But it was the man next to the slave that Lily had pointed out that caught her attention. He stood there sweaty and dirty, and despite his pathetic state she thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Without considering the impropriety of it, she cast her eyes over him with the same avid intensity as the other planters. He stood tall with thick wildly unkempt hair, dark in the sunlight, waved to cover his temple, and a straight nose. Then he looked directly at her, catching her staring at him. She felt herself blush as red as the scarlet plume in her hat. He had the most amazing eyes. Green she guessed although she could not really tell at this distance, but green eyes would suit the face. He stared back at her.
The jolt she received from those eyes, made her conscious of what she was doing, and she looked away, willing the wide brim of her hat to conceal from all concerned the burning color of her mortification. She was as brazen as the prostitutes yelling out the windows and could not countenance her behavior. What was the matter with her? There was no excuse for the way she stared at a complete stranger, a felon no less. She puzzled over her interest of the man.
Still stamped on her mind remained a picture of him, the poor quality of his attire, worn rags from his long ship voyage and his lean frame from meager food. Despite his deprivations, there arose in his stature a spirit of defiance. His posture spurned the world, his eyes bitterly laughed at its hypocrisy, and his overall attitude claimed to resentfully submit to disrespect. She dared to peek at him again. She marveled at this man, pondering his circumstances. An inner voice warned her of danger. This man was not to be trifled with. Behind his unrevealed mask, she felt lay a creature of great intelligence, and if the opportunity arose, would for certain seek his revenge. The raven cawed above her. Claire shivered under the tropic sun.
“Sixteen pounds for this one,” said her uncle. Claire turned back and watched, embarrassed as her uncle fingered the muscles of the fair-haired man Lily had pointed out. Jarvis commanded him to open his mouth so he could note his teeth.
The Captain bridled but honeyed his voice. “Sixteen pounds. It isn’t half what I expect.”
“It’s double what I should give,” snorted her uncle.
“But he would be cheap at thirty-three pounds, Baron Jarvis,” objected the Captain.
“I can get an African for that. These white animals don’t live. None of these men will last a day in this sun. They aren’t made for the heat. I’ll pay a good sum, and I’ll get nothing for it.”
“Look at his health, his youth, and vigor,” protested the Captain.
Claire looked to Lily, noting her cousin’s pale countenance. They had never witnessed a slave auction. The young prisoner stood silent and inert. Only the waning of color in his cheeks revealed the inner battle by which he retained his self-control. Claire squeezed her cousin’s hand, growing nauseated from the vile haggle as her uncle moved up and down the line then stopped to examine a tall Goliath with a black patch over one of his eyes. “It is not a man they are discussing but a beast of burden.”
Her uncle halted before the dark-haired man who had so disturbed her. “This one’s worthless,” he said. She had made a point to ignore the prisoner. More planters drew near anxious to view Jarvis’s leavings. Claire stood on tiptoes to see over them. The governor motioned to his slave to bring a box for her to stand on. Improper as it was, Claire could not refuse. Curious from the excited murmurs uttered from the buyers, she stepped onto the box. She should have been embarrassed the public display she made, but it was hard to look away from so interesting a performance. A duel of sorts had erupted between the convict and her uncle. Out of spite, she silently cheered the convict. He would never win, but by the snorts of the planters he was close to succeeding. Her uncle would never be made a fool, yet this man was doing his best.
Without warning, the felon turned to face her, and caught her staring for a second time.
He wasn’t merely a devil. He was Lucifer himself. He grinned at her under a thick black beard showing, even white teeth. He held her gaze as if it were some long lost recognition. She could not quell the rioting in her stomach.
His gesture was odd. But significant of what? Not a condemnation, still an indication of something else. A nagging familiarity touched her very soul, but for the life of her, she could not name it. She twirled her parasol and glanced away in confusion. If only counting the crates piled on the dock would hinder the pounding in her heart. Oh the horrible man.
