all the way–and all the time! But Mam' Tiére was resolute. As she repeatedly put it to the captain, 'twould be half a year–mayhaps, a year or more–afore we confirmed contact with any kin of the babe's, way back in England. And negotiations for her return–not to mention the resolve of that object–could span some years. Mam' was determined the child would not live and grow as the house pet of a "grub-faced ol' villain" (as she referred to me), or as a toy doll for the amusement of the island's "ladies." And what of her when we went to sea? Was she to be bandied about from one household to the next, like some perpetual pilgrim?
As afore I mentioned, I bore no resentment towards Mam' Tiére. I, as all of us, held the ol' banty in the highest respect and affection. And so it was I broached the subject with the captain: stating me favour for Mam' Tiére as the child's more permanent guardian.
"Mr. Crockett, I have been thinking on the matter since we made port," the captain assured me. "A more permanent situation for the child must be, and will be settled. And there is no finer woman on this island–or in these parts of the world, for that matter–than Mam' Tiére. But, along with the welfare of the babe, we must consider what disharmony might play on this island while we are at sea–and plague us when back on land–should we select one wench over the others. And to choose Mam' would cause a particular offense to many of the white ladies and some of the crew. She is as a matriarch in the black quarters, where nary a thought is turned without consultation from Mam' Tiére. So long as Mam' is with her own, the white child would just be lost among so many pickaninnies. And the white lasses won't long accommodate that!"
"So Captain," I pipes in, "there is no solution?"
"Me dear Mr. Crockett," the captain responded, "there is no solution."
Then he added, smiling, "There is resolution! I resolve that the child's maintenance and well-being shall continue in our providence until she is finally and safely reunited with kin. And having–as I do–justly placed confidence in your loyalty and abilities, I resolve that the child shall remain under your direct guardianship for her tenancy on this island. You shall have whatever support you need from the rest of us, and Mam'...."
"But Cap'n," I interrupted, "the point is there's where we are, and it'll not work out!"
Not ever to be interrupted, the captain turned away from me and, with his voice raised, continued. "...and Mam' Tiére shall be removed from the black quarters and lodged, as housekeeper, in your quarters."
Immediately regaining his composure, he returned his face towards me. And in a calmer, friendlier tone he continued, "With the babe in your quarters and under your direct care, by me command, this female rivalry should meet its end. And if Mam's role in this affair is seen as no more than household servant in your quarters, then that's an end to that squabble as well. However, as we both are well awares, with Mam' Tiére ensconced beneath your roof, you'll be continuously assailed with advice and instruction regarding the child and all matters in your life. And–more to your relief–as housekeeper, Mam' can control the comings and goings of the well-meaning but overindulgent 'visitors' who now attend the child, day and night."
Foolishly, I thought once more to interject me opinion, and reverse the captain's course. "Beggin' pardon, Cap'n, but your quarters are so much grander than mine, and your ways so much finer, and if Mam' and the wee one were to move...."
But as to such, I should know better. Once set, the captain does not change course.
He reprimanded me foolishness with, "Damn it, Crockett, I've an enterprise to manage here! You've had me decision, now begone!"
As I hastily prepared to the doorway, his voice stopped me. "Wait, Mr. Crockett. There is yet one more matter concerning the child."
I remember thinking to meself, "From the tone of his voice, 'twould appear we've again returned to calm waters." But I'd had more than an earful and bellyful of palaver as regards this child.
So I turns full face to the captain and says, "Certainly, sir, and what is this matter that concerns you?" The meekness in me voice and feigned interest of me words even surprised me.
The captain said, "If the child is to be in community with us, she must get to know us, and we her. She must learn to converse directly with us, and we to her. At present we speak only to ourselves around her, and about her: 'the child this' and 'the babe that,' and 'how is the wee one,' and Mam' Tiére's designation of her as 'Princess.' Crockett, this child needs a name!"
"Aye, a name for the wee 'princess,'" I replied, attempting to furrow me brow in thoughtful pose.
Chapter II
Annalea
Ah! Here is me tankard. Thank you, lass.
