Eight days. We are supposed to dock in New Orleans in eight days.
Eight days without seeing the light, without breathing fresh air, without being able to walk.
Eight days cloistered behind bars, with only rats for company.
Jaime did not attempt to stop Nick when he took me away. My negative shake of the head clearly made him see that I did not wish him to intervene. He is more useful to me alive than dead.
The only positive thing in all this is that I do not suffer from hunger or thirst. Léon, Jaime or Cook come down at regular hours to bring me what I need.
A tiny gap between two planks of wood which make up part of the ship's hull enable me to see if it is night time.
My second day at the bottom of this hellhole.
Down here sound travels differently than on the rest of the brig. The bumps are more stifled. I have devised a little game to pass the time. I listen to everything. I analyse and try to imagine what is happening up there. Those steps are those of the guard. That is easy; he had a slight limp when he came on board. Ah and that one, heavier, I would wager belongs to Monsieur Mustelier, come to ascertain that his cargo is doing well. He must be blind not to realize that he is slowly killing them. Now I hear a scratching noise and then a sort of whistle. I do not recognize the sound.
In the darkness, I can only count on my ears. The sound is coming from the stern of the boat.
"Tsss, tsss, tsss."
A human voice. Someone is calling me.
"Who is there?" I am alarmed.
"Tsss, tsss, tsss."
It may be only a rat. Concentrate, idiot! You must disregard this hissing if you want to identify the other sounds. Have I just begun a conversation with myself?
"Tsss, tsss, tsss."
"When are you going to hold your tongue," I shout to myself.
This is it; I have gone mad.
"Me want thank you, for water."
I am hearing voices. One day and one night in the hold have been enough to make me lose my mind. I hoped to hold out a bit longer before going mad.
"Water. Good. You slave, like us."
So, someone is talking to me. Why would I have chosen such a language to talk to myself?
"Megwewa."
"I do not understand," I reply, distressed.
"Me Gwewa, you?"
"Gwewa?"
"Yes, and you?"
I am slow. I have an excuse. I have just spent two days at the bottom of a ship's hold.
"My name is…"
The word escapes me.
"Sirena," I decide.
"Sillena," the voice repeats.
"Yes, and you Gwewa."
That is all. My only conversation during my second day without light. But it was real. Gwewa replaces a plank in the floor and nothing more. I am alone once more.
On the third day, I learn the names of the people accompanying my new friend. I retain Adjo, Umi, Kuumba and Jawara. Gwewa speaks a little French. He explains that he was a house negro[1]. Everything was going well for him until there was an incident with his master. I was not to learn more. He does not wish to talk about it. His owner decided to take him to Louisiana with the others to work the land. His home on Tortuga was only his secondary residence. Mustelier owns fields of indigo and tobacco. There is a lack of manpower and according to him, the slaves must be renewed all the time.
He also tells me how armed men came to his village in Africa. They slit his father's throat and kidnapped his brother. When I think that I dared to complain about my Atlantic crossing. It was nothing in comparison with what these poor souls have endured. They were tied up, shackled two by two, forced to lie down because there was no room. They could only go outside a few days before their arrival so that they looked healthy when they were sold.
For the first time, I too tell my story. I elude certain details, so as not to shock my new companions in misfortune. Nevertheless, it does me good to talk about my fear and my hatred of men. When comes the time to tell the story of the galleon, I have the impression that it is someone else talking.
"You strong then," says Gwewa. "You white. You free you."
I would like to be as convinced as he is on the subject of my future liberation.
The sun goes down. The weak rays which pierce the hull slowly fade. The wind whips the sails and the swell rocks the boat.
Noise. Gwewa and I have learned to keep quiet when there is movement between decks.
Steven! Please, let Steven come and put an end to my agony.
"Watch out, you danger. Man come!" he warns.
Cook came an hour ago to leave me a bowl of overcooked rice and a sea biscuit. This can only mean one thing.
It is he! The Irishman!
"Take this. You strong, you fight."
I will not need this with the captain. A little voice in my head tells me all the same to protect myself. Yes, it is once again the voice of my father. An iron rod falls heavily to the ground. I slide my arm through the bars to catch it. The object is too far away. I cannot do it. I try the same move with my leg between the bars. I lose my balance when a huge wave shakes the Anarkhia. It is too late. The man opens the hatch and comes down the ladder.
It is not Steven.
The storm breaks. My heart explodes in my breast.
John.
It is still there. The miserable fear which tears at my guts. Always. Oppressing, overwhelming. It stings, it burns, it consumes me. Whole. There is nothing left.
Here we are.
"Not so clever now," he taunts.
Calm down, Florence, Steven is the only one who has the key. He cannot harm you. Breathe deeply. Be strong. Do not forget that you are an Acre. It is in your blood.
The voice of my progenitor turns my anxiety into anger.
"Shut up, you do not know me!" I scream at him.
Yes, I am enraged. A father is supposed to protect his children. Not to abandon them to a bitter and cruel woman to go off on an adventure in a perilous voyage and die in a stupid wreck. None of this would have happened if he had stayed with us. I would be married today to Thibault Duchaffaut. Not in the bloody hold of this pirate brig.
"Everyone is asleep, no one can hear you. You can scream as much as you like, Sirena."
