A summer's eve in 1701, it was. She was a mere slip back then–two or three. On board a ship for the first time. Bound for England from Bermuda aboard a cargo ship with a capable captain and a well-seasoned crew. Not more than two days out of port were they when we fell upon them. And "fell" is the word for it. Like a fisher hawk descends on the unknowing fish, we swooped down upon them. Unawares they were of our presence or intent.
A business, you know, that's what it is: confiscating booty from those who sweat no more than we to obtain it. But they like to sweat to death if they means to retain it. We give no quarter in such an enterprise, knowing none would be given us–save being drawn and quartered. And that summer's eve was no exception.
Our captain was the champion campaigner. He knew how to find the mark and come upon it as if invisible we were. He used the weather, the tides, the swells to place us where no one suspected. And when we appeared–we struck.
'Twas as being at war; your captain instructed you–you knew what to do and when to do it. And when the brig was struck, so you did–and not a thought 'til it was finished. So it was that eve.
It was quick, but it was hard and bloody. We lost four of our own–and good lads they were. That crew fought savagely for their lives. I'm sure 'twas not to save the booty. They rightly knew they could not surrender and survive; 'twas just the way of it. The passengers were the last to die, being they were below decks when we struck. They fought bravely–'though not well–and perished quickly.
But then there was her. 'Twas me that found her, you know. She was just a babe: no doubt asleep in her father's cabin when the fracas started. By the time she awoke, realized where she was, and started across the cabin, 'twas all over. Hands were seeking and gathering booty, as was I when I entered the cabin and came upon the child. First, I was as startled as she, and I thrust about in search of anyone else a-hiding. When I was certain there was just the child, I seized her up and started laughing. Bolting out of the cabin, I announced I had taken the only prisoner!
'Twas then that miserable cur, Jack Thuttlesarch, grabs the babe from me arms and runs his blade upsides her throat, declaring, "You knows the law; we takes no prisoners!"
That cold-blooded bastard, Thuttlesarch. You know, I sailed for twelve years with the bastard. Never did take to him. He was not a Christian man, 'though doubtless born one. He took fiendish pleasure in separating other men's bodies from their souls. I'd as like come to blows with him that summer's eve, aboard that ship. But, as to how the captain blew his block clear aways from his shoulders–to stay Jack's blade from slaying the babe–me quarrel with the bastard came to its end.
By dawn the next day, we were safe back at Nemusmar, with five lads gone (one to the devil, I'm sure), and a whale's belly full of booty. And our little "prisoner." Most of the crew–save the captain and me–would have as soon delivered her to the fishes, straight-off. Well, you can't blame them, you see. After the pitch of battle and exaltation of victory, when it's suddenly done, and your mind and heart and stomach are still aswirl in emotion, and you've lost comrades, and you are so hot and covered in sweat and blood–so much blood everywhere you don't know if the blood you wear is your enemies', your crewmates' or your own–and in this disoriented state, someone demands, "What's to be done with this whining little bitch? Of what use is she to us?"
Well, any such outburst at a time like that brought lively response from our troop. Cool-headed as always, in the heat of any battle, 'twas the captain who belayed any further debate in the matter by calmly stating, "The child presents no threat, and she cannot bear witness against anyone–but she might serve. She might fetch a large ransom for the small price of keeping her alive."
So it was, she accompanied us safely back to Nemusmar. Oh, you'll not be finding Nemusmar on any map. When seeking safe haven, some years back–when first we traversed those waters–we were acquainted with that island and its sheltered cove by natives we held hostage to ensure services were provided by their tribe. The captain had promised them freedom should they guide us to such a place. And when they did, being a man of his word, he so did. Mind you 'though, there were many who protested as to how dead men keep better faith.
But as to that name–"Nemusmar"–when first they spotted that island, peering through the mist that arose around it, those bucks became agitated, pointing and shouting something the captain took to be "Nemusmar!"
I can't be saying they were shouting a name, a command or a curse, but the captain held on to that sound. When we put ashore, the bucks put up a squabble and would not place a foot on land. By its natural seclusion and the reaction of those boys, the captain figured it'd be free from intruders, native or European.
