Time passes. Nothing happens. He does not come. Fear is slowly starting to invade my veins. Hunger is twisting my gut and anxiety gnaws at my stomach. I hesitate to call out for someone. The door is locked, I have checked, but the establishment must be occupied by clients. Am I permitted to ask for food?
The darkness of night is falling. I can hear noise on the ground floor. Most likely brothel patrons.
The door to the room is flung open. Steven and Cook are watching me from the dark corridor. I want to tell them I am famished, that their treatment of me is intolerable. The tightness of their shoulders discourages me from giving them a speech on how to care for women.
The Cook hands me a sort of bonnet. His massive, hairy forearm is covered in scars and nauseates me. I understand that I am supposed to put the accessory on my head.
"Hide your hair inside it," Steven says impatiently. "And pull it down well over your forehead."
I obey. He then hands me a pint.
"Drink it!"
I do not understand what he wants of me so I wet my lips with the yellowy liquid. Beer mixed with a stronger spirit.
"You don't get it!" he rants. "Drink it all!"
"The whole tankard?"
"Down to the last drop. And hurry up about it!"
I look at him, dumbfounded, and cast a curious glance at Cook. He is as closed as an oyster.
Steven's cheeks and forehead are becoming redder and redder. I do what he orders. And I drink.
I know that he wants me to drink quickly, but I have to stop once or twice. An empty stomach and alcohol are not good companions. I am afraid I might bring everything up and draw his anger.
Everything that happens after this is likened to a nightmare in which you know that you are going towards an atrocious end. I nevertheless continue to advance towards my distressing fate. Steven and Cook have hold of each of my arms. Once in the main room, we head for the door.
"Put your head down!"
The alley is teeming with soldiers in red tunics. I have never been so pleased to see Englishmen in my life. They are looking for me! I am sure of it.
All of a sudden, I feel Steven's hand grab my neck. He forces me to adopt a staggering gait. We walk a few yards. I have lost all hope of trusting my sense of direction. The alcohol is taking its toll and my head bent forwards towards the ground is making me feel all the... Oh no, I am going to vomit. I know it for certain now.
"Lordy! Is everything all right, sirs?"
This is my chance. I think there is a soldier blocking the way. I want to raise my eyes, but Steven keeps holding my head down.
"Yes, Smith had too much to drink, as is his wont," Steven answers in a singsong voice.
He is good. He almost gives the impression that he is in a really festive mood.
Fear and despair get the better of me. Nausea too. A stream of vomit leaves my stomach.
"What did I tell you? Old Donovan's wenches know how to get their patrons drunk," he added with a loud guffaw.
The soldier laughs in turn. I am lost. The men exchange a few words more and then we continue on our way.
My body is pulled in all directions. My only markers are the town's cobblestones. I can smell sea spray.
"Where are you taking me?" I manage to articulate despite the terror that they inspire in me.
"Shut up!" Cook answers through his teeth.
I am not walking on stones any more but on wood. The docks!
In desperation, I try to get loose from their grip. I have no choice. If I go aboard a launch, I am done for. If they wanted to demand a ransom, it would have been wiser to have stayed on land.
No, I refuse to board any old tub. I struggle. My attitude draws attention. For a brief moment, I think that I may be saved. I exchange a look with a sailor who guesses that I am not what my captors pretend.
After that, everything goes so fast that I do not realise what is happening. I feel it. A cold, hard blow bores into my temple. My blood runs down my face and into my hair. My vision blurs. I want to go on struggling. Cook's hands grip me firmly around the throat. And then, blackness. Nothing.
At least I am no longer in pain. I am no longer afraid.
Jérémiah. I wonder what you are doing. Who you are loving. A man perhaps… You were never choosy when it came to the sex of your partner, were you… Have you forgotten me? Was I just a pawn in your love games? I know well, deep down, that I was never the queen of your chessboard. No matter! I cherish what you have given me. I miss you. More than ever.
So here we are. I want to die. I regret not having escaped in the forest near Charleston when I had the chance. I emerge from sleep and promptly fall back into slumber again. Nausea clouds my mind. The lack of movement submerges me with pain. Every move is torture. I hear water lapping against the hull of the ship.
At last I wake up. My hair is stuck to my forehead and I can smell dried blood. It is difficult to adjust my sight in the semi-darkness. I can make out barrels and sacks of goods. No doubt about it, I am in the hold of a ship. The damp, the continuous swaying and sea scents are so easy to recognise. And the pestilence of mould too.
