After some time there was a crack of light, and Crackstone shouted down, "What is it?"
"The old woman's dead," stated Darcy.
Crackstone pulled the trap open and followed Darcy down into the dark hold. “Here help me,” he said.
Although it was disgusting to move the cold, rigid corpse, Darcy knew that this was her only opportunity to breathe fresh air and feel the warm sun again.
They pulled it up several sets of steps into the bright sunshine on deck. Instantly, Darcy was blinded by the light. It was as if she were staring into white lightning. They carried the corpse to the railing and pitched it into the drink.
Her eyes began to adjust, and Darcy took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. Without warning, her head began to spin. She rushed to the side of the ship vomiting what little breakfast she had consumed. Crackstone guffawed, as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Ha! That air wasn't as delicious as you thought it would be!"
Feeling better, Darcy looked around the deck, drinking in every detail. The rich oak deck was polished to a high shine, the tall timbers that soared above her head were dressed with clean white sails, and the brilliant blue sky stretched out above the sea.
"What did you do back in Ireland?" Jonah Crackstone asked.
As if waking from a dream, Darcy blinked several times then said, "I tended sheep, raised potatoes."
"No, no. I mean what was your crime?"
"Smuggling."
"Smuggling what?"
"We traded goods with France."
"During wartime?" Crackstone whistled, and said, "Them British don't take kindly to that."
“You’re from the Colonies. You're British."
Crackstone’s eyebrows shot up, and he said, "If you are going to America, you had better get something straight right now. Not all of us think of ourselves as British. They like to think of us as loyal little subjects, but were a group of ragtag adventurers who answer to no one."
Darcy understood his resentment. She too was considered a British subject even though she swore allegiance only to Ireland.
She started to walk around on deck. She touched the polished brass fittings, ran her hands up and down the ropes, while Crackstone followed her. He felt there was something intriguing about this dirty wild-looking Irishwoman, in spite of the disheveled hair and rags.
Darcy looked up on the poop deck and saw the distinguished gentleman who had discussed her terms of transportation at the beginning of the voyage. She asked, "Is that the Captain?"
"Yes, that's Captain Bingley. He's not a bad sort."
Darcy watched a sailor coil some rope. Under the mainmast, she looked up at the huge sail bulging in the wind. She was fascinated with everything. The breeze blew her hair back, and for the first time, Crackstone got a good look at Darcy. He was amazed to see the exceptional woman hiding behind the filthy facade. He admired her fine bone structure and intelligent face, but it was her brilliant green eyes which he found so extraordinary.
"What character is the figurehead on the ship, Mr. Crackstone?"
"What?"
Darcy gestured toward the bowsprit. "The figurehead on the ship, is it a mermaid?"
"No," he said pulling on his mustache. "No, no It's a man. I think I heard someone say that he is the god of the wind."
"Aeolus? That‘s nice."
Passengers pulled their children away, as Darcy passed by, turning up their noses at the filthy convict. She was oblivious to their sneers.
Crackstone narrowed his eyes and said, "How would you like to work on deck occasionally?"
Darcy swung around and her eyes lit up.
"Oh, could I? I could mend sails or scrub the deck. I'm not afraid of hard work.”
"We'll give ya a try, but there will be no loafing!" he warned. "Now get back down to the hold. You've been up here long enough."
Darcy started toward the companionway, but before she went down the stairs she said, "Some of the crew members have been looking for free entertainment. Tell them, if you would, Mr. Crackstone that we will leave marks on them which will be difficult to explain to the captain."
Crackstone's face darkened. He looked at several of the crewmembers busy with their duties, and his eyes rested on one man whose face was badly scratched and bruised. "You have my word. It won't happen again."
* * *
One afternoon Dominique beckoned to Darcy. "Darcee, Darcee.”
Darcy slid over and sat cross-legged facing her. The woman smiled and started to talk rapidly in French. Darcy put her hands up and said, "Stop, Dominique. My French is poor."
Dominique sighed. "You, Darcee, I teach Francais."
Instantly Darcy lit up. "Oui?"
They smiled at one another. The thought of conversing together excited them. The lessons gave them a much-needed occupation to fill the long hours in the dark hold of the ship. Dominique taught Darcy French, and Darcy taught Dominique English. She considered schooling her new friend in Gaelic but realized that in the Colonies, Dominique would benefit more from English.
Days passed quickly and the women went from acquaintances to confidantes. Darcy learned that Dominique was the property of Mr. Charles Villiers, who was also on the ship, but inhabiting quarters on deck. Dominique said that she was not badly treated by this Monsieur Villiers, but she could never accept the fact that she was owned by him. She very candidly told Darcy that she was his paramour. She prided herself on her sensuality and prowess at giving him pleasure.
"Is he attractive?" Darcy asked.
“Oui, it is not difficult to give pleasure to a man with a nice face."
