4
TEN FATHOMS DEEP ON THE ROAD TO HELL
1712–1713
I was eventually deposited in a buttery-rich office that boasted several open glass windows. But even with the cross breeze wafting from the gaping sills the heat still basted the cloth to my shoulders, making me fidget uncomfortably. Some toff sat beside his writing desk and didn’t take no notice of my arrival for a while, so I’d plenty of time to absorb his glossy brown wig, fine ruffled shirt, rich brocade waistcoat, silk breeches, and bright buckled shoes. The manservant coughed none too discreetly, causing a break in the gentleman’s concentration and a crinkle in his brow. When he eventually looked up, his employee announced, “A girl is here from the ship, sir.” The servant, waved away with a waft of hand, then quietly trod off toward the rear of the building. A kestrel-sharp pair of eyes scanned me from crown to foot and after a length of awkward silence his shrill voice came forth from between pinched lips stating, “My name is Dr. Arnold.” I bobbed a curtsey and kept my face facing the floor. “And you are . . . ?” he inquired.
“Lola, sir.” He awaited more information so I added, “Lolomura Blaise.”
The corner of his mouth smirked crookedly as he began assessing my value. He contained his amusement long enough to ask, “And how old are you, Miss Blaise?”
“Fourteen, sir,” I lied. Well—I felt I’d aged that much—maybe more.
I ain’t sure he believed me but he played along with the charade anyway by saying, “And you have some nursing skill, I am told?” My cheeks reddened and I kept my eyes hidden under their lashes. I would be whatever I needed to be. Dr. Arnold scanned the paper in front of him and revealed, “I have a letter here from my good friend Captain Mack claiming you assisted the Argyll’s surgeon during a recent outbreak of bloody flux. Is this correct?” I nodded. He continued reading, “And affirmation from Dr. Simpson that you can proficiently mix the necessary ointments and tinctures for such diseases. . . .” He glanced in my direction and said, “I assume that would come from your Romany days?” O dear Lord! He knows I’m a gypsy. A jolt of panic ran down my legs and made them feel all at-sea again. I didn’t have no idea what to say so I just stood with my knees each knocking against the other. “I believe that you are a gypsy,” he said, “but that will not be held against you over here.” I exhaled my relief. Gradually my eyes wandered up to his face as he continued, “We cannot afford to be that choosy.” He searched through another bundle of papers on his desk until he found the advertisement he was after, then he carefully read over the details, occasionally glancing in my direction. “So you can deal with fever and the runs?” I indicated that I could. “You know how to birth babies, stitch wounds, and tend sores?” I ain’t got no idea about that but pretended I did. “It is unlikely you will ever be asked to minister the mercury cure,” he mused, adding, “but might you be able to assist a surgeon with bleedings and amputations?”
My stomach heaved at the very thought of it. But I took a very deep fill of air and responded, “What I don’t know I can learn, sir.”
“Good. That is the spirit.” He tapped the paper recently mined and said, “You are going to a very good family in Carolina who recently lost their housekeeper to marsh fever. The folks there are rather isolated and have a profound preoccupation with their personal well-being so wish to have someone with medical knowledge on hand in case of emergencies.” He looked directly in my face and added, “It is a precarious life on the plantations—fevers, smallpox, plague, and flux—but you will be treated well if . . .” and a long silence hung in the air before he added, “if you can put aside your criminal tendencies.”
So he knew I was a convict then. Of course he did. But I also began to realize that whatever I’d been in my past life might now be left behind. I looked up again and met his gaze before replying, “I reckon I’ve learnt the error of my ways, sir.”
He grinned a chilly smile and added, “That is as well, because if you are caught thieving down South they will chop off your hand, whip you, or hang you.” I never doubted for one moment that they would so I nodded my full understanding. The doctor then rang a brass bell on the top of the desk and the housemaid who appeared was instructed to prepare a sack of provisions for a journey I’d apparently be taking at daybreak.
