This Loving Torment

by Valerie Sherwood

  Marie slept late and did not wish her goodbye, for which she was grateful.

  Riding into Charles Towne in the carriage beside Alan, Charity was sad and silent and resentful. Alan had not spoken up for her. He had let Marie push her into this journey—indeed he had abetted it. Well, once arrived in Barbadoes she would stay there! She’d show him! She’d find another job—perhaps as governess to some other planter’s children—and forget him. No, she couldn’t do that. She knew she’d never forget him....

  Tears trembled on her dark gold lashes, and she turned her head quickly so Alan wouldn’t see them. On both sides the green clumps of palmettos were closing in. Just as life had closed in on her. Forcing her out, and onward ... ever onward.

  Beside her, Alan sat keeping his steady blue eyes solely on the driver of the carriage. He was outfitted in lavender silk, his shoulders broad in his fitted coat, his knee breeches very tight and modish, his lavender silk-stockinged legs almost brushing her own.

  Months . . . months without him. She could hardly bear to think about it. But she knew that wherever she went she would always carry him in her heart.

  At the docks Alan commended her to Dr. Cavendish’s care and bade her a friendly goodbye—almost as if he were an elder brother who didn’t know her very well.

  Her heart bled.

  Then he was gone and she was aboard the Gull. It was a good thing her eyes had been wide open when she sailed into Charles Towne harbor or she would never have seen it, for her eyes were filled with tears that misted her view of it as she left.

  On the Gull she found herself sharing a decent cabin with a stocky little red-haired English girl named Polly Dawes. Polly’s hands were red and workworn, but her smile was bright and her manner sprightly. Like Dr. Cavendish, she was going to England by way of Barbadoes—not because it was the shortest route but because the Gull's captain had often dined with her former employer and she preferred to sail with him. Charity liked Polly and was sorry Polly wouldn’t be staying in Barbadoes. Cheering up was what she needed and Polly’s open ingenuous face and infectious laugh were good for her.

  The third morning out brought disaster.

  As Charity went out on deck she realized at once that something was wrong. A grim-faced captain was issuing orders to his crew, a desperate note in his voice. Everything was hurry and confusion. Looking aloft, she saw above her the enormous billowing shrouds and her eyes widened. Surely they would capsize, carrying so much canvas!

  Dr. Cavendish stood by the rail. She hurried over and asked him what was wrong.

  “That ship,” he said, pointing. “We know not whether she’s merchantman or pirate but tis plain she’s overtaking us.”

  Even as he pointed, Charity saw the lean yellow ship, her great sails billowing too.

  “Can ye see what flag she’s flying?” he asked. “My old eyes are none so good.”

  “French, I think—no, wait, they’ve hoisted another. It’s black.”

  “Plain black?”

  “No, there’s some kind of white streak on it.”

  Cavendish groaned. “A white oar on a black ground. Tis Captain Court’s flag then. We’re for it, I’m afraid.”

  Polly had joined them and heard his last remark. “Pirates!” she gasped. “Oh, lord ha’ mercy! We’ll be taken!”

  “Maybe we can outrun them,” said Charity, eyeing the billowing shrouds above.

  “No, she’s closing,” said Cavendish regretfully. “You ladies had better get below.”

  “Why?” demanded Charity. “I heard you say yourself the captain of this ship would have the common sense to stop if he met a pirate!”

  Cavendish looked upset. “Ah, so I did, so I did. But one never knows when a—” He paused as a warning shot came across the bows. “They’re telling us to stop,” he said unhappily.

  Everyone turned to look silently at the captain. For a moment he wavered. Charity could see from his face that he wanted to fight for his ship. Then his gaze passed over the two women and the elderly doctor and, sighing, he gave the order to heave to.

  Charity and Polly stayed on deck as the grappling hooks came over and their ship was boarded by what seemed a disreputable pack of scoundrels. The men carried cutlasses and pistols and spoke a medley of tongues. All were bronzed by the sun, and their yellow-hulled ship looked as if it had seen action recently for part of its poop was shattered. Methodically, the pirates went about breaking into barrels and boxes and chests, transferring what they wanted to the yellow vessel.