"Where did he find you, Dominique?"
"In New Orleans, that is where I was born. My mother was a paramour, and she taught me to be a paramour. One day I will teach my daughter the art of giving pleasure to a man. Do you have a beau, Darcee?"
"No."
Dominique looked Darcy up and down and commented, "Darcee, you will be owned soon by a man. You must improve your looks to profit. I will show you."
"No!" protested Darcy shaking her head. Until now she had assumed she would labor in the fields as an indentured servant.
"Oh? The princess is too good?" said Dominique sarcastically.
She grabbed Darcy's arms and looked into her eyes. "Listen to me. Do you want to be abed with a rich man or a poor man? Either way, they will take you there. You are their property. This is the way it is done."
Darcy yanked out of her grasp. She was angry and frightened at the possibility and retreated to her corner. The harsh reality Dominique presented to her was terrifying. It had never occurred to her that being an indentured servant might include sexual favors.
Although it disgusted and humiliated her, Darcy gradually accepted the cold realities of ownership and allowed Dominique to school her in grooming. Out of her wondrous box of herbs and medicines, Dominique produced almond and honey creams for the skin, containers of red berry stain for the lips and perfumes for the hair. She taught Darcy how to turn her eyelids a soft green with sage, highlighting her dramatic color and how to grind charcoal with honey for simple toothpaste.
Dominique had convinced her at last, to present herself in the best possible light to obtain the best possible position when they arrived in the New World. Toward the end of her schooling, Dominique insisted that Darcy listen to her instructions in matters of pleasure and sensuality. She endured the tutorial, but with an attitude of distaste. Darcy may have to please a man someday, but she refused to enjoy it.
On the last day of tutoring, Darcy lay down on the straw, feeling fatigued and weak. A headache had been plaguing her all day, and she closed her eyes. She tossed and turned all night, with repeated nightmares. In the morning she awoke with a nosebleed and slid over to Dominique, awakening her. "Do you have something for my bloody nose?"
Looking groggy, Dominique sat up, drew her knees to her chest and with trembling hands pulled out the familiar crystal bottle filled with green liquid.
Darcy a
sked, "Dominique, what is that medicine for? What illness plagues you?"
Dominique’s eyes narrowed, and she hissed, "It is called absinthe, and if you take any, I will kill you!"
Darcy frowned and moved back to her bed. She had not liked the look in Dominique's eyes, and she believed now that there was a side to her friend that she did care to understand.
She put her head back, to slow the flow of blood from her nose. Her head continued to pound relentlessly.
The hatch opened suddenly, spilling light down into the hold. Several of the prisoners moaned and turned away. Crackstone called, "The Irish wench named, McBride can come up and work."
Darcy stood up stiffly. As sick as she was feeling, she did not want to miss the opportunity to go on deck. As she passed the prisoners in chains, she noticed one lay motionless on the straw with his mouth open.
"We have another dead one, Crackstone!" she called, weakly.
The ladder groaned as Crackstone's heavy body descended. Dominique came over next to Darcy. The dead man was bathed in the light from the open hatch, and Crackstone squatted down to inspect the body more closely.
The prisoner's shirt was open, and his skin was covered with a bright red rash. "May the Lord protect us all!" he gasped.
Dominique nodded her head gravely.
"What? What is it?" asked Darcy.
Crackstone swallowed hard and murmured, "Typhoid."
Chapter 16
After disposing of the body, Crackstone said to Darcy up on deck, "Say nothing of this sickness to the others. I'll not have panic on the ship."
Crackstone had seen how swiftly typhoid spread on these voyages, sometimes killing over half the population. He knew that he must report the information immediately to the captain. Darcy studied his weathered face then bent down to scrub the half-deck.
When Crackstone returned he sat down on a barrel and watched Darcy run her scrub brush back and forth. He crossed his huge arms over his chest and took a draw off his pipe demanding, "Look up here, McBride."
Darcy rested back on her heels, looking up at Crackstone.
"Push your hair back from your face.”
With both hands she pulled back her dirty, tangled hair and looked at him expectantly.
"Now take the soap and wash up," he ordered.
Darcy lathered her hands and scrubbed her face, rinsing in the clean water he had brought for laundry. Crackstone pulled her chin up, and observed, "You are a very handsome woman, McBride. I'd take an interest in you myself, but my wife would tan my hide."
He turned to the rail and gazed out at the broad ocean. "She's a good woman, my wife. Not particularly fair, but she's the only one for me. To think she put up with my wanderings all these years."
Darcy smiled. She liked Jonah Crackstone. In spite of his rough ways and straight talk, he was kind. He had been generous to her, expecting nothing in return, and Darcy was grateful to him.
Suddenly, they heard someone demand, "Bring up my slave from the hold."