In the peachy gray of morning a merchant pulled his covered wagon into the courtyard and the manservant bundled me aboard. Dr. Arnold appeared with a letter addressed to a William Cormac (Esquire) at the Black River Plantation in Craven County near Charles Towne, and a pouch of money that he gave to the driver. The doctor said, “You will get the other half when I receive notice from Cormac that Miss Blaise has arrived safely.” And then I heard him whisper emphatically, “She has nursing skills . . . and is one of your own. Take good care.” The merchant doffed his hat and bent down to snap a leather cuff round my ankle to chain me to the cart.
I flinched at his touch but he said cheerfully, “It’ll be just a wee while till we clear the town, missie. Soon as we’re on the Virginia Path I’ll be taking it off again.” I gaped at him with a silent mouth as he continued babbling, “You’ll not be wanting to escape in the marshes or woods. Not with the snakes and wild boars and alligators and such.” He winked in a jovial fashion, clucked the horses into action, and off we sprang. But it would be two unpleasant days of skirting the Dismal Swamp, in and among a constant flow of clumsy herding cows, before the road turned from pools of stagnant water into anything resembling what I’d call a forest—and even after he eventually unfettered my leg, the thought of leaving the safety of the wagon would never invade my mind.
Being back under canvas was comforting, despite the hardness of the bench and the joggle of wheels in the sloshing earth. I looked back into the cart and spotted the pots and pans that clattered every time we hit a rut, smelled puffs of coffee and tea that wafted from various chests, and marveled at the barrels of gunpowder greasing the boards smooth as they slid up and sideways. There were wrapped bolts of cloth for every occasion, a few pieces of furniture from England, plus several labeled packages to be delivered on our route. As my courage grew I snuck a look at the driver’s dark ginger hair that spread in curly whiskers down the sides of his crinkled face. He sounded to me like he was from Ireland and I wondered how he had managed to find his way here. I must have been staring too long because he suddenly turned and said, “How are you doing, Missie Blaise?”
I looked down at the shackles and replied, “The name’s Lola.”
He though for a moment and said, “Ah, that’s grand, so it is. But I’ll still be calling you Missie Blaise when we’re in company.” He flashed a set of startlingly white teeth and added, “So you’re a Didikoi too, eh?”
Too? What did he mean? I didn’t see nothing in this strange man’s face that resembled a member of my own tribe so I stuttered, “Are . . . are you . . . ?”
He grinned, touched the brim of his hat with a thick, tanned palm, and announced, “Shane the Tinker, at your service.” To this day I still don’t know whether Shane was his first or second name but he exuded the same friendly manner as my uncles and I instantly knew he was a fox, not a wolf.
I returned his smile and, wanting to keep the long path interesting, asked, “How far off is this Charles Towne?”
“The best part of three or four weeks,” he answered. “But you’re jammy to be bound for the Black River. It’s as fine a place as any.”
“You know it then?” I asked.
“Aye,” he responded. “I’ve been Willie Cormac’s mate for donkeys’ years. Soft as shite, so he is. . . .”
“Is he married?”
The tinker chuckled at some private memory and coughed, “He’s a bit of a one with the ladies.” This was not what I wanted to hear—and concern must have registered on my cheeks because he quickly added, “But you’ll be working with the second Mistress Cormac—Mary, the lovely Peg—and they’ve a wee gal about your own age, so I’d be guessing.”
“What do they call
the child?”
“Annie, as I believe. Aye—Annie, so it is.” And that’s the very first time I ever heard of the woman who’d grow into the legend of Anne Bonny.
I avidly absorbed all the information so as not to be making any rash mistakes when I got there. After a pause I probed, “Did you know the first Mistress Cormac then?”
He stifled another smirk and finally decided to let me in on the family drama. Now, I ain’t never been one to forget conversations so I think that his tale went almost like this. He answered, “That I didn’t.” And then went on to explain how, “Willie and me met aboard the ship from Ireland. He’d been a lawyer in County Cork—but then lost his head with their pretty housemaid and was caught rotten when she got pregnant. His wife made a big show, charging them with adultery and fornication, and before long the scandal had all but broke Will’s business. Then the wife got even more stroppy, accusing Peg of stealing some spoons and tried to have her arrested. So, not before time, Will and Peg ran off with Annie, bought their passage to the New World, and set up shop in Charles Towne.” As I didn’t want to interrupt his monologue I listened attentively, nodding in all the appropriate places. He continued, “So Willie became a merchant with the hastily gathered money he’d managed to salvage, and bought a place on Broad Street selling rare and fancy goods. He’d export rice—then import silver, crockery, and plate ware—until he made enough to buy his own plantation. Aye, the canny fellow even grows the rice himself now, that he does!”
