John Locke - Now & Then

The Captain had joined them two years ago. Now, after several campaigns at sea, he and his ship, The Fortress , had become well-known throughout the Caribbean. No, more than that: they had achieved celebrity status.

The porpoises abruptly ended their show and darted ahead, providing escort for a league or so before finally peeling off in search of some alternate aquatic activity.

When The Fortress was under full sail, with a strong wind, she could cover a hundred miles in a day. But they wouldn’t require a full day to reach Shark’s Bay. At this speed, they’d have the Captain dropped off there by mid afternoon. As always, he’d change into commoner’s clothes, lower an open boat into the water, and row it over the shoals, up the Little River to the edge of St. Alban’s Settlement to scope out the lay of the land. The Fortress would head back out to sea three miles, make a wide loop, and then double back to St. Alban’s, to the deep water of North Port, off Sinner’s Row, where she would finally anchor in sixty feet of water a quarter mile out and wait for word from the Captain that it was safe to go ashore.

Roberts spied a flock of seabirds, and the atmosphere above and below decks crackled with anticipation.

They continued heading due west, toward Shark Bay. Though they sailed under the red, white and blue flag of the British East India Company, this was a pirate ship with a pirate crew.

It was Jack Hawley’s ship, Jack Hawley’s crew.

Chapter 2

THE STEADY BREEZE on St. Alban’s Beach could not penetrate the gnarled trees and dense thickets three hundred yards inland where Abby Winter shared a wooden shanty house with her mother and stepfather. It was early afternoon on a cloudless day and the July heat was stifling. Abby and her mother had emptied the chamber pots that morning, but hadn’t had time to properly clean them.

“Please don’t do this,” Abby said. “It’s humiliating!”

“It’s been decided, child, so let it be.”

They weren’t talking about chamber pots.

“It’s posted for tomorrow,” Abby said, “but posting doesn’t make it mandatory. You’re allowed to change your mind on matters such as these. People do it all the time without consequence.”

“I could change my mind, but I will not. As I say, it’s been decided.”

Abby’s mother, Hester, handed her one of the tarnished chamber pots. Abby accepted it and winced as the odor hit her nostrils. Her mother said, “Let’s get these done before he thinks we’re conjuring a demon.”

Abby gasped. Her eyes made a quick sweep of the trees that ringed their shanty. She briefly wondered if her mother had gone daft. It was bad enough she’d agreed to the public posting, and now she was making witchery comments! Abby scolded her mother with a severe whisper. “You cannot have said that!”

“Don’t be so skittish, child. There’s no one ‘round.”

“There’s always someone around,” Abby said. “The river crossing is just yonder. Pray, you must not speak of these things, even lightly.”

“I’ll say no more when you talk less of the posting.”

“But this must be discussed! He’s your husband, not your owner. He can’t just sell you in the town square!”

Hester started to say something, but changed her mind. She looked at the stained chamber pot in her hand and sighed. Ten years earlier she’d been known throughout the colony for her beauty. Now, more often than not, her hair was a tangled mass of mud-soaked curls. She rubbed her shoulder absently and winced. A horrific fungus had taken over her right shoulder and begun a steady progression across her upper back. On hot days like this, her afflicted skin cracked open, releasing a milky liquid that stuck to the fibers of her fustian smock. Hester had to continually lift the fabric from her skin or risk forming a scab that would have to be torn away later.

Abby noticed her discomfort. “Has your condition worsened?”

Hester frowned. “Faith, child, I’m common indeed to suffer before you. What a sorry complainer I’ve become.”

“You’ve become nothing of the sort, though I know not how you maintain your sanity. You’ve had a hard burden from the day we moved here.”

“Not so hard compared to others,” Heather said, making the sign of the cross on her chest. She looked around before whispering. “Know what I wish?”

“What?”

“That I could uncover my shoulder and back so the sun could heal it.”

“Surely you’d be seen and forced to bear the consequence.”

“Aye, child.”

The constant burning and itching was impossible to get used to, and had thus far eluded home remedy. Though her well-formed body continued to draw looks from the men of St. Alban’s, Hester’s face and neck had turned ash-gray from drinking a potion of colloidal silver forced upon her by her husband, and that, along with the heavy scar tissue framing her eyes, and her thrice broken nose, added years to her appearance.

Hester studied Abby’s face carefully before shaking her head. “Being sold to a new man is a way to better things for me.”

“But—”

“You’ve seen my life, you know how he is.”

“I do know,” Abby said, gently. “But you could divorce him.” She looked around to make sure he hadn’t come up on them. He hadn’t, but she whispered anyway. “You could divorce him and take me with you.”

Hester laughed. “And how many women have you seen in North Florida Colony with money enough to divorce a husband? As for taking you with me, I cannot, as you’re the purpose for the sale.”

There was a slight delay before the horror registered in Abby’s face. Hester softened her tone. “Abby,” she said. “Look at you. Even in these conditions, you are far the fairest maid in the colony. I do not wish you to think ill of me, abandoning you to such a harsh man.”

“Yet how can I not?”

“I have a plan.”

“What plan?”

“He will show you a softer side. Of this I’m certain. You won’t remember, but when he took us in, he was tolerant, even kind, at times. Of course I was young and pretty then. These days I vex him constantly, with my limp, my face, and frailty.”

“’Course I remember,” Abby said. “It was only a few years past. But he’s the one caused your limp! Your ‘face and frailty,’ as you put it, is a consequence of his constantly boxing your nose and eyes and cuffing your ears.”

Hester dabbed at the light sheen of sweat on her forehead. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Truly? And what will I understand? How you let that swine of a man cuff you about and rut you day and night as if you were a crippled sow?”

Hester’s eyes blazed for a brief moment, and Abby hoped to receive a sharp rebuke or slap across the face. Any such response would show that her mother retained a measure of spirit. But the fire in Hester’s eyes quickly died, leaving behind only an apathetic stare. Instead of lashing out, she shrugged and said, “We suffer for our children, not ourselves.”

Abby frowned. “And what is that presumed to mean?”

Hester turned and started walking toward the creek. Abby followed, waiting for a response. She watched her mother scoop a handful of sand from the water’s edge and dump it in her chamber pot. Abby sighed, and did the same. They swirled the sand around the inside of the pots with their fingers, scrubbing and grinding it against the hardened fecal deposits. Then they rinsed the pots in the creek and inspected them.

Abby said, “Fine. Don’t tell me. But why can we not just leave this wretched man and his poor excuse for a house?”

“Leave? Has your brain been seized by vipers? Where would you have us go, child, Sinner’s Row?”