Crackstone stood up and came face to face with an arrogant-looking man dressed in an expensive linen shirt. He wore deep-green knee britches and the most luxurious leather boots Darcy had ever seen. On his head was a powdered wig and fashionably placed at the corner of his mouth was a small black patch.
"Be sure that she has had a bath before she is presented to me and be quick about it," he said, sniffing the air.
The gentleman turned on his heel and walked off. Darcy could smell the scent of his violet toilet water. She had read about colognes in books, but she had never met anyone with enough money to spend on such a frivolity.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"Why, that's the fine and dandy Mr. Charles Villiers. He never worked a day in his life. His family owns sugar plantations in the Indies, but he lives in Charlestown right now."
"What was he doing in Ireland?"
"Buying horses, they say you Irish breed the best horses of anyone."
"Is he the man who owns Dominique?"
"The slave wench? Yes. I've got to get her cleaned up. You can help me."
It was unsuitable for a slave to bathe in her master's quarters so Crackstone chose a secluded spot just under the poop deck. Several crew members brought up a small tub and filled it part way with water.
Crackstone turned to Darcy and said, "The damned fool doesn't know how precious fresh water is on a voyage, and even if he did know, he wouldn't care."
He sent Darcy for Dominique, and when they returned several of the crew had gathered to watch. Darcy looked over her shoulder at them and held up a large blanket to conceal her friend. Draped over a barrel were the clothes that Villiers wanted Dominique to wear, and Darcy marveled at the luxurious fabric. How she envied Dominique's opportunity to clean up. She recalled the warm summer afternoons she had spent bathing in Glinnish Stream, and a pang of homesickness shot through her. Try as she might, she could not completely recall the little cove. It seemed lately that Kilkerry was nothing more than a fuzzy memory.
Darcy felt dreadfully tired, and the sea breeze seemed icy. "Please hurry, Dominique. My arms are tired," and she began to tremble.
"I am almost dressed," Dominique called back.
Darcy lowered the blanket and gasped. Dominique took her breath away. She was dressed in a black taffeta gown with a stomacher of gold lace. Darcy guessed the dress to be the latest fashion of the day. Her clean hair was pinned up high, revealing her long neck. Every inch of her was supremely elegant.
"Dominique, you look beautiful!"
Dominique smiled and gracefully draped a lace shawl over her shoulders. She was accustomed to fine things, and she handled them as if she were of high birth. She reached out and touched Darcy's hand. "I am sorry if I was harsh with you this morning. I would never hurt you Darcy. I owe you my life."
Dominique squeezed Darcy's hand and disappeared around the corner.
"Down to the hold with you now!" barked Crackstone.
Darcy was glad to retreat to her bed of hay. All through the night she trembled uncontrollably on her bed, tossing back and forth restlessly, and by morning she was unable to rise. For days she lay on the straw shivering and falling in and out of delirium. Unable to distinguish fantasy from reality, Darcy believed that she was back in Kilkerry being nursed by Teila and Keenan. They hovered over her, sponging her with cold cloths. She thought that she was still recovering from Liam's beating. She could not tell if she had been lying on the straw for days or even weeks. Eventually she sank into a dreamless stupor, not caring if she lived or died.
One night she heard a familiar voice calling to her, and when she opened her eyes, she saw her mother. It was not her famine-ravaged face but the smooth ivory-skinned countenance which Darcy remembered as a child.
Mrs. McBride said, "I am here now, Darcy. Everything will be all right." She began to hum an Irish lullaby and stroke her hair lovingly. Darcy struggled to stay awake, but sleep overcame her, and when she opened her eyes, Dominique was leaning over her nodding.
"Oui, the fever has broken. You will recover now. Go back to sleep."
Darcy fell back to sleep. Gradually she recovered from the typhoid and became aware of her surroundings once more. Dominique had never left her side, diligently sponging her with wet rags for days trying to reduce the fever.
When she finally could speak, Darcy asked, "How long have I been sick?"
"Maybe two weeks," replied Dominique as she opened her medicine chest. She removed a small bottle filled with an amber colored elixir and pulled the stopper.
"Oh no, Dominique, no more of that brew!" protested Darcy turning her head.
"That medicine helped save your life," Dominique said, as Darcy lay back, closing her eyes.
Darcy felt guilty and said, "Thank you for saving my life.”
Dominique pushed a spoonful of medicine into her mouth, and Darcy gagged. A thick smoke coiled up from a brass bowl and curled around Darcy's head.
"What is that, Dominique?"
"Incense."
"Don't they use that in church?"
"Oui, frankincense for spirituality, but this is juniper. It purifies the air of disease. My mother taught the stillroom to me. I can cure many things, but the heart is the best medicine. You are strong in here, Darcy," she said pointing to her chest, "This why you survive The Fever.
Beyond the Cliffs of Kerry Page 13