  One of the men, carrying a heavy box, barged into Polly and as she fell another caught her in his arms. She looked up into that wild bearded face and fainted. With a shrug, the fellow pushed her toward Charity, muttering something in a language Charity did not understand. Carefully she eased Polly to the deck and looked up in time to see Dr. Cavendish’s horrified expression as one of the pirates broke open his “disreputable little wooden chest.” At the direction of his captain, the man knocked through its false bottom and revealed the five thousand pounds the doctor had thought so skillfully hidden.

  The pirate captain, who was French and ill-tempered, looked at the money and said in heavily accented English, “A man who carries so much wealth with him must have more at home. You can ransom yourself for a like sum, monsieur.”

  The doctor quailed.

  “As can you, mademoiselle,” he added ironically to Charity.

  “But we—we have no money, Polly and I,” faltered Charity.

  The Frenchman gave a nasty laugh. “Still you will be worth something. We will sell you to the highest bidder in Tortuga.”

  Like the doctor. Charity fell silent. Polly regained consciousness and Charity helped her up. Along with the doctor, the two women were transferred to the yellow ship. There they watched from the rail as the crew of the Gull was loaded into longboats and forced to row themselves toward the mainland. As they left, the pirate captain waved a cutlass at them and shouted in his strong French accent, “Tell Charles Towne that Captain Court sends them greetings!” Then he threw back his big head and laughed.

  Beside him, nearly in tears, the old doctor was plucking at the captain’s sleeve and crying, “You must let the women go with the crew, Captain Court! God’s life, man, would you harm the women?”

  The tall pirate turned on him with contempt. “Take your hand from my sleeve,” he said in French, “or I will cut off your arm. I am not Captain Court—I am Captain St. Clair.”

  The doctor did not speak French. Hastily Charity translated and he let go of Captain St. Clair’s sleeve and fell silent, his face ashen.

  A moment later there was a wail from the longboats—the pirates had tossed several flaming torches into the Gull's shrouds. As the rakish yellow ship sped away from her, those shrouds burst into flame and soon the whole tall ship became a pillar of fire against the hard brilliant blue of the sky. Charity watched this wanton destruction with horror and fascination, until the Gull was only a bright smudge in the distance, soon to dip below the level of the water.

  Polly asked hoarsely, “What are they going to do with us?”

  “They’re going to sell us,” Charity said, amazed that her voice could sound so calm. “In Tortuga.”

  BOOK IV

  The Caribbean 1687-1688

  CHAPTER 31

  Unceremoniously the two women were thrust into a cabin, and kept cooped up there the whole of the way to Tortuga. The pirate captain obviously did not trust such valuable cargo among his men. Gloomy and afraid, they huddled together to keep their mind off the fate that awaited them. They talked. Soon Charity knew Polly Dawes’s whole life story, and felt she had known Polly all her life.

  While working as a chambermaid in London, Polly had been unfairly accused of theft at a bakeshop. The real culprit had escaped, and there was no one to speak up for Polly. She had languished in gaol for a while and then been deported to the Colonies. Of her seven years’ indenture she had served but three when her employer, a kindly old Scot, died. In
his will, he set all his servants and slaves, both black and white, free and left them each a small sum of money. Polly’s inheritance was just enough to buy her passage back to the little town in the west of England where she was born and where, she confidently believed, her Jack would still be waiting. He’d had a widowed mother and six little sisters to look after, and they’d agreed that Polly would go to London and save her money until they had enough to marry.

  Charity’s eyes grew damp at this recital, for with every creak of the ship that carried them into tropical waters she felt sure that neither she nor Polly would ever see England again.

  Nor would she ever see Alan again. That was what hurt most of all.

  When at last they anchored in Cayona Bay, the two women were brought, blinking, up into the sunlight of the deck. Before them lay the island of Tortuga baking in the sun. All at once, Polly swayed on her feet, her cheeks flushed and her eyes unnaturally bright, as she clung to Charity.