April 19, 1718, at a shadowed corner table in the Boar's Head Inn, in Bristol, a grizzled old sea dog sits with a younger man in gentleman's attire, and continues his story.
As you're now well awares, we despatched notice of the circumstances of our wee "prisoner," and our conditions for her safe return to kith and kin. 'Twas me who put forth the document, and despatched it from Kingston (the old Port Royal). Amongst our lot, there was only the captain and meself could properly cipher or put words down, being as how we were educated as young whips.
Since the captain was too well known–no other man had his countenance–and vigorously sought, it fell to me to perform the task. Disguised as an itinerant merchant–peddling odds and ends and such supposedly bartered betwixt islands–I was allowed to come and go readily. Over many such jaunts, I'd made friends and connections which afforded us with valuable intelligence of the comings and goings of prospective prizes–and royal patrols. It also allowed us to exchange unwanted bric-a-brac for staples we might not procure in the normal conduct of business.
'Twas on just such a jaunt I posted the first notice concerning the child. It is this document you now have placed afore me. You see the mark on it for the "first day of September, in the year of our Lord, 1701." And me reference to the child, you'll notice was as "...a female infant, A. Pankhurst." That was the same reference I used in every despatch, over all these years. The documents I took and kept, from her father's chest, which I've here brung, name him (the father) as Thaddeus Pankhurst. And here is the name of his brother (her uncle), one Percival Pankhurst. But, as you see, at the only reference to the child where she is not simply called daughter, the parchment is ripped. No doubt, 'twas caused by one of me mates hacking the chest open in search of booty, afore I returned to the father's cabin with the babe in tow. And all you can read is "An... Pankhurst."
Perplexed me, this did. Was she Anne, Anna, Annabelle, or some other name formed with "An?" You know, over time, I tried every concoction I could dream of to see her response.
"Oh, Annie," I'd say, or, "Come, Anna Marie," and such. No matter the name I used she would always turn toward me with her eyes brightened and the sweetest smile. Oh, that angel face! But it was clear she responded only to the familiar sound of me voice: knowing intuitively it was directed toward her. And her countenance was due to the affection she felt for them that were kind to her.
The natives from a near island, from a tribe that was trusted, provided the solution to me great perplexion. An elder had told me, to name a body you had to know that body: who they were and what they were about. One thing I noticed, the babe on Nemusmar was like a blossom in a garden. Opening a bit more each day and thriving in the company of other, natural, flowers. These tribesmen seen that, as well. With goods to trade, they'd always bring a certain flower for the wee one.
In presenting it to her, they'd say "le-ah," and she'd beam.
When once they asked what we call the child, I replied, "An."
Then they would say to her, "Ana le-ah," and she'd beam.
Well, that settled the matter; she was Annalea!
So it went that within a week's time the captain hosted a banquet and, hisself performing the duties of parson, we christened Annalea. To lend some authority to our duties of caring for Annalea, Mam' Tiére and meself were appointed her godparents.
Chapter III
The Surprise
'Twas Annalea's eleventh birthday. Or, more rightly, what I designated as her birthday. From what I could fathom of those old documents of her father's, I understood she was expected to pass her third birthday back home in England. By me estimate, that would place her natal anniversary somewheres in autumn. Since it was me given duty to provide judgement in all matters concerning Annalea, I designated the first day of November–All Saints' Day–as an appropriate anniversary for our precious angel. 'Twas a most convenient selection, since we were likely to be ashore at that time of year–the seas being so unpredictable, and the trade routes so hazardous.
The annual celebration had become the most anticipated event of our year, attended by every soul on Nemusmar. A feast was provided by the wenches. And bobbles, ornaments and peculiar bits of precious metals and coins taken during many ventures, over a year's time, and secreted from Annalea's prying eyes, were provided by me shipmates and me for the occasion. On that particular morning, the ruse was to have Annalea accompany me out to the ship and collect charts I'd neglected since our last voyage. Of course, she always was the clever lass, awares of goings on and about to be goings on. 'Twas seldom our Annalea was caught unawares. But this year, I believed we'd succeed. 'Tis certain she'd seen through me ploy about the neglected charts. After all, for as many years as she could remember, this had always been a special day: her special day.
