by Mark Souza
Leanne answered the light rap at the door fifteen minutes later. Ellie stood on the stoop holding a set of brass pans fastened to long wooden handles. She set them down next to the fireplace, folded back the lid on one, scooped up embers from the hearth, and clapped the lid shut.
“In the old days, people used these to warm their beds before they climbed in. Your beds will be nice and toasty by the time we get back.” After placing the bed warmers, Ellie joined the Brown’s in the main room.
“Are we ready?”
The girls looked less than excited. Leanne didn’t feel much enthusiasm either and tried to come up with a graceful way to beg off. It had been a long drive, the hour was getting late, and the cottage was warm.
“Who wants to hear about the slaughter of 1759?” Ellie said.
Lisa shot a hand in the air and looked over at her older sister who was trying to decide. Slowly, Jenny’s arm crept above her head. Ellie smiled.
“All right, the tour starts now. Fort Cavendish was built in 1750 by the British to protect Cavendish Bay and the towns nearby from French marauders, and Indian attack. Cavendish Bay was a major seaport at the time. Ships left for England heavy with tobacco, furs and cotton. They returned with supplies like cloth, tea, and gunpowder.
“This cottage was the home of Commander Jonathon Smythe. The only record we have of what happened is from the diary of his wife, Rebecca. The story of the slaughter centers around a prostitute. Is that going to be okay Mrs. Brown?”
The girls, Jenny fifteen, and Lisa thirteen, smirked with their gaze glued to their mother. Maybe they thought she’d squirm at the word or forbid them to hear the story.
“It’s no problem. They’re old enough to know what the word means,” Leanne said.
“I’m related to Commander Smythe on my mother’s side,” Stu blurted. “He’s my great, great, great, grandfather nine generations back.”
The girls looked embarrassed and a little peeved. Initially opposed to the tour, they were now eager to get started and their father was slowing things down. Ellie’s story had two elements they were keen to hear; slaughter and prostitution. And they had their mother’s permission. Leanne was peeved too, but for different reasons.
Ellie smiled graciously. “Wow, what are the odds? A blood relative of Commander Smythe? That doesn’t happen every day. Welcome home, I guess.”
Stu grinned like a smitten schoolboy. Leanne glared. She muttered under her breath, “She’s half your age, moron.” Stu’s eyes slid toward his wife and his expression soured. He’d heard her.
“Where did I leave off?” Ellie asked.
“Prostitutes,” Lisa chirped. She looked over at her mother with fretful eyes and a wide grin exposing her braces, to see if she was in Dutch.
“That's right,” Ellie said. “Let's head outside.”
Ellie pointed out the various buildings scattered inside the fort and explained how the largest structure at the center, the barracks, housed the enlisted men. The cottages along the walls were assigned to officers and their families on the basis of rank. With one exception. Ellie pointed out a small building next to the Commandant’s Cottage.
“That cottage held prostitutes. The army recognized that since the enlisted men were mostly single and weren’t permitted to have anyone live with them, having ready access to prostitutes might relieve tensions before they came to a head.
“It was a cold winter day in 1759 at about this time of year. The days were short and the nights long. A new girl was brought in, a Native American girl named Libby, and that’s when the trouble began...”
Rebecca Smythe watched the wagon pass through the gates. The buckboard carried supplies up from the harbor. She scaled the wall after hearing the sentry's call of ‘ship ahoy’ to watch the unloading through a spyglass. The Harbinger set anchor late in the afternoon and wagons off-loaded her cargo, coming and going well into the evening. Rebecca had ordered a hand mirror months earlier and met each wagon as it arrived. Her initial excitement festered into simmering frustration as load after load arrived with no sign of her mirror.
As the wagon drew nearer, she noticed it carried a passenger, a woman. A woman arriving alone meant one thing, a new whore for the Comfort Shack - as the men called it. This one was different. She was an Indian. There had never been an Indian whore at Fort Cavendish. And she was young and pretty. Not just pretty, she was beautiful. Unlike the other prostitutes, she wasn’t plump, pimple faced, lazy-eyed, or missing teeth. Men scrambled off the wall and hustled across the parade ground to meet the wagon with stupid leering grins.
“Flies to rotted meat,” Rebecca muttered.
The wagon slowed to a stop in front of the supply house. The driver tipped his hat and offered Rebecca a smile.
“Hello again, Mrs. Smythe.”
She dipped her head in greeting. “You know why I’m here.”
“Yes ma’am and I have it for you.”
Rebecca placed a hand over her chest and let out a relieved sigh. The hours of fruitless waiting had seemed longer than the weeks and months that had come before. But the waiting was finally over.
Soldiers arrived at the wagon and crowded around the sideboard. They jostled for position to be the one to help down the new girl. They behaved like idiots. If her husband hadn’t been away in town, Rebecca felt sure he would have had them put in stocks or had them whipped. Another group of men arrived to unload the wagon.
“May I have it?” Rebecca asked. The driver reached under his seat and pulled out a parcel wrapped in cloth and bound with string. She could tell from the shape it was her mirror. The driver handed it down as a soldier swung the girl off the seat. Rebecca watched in horror as the girl’s leg clipped the mirror and it tumbled from the driver’s hand. Time seemed to slow. It felt to Rebecca as though she’d stepped outside her body and was unable to react. The mirror ricocheted off the sideboard and spun like a windmill till it hit the cobblestones. When she came to her senses she was still screaming the word, “No.”
The soldiers backed away. Some returned to their posts. The new girl looked scared and chewed on her lower lip. She bent down, picked up the mirror and timidly offered it to Rebecca. Rebecca snatched it away and snapped the string with a jerk of her fingers. She peeled off the cloth and threw it to the ground. The silver handle was cold in her hand. Intricate filigree decorated the back. She turned it over. A crack extended diagonally across the glass. The girl shifted her gaze from the mirror to Rebecca, a smug grin on her face.
Rebecca's neck tensed with rage, her words came out in a raspy hiss, “It’s ruined, ruined.” Her tone scattered the remaining soldiers.
“I will pay for a new one,” the girl said.
“What is your name?”
“I will pay.”
“Of course you will. What is your name?” Rebecca demanded.
“Libby.”
“Your full name.”
The team of horses, whose ears pricked up when the commotion started, now folded them back as if checking for a safe path to retreat.
“Libby, ma’am.”
“Don’t you have a proper name?”
“My name is Libenasequa. White people call me Libby because they have trouble pronouncing it.”
“Do you know how long I waited for that mirror?”
“No ma’am.”
“Four months. I ordered it in September and it’s only just arrived. Can you replace my time?”
“No ma’am.”
“So what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I am terribly sorry. I didn’t mean any harm. A beautiful woman with golden hair such as you has no need for reassurance from a mirror.” The girl spoke softly, her gaze fixed on the ground. From her posture, she looked to be an innocent begging for sympathy. But it was all for show. She was no more remorseful than a cat atop a mouse. Rebecca wanted to slap her.
“Be quiet. I don’t want to hear your self-serving blather. The mirror cost two pounds. Pay me.”
“But I have no
money yet.”
“You don’t? Then why did you offer to pay?”
“I will pay you as soon as I can. I promise.”
“The promise of a whore. Now I feel better.” Rebecca turned away from the girl and dug through her purse. She pulled out two silver coins and handed them to the driver. “Place another order with the captain the moment you return to the ship.” The driver nodded.
Rebecca held the mirror to her face. The crack split her brow to cheek, one half angled higher than the other. The effect was grotesque. She squeezed the silver handle until the blood left her hand and the mirror quivered.
“I’ll be waiting for my money,” she said. She lowered the mirror and stormed off for home.
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