I sit up, and I make out a particular detail which causes me to shiver. Bars. I am in a cage. A cage! I do not understand. Hatred of my captors invades me with a violence that I did not realize I was capable of. My soul is torn apart, flooded by this destructive emotion.
There is a bucket of water beside me. I crawl towards the object with difficulty in the hope that it is drinking water. No. Even that is refused me. Despite everything, the sea water refreshes my face. I clean as best I can my bloodied hair and wipe the sweat running down my body. Hunger and thirst imprison my clouded mind in a delirium and fantasy of food. The darkness oppresses me as it deprives me of the slightest mark of time.
"She's awake!" barks one of the seamen who has just poked his head through the hatch which gives access to steerage.
It is strange, but I feel reassurance at the knowledge that they have not forgotten me in this hole. The hold frightens me. My solitude is terrifying.
The sailor reappears in full this time. He throws me a piece of fabric through the bars of my diabolical prison before leaving again. As my fingers unfold the material, I can feel the seams of a dress. This also provides a form of relief. I am going to recover a modicum of femininity. It is quite ridiculous. This garment should conjure up the danger of being a woman in a shipful of scoundrels. The sensation overwhelms me. Nevertheless, the dress will help to restore my identity. Florence des Acres de l'Aigle, daughter of the second Marquis des Acres, the sweetheart of one of the biggest fortunes of Charleston county, the pirate's whore. I digress.
The plunging neckline makes me feel ill at ease so I put the sailor's shirt that Steven gave me at the inn over it. Another man is coming down the steps. He opens my cage without looking at me. In spite of the darkness, I recognize Cook. I do not know if it was he or his leader who hit me on the head. The only thing I am certain of at this moment is that this man and his acolytes will not hesitate to harm me again if I act in a manner which displeases them. He leaves with a heavy step and goes toward the hatch. I follow him with uncertain steps, holding on to everything I can see near me. Will I at least learn of my fate? Should I find a way to end this nightmare? If I have the opportunity, would I be capable of slitting my veins with a knife? Or of throwing myself overboard?
Crossing the ship appears never-ending. The sailors stare me nastily. Some even spit as I go past. I cross steering with its closed portholes and then climb a final ladder and find myself in the open air. The sun is setting behind the horizon. In the light of day, I see that I am wearing my scarlet dress. My hands are dirty, my nails black. My fingers shake.
The ship is ripping through the sea at surprising speed. No land in sight on either side of the ship. The waves appear to smoke before my eyes which are clouded by the tears of desperation.
How can I have slept so long?
I am starved. The sailor takes me to a cabin. The slightly more abundant decoration makes me think that these are the captain's quarters. There are fruit and gruel on a desk. Without thinking, I snatch up an apple. I force myself to chew slowly and savour the sweet juice which runs into my mouth. I see a glass of water that I empty in one gulp. I then devour a piece of dry bread, being careful not to suffocate on it.
"The rich are too used to having everything," exclaims Steven to my right.
Obsessed by the abundance of food, I had forgotten to check whether the room was occupied. The captain is watching me from a bunk in the corner of the cabin. He smiles at me and there is no animosity in his relaxed expression.
"What do you know of the rich? I imagine that you do not frequent many of them," I cry defiantly before stuffing as many grapes as my mouth can hold.
I know not where I find the bravery to speak to him thus. I am immensely proud of myself.
"I admit it," he answers in a way that appears too cautious to be natural.
He makes me think of a chess-player. He is preparing his next strike, and I hope that it will not be to my face.
"I flee the company of petty noblemen when it can be avoided," he argues, sitting up on his bunk.
"Are you sure that it is not they who flee your presence?" I retort with my mouth full.
I am going too far. I expect a violent reaction from him. Nothing happens. He just observes me silently.
"You're no more than a spoiled brat," he rails. "Now, sit down, we must talk."
I sit astride a rickety chair opposite him. My hunger is satisfied, but I nevertheless continue to pick at the dried pork on the table. I try in vain to keep my face straight so that he cannot guess my turmoil.
"We are going to New Orleans, but we are stopping off at Tortuga to begin with. The journey will last several days. My sailors do not appreciate you being on board. A woman on a ship bodes bad luck. If you value your life, you must be discreet."
"Why give me such a garish dress if you seek sobriety?" I ask wearily.
"To ward off bad luck. Normally, you should go forth bare-breasted, but our figurehead does this for you. Think yourself lucky that we have this dress. If it were up to me…"
"Why are we going to New Orleans?" I interrupt, pulling the shirt tighter around my hips.
"You are frightened, aren't you?" He asks me seriously.