So Annalea gleefully accompanied me to the ship, chattering all the way about anything and everything that had nothing to do with birthdays, presents or the like. She would not want to hurt me feelings or disappoint those misguided dears who thought they could surprise her. So she glibbed about the weather and her friends and her frock. And, of course, about flowers. Annalea adored flowers, and had collected one of near every variety on Nemusmar. She described for me, in detail, the petals of one particular flower. Macathwee, a recent "recruit" to our ranks, had come upon this oddity and brought it back to Annalea, promising to show her where a bed of these flowers may be found.
As I watched Annalea sparkling and gushing, on our early morning venture, 'twas obvious she knew what I was about; and mayhaps she was aware that I knew this. Yet I'm right certain she did not know the whole of it. At the ship, me charts located and gathered, I tarried to glance them over, then poked about 'twixt cabins, rummaging through odds and ends. I could tell Annalea was getting anxious, fidgeting about as she was. But I made pretence not to notice, carrying on like a man with all the time in the world, and no particular place to be.
"Papa, will you be much longer?" Annalea spake out.
("Papa" was how she addressed me since first I took her in. I assume at that tender age she thought that was how to call the man who cared for her.)
"Not much, darlin'," I responded, "just need to make certain I've not forgotten anything. Don't want to trek out here again for fid nor fancy. Are you needing to get somewheres?"
"Oh, no Papa, I'm just... bored."
"Well," says I, "I can remedy that. I've a bit of a surprise for you."
She responded haltingly, not really wanting me to reveal the "surprise" that she fully expected, and spoil the "surprised" reaction she'd been rehearsing.
"Oh... I'm not really bored, Papa... mayhaps I could help you look...."
"No, no, pet," I interrupted, "I've detained you long enough on this old scow."
"Oh... well...." was all she could muster as retort.
As we hiked back, I noticed her somber countenance and absolute silence. 'Twas as if she thought the slightest sound, on her part, would elicit a full explanation from me of the big "surprise," and she was determined to be appropriately surprised: but only at the time and place of her own choosing. Putting Annalea into a predicament was a most uncommon turn of events, and that brought a smile to me face. Enjoying me moment–having one over on her–I laughed out loud. Realizing her quandary–she could not conduct her ploy and remark on me laughter–I laughed all the more! Me eye caught her glimpse at me, stone faced but bug-eyed.
So, along we trode–an odd pair, a giggling old man and a somber young girl. When we reached the first crossway, Annalea continued walking while I stopped abruptly. I watched and waited to see how long it'd take her to notice. She was fully sixty paces gone afore she looked about for me.
Then I shouted out, "Where you bound for, lass? Return to me, now!"
She ambled back, looking confused and none too happy. But she said nothing: just stood afore me and glared. Annalea is a sprite and a prankster, but most unappreciative of a prank placed on her.
I said, "This is your surprise, darlin'. We've been invited to break bread with the captain, this day."
"Oh, how marvelous!" she responded, the glimmer returning to her eyes.
The captain was just outside his quarters, surveying the sea with his spyglass, when we approached.
"Good day to you, sir!" I said, announcing our arrival.
"And good day to you, sir, and your lovely companion," the captain returned, approaching to greet us.
"'Tis a glorious day, sir!" Annalea responded exuberantly. Her eyes scanned her surroundings, as if expecting to see someone, or several someones.
"Well, you look particularly lovely, today, me dear," the captain said to Annalea. "Must be that frock you are wearing; somehow, you look older, today."
Annalea, fairly lit up with expectation, replied, "Am I not significantly older this day, sir?"
To which the captain replied, "I suppose we all are a day older, 'though how significant that is I don't know."
Leading the way into his quarters, the captain beckoned us join him. Annalea brought up the rear, approaching the doorway somewhat hesitantly. Her head entered the room afore her body did.