She dared to look again. Those eyes flashed upon her, flustering her with their directness, and now that he had her attention again, moved over her in that same slow manner that she had done to him− deliberately, she did not doubt to turn the tables on her. And there was not one thing she could say about it. To do so would proclaim to the world that he was returning the compliment. The downside, she knew was no compliment, but the worst insult any man could offer. Good God. Had he assumed she invited his personal attention? He needed to be taught a lesson.
Her uncle whacked his cane against the convict’s thigh, a signal to separate his legs. It was an action that embarrassed her, not for herself, but because it was a humiliating gesture. Why should she care? Because she had felt the lash of that cane before. The prisoner hid his anger well and seemed not the least perturbed. He refused to answer any questions. Her uncle forced his cane between his lips to view his teeth. In a flash, she saw a wall of hate emerge. He mimicked her uncle. In a reckless stance, the prisoner held his arms akimbo and viewed her uncle as if buying him. The other planters gasped. Everyone, even the prostitutes were stunned into silence. Despite his dangerous situation, he still mocked the world. In secret admiration, she watched as he met her uncle’s withering glare.
“Bah. This scarecrow would give me nothing but trouble. I’ve had my pick. Let the auction begin.” Her uncle withdrew, his first and final pickings of human merchandise satisfied.
A look of anguish appeared on the blond-haired prisoner beside her hero, as if upset he would be separated from the dark-haired felon. She noted a shifting of chains and downcast eyes from the other prisoners shifting to the man with spirit. She paused to wonder.
“Oh, Claire.”
She heard so much despair in Lily’s hopeless appeal.
A plan sprung into her mind, a daring, and most improper scheme. She was shameless, and the whole world would know it. Wouldn’t it serve her uncle right for his high-handedness toward her? She lifted her gloved hand and let her voice rise above the crowd.
From the dark bowels of the ship and the grim shadow of Tyburn Tree, the day emerged fantastic. To be bought and sold was a new kind of experience for Devon Blackmon. He noted the fervor and emotionalism of the crowd eager to make a quick bargain. He was in no mood for conversation, so he ignored the foam of white faces that heaved before him in speculation, then passed on. He considered his fortitude, fortunate that in all the circumstances he should still have his sanity. He marveled in the fact that being convicted and innocent, he had cause for thankfulness for he stood beneath the same firmament as she.
“What the devil were you thinking?” Ames said beside him. “You have separated us.”
Devon’s eyes gravitated to the cheering doxies as each remaining man was auctioned off. Then his eyes drifted to the gentleman someone had greeted as Governor Stark, a short, stout, red-faced fellow in puce taffetas burdened with an exceeding amount of silver lace. Next to him stood two ladies, one of which had seized his immediate attention. All that luxurious chestnut-colored hair. Memory and emotion surged in his soul like a tempest.
He had caught himself staring at her, fully conscious of his sorry state, and knowing there was no sheet to conceal him from her view. Unwashed with rank and matted hair and a disfiguring black beard upon his face, he must appear a fright. The clothes in which he had been taken prisoner reduced to rags. It was the pity in her eyes he resented.
“Five Pounds.” She pointed to Devon.
Did she recognize him? Everyone turned to her, shocked. Ang
ry murmurs rose and the woman standing next to her gasped. The doxies cheered. Devon realized a woman bidding at a slave auction would create a stir.
“Six pounds,” said another male bidder.
“Ha.” The Governor laughed. “My dear Claire, you better bid higher, or your merchandise will be foisted off to Mr. Cox and his bauxite mines.”
Devon ground his teeth. The months of inhuman, unspeakable imprisonment, pending execution, chained below decks on a voyage where men perished had moved his mind to a cold and deadly hatred of King James and his agents. Worse than the insults and outrages upon his person, there came the final humiliation of being bartered for their amusement.
“Seven pounds,” said the girl with the warm amber eyes. The man who did his best to humiliate Devon forced his ponderous, rolling girth through the crowd to get to her.
Devon’s senses intensified, so aware, so focused. Unbattened sails flapped in the breeze, and a raven cawed overhead. The air rose fragrant, exotic scents unlike any he had ever breathed. Black ragged slaves bargained over bananas, coconut, and strings of black and white striped fish. In the distance, a great fort guarded the harbor, its cannons pointing potently to sea. But beyond all this, his senses stayed intensely focused on his wife, the new object of his enmity.
