John Locke - Now & Then

To Johanna he said, “Of course, she’s yours now, miss, and you may change her name as suits you.”

Rose said, “We could call her Calamity!”

“Calamity the Cat?” Samuel said. “That’s obscene!”

“She’s nakey!” said four-year-old Steffan.

George Stout said, “She does appear to be naked, compared to other cats I’ve seen.”

Marie scolded her husband. “George, the children are present!”

George nodded and said, “Odd looking animal, nonetheless.” He paused a moment. If he knew of any news Jack should worry about, he’d have told it by now. Instead, he clapped his hands and said, “Let’s head to the house, Henry. I’ve a bottle of rotgut that’s still got some kick left in it.”

After carefully depositing Rugby on the dock, Johanna sidled up to Jack. It was clear from her body language and attentiveness that she found Jack not only attractive, but also desirable. While he understood it was the way of young women to want to marry and raise children, he loved his carefree life and preferred not to settle down in the near future. Had he met Johanna earlier, who knows what might have transpired? After all, she was sweet and charming, could hunt, fish, cook and sew, could skin animals and take care of children, was eager to work, was strong, and pleasing to the eye in all respects. In short, she possessed all the qualities that would make any man happy. But Jack resolved not to take advantage of Johanna, or lead her on, since he had another young lady in his sights, a girl named Abby Winter, whose mother had a gray face. Jack planned to ride to the river crossing to meet Abby early the next morning, and, if it pleased her, he intended to give her a good fucking.

Johanna leaned into Jack and rubbed the side of her face against his chest. He gave her a light, uncomfortable hug for her trouble, and they began walking toward the Outpost.

Samuel worked up his courage and leaned over to pet the cat. “Does she bite?” “She does,” Jack said. “Fiercely.”

Samuel paused with his hand a foot from the cat. “You think she’ll bite me?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“Even if I’m really nice and gentle?”

“Even if. She’s quite independent, having survived a ship fire and starvation. Not many can claim that. After I rescued her she coughed up bits of rope and pitch, to show me what she’d eaten to survive.”

“Devils eat pitch,” said Rose. “They thrive in fiery places, too.”

George said, “Rose, you’re beginning to alarm us. Henry wouldn’t bring a demon into our midst, would you Henry?”

“She’s a sweet cat,” Jack said. “A biter? Absolutely. But not a demon.”

“There you have it,” said Marie. “Now let’s hear no more talk of devils and demons.”

As they headed down the dock toward the outpost, Jack said, “How’d you know I was coming?”

They all looked at each other in a funny way, but no one spoke on it.

Chapter 5

The cat—or whatever it was—adapted to its new surroundings quickly, and it dawned on Jack that perhaps cats had a natural preference for solid ground, and maybe this had contributed to Rugby’s churlish behavior on board The Fortress . She moved gracefully around the yard surrounding the outpost, or “Stoutpost,” as Jack liked to call it.

“What’s become of your dogs?” he said.

“Lost one to a gator, we think. Sold the other one,” George said.

“That works to Rugby’s advantage.”

“Till we get the next one, anyway. They wander in here regular, half mad from hunger.”

Jack smiled at Johanna.

“Rugby’ll be fine. She can hold her own.”

Johanna returned the smile.

George and Marie’s tiny house and store were the southernmost dwellings on St. Alban’s peninsula, a land mass of roughly thirty-six square miles, bordered, in part, by the Little River.

The men sipped their whisky at the table and watched Marie and Johanna tend the dinner pot. Rose had wandered off somewhere, and Samuel and Steffan were sharpening dinner knives.

“How’s she fitting in?” Jack said.

“Johanna? She’s a blessing.”

“Any problems with her father?”

“Haven’t seen him nor the wife since you threatened to kill them if they ever came back.”

“That’s good. I meant it. There’s no excuse for a man to beat his children.”

Jack stared at Johanna, thinking about the type of woman she’d grow up to be. She was too young for Jack, at least in his mind, but in a few years she’d be an ideal wife, devoted and grateful to him, and would probably be a wonderful mother to a brood of children as well.

George had noticed him staring at Johanna. He said, “I’ve only got the one bedroom.”

Jack nodded. “That’ll do.”

George arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

Johanna, whose hearing was excellent, smiled at the comment, but didn’t trust herself to peek at Jack. She was a thin, fair-skinned girl who’d come a long way from the waif he’d met two months earlier. Johanna had filled out some, thank the good Lord, and her face had gained color. She was a fine specimen, Jack thought, with her fair, unblemished skin, large green eyes and wavy saddle brown hair made lighter by the scorching sun. The work dress she wore every day was gray and made of stout, twilled cotton that seemed too course for her delicate features. She had an easy smile and calm disposition, which was hard to fathom, given her past history of physical abuse by her parents. He’d been many places, seen many things, but not so many domestic scenes or settings. It was nice to see this healthy family working together to get food on the table.

In Jack’s experience, American born men and women were more pleasing to the eye and healthier than their European counterparts. Jack had twice been to London and seen the horrible living conditions. Everything about the city had the foulest stench. The people were permanently filthy, as no one took baths, including the wealthy. Poor families stitched their children into burlap clothes to be worn day and night through the entire winter. The houses, pinched together side-by-side in endless lines, cramped up against the edge of streets and roads, and men urinated freely onto the streets from second-floor windows. Avoiding the random soakings required careful planning. One couldn’t just move to the center of the streets, for that’s where the latrines had been dug. Women pitched the contents of their chamber pots into the streets daily, without offering the slightest pretense of embarrassment. The refuse and human excrement would be scattered across the dirt or cobblestones awaiting the next rain to wash it into the latrine. Therefore, at any given time, the streets were cesspools so filled with urine and horse manure that no one bothered to avoid stepping in it. Worse, it soaked and clung to the hems of the long dresses and coats worn by women, to be slathered throughout their homes and the commercial establishments they frequented.

If the living conditions were bad, the faces were worse.

Ninety percent of the population had suffered from smallpox or chickenpox at one time or other, and their faces and bodies were riddled with deep-pocketed scars. Rashes, funguses and open sores could be found on nearly every face, at any time. By age twelve, most had rotting teeth. Those who managed to live past the age of thirty did so without their teeth. Infection and oozing pus adorned the vast majority of necks, backs and buttocks; and boils and carbuncles were constant sources of annoyance and pain.

Of course, the major cities in America were filthy, but towns such as St. Alban’s, while nasty in certain areas, benefited from the lack of dense population. Though George and Marie’s faces were pockmarked and their teeth bad, they still managed to look ten years younger than their European counterparts. And thanks to the rural living conditions, healthy food, and medicine supplied by their good friend Jack, Johanna and the Stout children appeared healthy and clear-skinned enough to be a different species altogether.