No, he is not taking a malicious delight in asking me this question. He wants to know the answer.
"Of course." I whisper with a tremor in my voice.
"If I explain everything, I fear that you will be too afeared to act reasonably."
"You have either said too much or too little. I must know why I am here and what you intend to do with me."
"I am a pirate and you are nowt but a contract. You will be well treated if you behave as I want and you show me due respect and also to the members of my crew."
"Respect?" I choke. "You are pirates, worthless men. Go to hell with your respect! I order you to take me back to Charleston. I am to marry next month. You have no right to destroy all that I am trying to save."
Once again, his attitude leaves me speechless. He does not show anger. His lips stretch into an enigmatic smile. A tiny dimple appears in his tanned cheek.
"You want to go back to an old man. Seriously?"
I nod.
"I am disappointed. I was told you had the character of an adventurer."
"Who spoke to you of me? Who gave you this contract? You surely have the wrong girl. I am more than ordinary. If it is for my family fortune[1], I regret to say that my mother will not part with a penny to save me. You have nothing to gain from my abduction. You are mistaken, it is the only explanation."
Suddenly he stands, pulls up a chair and sits down. His bright blue eyes do not leave mine. For the first time, I see the thin scar which goes along his eyebrow and peters out on the left-hand side of his fine-featured face.
"Florence des Acres. Your future husband was to be Conor McPherson, who is not a nobleman, by the way. You boarded Le Dauphin on 29th June in Brest. Then you were taken to British territory by the Septon. From this, I deduce two things. Firstly, that you are not as pure as you would have me believe with your haughty snobbish airs. And secondly, that someone is prepared to pay a lot of money for the services of a luxury harlot."
My knuckles whiten as I grab the wooden table. This involuntary movement prevents me from falling to the ground. A tear escapes my eye and courses past my nose while he laughs deeply. I bend my head and close my eyes. I must concentrate. Stay in control.
"Who?" I manage to croak above the noise of the storm which is raging in my breast.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Their name. I insist. I want to know who recruited you."
My voice is cold and lifeless.
"You will see. But in theory, you favour rich men, even if they are not particularly handsome or attractive. Your future owner is rolling, you should be pleased."
Jérémiah? No, he would never have inflicted such a torment on me. Besides, he is not rich.
I breathe in slowly, aware that my nostrils are quivering with the anger of my short breaths.
"I … belong … to… no man…"
My declaration hits the mark. He stares placidly at me. We stare at each other for a moment.
"You have no choice, my lov…"
"You and your men will not lift a finger to hurt me," I interrupt.
"Not a good reason," he jeers with a mischievous wink.
To jest about my safety does not give me cause for mirth. From the manner in which I gauge him, he understands that I do not appreciate this remark.
"What I meant to say…" he starts, rubbing his hands on his breeches.
"I know full well what you meant to say. Dream on! Where are my quarters?"
He smiles triumphantly. He lifts his arms and turns around as if he was presenting me to an imaginary king.
"But here, dear one."
"It will do, even if the bunk is rather small."
"We shall huddle up together."
I swallow. Is he testing me? Is he still joking?
"I sleep alone."
Why does it sound to my ears like a supplication?
"Well tried, my lovely, but that is out of the question. Half the sailors want to throw you overboard, and the other half dream of having you. It is either my cabin or the bars of your cage in the hold. If you choose the second, you will have maggots for company. Along with a few rats too."
It is so difficult to think. If I stay, all I will have is meagre comfort, water, food and maybe I shall be able to take some walks on the deck to enjoy the sun for a few minutes every day. If I choose the hold, everything will be blackness and solitude. The wolves' tale springs to mind. They preferred the night and freedom. I favour commodities, even if it means submitting.
"If you touch me, I shall strangle you in your sleep," I threaten with all the poise I can muster.
He laughs out loud.
"If you're true to your reputation, you"ll be the first to make a move."
I would like to call him a cad. But I feel even more like crying. Just like a man! He takes the liberty of judging me on my lost virginity. My torn hymen has brought on me all the torments of the world. And for what reason? Because these gentlemen cannot tolerate a rival, even a past one. They must be the only one, for fear of not being the best. Why should I pay for this male mediocrity which stems from their childhood anxiety? "Me first! Me first! And only me!"[2]
Powerless, I drag myself to the bunk. These revelations have exhausted me. I am astray, lost, alone. Sailing towards an ominous fate on this damned vessel. I feel as if the waves boiling under its hull are taking me to hell.
I huddle up against the wood and roll a blanket around my shoulders. I fall asleep.