A roll of thunder, confirming what he says.
"Go to hell, you tailless shrimp!"
I heard that insult when I was about ten years old. If all be told, I had dreamed secretly of using it for a long time.
"Did you really think I would swallow your lies? You have given me a golden opportunity by stealing water. I was going to do it and accuse you, but you are so stupid that you broke the rules yourself."
He draws nearer. I can see his silhouette quite clearly while he is obliged to grope forward. He reaches for something in his waistcoat.
"I knew it" I triumph. "It was you who instigated the mutiny. What do you want, the position of captain? Power? No one will follow you, you come nowhere close to being as good as Steven!"
"Oh no, you beautiful whore, you do not understand anything. I do not want to govern this tub. Responsibility is not my thing. It is more amusing to annoy. What I want…"
He has found what he was looking for in his pocket. A small object. It is tiny and fits in his hand.
Outside, black clouds mask the last rays of the sun. The light is abandoning me. Before disappearing completely, it enables me to see the key to my cage that he holds in his fingers.
I own few things. My body, that he will try to break. My spirit, even if it has been rambling somewhat for some time. My empty wooden bowl and a spoon, useless. An iron rod which is more than a yard away from me.
I have nothing to lose.
Sirena does not know fear. She has killed Spaniards and has survived a sea battle. She has met a Brother and has convinced him to release her without harming her. She is the lover of a pirate captain. She knows how to steer a ship and sail on the ocean.
"I cannot believe that I am at last going to fuck a noblewoman," he gloats.
He is trembling with excitement. The lock clicks as he tries to turn the key. I still have enough time. I lay down on my belly and try to bring the metal rod nearer with my toes.
Alas, I have overestimated how difficult it is to unlock the door. John is in. He grabs my hair and pulls me to the middle of the cage. In the move, the iron rod has rolled away. It is lost.
Horror! The son of a bitch stinks even more than poor Rick. He reeks of liquor. Of course, he needed it to give him courage. It makes me laugh. I literally burst into almost uncontrollable laughter.
For now, he hits me. Slaps, then punches. He wears big rings on his fingers.
"Will you hold your tongue, she-devil?"
My brow bone splits. My cheek explodes. The pain is not as excruciating as I expected. I am winning. He hates me so much that he cannot have an erection.
I struggle. Unfortunately, the four or five days of captivity in the dark have weakened me. In an attempt to prevent me from protecting my mouth with my arm, John pulls my hand backwards. The nail of my index finger cracks against one of the bars of the cage. A shriek of terror pierces the dark. My voice resounds around my prison as a cry of rage. I refuse to give in.
"You're mine!"
He is getting excited again. Now he strives to pull down his breeches. I try to keep calm. I must breathe deeply to gather the little strength I still have. He takes out his member and pulls my arm away with one hand. Now.
I had forgotten that I still had nails. Nine nails which can be used to stab, claw and extract. Which is exactly what I do.
Jérémiah had explained to me that I had to be very gentle when it came to handling his "tallywags"" as he liked to call them.
Slowly, I slide my hand down towards his private parts. Like a she-wolf, I catch my prey. I lash out. I strike, I hit, I twist. My aggressor has not seen it coming. Nor the next. He cannot even cry out. I am disappointed. His moans do not satisfy my wrath.
Not without some difficulty, I managed to free myself from his massive body. I am crawling towards the door when a hand grips my ankle.
That is exactly what I wanted him to do. When in distress, everything becomes a weapon. The door of the cage is ideal for the use I want to make of it.
CRACK!
His wrist snaps with the cracking sound of the heavy iron gate. Now I am satisfied. He screams. Wounded, he curls up.
I know that it is my duty to prevent him from doing it again. To me, or to anyone else.
Nevertheless, I am free. I could go up the ladder and seek help, cuddle up in the arms of the Irishman and weep. I could do it.
But I have not finished. This evening, when he entered my prison, his intention was to kill me. Maybe not physically; he wanted to contaminate my soul with the darkness he held in his.
I know this hold from one end to the other. From the noise it made, I think that the iron rod rolled near a barrel of rum, in the stern.
I move slowly and precisely. I find the object with an unexpected easiness. It is actually an iron rod which must have been used to link two wooden jambs. Steven would not be pleased to hear that the slaves are taking his precious ship to pieces. When I look upwards, a black pupil in the middle of white is staring at me. Gwewa. Too bad if there is a witness.
My return to the cage is just as slow. I have time now.
John is shaking and moaning. What hurts the most? His testicles that I have almost torn away or the bone of his wrist that I have shattered into a thousand pieces?
No-one will ever know. I raise my rod and strike. It hits something soft. I missed his head and hit his shoulder. Another hoarse cry escapes his windpipe. He tries in vain to make me lose my balance with his valid hand. I strike again. He must have turned around, because I think that I have broken his nose. Droplets of a hot and sticky liquid splash on my face. His blood blends with mine. It disgusts me. Once again, I raise my weapon. The shock vibrates in my arm. The metal is stuck in the skull of my enemy.
He lies before me, dead.
A pirate victory: screams, a corpse, a cripple, blood and sweat. And a cage that I lock behind me.
[1] A "house negro" refers to a slave who worked in the master's house. More often women, they escaped hard labour in the sugar cane fields.