And so it was. For many years, we were free from the burden of uninvited guests (and royal patrols). But Nemusmar was no inhospitable hideaway–grudgingly sought, and simply endured. Far from that! There was no place more ideal in this world–save home.
If you have ever seen an orchid, put that flower in your mind. And in the heart of that orchid is where you be. And all around you–streaming towards you and away–are exotic colours: vibrant, yet somehow soft and soothing. And when the mist-laden petals of night fall about, you are wrapped up, safely hidden in a beautiful cocoon. Aye, that was Nemusmar!
Oh... aye, as to the girl. Well, she'd doubtless have fared poorly if Nemusmar was but a complement of sodden, rum-soaked seafarers, like meself–no matter the beauty of the island. But there were several women of varying type and virtue on Nemusmar, by that time.
Old Thuttlesarch was right. We took no prisoners, as a natural fact. But then on some of the raids, a woman or two would be taken as prize–or part of the booty, when plundering a port town. Not as prisoner, but something else: something different. And on occasion, we'd capture a small packet cruising 'twixt islands, for whatever we might get from her. Oft' times, there were a few slaves aboard. The "offer" (if you would) was freedom, if they cared to join with us. Leastways, freedom of the like they'd never see on the plantations. And oft' times there were women amongst those slaves; but we tooks both, the bucks and the wenches.
Whenever we put to port, the "landlocked"–as I took to calling them–would roust about to see what we'd brung back. The ladies, particularly, loved the bobbles and queued for first crack at silks, gowns, petticoats and the like. When they spied our wee "prisoner," their mouths liked to drop to the ground.
Mam' Tiére shouted to the captain, "From whose da chile?"
The captain replied, laughing, "She is the 'prize' from this venture."
And Mam' Tiére returned, "Den, for whose da chile?"
But the captain became distracted and did not respond.
There were a few young'uns on Nemusmar: slave young, a few mulattoes and some scruff from the joining of our mates with earlier "prizes." The captain, he discouraged that sort of thing: the mating, I mean. 'Twas not to say he did not enjoy a regular battening down of a wench or two–or more. He was every bit a man. But not a man of needs so much as a man of hunger. Well, let's just say he had a great appetite for wenches, and leave it be at that.
The captain was an intelligent man, and–as such–he knew it to be within the ways of most women to prevent the whelping, if they'd a mind to. For our treasured "prizes," this seemed to go without saying–if you'd pardon the occasional indiscretion. But with the slave girls, it was another matter. And that, at first, perplexed the captain, since he'd been many times told that the blackies had secret means that no white woman knew.
After some pondering on the matter of why, the captain decided, as he explained it to me, that these slave wenches were whelping deliberately. Many, if not most (he reasoned), had come from Africa and had not known kith nor kin since they were enslaved. Bearing all these pickaninnies give them a family: a sense of real freedom, self-determination–and roots. The captain had a gift for reading people, and while he might understand their plight–might even sympathize–he nev
er let sentiment deter him from his true course.
Having settled on this understanding, and with his course of action clearly affixed in his mind, he called a gathering, one day, to instruct the landlocked as to their purpose and tenure. He purposefully directed the black wenches to come forward and stand just afore him. The captain expounded at length on the virtues of a seafaring life, and the freedoms it afforded those brave and smart enough to undertake it.
He explained how we had to be more than simple seamen, consigned or conscripted to serve another master. We were men at war with those who would suppress us. Our freedoms and our livelihood required a willingness to sacrifice everything: to the point of life itself. This willingness give us a distinct advantage over any man what might hesitate, or pull back, when he may escape with his life. And most of our enemies–be they merchant seamen or in the employ of the crown–are such men as will blink at the most critical moment of decision.
Beyond our fighting attitude, the captain continued, it was as much necessity as advantage for him to keep our ship and crew fit and trim. Afore ever we put to sea, the captain had determined our course and object. He knew what we sought, how it was fitted and where we'd find it. He'd brook no surprises, conjuring in his mind the setting, the chase, the attack and battle response, and the outcome–the whole of it, afore we'd set sail. And it always came to pass as he said it would. The man was a marvel!
