Fire on Dark Water

by Wendy Perriman

  The cabin door flew open and the quartermaster’s burning mane lit up the gap. He cut my wrists from the table legs and mangled my arm up my back to propel me outside. Every soul on board was now gathered around the waist deck. Every pair of eyes there to witness my disgrace. I was marched to the top of the steps at the edge of the quarterdeck where Captain Mack stood waiting. He twisted my hair into a rope and viciously pulled my head in place, squashed tight against his chest. I saw the dead sailor laid out on top of the skiff, saw the shears—and realized in a long sticky moment of forever that I had stupidly been caught. This was the one thing they could trace back to me! Hot tears scaled my skin as snot began bubbling at the tip of my nose. And then I saw Charlie lashed to the mast and my involuntary wails echoed round the shadowy ship. Several of the women began crying too and all of us shuddered against the night air, awaiting some terrible retribution.

  The gunner fired a pistol in the air and a gradual hush descended. Captain Mack yelled through the speaking trumpet, “Be done with your babble! Listen up.” All ears obeyed. He pointed to the crumpled men lashed to the masts and said, “These two scurvy bilge rats have been planning a wee insurrection aided, so it would seem, by this here lassie.” All faces turned in my direction. I hung my head, awaiting the blow that would set it rolling. “Witness your eyes how we deal with rebellion, so you won’t ever be tempted to such foolhardiness again.” He signaled for the quartermaster, who arrived with the most ferocious leather whip I’ve ever encountered and stood alongside Charlie, awaiting the order. “A hundred lashes!” the captain commanded. And everyone gaped in anticipation. One of the crew lit the scene with a lantern and only then did I notice the gashes on Charlie’s wrists where he’d struggled to free himself from the iron shackles. He was barely conscious, and after twenty-some strokes he seemed to slip away on a maelstrom of flying gore.

  I heard the quartermaster roar, “Damn my soul if I don’t bleed you a death that will make this rabble remember for a century!” When fifty of the blistering cracks had been delivered the body was turned to provide a fresh canvas and Kimble allowed the boatswain to take over. The prisoner’s flesh hung in gaping strips like the pith of a peeled banana, and his blood twirled in whirlpools that drained in jagged lines to the deck. I actually saw very little of all this though—on account of the haze and tears—but when I vomited violently down the steps Mack just twisted my hair even tighter in his monstrous grip and made me swallow the after-burn. On the final stroke a roar rang out from the crew and the boatswain passed the slimy crop back to Kimble. And it was obvious even to me—Charlie was dead.

  Two sailors came forth and chopped the limp corpse free, then dragged it across the deck through the chains of women amassed on the port side. When they got to the bulwarks they suspended the body between them by armpits and ankles, and started swinging until they’d achieved enough momentum to throw it over the gunwales and into the sea. Charlie landed with a loud plop and everyone turned to starboard for the second act.

  The captain pointed to the other victim at the mast and announced, “This mangy dog is apparently the ringleader. Ready the ropes for the Spanish torture!” Immediately several crewmen began stretching lines from the mainmast to foremast that ended in two yawning loops. The prisoner—a Geordie called Baker—was then cut free of his upright bondage, only to be laid on his back with his wrists in one loop and his feet through the other. As the crewmen pulled on both ends they tightened and stretched him on their makeshift rack. I thought they intended to pull him asunder, but the captain suddenly ordered, “Bowel him!” and the quartermaster leapt forward with his cutlass at the ready.

  Bloodlust queered Kimble’s furious face. He cried, “By my soul, I’ll carve your gizzards into pound pieces!” He held the blade aloft, then vigorously descended the tip into the soft flesh, slicing from left to right as if through hard-skinned cheese. A morbid fascination gripped the crowd and they pulled on their leashes for a closer taste. The prisoner gave a blunted scream that turned into sharp squeals as he watched his shiny bowels being hoisted into the moonlight on the cusp of the tipsy blade. I think the shock got to him first—because his eyes seemed to flicker in horror before his head lolled round a couple of times, then faded away on a bleat.

