Ah! Here is me tankard. Thank you, lass.
April 19, 1718, at a shadowed corner table in the Boar's Head Inn, in Bristol, a grizzled old sea dog sits with a younger man in gentleman's attire, and continues his story.
As you're now well awares, we despatched notice of the circumstances of our wee "prisoner," and our conditions for her safe return to kith and kin. 'Twas me who put forth the document, and despatched it from Kingston (the old Port Royal). Amongst our lot, there was only the captain and meself could properly cipher or put words down, being as how we were educated as young whips.
Since the captain was too well known–no other man had his countenance–and vigorously sought, it fell to me to perform the task. Disguised as an itinerant merchant–peddling odds and ends and such supposedly bartered betwixt islands–I was allowed to come and go readily. Over many such jaunts, I'd made friends and connections which afforded us with valuable intelligence of the comings and goings of prospective prizes–and royal patrols. It also allowed us to exchange unwanted bric-a-brac for staples we might not procure in the normal conduct of business.
'Twas on just such a jaunt I posted the first notice concerning the child. It is this document you now have placed afore me. You see the mark on it for the "first day of September, in the year of our Lord, 1701." And me reference to the child, you'll notice was as "...a female infant, A. Pankhurst." That was the same reference I used in every despatch, over all these years. The documents I took and kept, from her father's chest, which I've here brung, name him (the father) as Thaddeus Pankhurst. And here is the name of his brother (her uncle), one Percival Pankhurst. But, as you see, at the only reference to the child where she is not simply called daughter, the parchment is ripped. No doubt, 'twas caused by one of me mates hacking the chest open in search of booty, afore I returned to the father's cabin with the babe in tow. And all you can read is "An... Pankhurst."
Perplexed me, this did. Was she Anne, Anna, Annabelle, or some other name formed with "An?" You know, over time, I tried every concoction I could dream of to see her response.
"Oh, Annie," I'd say, or, "Come, Anna Marie," and such. No matter the name I used she would always turn toward me with her eyes brightened and the sweetest smile. Oh, that angel face! But it was clear she responded only to the familiar sound of me voice: knowing intuitively it was directed toward her. And her countenance was due to the affection she felt for them that were kind to her.
The natives from a near island, from a tribe that was trusted, provided the solution to me great perplexion. An elder had told me, to name a body you had to know that body: who they were and what they were about. One thing I noticed, the babe on Nemusmar was like a blossom in a garden. Opening a bit more each day and thriving in the company of other, natural, flowers. These tribesmen seen that, as well. With goods to trade, they'd always bring a certain flower for the wee one.
In presenting it to her, they'd say "le-ah," and she'd beam.
When once they asked what we call the child, I replied, "An."
Then they would say to her, "Ana le-ah," and she'd beam.
Well, that settled the matter; she was Annalea!
So it went that within a week's time the captain hosted a banquet and, hisself performing the duties of parson, we christened Annalea. To lend some authority to our duties of caring for Annalea, Mam' Tiére and meself were appointed her godparents.
Chapter III
The Surprise
Annalea, Princess of Nemusmar Page 3