The landlocked, especially, were spellbound by the captain's words. His exuberance in speech, as he detailed the seafaring life, culminating in the battle clash of warriors, was as watching while a calm sea suddenly erupts in swells of monstrous waves that crest at mast-height and crash down violently on the decks beneath your feet–verily washing you away! So, by the time he turned their attention to the purpose of them left ashore, they were captivated and fully attending his every word.
The captain, he said we were all buccaneers—they aship and they ashore. And each man and woman served fully in our aforementioned battle, whether sailing or fitting the ship to sail, whether fighting or fitting out a fighting man. And each man and woman would share equally in all we held, when our object was reached. In this, he included hisself as an equal partner in our endeavours: entitled to no more than an equal share of these holdings. He cautioned there'd be no provisions for any children's shares, save those who might reach maturity and serve fully in our cause. Then the captain set up to elaborate our purpose for coming together, and our object.
"Every man and woman among us," he said, "was set here by one cause and only one: the alternative life–or death–we left behind was unacceptable. We have at our means the ability to better our circumstances and prosper. We must be like a tight-knit family that works in harmony toward one, set object. But we are no community of settlers, and Nemusmar is no colony–nor promised land. Idealic as it seems, Nemusmar is but a stopping point on life's journey: a buoy, not an anchor. Our object is to appropriate the wealth and means for each member of our band to return home, or to some other part of the civilized world, vastly improved in station. And, as idealic as Nemusmar is, once retired from the 'trade,' 'twould be impossible to remain self-sufficient–even in Paradise. But I vow that those once enslaved shall be settled down with their equal shares, as free men and women, in a place where the slave trade can never touch you again."
Then he cut to the heart of the matter, imploring the women to use their wiles and ways to keep our membership from increasing.
As the captain came silent and gazed upon his audience, Mam' Tiére spake out, "We fo' da cap'n!"
And the rest responded, "For the captain, aye!"
In a softer voice, Mam' Tiére spake again, "May be thay no mo', Cap'n, but fo' whose da chile?"
"Which child, Mam' Tiére?" he responded.
"Da li'l princess in silks ya brung fo' prize."
"These two days gone, she's been in the keep of Mr. Crockett. Think you he is not a fit 'mum' for the lass?"
Mam' Tiére seemed indignant. "He be no fit 'mum' fo' Mam's ass, leave be dis angel chile!"
Her remark caught the captain's humour. "Methinks your ass is more in
need of a sire than a 'mum!'"
This brought a roar of laughter from those assembled.
Glaring at the captain, she said, "Is yo' offer'n' to be Mam's buck?"
Steeling hisself against laughter, the captain replied, "A man must know his limits, Mam', and you are well beyond me meagre means."
With her answer, "Tha's all bucks on dis island–eager but meagre," those assembled disbursed to nurse the pain of belly laughter.
Now, I took no true offense at Mam' Tiére's doubts for me mothering ability. Her spiteful tongue protects and disguises her tender heart. And the Lord is witness to me lack of domestic arts ("inept" was a title I took for me own). So, as to providing for the wee one, it sort of fell to me as the captain's right hand in extraneous matters. But she was not the trouble I suspected of her. She seemed to quickly recover from the terror I saw in her eyes, that first night we took her. Once peace was restored and her belly was filled, I allowed for the wenches to come by and attend her needs. This female attention seemed to settle her mood and belay her fears.
I was of the opinion that in her few years of life she'd not known the care and nurturing of a loving mother. There were no women aboard that brig from whence we took her. I established the relationship to her father and uncle from documents in the father's chest. These documents contained nary a woman's name, nor any reference to female kin. Me opinion was that she shuttled about with her father; her general care being given over to convenient women–white or slave: a journey through strangers. Her quickness at adapting to our wenches, and the comfort she found in their company, affirmed me opinion.