She quickly examined the room and took inventory, concluding "no people, no party, no nothing!" Unintentionally, she uttered this last part out-loud, "Nothing!"
The captain queried, "What ails you, lassie?"
"I... I... I... nothing, sir," was her response.
"Methinks our Annalea is not herself, today," he said to me. "Mayhaps we'd best postpone this afternoon's diversions."
"Oh no, sir," Annalea quickly objected, "'tis well I am!" She beamed at the prospect that "diversions" meant festivities.
"Excellent!" he said. "I shall set cook on our vittles, and after we sup, we shall review your lessons, have a reading from you and, be there time for it, mayhaps a bit of music."
Once again, a cloud descended over Annalea's countenance and seemed to dampen her spirits. 'Tis certain I am, this was not her idea of a gala birthday, spent in the company of two old sea hounds who'd put her through her paces, reciting her lessons for their amusement.
"In the meantime, Crockett," I continued watching Annalea's face as the captain spake, "let us have a look at those neglected charts you've brung. And Annalea, you can amuse yourself out in the garden for the time being."
Annalea dutifully went out the door and down the path toward the garden.
The captain returned from instructing cook and said to me, "Think you, Mr. Crockett, she suspects something?"
"Methinks she'd like to suspect something, Captain, but I believe we've got her off her guard."
"Well, we'll delay her a bit more, after we sup," said the captain, "to ensure all is Bristol-fashion for the celebration. Forbes is coming up to give us the sign, when it is time. Now, to those charts."
Quite a little time passed afore cook was ready for us. When he announced it, I set out to fetch Annalea. I went to the garden, through the garden, around the garden: no Annalea. I beckoned for her, several times.
Hearing me shouts, the captain appeared at the door. "What for, Crockett, have you misplaced me prized guest?"
"'Twould seem as much, Captain. I can find no trace of me ward. 'Tis not like Annalea to wander off, unaccompanied."
The captain began shouting for Annalea, and this brought cook to join us.
"Beggin' your parden, sir, but I saw the young miss a time ago, when I went for stock out to the garden."
"Did she speak to you, cook?" asked the captain.
Cook replied, "No, sir, I don't think she took notice of me. She was talkin' with that other man."
"What other man?" the captain demanded.
"Looked to be one of your men, sir," cook explained, "but not one I knows. Mayhaps a new man?"
"Macathwee," I remarked. "It must be Macathwee. He is the newest man, and the only one cook's never laid eyes on."
"Did anything pass betwixt them?" the captain asked cook.
And cook related what he'd overheard.
"He asked the lass, 'Why so glum?'
"And she says to him, ''Tis no fit way to spend a birthday, waiting on everyone's pleasure–and having none of your own.'
"'No fit way, indeed,' he pipes in, 'skulking about this old keep on your "special" day.'
"That truly got her attention, and she said to him, 'That's right, me "special" day! Did you hear that from others? Did they speak of it?'
"'No,' he replied, 'just from you. I've heard not from the others 'bout anything "special."'
"She seemed right disappointed when she said, 'Then they've forgot me birthday.'
"I remember, he put his arm 'round her and sought to comfort her with, 'Well, you are obviously a young woman now, and mayhaps they reckon you are too old for birthdays, parties and the like.'
"She looked to the ground, but he lifted her face with his hand and said, ''Sides, a comely young woman like yourself is needing no such childish diversions. You should have yourself an adventure, and find a beautiful place all your own!'
"Then I comes inside and didn't hear no more."
"Did you see them leave together, cook?" the captain asked.
"No, sir," he answered, "I didn't even think about them leaving. I considered they come with Mr. Crockett, to sup with you."
"I know it was Macathwee, and he's taken her off to see that flower patch he told her of," I said to the captain.
"And where might that be?" he asked me.
"I've not a clue, Captain," I responded. "He never said where, just told the lass he'd take her there."
"I can't believe Annalea would abandon us like this, without notice: so inconsiderate," the captain remarked.
To which I replied, "Aye, but you must admit we've spun her around a bit much this day, ourselves."