  I didn’t have nothing left in my own guts to throw up but my own twisted stomach tried anyway. I heard myself muttering, “No, no . . . prithee . . . no!” Because I knew my turn came next.

  As the body was tossed overboard Captain Mack shouted, “Blame yourself for your own death!” His livid eyes scanned the rest of the prisoners and asked, “Be that lesson plain enough for all?” He turned to the crew and commanded, “Back to your posts!” and watched while the first strand of prisoners was led away. Still holding my hair he twisted me back to the cabin and threw me down on the wooden bunk. “I’ve a fair mind to thrash you and throw you to the sharks!” he roared. I knew that he wasn’t kidding. “But I’ve too much invested to afford that waste. And there’s other wee ways to make use of you.” I could tell he wanted to smash me in splinters but wouldn’t risk damaging the goods. What a dilemma. I knew enough not to utter a word so I just slumped there awaiting his judgment. Then the captain suddenly pointed to the pile of cloth and said, “Put on the veils.” My heart fluttered a pattering hope. He wanted an encore!

  I’d just finished dressing when the boatswain’s pipes trilled over the quarterdeck to signal the funeral of the murdered sailor. It felt strange standing with the crew wrapped only in silken sheets as we all watched the body being sewn in a weighted hammock. I cried when the needle’s last stitch pierced through the corpse’s nose. Then someone said a prayer and the doctor read a psalm from the Bible. The fiddler played a haunting lament as the seaman was gently eased into the waters and I stared until there was nothing more to see. The captain then pushed me up onto the forecastle deck to stand alongside the musician and trumpeted to the solemn audience, “This wee wench gave the rebels the shears that took young Walker’s life.” A murmur of disapproval ran round the men and some of the grimy mouths spat anger. He continued, “So to recompense her betrayal she’s going to entertain us.” The fiddler struck up a tune and I knew I had to dance as if my life depended on it. Because it did. Of course, this costume wasn’t very sturdy and as soon as I started leaping and skipping the ties began unwinding leaving me half-exposed. At the end of my usual routine I curtsied to the fiddler and bent to collect the items that had fallen. A murky hush descended. Not a soul moved. Then I heard the captain say, “She’ll now dance the Seven Veils.” No! I was mortified. I couldn’t no way strip myself naked in front of these animals.

  Wide, wet eyes pleaded to his better nature as my creaking voice cried, “Nay, Master! Don’t . . .” But he was already halfway up the stairs on his way back to the cabin. A magnetic spark flashed across the waist and a few young sailors toasted me with their grog while others elbowed closer. The only way I could get through this nightmare was to pretend it wasn’t me up there, so I blanked my mind, took a deeper-than-deep breath, and slowly began humming the chorus. As soon as the first veil tumbled my voice was drowned by a barrage of whoops and yells urging me on to the grand finale. But by then the fiddler had picked out the tune and no one was interested in the words. The second sheet fell. Then the third. The fourth. And fifth. By the time the sixth descended my tiny nipples were bare and the instant the seventh veil hit the deck I was swamped by a growling mass of sweaty arms and grabbing fingers. Suddenly I was on my back and someone was trying to push himself inside me. I tried to struggle, but other forearms pinned me to the planks and the fire bit my thighs so intensely it smoked out all sense and drenched me in clammy darkness.

  I ain’t got no idea how long they left me there—throbbing—bleeding—unconscious—but sometime around dawn I awoke to chattering teeth. At first I had no idea where I was until the previous day tore back through memory and reminded me why I was sleeping outside. Everything that happened after the Dance of Veils still hovered
in shadow but when I tried to move there was no feeling below my hips and my cumbersome body refused to obey. Slowly I edged myself to a sitting position. I could hear the ship cracking and spraying on its endless, endless journey, the grunts and snores of the more fortunate sleepers scattered around the deck, and the night whispers of those still abroad or on watch.

  Then someone touched my shoulder—I instinctively flinched and squiggled to escape. “Lola, it’s me!” I recognized the hissing voice. Bristol put a tankard of ale in my wobbly hands and said, “Drink this.”

  He helped me down the liquid as I murmured, “What have they done to me? I can’t move!”