We continued in those circumstances for near a fortnight. As we were ashore the whole time–fixing, mending and preparing for our next venture–I became happily accustomed to having me small "ward" following me as I went about me routine; clipping at me ankles, she was chattering and chirping all the way–and all the time! But Mam' Tiére was resolute. As she repeatedly put it to the captain, 'twould be half a year–mayhaps, a year or more–afore we confirmed contact with any kin of the babe's, way back in England. And negotiations for her return–not to mention the resolve of that object–could span some years. Mam' was determined the child would not live and grow as the house pet of a "grub-faced ol' villain" (as she referred to me), or as a toy doll for the amusement of the island's "ladies." And what of her when we went to sea? Was she to be bandied about from one household to the next, like some perpetual pilgrim?
As afore I mentioned, I bore no resentment towards Mam' Tiére. I, as all of us, held the ol' banty in the highest respect and affection. And so it was I broached the subject with the captain: stating me favour for Mam' Tiére as the child's more permanent guardian.
"Mr. Crockett, I have been thinking on the matter since we made port," the captain assured me. "A more permanent situation for the child must be, and will be settled. And there is no finer woman on this island–or in these parts of the world, for that matter–than Mam' Tiére. But, along with the welfare of the babe, we must consider what disharmony might play on this island while we are at sea–and plague us when back on land–should we select one wench over the others. And to choose Mam' would cause a particular offense to many of the white ladies and some of the crew. She is as a matriarch in the black quarters, where nary a thought is turned without consultation from Mam' Tiére. So long as Mam' is with her own, the white child would just be lost among so many pickaninnies. And the white lasses won't long accommodate that!"
"So Captain," I pipes in, "there is no solution?"
"Me dear Mr. Crockett," the captain responded, "there is no solution."
Then he added, smiling, "There is resolution! I resolve that the child's maintenance and well-being shall continue in our providence until she is finally and safely reunited with kin. And h
aving–as I do–justly placed confidence in your loyalty and abilities, I resolve that the child shall remain under your direct guardianship for her tenancy on this island. You shall have whatever support you need from the rest of us, and Mam'...."
"But Cap'n," I interrupted, "the point is there's where we are, and it'll not work out!"
Not ever to be interrupted, the captain turned away from me and, with his voice raised, continued. "...and Mam' Tiére shall be removed from the black quarters and lodged, as housekeeper, in your quarters."
Immediately regaining his composure, he returned his face towards me. And in a calmer, friendlier tone he continued, "With the babe in your quarters and under your direct care, by me command, this female rivalry should meet its end. And if Mam's role in this affair is seen as no more than household servant in your quarters, then that's an end to that squabble as well. However, as we both are well awares, with Mam' Tiére ensconced beneath your roof, you'll be continuously assailed with advice and instruction regarding the child and all matters in your life. And–more to your relief–as housekeeper, Mam' can control the comings and goings of the well-meaning but overindulgent 'visitors' who now attend the child, day and night."
Foolishly, I thought once more to interject me opinion, and reverse the captain's course. "Beggin' pardon, Cap'n, but your quarters are so much grander than mine, and your ways so much finer, and if Mam' and the wee one were to move...."
But as to such, I should know better. Once set, the captain does not change course.
He reprimanded me foolishness with, "Damn it, Crockett, I've an enterprise to manage here! You've had me decision, now begone!"
As I hastily prepared to the doorway, his voice stopped me. "Wait, Mr. Crockett. There is yet one more matter concerning the child."
I remember thinking to meself, "From the tone of his voice, 'twould appear we've again returned to calm waters." But I'd had more than an earful and bellyful of palaver as regards this child.
So I turns full face to the captain and says, "Certainly, sir, and what is this matter that concerns you?" The meekness in me voice and feigned interest of me words even surprised me.
The captain said, "If the child is to be in community with us, she must get to know us, and we her. She must learn to converse directly with us, and we to her. At present we speak only to ourselves around her, and about her: 'the child this' and 'the babe that,' and 'how is the wee one,' and Mam' Tiére's designation of her as 'Princess.' Crockett, this child needs a name!"
"Aye, a name for the wee 'princess,'" I replied, attempting to furrow me brow in thoughtful pose.
Chapter II
Annalea
Annalea, Princess of Nemusmar Page 2