  “This woman needs a doctor,” cried Charity, but she was ignored. The two women were helped over the side into the longboat, and they settled down together as strong backs bent to row them to the shore. Neither Charity nor Polly observed the rugged upthrust rocks of the island’s natural citadel. Looming above them over the sprawling town, the massive gray bulk of the Mountain Fort with its fixed guns pointed toward the sea made no impression at all. Nor did they really notice the crowded quay with its fishy smell, its piles of fruit and merchandise, its many-tongued babble of swarming humanity as Dutch, French, and English traders rubbed elbows with golden-skinned Caribs and black Africans and swarthy cutlass-sporting buccaneers of every country. Above them the tropical sun burned down—but they hardly felt it.

  On a bouncing cart, the two women were carried through the town amid catcalls and cheers and an occasional sympathetic look. Dr. Cavendish had disappeared before they left the ship. Polly was near fainting, and Charity felt like a felon indeed on that humiliating journey. Face hot with shame, she refused to look at those who mocked, but kept her head high. Her eyes lifted to observe the Spanish style buildings, built with heavy iron grill work—to keep the thieves out as well as in, she thought with a certain amount of irony.

  At last the cart jolted to a halt on the rough cobbles before a small building with wooden shutters. Ushered—rather, pushed into the dark stuffy interior, they passed a number of disconsolate Spaniards sitting on the floor, and made their way up a rickety stair to a room where the shutters were open and they could look out and view the sunny harbor studded with ships.

  A crone with straggly gray hair came in with a pitcher of water and they drank thirstily. Charity thought the old woman had a kind face and spoke to her. The crone answered readily enough, saying she was the woman who “tended” the female prisoners, emptied the slops and brought them food and water until they could be sold. Charity had no intention of staying to be sold, and having drunk, was making for the door when she noticed the burly guard standing at ease outside. His eyes moved over her body lustfully and she drew back.

  “E won’t hurt you, dearie,” soothed the crone in a sing-song voice. “E’s here more to keep them out than you in!” She cackled at her own joke. “After all, where’s to go if ye did escape this room? Tis an island, dearie, and evil Spanish ships be all about once you leave the harbor.” She added that it was too bad Captain Court’s Sea Witch was not in harbor, for he’d buy her sure—he always bought the captive English women. In a hoarse whisper she confided that most of the English women had been rescued from Spanish ships and “weren’t worth much,” having been ill-used. Still, were he here he’d surely have saved Charity and Polly from those who’d bid heavy to put them in the brothels.

  Charity winced. “And the Spanish women,” she asked, “what happened to them, if Captain Court didn’t buy them?”

  The crone, her eyes gleaming suddenly evil, said that Spanish women were another matter. Of course Captain Court—and other buccaneers, too, for that matter—had in his Articles with his men that he was the sole judge of which captives to hold for ransom, which to sell and which to release. He’d never brought in but one Spanish woman—all the rest he’d sent in longboats to the nearest Spanish port.

  “And that one?” asked Charity.

  “Ah, she were a willing prisoner.” The old woman laughed. “She did lean toward him as she walked; she seduced him with her black eyes. Tis said Captain Court was happy the whilst he had her—which wasn’t very long.”

  “What happened to her?”

  The old woman frowned. “None rightly know, except that Captain Court’s housekeeper did say that he got a letter and sat a long time thinking, and then went into the Spanish woman’s bedroom. She could hear them shouting, and then Court gave a yell and the woman did run out looking scared—she’d taken a knife to Court and stabbed him. He did lay near death for two weeks, but being strong as leather he mended good as new.”

  “And the woman?”

  Her informant shrugged. “She disappeared. Naught was heard from her after that. Perhaps he had her thrown to the barracuda, or perhaps one of his men slit her gullet for her.” She spat. “Spanish filth, not to appreciate a man like Captain Court!”