I had to admit I was growing increasingly impressed by this land of opportunity. Was it really that easy to reinvent oneself? To strike against the wind and tide? But then I looked across at Shane and remembered he was still a tinker. I tried (and failed) being subtle when I asked, “How about you then?”
He gave me another glint of teeth and tapped the side of his nose. He whispered, “Ah, the planter life’s grand, for them that like it. But there’s Romany blood in these here veins. . . .” And he felt no need to elaborate.
After a suitable pause I ventured, “Have you no folks back in Ireland then?”
He answered sadly, “None that’ll be missing me any some.” He looked across at me and added, “And your own kin?” I bit the inside of my cheeks so I wouldn’t start crying and quietly shook my head. The gypsy in him understood. And said nothing further.
After we’d stopped to eat our packed victuals and water the horses Shane took the shackle off my ankle and I began feeling sleepy. He indicated a sack and blanket squeezed in between the cargo and said, “You go on back away and have a wee kip.” I slept for a good few hours and when I eventually opened my eyes I lay thoughtfully on the rolling planks listening to Shane’s melodic whistling.
So what makes a person willingly give up all that’s familiar to sail across dark water to some unknown fate? And what is the lure of this muggy America? Now, from a felon’s perspective, anything beats the squalor of Newgate—and happen there ain’t much crime here on account that they all seem to live in well-guarded houses or forts—but to freely give up family and friends and set on some bold adventure means they were either looking for treasure (like pirates boast of) or they felt misunderstood, unwanted, and didn’t fit in. We Romany folks know all about that—but the whole country can’t be formed of banished rogues and gypsies! Still, this place does hold promise and boasts a fresh start. There’s plenty of trees to build houses, and far more space than the people to fill it. I guess it’s a brand-new land with its own rules and social order. I mean, where else would little Lola be addressed as Missie Blaise? Where else could an untutored girl be taken for a healer without even trying? I might really make something of my nursing experience if given chance to plot my own course. But had I wandered through the pearly gates to paradise . . . or crossed the bubbling Styx on route to Hades?
We trotted down an endless hoof-beaten road under a dappled canopy of shade that was carved out of the eternal spread of trees far as the eye could detect. The trip ended up taking almost a month—on account of some swollen rivers and too-muddy pathways—but I enjoyed the lull of familiar custom and the companionship of the chattering Shane. At Edenton a violent thunderstorm stopped us for two days, so we unhitched the wagon at a wayside inn and waited it out in their barn. This gave the horses a chance to rest and allowed us time to dry out our clothes. And by now we’d reached a Romany understanding—as long as I was treated with the respect accorded skilled workers I wouldn’t be causing him no bother. When the ridge had dried sufficiently we trundled beside the sound toward New Bern, and after several numbing weeks we entered Wilmington, a bustling town clustered around a thronging harbor. We passed days of spectacularly colored beaches awash under fiery skies before we plodded into the swampy lowlands and crossed the marshes of Craven County.
When I noticed some perky pink plants growing haphazardly across the countryside I thought to ask Shane what medicinal purpose they might serve, for it occurred to me I needed to learn any magic this strange soil could yield. He scratched his scruffy face and said, “That’s indigo, so it is. Some say as it can cure the cough, but it’s mainly used for the blue dye made from the leaves.”
“You don’t think it helps the lungs any, then?”