The captain took command of the situation, instructing cook to hike the perimeter of the compound, scanning the areas betwixt for Annalea, and bringing her directly to him, if found. I was directed to search the lee side of the island, where flowers patched in mead and on knoll. The captain was taking hisself down to the settlement. If she was not found there, he'd put every man-jack to scouring the island–'til she was found.
As cook departed, I spake to the captain. "'Tis certain Macathwee saw and heard all the people preparing the festivities for Annalea. Why would he turn the girl's head so? I tell you, Captain, I don't like the smell of things!"
"'Tis why we act now, Crockett!" the captain responded.
And we were away.
I found meself trotting at a quick pace, just knowing the lead they had on us. I did not trust that lad, Macathwee. Then again, I hardly knew Macathwee. What really bothered was Annalea being out of me sight. Most likely, there was nothing amiss. Still, I felt the guilt of it. She who relied on me, looked to me, and loved me: and I cast her off to be about me grown-up business. But, mayhaps, there was nothing amiss. I ran faster.
As I neared the lee side of the island, I could see where someone, leaving the path, had trampled the grass, recently. I bolted in that direction. I followed this trail 'til I reached a slope running up to a prominence which, on the far side, hung high over the river. I left off tracking and climbed to the top to look about.
Sure enough, on the far side of the river, I spied two figures. I could tell it was Annalea and Macathwee. They were sitting in a bed of flowers. Macathwee had his arm around Annalea, and held a flower against her cheek. I thought to call out, but I was too winded from the chase. Had I called at that moment, things might have ended differently–or, mayhaps, the inevitable simply delayed.
But events turn in the twinkle of an eye. And some things are meant to involve you, 'though fate may puckishly stay your hand from action. And in that twinkling of time–at a distance beyond me reach–events turned from the serene to menacing. What I saw sickened and alarmed me. As Macathwee's right arm pulled Annalea closer to him, his left hand fell upon her knee then quickly rose, under her clothes, between her legs to where his hand never should be! At first, Annalea seemed stunned, and he continued to grope her, pulling her all the while toward the ground with his right arm. I attempted to shout out, but Annalea screamed at him and slapped his face, at that same instant. Me yell went unheard.
I looked for a means to get down that sideling slope, and 'cross that river as fast as I could. Me eyes were upon them all the time. The blackhearted swine slapped Annalea clean 'cross the face, knocking her to the ground! He jumped upon her, his legs astraddle hers, and pulled her clothes from her. Annalea screamed like a bloody banshee! The Lord hisself couldn't've heard me shouting through all that. And 'twas certain Macathwee didn't hear me, for he continued his odious ways. Hunched over her, with his hands pressed hard against her shoulders, he released his grip to undo hisself. 'Twas then Annalea reached up with both her small hands and scratched at his eyes! He lurched back and let out a howl. With the instincts of a fiend, Macathwee reached across his sash, pulled his dirk from its scabbard, drew it up over his head and prepared to strike sweet Annalea in the heart!
I was speechless, choked up in horror, as I watched from across the river. As his arm cocked back, then forward, the point of his blade swooping towards Annalea's breast, a strong black hand grabbed his wrist and with a jerking twist, sent the blade into Macathwee's heart–clear to the hilt! It was Orke! Orke had saved me Annalea! Regaining me wits, and me voice, I shouted out to Orke. He seemed not surprised to see me there (but, then, nothing took Orke by surprise). Doubtless, coming upon the scene, he had immediately noticed who was where and what was happening and, instantly, what must be done.
Orke informed me that Macathwee was well dead, and Annalea seemed unharmed, but she was unconscious. He said he'd carry her and meet with me at the crossover. I agreed and started along the riverbank. Me eyes seemed drawn to Macathwee's carcass. I thought several times to cross the river and assure meself the blackheart was truly dead. But as me mind got clearer I realized, if Orke strikes a mortal blow, a man can be nothing but dead. At the crossover, I met up with Orke, still carrying Annalea who was now conscious and obviously shaken by her experiences. 'Though Orke held her snugly in his strong arms, she clung to him with a grip so tight, 'twas like a tourniquet. Methinks 'twas not a fear of falling to the ground but, rather, a fear in the mind of falling victim to the likes of Macathwee.