“Eight pounds. Get your niece under control, Baron Jarvis,” cried the mine owner.
Devon’s eyes hardened. Niece. So the same blood ran through her veins as the foul beast, and he judged, the evil with it.
“Stand down Claire, this instant.” The baron’s face contorted with malevolent fury.
Claire. Devon remembered her name well. To imagine he felt pity at one time for this vain creature. Images emerged of that despicable eve in the gaol. Her moving confession dosed with fear and tears. Blood scorched his veins as she looked down on her uncle.
“Nine pounds,” she challenged.
“He’s worth nothing,” spat the baron. “He could not last one day in the fields.”
“Ten pounds,” demanded the owner of the bauxite mines, determined not to allow a woman to beat him.
Captain Johnson stood up on a crate and protested. “He has value. He is a doctor, kept his legs and saved many men aboard the ship. Don’t be fooled by his leanness. He is tough and healthy all right. He has just what it takes to bear the heat when it comes. The climate will never kill him. I’ll stake my honor on him.”
“Let the lady have her amusement,” Governor Stark chuckled and waited for everyone around him to join his witticism. “She knows a good bargain when she sees one. Jarvis, you’ll own him one way or the other.”
A dark cloud of annoyance swept across her face while her uncle reflected on the bargain to satisfy the Governor’s humor. The baron pursed his lips into a pout while stroking his fleshy chins, contemplating his new lucrative investment. Beside Devon, Ames scarcely breathed.
“Eleven pounds.” She spoke up, daring the other bidder to defy her.
“I’m done,” Cox, the mine owner hissed and stalked off.
Devon heard Ames utter praise to a higher power, but not before he observed the exhilaration in his wife’s eyes. He was hauled before her.
“I have never−I really don’t know what to−” She cleared her throat. “Do you have nothing to say?” She flushed beneath his glare.
Did she recognize him? He made an exaggerated bow to mock her. “I am your slave, ready for your amusement,” he seethed the words. He saw her lips part in surprise. He almost laughed in her face. To think she bought her own husband and didn’t even realize it.
“You should thank your benefactor. I saved you from a horrid life in the bauxite mines,” she cut him off.
“I suppose I should thank the disgrace of humanity that buys and sells human flesh.”
She returned an icy look then turned her dainty nose upward, dismissing him like an outgoing tide. Repugnance filled his soul, the thought of being the property of a golden-eyed witch and her uncle, an ill-formed creature. He came face to face with the beady-eyed monster.
“Good God. What medical college?”
“Trinity College. And since I’m to be bought and sold like a horse−”
“Found your tongue did you?” Baron Jarvis’s cheeks exploded with color and he whacked him hard with his cane. “You’ll learn respect.”
Devon stepped toward him, but held back a retort. Better to hold his tongue then profit from a beating. His angry gaze swung over his wife. The crowd sped her away with hearty congratulations. He hated the impotence of being sold into slavery, and with that hatred, he vowed all thoughts of revenge upon her person.
The men were divided and herded into wagons. The procession remained slow. The massive chains lay heavy, an encumbrance to climbing in the wagons. The guards collected beneath the shade of a palm tree, the prisoners in their sights, waiting for the planter’s orders.
“You lost your bloody wits.” Ames chastised him. “So what if she bought you. At least we’re together. Be thankful for that.”
“I’ll be thankful to get off this hellhole of an island.” Devon chafed and watched her ride away with her uncle.
“So that’s the lay of it,” said Ames.
Devon laughed to the bemusement of his friend. “It’s a strange twist of fate that I escaped the hangman’s noose into another world of slavery. And an even stranger fate that I be put here of all places.”
“Fate?” Ames asked.
“Without question,” Devon replied. But since that increased his friend’s confusion, he added, “I do believe you were right, Mr. Ames. My wits were lagging, and they haven’t come back yet.”