  His face turned away in embarrassment. The first gleam of dawn gilded his cheekbone a lighter gray before he coughed and said, “They took your . . . er . . . costume . . . as booty—I suppose. . . .” He pointed to the piece of tarpaulin draped over my lap and said, “That’s all I could find.” And then suddenly, in a squeezing roar of sensation, the feeling returned to my crushed body and with it came the pain.

  “How do you feel?” Bristol asked.

  “Bloody awful . . .”

  “Can you stand?” I tried, but collapsed in a shaky pile. Bristol put his hands around my chest and heaved with all his strength but I wasn’t no way budging. He mumbled, “Can’t do it! I’ll have to get the surgeon.”

  “No!” I didn’t want Bristol to go to that man’s cabin alone and asking for favors. But he’d already set off toward the stern. I cradled my knees in a ball and lay there rocking and smarting. It was ages and ages and ages before help came. I watched the orange clouds part to let the sun rise, and my spirit melted into the planks every time some sleepy sailor stumbled by to use the head. Then Dr. Simpson appeared, tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of turnips, and carried me back to the only other cabin on board. Bristol was lying naked on his bed, the blanket screwed in a tight knot between his legs and chin. He was staring dumbly at the wall. He never stirred, even when I was dropped on the other bunk beside him, but I couldn’t block his whimpers from my ears—not that night nor any of the others. Poor, poor boy. I knew exactly what he was feeling.

  And there I stayed for the rest of the voyage, healing. First I had to be stitched up—you know, down there—and washed with warm salty water several times a day. After the catgut was removed I was allowed to move, but only round the cabin. Then I was stuffed with plugs of alum to make my insides shrink—and finally I was allowed to sit in the chair and sew. Bristol became Simpson’s shadow (under pretext of learning the surgeon’s role) and I didn’t get a chance to thank him properly because we weren’t never left alone now. Each day the air seemed thicker and warmer and I was grateful not to be bundled below with the others. I could only imagine the smell in the sweltering holds. The tears. The fear. The tensions. Then one day the lookout spotted some beautiful islands that tiptoed like stepping stones into the horizon and I perched myself at the tiny window to imagine and absorb their enchantment. Somewhere, out on this vast empty plane, the waters had turned from gray to dusky blue under a puffy white-cloud sky. And way, way out on the port side glimmered a mound of land trimmed with wavering green fronds. I was hoping this was our final destination—until the doctor told me it was called the Isle of Devils and the sailors didn’t dare land there. So I sighed as we sailed on by and watched in dismay as the quivering paradise faded to a tiny brown dot.

  But not long after came a bout of the bloody flux that showed no regard for rank or situation—crew and prisoners were equally infected (probably from tainted water we’d taken on board). Fortunately, me and Bristol were spared the runs but the putrid smell coming from the holds was enough to make you instantly gag and the groans that drifted from deck to deck were pitifully harrowing. The surgeon—give him his due—worked day and night snatching a few blinks of sleep when the need overwhelmed him. I was kept busy mixing blackberry syrup for the prisoners, and measuring the much more expensive Doctor Robert James’s Famous Fever Powder for the sailors. When the syrup failed we tried bark tea, then rhubarb elixir and tartar. Bristol assisted with the bloodletting and any able seaman still healthy enough was kept busy cleaning up slop. But several folks succumbed to dehydration and passed away in a delirious fever—their bodies were quietly disposed of under cover of dark. And the only spark keeping things active during that long desolate drag was the knowledge that we were almost there.