"Orke, me mate, you are a blessing from God!" I shouted to him.
I could see the colour returning to Annalea's face. She raised herself in Orke's arms and, lifting her head, she kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Orke. I love you, Orke."
We spake not another word as we walked back towards the settlement, Orke bearing Annalea all the ways. As we neared the settlement, we were joined by several others who'd, themselves, been out scouring the countryside for Annalea. They pressed on us, seeking to pet and comfort Annalea, and ask questions. Orke and Annalea said nothing, so I took it upon meself to recount our recent tribulations to each soul who approached.
When we finally reached the flat, and she could see all about the settlement, festooned like Mardi Gras, Annalea lit up. "Me birthday! Me birthday! I'd forgotten me birthday!"
And then the tears started flowing. Ironically, the day's object had been met; Annalea was surprised.
Chapter IV
Orke
Mam' Tiére took the weeping child from Orke's arms, and, accompanied by a large contingent of wenches, they disappeared within the common house. Cook tapped a keg and the captain led us all in a toast and spontaneous tribute to Orke, the saviour of our little angel. As we drank, Orke explained to me how he happened to be at that spot at the right time.
It seems our man Forbes, the one designated to hike up and notify the captain when all was ready for the festivities, considered that chore was enough due from him. When all was set up and things were in order, Mam' Tiére searched about for Forbes. She was informed by Leona that he was spotted meandering toward the black quarters with Naomi and a jug of rum, hours afore. Naomi! Now there was a ripe plum with a pit-size brain! Leona was set to fetch them, but Mam' told her no. Forbes'd be too far besotted by now. Orke overheard and volunteered to hike out to the captain's quarters.
When half a league gone, he saw a man approaching at a fast clip; it was the captain, hisself. Most out of breath, the captain told Orke he had no time for explanations, that Annalea was missing and they must make for the settlement. Orke held the captain back and informed him that he'd just come direct from the settlement and Annalea was not there. Then the captain explained what had happened, giving Orke the details that we knew. Without a word–not so much as a fare-thee-well–Orke lit out a-running, leaving the captain standing in the path, amid-sentence.
Orke had heard enough! He'd been with Macathwee, out on a routine forage, when he'd plucked those flowers for Annalea. So Orke knew the place to go. He also knew the why, since he'd recently come upon Macathwee taking liberties with a black child down behind the quarters. He said he'd let that one go with a smack upside Macathwee's head. So Orke was off with determination, and arrived on the spot at the critical moment. The rest I've told you.
By now, it was past nightfall. Lanterns, hung from every available overhang early in the day, were all lighted, and decorations hung from rope and bough festooned the open area. A mild breeze played these ornaments mischievously, creating strange shadow dances upon buildings and ground. A feast had been prepared and left, thus far, untouched. People milled about, chatting rather quietly. There were all the makings of a banquet, save the guest of honour. But all understood the why of it. And all understood there would probably be no festivities that night. Yet we all stayed where we were, to await the outcome.
As I reviewed the events leading to this moment, I chastised meself for errors of judgement and conduct. Many things should've been done differently. More precautions should have been taken. And, mayhaps, more attention paid to the fact that Annalea was not a wee child, anymore. She was not yet a woman. No, far from it. But she was well on her way to becoming one. How do I prepare her for that? How do I prepare for that?
Presently, the womenfolk rejoined us. In their midst was Annalea, all cleaned up, looking beautiful–and smiling. Everyone gave a thundering cheer for Annalea.
When it quieted a bit, Annalea said, "Am I too late to sup? I've not eaten all day."
The assembly broke out in a roaring chorus of laughter, sparked more by relief than humour. Me mates started playing music, the wenches started serving food, and the festivities were underway.