“Don’t get all starry-eyed over the Baron’s niece,” Ames cautioned. “He’ll be ready to teach you a lesson real quick.”
“You’re right. I’ll be laid to waste. But you know, Mr. Ames, I’m inclined to think now that I might enjoy our sojourn in this tail end of the world.”
“At forfeit to your life? I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll amuse yourself, harboring a grudge against the lady.”
“Amuse? Certainly, or didn’t you observe, the lady and I have declared war.”
“Oh Lily, I do depend on your practical nature to keep me from wailing at all the unfairness of the world. Cookie’s fever is raging out of control and I’m responsible for her welfare.” Claire paced the parlor of her uncle’s great house, anxiously waiting for the two doctors she had summoned for the third time in five days.
Cookie or rather Mrs. Simson had been the cook under the employ of the late baron, Claire’s father. At a young age, Claire had difficulty pronouncing Mrs. Simson, and so, had adopted the name of Cookie. From the time they could walk, Claire and Lily spent time in the kitchen with Cookie who delighted in having her two young charges under her feet.
“When my parents were alive…” Claire touched her heart, thinking of them and all the love they showered on her. Sitting on her father’s knee, listening to his deep rumble of laughter, or listening to her mother sing to her. That was before the accident. Their carriage had been struck broadside by a driver-less coach. Over and over their carriage had tumbled down a sharp ravine−her lovely mother with a broken neck, her father dying days later. Claire survived. It was a living testament to the love they held for their only child. For cushioned safely in between her parents, she emerged unscathed.
Yet her dear papa never realized he would not survive to his senior years. He had neglected to make provisions for his only daughter in the eventuality of his death and had been inattentive of his brother’s greed and temperament. Her father’s brother, Sir Jarvis wasted no time in securing the title of Baron and all the family’s holdings. One early morning, the girls were placed in a carriage and driven deep into London. They had been dropped off into a honeycomb of filth, so confined, it made Claire shudder to remember the long ago experience. Dirt besmirched walls, rot and garbage, families stuffed like beans in a bag, children with matted hair walking barefoot, men and women drinking, squabbling, fighti
ng and screaming every foul invective imaginable. Bewildered, the two girls had wandered the rookeries of St. Giles, frightened from the ragged children who stole their rich coats. Claire had pulled Lily beneath a stairwell. Soot dripped on them and they shivered from the dank cold. Scouring trash bins for food became a learned ritual. Scared out of her wits, Claire had wanted to cry. She had refused to give into that impulse and had comforted Lily. She needed to protect her cousin. When darkness emerged, a more fearful experience descended. Men leered−and groped at her, trying to lure her into their carriages. The promise of a bit of bread to a child whose stomach gnawed with hunger came tempting. Despite her sheltered life, her body had trembled with the evil they represented and she ran away.
With a week spent in the country, tending her ill sister, Mrs. Simpson returned to discover the girls were missing. Little had been done about an investigation. She could not prove Jarvis was at the bottom of the farce nor did she trust him. No way did she believe his weak explanation of being in another town at the time of the kidnapping. Her maternal instincts exploded. She questioned everyone. Most of the servants remained silent, terrified of going up against a knight of the realm. A stable boy gave her a clue. He had been sleeping up in the loft when Sir Jarvis and a strange man had visited. He had not heard all the conversation. The girl’s names were associated with St. Giles.
Were her babies forsaken to that devil’s pesthole? Cookie rose like an avenging angel. She contacted her brother, a pickpocket who lived in Jacob’s Island, the heart of that rotting dunghill of humanity. She waited, praying to a higher power. A week later her prayers were answered when her brother showed up with her two little frightened and filthy girls.
Mrs. Simson had confronted Jarvis. When he told her the girls were no concern of his, she flew into a rage and resigned. Cookie had procured a solicitor, an old family friend to secure the small inheritance Claire received from her mother that Jarvis did not get his hands on. With frugality, they lived as a family. Without Cookie’s intervention, Claire knew their circumstances would have been dire.
The Winds of Fate Page 4