  Charity shivered. The prospect of being saved by “a man like Captain Court” seemed vastly unappealing. Nor did her chances appear much better from the men who swaggered by in the narrow street below, some with a single gold earring dangling from one ear. All were heavily armed, with swords and cutlasses banging against their thighs as they walked, and wickedlooking knives and pistols thrust into belts and wide sashes. Many of them bore deep scars, some were one-legged or limping or had an arm bound up or a head bandaged. Often as not, her informant told her, these wounds were received in tavern brawls instead of in their nefarious activities upon the seas.

  It was announced that the auction would not be held until the next afternoon. Charity, leaning on the window sill, brooded about who would buy her. She was roused by the sound of chattering teeth. In a corner Polly huddled, shaking with cold in the tropical heat. Minutes later she was burning up with fever.

  When the crone brought their next meal, Charity asked if there wasn’t a doctor around. Tomorrow, the crone said. There’d be a ship’s doctor or two coming around to the auction. She looked at Polly with interest. Everyone had fevers here, she shrugged. These islands were full of plagues. She’d had fever herself more than once; the girl would probably get over it all alone. And there were worse things than fevers, she added darkly. For, some like that Captain St. Clair, the pirate who’d captured Polly and Charity, had never felt anything for any woman; only the length of his blade piercing human flesh ever thrilled him. St. Clair was unpopular and he knew it, and his crew had grumbled because they’d not been allowed this pretty duo for their playthings, the old woman told Charity. It was rumored that St. Clair had bragged in a tavern that he was going to buy Polly and Charity as gifts for his fine crew! The crone added that she hoped the story wasn’t true for the last time this was done, the unfortunate young woman had survived but two weeks, having been torn to pieces in a bloody fight in the forecastle over whose “turn” it was to rape her.

  Charity’s knees went weak with horror. After all she’d been through, to come to this!

  “No call to worry yet,” soothed the stringy-haired crone. The brothel keepers would most likely outbid St. Clair, she explained. For St. Clair, along with his other vices, was known to be tight.

  When the woman left, Polly asked weakly what they’d been muttering about and Charity hadn’t the heart to tell her. Charity was unable to eat her supper, and spent a sleepless night lying on a pallet on the floor. The next morning the crone rushed in joyfully, almost spilling the gruel she carried.

  “Ah, ye’re in luck,” she crowed. “Look—tis the Sea Witch! Captain Court’s sailing in!”

  Through the window Charity could see a fast tall ship with gray sails and a black hull. It looked at first like a ghost ship, and Charity recalling that its
captain’s mistress had “disappeared,” shuddered.

  About noon another group of captives arrived; from the window Charity could see them marched in. All were Spaniards; several dejected looking men, some wounded, and three women in whom she took more interest. Two were obviously serving wenches. One had a roguish eye for every man on the street, while the other, who was very fat, plodded along dumbly. But the third was a lady of quality who held her head high and gazed about her scornfully. Her arrogant aquiline features and dark eyes spoke of centuries of Spanish nobility. She resisted furiously when they brought her in. Her mantilla was torn in the struggle and her high-backed Spanish comb fell to the floor and was crushed under a boot. She reeled backward as the door slammed. Charity, feeling pity for this arrogant daughter of Spain, tried to speak to her, but she turned her head contemptuously away and sat down in a corner alone. Charity shrugged. This one was no better than she; they would all be sold this day like so many cattle.

  Charity’s apprehension mounted as she saw a knot of men gathering below the window. They were a fierce-looking lot. Among them was the swaggering Captain St. Clair. Just before the guards hustled the women out, the crone hurried up to her and pointed into the crowd. “See that big man?” she asked. “That’s John Ravenal, Captain Court’s man—Court must’ve sent him to buy you.” Charity saw a veritable giant standing almost a head above the crowd, a wolfish grin on his dark face. She swallowed and looked away. The guards had to help Polly to walk. Near fainting herself, Charity tried to maintain a haughty mein and face down the crowd as she was marched outside. The Spanish lady, who stalked along scowling, muttered imprecations in Spanish.

  In the blazing sun the prisoners were stood one by one upon a block from which, Charity suspected, on other days black slaves from Africa were sold. Today the offerings were all white—and all Spanish save for herself and Polly.