  When it was clear we would make landfall within the week the surgeon’s cabin turned into a barbershop and all day long I helped Simpson and his assistant steward get the valuable cargo ready for sale. The ship’s rats had bred a fresh batch of fleas so the first thing to be done was a thorough cleaning of the holds, followed by a good dousing with brimstone and vinegar for everyone on board. Then the prisoners came to visit us one at a time. Bristol and me washed and untangled their hair while Simpson checked for obvious signs of illness. Sores were disguised using a lunar caustic or powder. Gray hairs were dyed. The dried-out skin on the arms and legs was softened with palm oil. Nails were clipped and scrubbed, while teeth were brightened using sticks of salt. I’d also to sort through the piles of clothes that the purser sent to find suitable breeches, skirts, shirts, or shifts to fit everyone. And during all this activity Dr. Simpson was the only person allowed to converse with any of the prisoners. When all the men were ready, the women came. I’d saved the very best skirt for Maude—it was the only one with a bit of shape—yet I might have been dressing a scarecrow for the notice she paid. But Violet squeezed my hand every time the surgeon turned away, and Dollie managed a quick secret hug when I helped to put her shift on. As we drew close to the shores of this strange land—America—a tidal tube of mist rolled out to greet us. And when we all knew this was the very last day, I was instructed to clean myself thoroughly under direct orders from Captain Mack.

  In the late of the afternoon Dr. Simpson returned to the cabin and threw me a calico dress from the captain himself. I was amazed to find it was exactly my size—and I wondered how many other young girls had traveled this route before me. I looked down at the finery but didn’t budge. “Something wrong?” he asked. I remained motionless. He eyed me with an amused expression and said, “We need you looking your best.” Then he became impatient and snorted. “Get dressed.” So I did.

  Now, I wasn’t any in the habit of conversing with the surgeon but I couldn’t stop my tongue from blurting, “What happens now, sir?”

  He stroked his chin and replied in measured tones, “We shall dock in Chesapeake Bay soon. There was thought to be a particular interested in you—but the captain will now have to settle for some other arrangement. . . .”

  “Arrangement?” I stuttered. What did that mean?

  Some kind of malice blunted the shine of his eyes and he snapped, “We could have placed you nicely if you had known only one master, but now . . .” I blushed in shame and turned away. He cleared his throat and continued, “Well . . . we will just have to take what we can get.”

  Now, as it happened, I was apparently being groomed to join the Golden Planters Club—and you probably ain’t never heard of it on account of it being all secret. It’s a society of Southern gentlemen bonded by a mutual predilection for immature females. They’ve several magistrates and sea captains on their payroll who make constant supply to their twisted demand, often kidnapping babes off the streets and conditioning them for slavery. The girls are then passed from podgy paws to gnarly fingers within their inner circle—until one of the men takes a special liking (and negotiates to take her home) or they all grow bored and start afresh (then they dump her in some brothel). Of course, having been had by most of the crew I was considered well-soiled. And because the captain had a profitable reputation to uphold he decided, instead, to capitalize on my time in the surgeon’s cabin. He declared I was now to be sold as a fledgling nurse.

  In a flurry of activity and apprehension our battered craft eventually edged into the harbor, but it still took a good day and a half before my feet touc
hed land. The men were taken off first in pairs, knowing full well that regardless of their official sentences the chances of ever seeing any freedom dues were pretty remote. The ones with crafts—smiths or weavers or tailors or carpenters or shoemakers—were most in demand and obviously brought the best prices. The rejects, however, would be weathered outside to toil among the tobacco plants. When all the men were processed the other hold was opened, but the only sorting out here was done by lusty masculine eyes. Women who were deemed appealing would be sent to the whorehouses of towns boasting six men to every woman. Those who were old (or maimed like Maude) would be trained to work in kitchens—their one hope that they could develop some skill that would keep them safe from the fields. Then, when all the other prisoners had gone, the surgeon and his apprentice accompanied me down the gangplank and steered me toward a cluster of wooden-fenced buildings that looked remarkably like a half-moon fort.

  The others, I later learned, would be paraded each day in the courtyard until purchased by some wealthy tobacco farm, while the most comely women were destined for another sail to ply their trades in the docklands of Charles Towne. But, to my dismay, I wasn’t sent to no hut like the other women. We walked straight past the market and plodded our way through the town of Norfolk until we came to a fancy house. Dr. Simpson rang the bell, gave something to the manservant who answered, and pushed me up the wooden steps onto the porch. He whispered, “Keep your mouth shut and do as you are bid.” The manservant signaled I was to follow him inside.

  When sneaking a last glance back at Bristol I saw the surgeon’s possessive arm leading him away to the nearby inn. I realized that I was now all alone in this sinister New World—but that, I’m afraid, was that.