Mam' Tiére came over to me and said, "Da li'l 'princess' be fine. She know dis bad stuff none of her fault. We tol' her, sometime good folk jes' git caught up in da devil's doin's. An' da's all dis was. As what mo' she need ta know, yo' an' me'll speak, later."
With that, I joined Annalea, singing in the midst of the crowd. She gave me such a hug as near squeezed the life from me. And I gave her a kiss that placed me heart on her cheek. As I held that treasure in me arms, it was self-evident the great debt I owed me mate, Orke. Without Orke, there'd be no more Annalea. And there was a time when a sane man would bet all his holdings there'd be no more Orke!
~~
Orke was a black buccaneer. Not the largest of our crew, but mayhaps the most savage fighter. If Orke had a knife, and you were fool enough to come at him–even with a cutlass in both your hands–your widow could never identify the remains. Fish bait would be the only use for the pieces of you that might be gathered. 'Tis me opinion that this animal savagery was his natural response to white opponents. (As a natural fact, most of our enemies were white. Our quarrels with natives were few, and largely unprovoked.)
Truth be told, it was as though Orke was two diverse spirits, competing in one body. One of these was a gentle soul–an admirer of life. But the other was a tortured soul–a dark being which disdains life. As a crewmate, Orke was always on the tack and had become, in me opinion–and I daresay the captain's as well–indispensable to the success of many a venture. As to his talents as a warrior, I believe I gave you the gist. And as a man, there was no better–no more loyal–companion than was Orke. Those eyes that appeared to me as blood red with rage, in the heat of battle, could shine in response to robust conversation, literally sparkle with laughter at the antics of a crewmate (or a bit of his own high-spirited tomfoolery), and fill with tears of sorrow at the death of a close comrade. When ashore at Nemusmar, Orke had his own quarters, lived amongst and consorted with mostly whites, venturing to the black quarters no more than any of his white mates.
As to the source of the demon side of Orke, the evidence was brandished on his body as well as soul. Never could I approach the man from behind, when his back was bared, without feeling a cringe to me own soul. For certain, I've hacked more than one man near to pieces, in the furor of battle. 'Twas whatever I must do to be the one alive at the outcome. When me enemy succumbed, I withdrew from me course of action. Thus was me intent: not given to sadistic pleasures by inflicting agony and a slow, suffering death.
To view Orke's backside, yea verily from his nape to his ankles, was to gaze upon a mottled, leathered hide with scars–oft' times reopened–badly healed and patterned across and over one another. That was the first thing I noticed about Orke when we took the packet he was on, so many years back. I was behind him when we brought the slaves on deck to hear the captain's usual "offer." For a man so oft' unmoved by the horrors of battle, as such I was, I remember cringing at the sight of that tortured body, with so many scars still fresh.
Orke was the only slave on that ship in chains, and after the captain's speech was delivered and interpreted by those of our mates what spake the Spanish and French, he was unshackled. 'Twas then I noticed the second thing about Orke. I saw that blood red look of his eyes and watched dumbfounded as, with one great leap, Orke was upon the captain, wrenching out the life with his bare hands. Instantly regaining me bearings, I grabbed a nearby mallet, rushed Orke and smashed the mallet down upon the rawest sores of his back. If you've heard a banshee wail, 'twould be like a songbird's voice when compared to that unearthly screech that came from Orke's very soul. His body folded upwards with head and legs higher than his back as he lifted from the captain and rolled onto the deck writhing in pain–and anger. So many of our crewmates jumped upon him I could no longer see even a patch of black skin below that heap.
To me, it was an interesting matter of the human nature of men that Orke was so soon to forgive me that blow and, eventually, become one of me truest mates. Of course, it first was necessary that the captain forgive Orke, and that was not a convenient matter. The entire return voyage to Nemusmar, the captain remained unconscious and, methinks, nears to death. Back on shore, he was returned from rough waters, but remained groggy for yet another day. At first, awares only of his surroundings–and with no remembrance of our latest venture and its odd conclusion, it was set to me to relate all that occurred to the captain. He determined that a trial should be held of this brute slave the next day, at noon, followed by the hanging, and then fell to rest 'til nearly trial time.