He shrugged his neck and replied, “There’s many a remedy better than that.” It was time for us to break again for water, and when he’d tied the horses to a tree he rummaged around in the back for a small wooden box. “Give us a moment and I’ll show you. . . .” When Shane carefully removed the lid I saw a row of tear-shaped fruit in various stages of drying. The softest still wore glints of red and yellow skin, while the oldest had cured into sticky brown discs. “These be figs,” he explained, “from Florida.” I had no idea where Florida was until Shane indicated it was much farther south. He let me hold one as he continued, “They’re grand for the cough—when someone can’t shit—and for easing childbirth, bad mouths, and boils.” I stared at the squishy fruit, awed that something so small could render such bountiful relief. Shane then produced a waxy paper and put several of the cured rounds inside. He folded the package, thrust it toward me, and said, “See if you can’t find a wee empty casket back there. You’ll be needing to start your own medicine chest, that you will.”
I was overwhelmed by this generosity and murmured, “I don’t . . . Thank you. . . .”
“Aye, well don’t rabbit on about it.” He was equally embarrassed.
Now, on this particular journey I didn’t never see Charles Towne itself because before we got there we took the right fork at a large crossroads and set off alongside the Black River. Shane stopped to trade with a passing merchant and came back holding some crescent-shaped fruit. “Ever seen one of these beauties?” he asked. I held one of the fibrous moons in my hand and shook my head. “It’s a plantain,” he explained as he cut off the tip with his knife. I examined the pinkish fruit and noted the wooly texture. Shane indicated I should eat it so I put the entire piece in my mouth. It was sour and felt like I was chewing sawdust. I pulled a face and spat it out. My companion laughed aloud and said, “It’s not that bad when it’s ripe or well-soaked, and it’s a wonderful remedy for stomach upsets.” I stared at the remaining stump with new respect. “The leaves are good for the eyes,” he revealed. “And the boiled juice is given for back gripes and the worms.” He then handed over the other plantains he’d haggled to add to my growing collection. Apparently it wouldn’t do for a skilled employee to arrive at her station without tools. I almost felt like a proper apothecary.
Now, one evening as we plodded through twilight, Shane said he wanted to talk to me as a brother and he began explaining what some call the birds and the bees. Of course, I knew well enough about that lark yet pretended I was a maiden. I think he suspected I wasn’t—but he let me squirm and grimace as he explained the ways of men. Eventually he told how he’d once caught the Great Pox and been given the mercury cure—and how after that his wood wouldn’t harden—so as to assure me I was safe from his smutty musings. And then
he passed on that intimate knowledge that has helped me from that day to this. “First off,” he said, “if you want to grab a man’s interest take care to suckle hard on his chest teats.” I giggled at the thought, but the earnestness on Shane’s face bade me stop and listen more closely. “And second,” he added, “to keep from getting ruined when you’re older you must pee and then wash yourself clean as soon as ever you’re done.” I nodded that I’d heard, even though I was skeptical that any such remedy would work.
Of course, throughout the whole trip Shane told me lots of grand stories—some real, some imagined—and the time passed by much quicker than it might have otherwise. And only once did I get myself in a panic, when we were stopped in the road by the strangest creature I’d ever seen. He was a leathery-faced man, with shiny black hair parted in two on either side of his berry-dark eyes that were painted one white and one black. I caught only a glimpse of this weird apparition before Shane pushed me backward over the bench and hissed, “Hide!” So I scurried behind the barrels of gunpowder and dragged the surrounding sacks to cover the gaps. From outside the canvas I heard a grunted command and the wagon instantly pulled to a halt. Muffled conversation drifted to the rear and I tried to breathe as quietly as able. Before long the cart began moving again but I stayed where I was until I heard the words, “How are you faring back there?”
During the rest of that afternoon I learned all about the Indian Massacre the previous year and discovered that the native I’d seen was a Catawba scout requesting information. Whatever Shane told him sent him away—but I could never entirely erase him from my curiosity. Now, according to my companion, the Tuscaroras were a nation who lived peacefully with the first white settlers up north. But when so many others followed (and took over their hunting grounds to build plantations), the natives turned angry and decided to make a stand. It all got messy—scores of Europeans killed—so the Southern whites (with the help of friendly tribes) went to their aid. Since then, several local incidents have threatened the fragile truce that could flare into full-scale warfare at any given moment. So for all the charm of the lush, calm countryside we were passing through—this wasn’t no Garden of Eden.
Fire on Dark Water Page 7