At the beginning, they were only light touches. My teacher, fifteen years my senior, had been engaged by Mother to perfect my Latin, help me with the piano and initiate me to the English language. Oh, yes, I liked him immediately. How he made me blush! His long brown hair with its pepper and salt locks was always beautifully tied in a bow to match his waistcoat. His clean-shaven face was delicate and his eyes sparkled with malice. He loved to laugh and have fun. I was dreaming of some entertainment in my carefully mapped out life. It was too beautiful an opportunity to miss. I gave him my virginity on a silver platter. And he delighted in it.
When I played the piano, he would place his fingers gently on mine, and then move up my arms to my shoulders. And then his fingers would move down to my breasts. Jérémiah knew how to caress, barely touching my skin. I wanted more and still more. Our kisses tasted of freedom.
When he was teaching Latin declensions, he would correct me with his teacher's rod when I made a mistake. I cannot count the times I deliberately gave the wrong ablative of dominus to feel the pain. The intensity of our antics belied reason.
Our first time was exceptional. The little withdrawing room was filled with light on that hot summer's afternoon. I had just turned sixteen. And this time, there was no pretence. With no prelude, he announced that this lesson would be different from the others. That he was going to prepare me for the reality of life in a more brutal manner than usual. He ordered me to undress. When all that was left were my undergarments, he stopped me so that I could feel his crotch. This was new and strange to me. I let him guide my hand without leaving his beautiful hazel eyes. Then it was he who undertook to explore the most private part of my anatomy. My orgasm came too fast, and we laughed.
"I shall start again, but you must breathe more slowly," he whispered as he nibbled my earlobe.
I felt a finger enter me, and then another. My pleasure was mounting in waves in my loins. He played a music of which I had no prior knowledge. My desire followed the rhythm of his score.
"This may hurt, he warned me. If it is too painful, tell me and I shall stop."
He took out his erect member. I was both shocked and paralysed with passion. Yes, it was going to hurt. He took my hand and slid it towards me. Slowly, he helped me guide him inside me. Although my genitals were wet, a painful flaying lashed my belly. My childhood deserted me so that I could discover what it meant to be a woman. I was rocked by his back and forth motion. At the beginning, his rhythm was slow and constant, and then he speeded up before suddenly stopping. He straightened up and started drumming his fingers on my nether regions again while he gave regular thrusts.
"We are going to come together," he murmured.
He kept his word. I felt the full force of pleasure and suffering. A slow death, they call it. For me, it was just an explosion of life.
Our antics did not stop there. A few minutes later, he taught me new pleasures and different means of conjuring them up. His member explored another private orifice of my body on that day.
I came in my sleep. How can I feel such excitement in my situation? I miss Jérémiah. His suave smell, his soft skin. The way he used to smile at me and make me feel beautiful, unique and a woman.
My throat is parched. I get out of bed and straddle the sleeping captain. At least, he has left a respectable distance between us. The tyrant intends to ensure my protection in his crew although he has had no qualms about killing and brutalising me to capture me. Where is the logic in this?
There is a bottle on the table. I drink directly from it and spit out half all over my shirt. Spirits. That was foreseeable. My chapped lips burn as if I had placed my mouth on a scorching firebrand. I find a flask and, this time, I sniff the liquid before drinking it. Water. It is not yet bitter and brown as it was at the end of Le Dauphin's journey.
I cannot sleep. I feel as if I have slept for weeks. I need a plan if I do not want to end up the slave of a dark master.
Tortuga.
The island will be my chance. My only way out. I shall escape, whatever the cost. I have not let my conscience give in to the narrow-mindedness imposed by my education. I am strong enough to escape. I have to be.
Thank you, Jérémiah. You started the book of my awakening to life.
I cannot abandon my desire to live a life of freedom. I refuse to live under the yoke of a man. Clearly, I shall need to rid myself of this fear which is tying knots in my entrails. I can do it. I owe it to myself.
I slowly return to my place in the bed, taking special care not to awaken my persecutor. His angelic features cannot fool the devil. Even less his alcohol-scented breath which bounces off my forehead. Sleeping thus, he does not look like the terrible assassin I saw on the day of my abduction. He is no more than a man. With his faults and weaknesses. I shall find a way of exploiting them.
His objective is to drag me down.
If I go down, he goes down with me.
[1] The Normandy Acres family had a large estate.
[2] Refers to the article in Monde des Religions, Rire ou comprendre, entre machisme et sainteté, by the philosopher André COMPTE-SPONVILLE, author of Contre la peur et cent autres propos (Albin Michel, 2019)