You might set it down to the flukieness of our ways, and our staunch adherence to our own law, that Orke was still alive to face this trial. Every man-jack on that packet, that day, felt as did I: attack me captain and your life is forfeit. What saved Orke was probably the strike I laid upon his morbid back. Our poor captain was rendered unconscious, but not quite dead. Dead was simple: no captain, no Orke. As I commanded in the captain's "absence," I instructed the blackie be no further harmed, but rather clapped in irons, to await the captain's outcome and determine his pleasure–should he recover.
Back on shore at Nemusmar, Orke was locked securely in the larder of the common house, still in chains and with a two-man guard constantly afore the barred door. I was in continual transit betwixt the captain's quarters, to provide for his needs, and the common house, to learn what I could of our prisoner, at the captain's behest. 'Twas at this point in time, while questioning Orke in vain, and then interrogating the other slaves taken from that packet, we discovered that Orke knew none of the European tongues, was only four months from Africa (most of that time under transport to the Indies), and could barely be understood by any of the other blackies.
This turn disquieted the captain. Not so the crew, what'd assembled a handsome gallows for the occasion–or the landlocked, who'd prepared a fine after-hanging banquet and were decked out in their party best. But the captain was a thoughtful man: oft' times an annoying quality, it seemed to the rest of us.
The captain was no procrastinator; whatever assailed us, he made the right decision instantly and we acted upon it without question. Many's the time his decisiveness saved our hides. But, on the other hand, he was not one to rush to judgement when another man's life hung in the balance. The captain felt a need to know a man, and understand his actions, afore he passed on him. And Orke was a puzzlement to the captain–to us all. ('Course that didn't bother us in the slightest, as a hanging was a festive time, if it was not your own!)
So the captain summoned me to his bedside, instructed me to postpone the trial for three hours, dressed hisself (with some help) and we prepared to the black quarters. There we entered Mam' Tiére's quarters and sat at her table. The captain drank of the herbal tea she prepared to aid his weakened body, and sought her opinion of this wild African who near cost him his life. What Mam' spake of the brutality of a slave's life (especially a strange slave right out of transport) was not news to the captain. He'd witnessed first hand the devil at work in Christianizing Indians and Negroes alike. And he'd seen the monster in the gentleman who owns and commands another man, body and soul. What he was unfamiliar with, and became fascinated by her telling, was the slave's experience in transport and before such, as a captive in his native land. The miseries Mam' described went far beyond the captain's ken. And he a man who'd seen and suffered (and, mayhaps, inflicted) quite some miseries, in his time.
Chapter V
The Savaging of Innocence
Mam's personal history traced back to a small tribal village in the west of Africa. And she stretched her memory of experiences over a lifetime–more years than she could put a number to–to find a young girl that was herself. Yet, as she said, 'twas not herself. This was a young, innocent, happy girl, yet too young for the ceremony that served her people as a passage to womanhood. And this was a free girl, who knew nothing of tyranny and suffered only the gentle authority of her parents and the tribal elders. She spake of fearful happenings that day the black raiders struck her village.
And she was old enough to know what it meant from the stories and warnings of the elders. She'd witnessed raids and pitched battles afore, betwixt her tribe and their natural enemies, over hunting grounds and water rights. But this was different; the bloodletting was horrific–and entirely one-sided. These men had firearms. And 'though these raiders were black, they were not the colour of her tribesmen or their natural enemies. More significantly, on one of the men she saw something she'd never seen afore: a white man's pantaloons.
In an instant, the tranquility of her early life ended, and the brutality that marked most of her life began. This instant was punctuated by a raider's club that struck her brow and near sent her to her ancestors. She awoke on a different day, in unfamiliar surroundings, naked and tied to other captives with coarse and thickly braided rope. Some of the captives she saw were from her tribe, but most were not. Of her tribes-people, only a few were men. These few had been struck unconscious, bound and dragged away—as had she. Most of the men of her tribe–including her father and uncles–fought to the death.
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