Beyond the Cliffs of Kerry (18 page)

Darcy took a seat in one corner. An old crone began to cough, and it became so violent that Darcy thought that poor woman would expire on the spot.

Crackstone brought down the slave down into the hold, and Darcy was stunned when she saw the woman. She had the darkest skin Darcy had ever seen. Instantly she thought of
Othello.

Crackstone told the woman to find a spot to sleep and that they would be embarking soon. The slave chose a bed of straw directly across from Darcy and sat down cross-legged. She turned her catlike eyes on each prisoner in the hold, warning them without words to keep their distance.

Not wishing to challenge her, Darcy looked away, but she could not help stealing glances in her direction. She was beautiful with long legs and a willowy body. Her coarse hair was long and full, and she had cool blue eyes. She wore a colorful skirt with a clean white blouse, and although she was a slave, she was cleaner than the rest of them. From the way she wrinkled her nose, Darcy knew she found their stench disgusting.

Suddenly, the walls began to creak, and she heard shouts and footsteps above her head. The entire ship started to groan as if it was breaking apart. Darcy's heart jumped, and she looked frantically at the others to see if they too were frightened, but there was no reaction from any of them. As the vessel lurched out over the ocean waves, Darcy had the sensation of falling, but she hid her fear.

For the first few days of the journey, Darcy was ill. Despair and seasickness flooded her, and she spent most of her time lying on the straw, staring at the narrow light in the ceiling. Her sleep was fitful, and on more than one occasion, she was awakened by a rat crawling over her leg. The hold was teeming with the creatures and the putrid smell of human feces. It was a hellish nightmare.

The two men in chains appeared to be very weak, and Darcy doubted if they would survive the voyage. At first glance, they appeared to be along in years, but upon closer inspection she could see that their long hair and grizzly appearance aged them. The rest were women. Aside from the old lady who had consumption, the others looked to Darcy as if they may have been street whores from
Cork
.

The prisoners were served two meals a day of salt herring and hardtack. The water was warm and had a foul taste to it, but Darcy forced herself to drink it, knowing that dehydration would kill her.

The hours passed slowly, and the prisoners amused themselves playing dice or telling stories.

Darcy never spoke to anyone, but occasionally she would watch the slave woman rock back and forth, mumbling. She never let go of an elegant oak traveling case in her lap. Sometimes in the morning, when she opened it, Darcy would catch a glimpse of the contents. It was lined with red velvet and filled with bottles of salts, elixirs and vials. The containers were made of beautifully cut crystal, and the woman clutched the case as if it were of great value. Darcy noticed when the slave appeared ill; she would drink from a bottle of green tonic kept in her case. The medicine appeared to cure her, but the following day she needed the medicine again.

One morning, she saw Darcy watching her, and her eyes narrowed into slits as she hissed threats at her in French. The woman spent the rest of the day guarding her traveling chest and stealing suspicious glances at Darcy.

The winds picked up that night. The groaning of the ship was deafening. Everyone in the hold was tossed about, and it concerned Darcy that one of the large barrels stacked near her bed would break free and crush her. She slept fitfully for a few hours and was awakened suddenly by moaning coming from the slave woman's corner. She looked up and saw two men climbing up the companion ladder, and they shut the hatch quietly behind them.

The following day Darcy watched the slave woman but seeing nothing out of the ordinary dismissed the incident. The following night she was again awakened by the sound of struggling in the corner.

Her heart pounding, she strained to see in the darkness and saw a man on top of the woman. Darcy remembered the rapes she had endured, and she jumped to her feet. With all her strength, she grabbed the man's hair, snapping his head back. Spewing oaths he rose to his knees. The slave saw her opportunity and lunged forward sinking her teeth into his neck. The man roared and jumped back, just as Darcy dragged her nails across his face. He elbowed Darcy, sending her sprawling across the floor. He scrambled up the ladder, slamming the hatch.

Aside from a bloody lip, Darcy was unhurt. She pulled herself to her bed of straw and lay on her back, trying to catch her breath. Seeing movement again, Darcy jumped to defend herself, startling the woman. Holding a cloth and a bottle of medicine, she signaled for Darcy to clean her lip. Darcy soaked the rag with the tincture and dabbed it on her swollen mouth.

"Oui, sur la levre,"

The woman asked Darcy something in French, and Darcy shook her head to say she didn’t understand. The woman leaned forward and examined Darcy's lip, then put the stopper back on the bottle. She touched her chest and said, "Je m'appelle, Dominique."

This time, Darcy understood. "Je m'appelle, Darcy."

Dominique looked up at the hatch, saying something about the incident. Darcy knew that she was thanking her. "Bon nuit, Madame," said Dominique and retired to her corner.

*
    
*
    
*

Another week passed and the boredom became unbearable. Darcy's muscles ached for exercise, and she thought that she would lose her mind for want of fresh air. The old woman’s cough turned to a steady wheeze until she was unable to sit up. The two men in chains fared no better. One had a fever, and his moans of delirium could be heard around the clock, while the other lay weak and listless.

One morning, Darcy noticed that the hold was unusually quiet, and she wondered if the old woman had died. She went to her bedside, and as she had expected, her lifeless body lay on the hay. Darcy had seen death a thousand times during the famine, and she was indifferent to it. She climbed the companion ladder and with her fist struck the locked door of the hold above her head.

After some time there was a crack of light, and Crackstone shouted down, "What is it?"

"The old woman's dead," stated Darcy.

Crackstone pulled the trap open and followed Darcy down into the dark hold. “Here help me,” he said.

Although it was disgusting to move the cold, rigid corpse, Darcy knew that this was her only opportunity to breathe fresh air and feel the warm sun again.

They pulled it up several sets of steps into the bright sunshine on deck. Instantly, Darcy was blinded by the light. It was as if she were staring into white lightning. They carried the corpse to the railing and pitched it into the drink.

Her eyes began to adjust, and Darcy took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. Without warning, her head began to spin. She rushed to the side of the ship vomiting what little breakfast she had consumed. Crackstone guffawed, as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Ha! That air wasn't as delicious as you thought it would be!"

Feeling better, Darcy looked around the deck, drinking in every detail. The rich oak deck was polished to a high shine, the tall timbers that soared above her head were dressed with clean white sails, and the brilliant blue sky stretched out above the sea.

"What did you do back in
Ireland
?" Jonah Crackstone asked.

As if waking from a dream, Darcy blinked several times then said, "I tended sheep, raised potatoes."

"No, no. I mean what was your crime?"

"Smuggling."

"Smuggling what?"

"We traded goods with
France
."

"During wartime?" Crackstone whistled, and said, "Them British don't take kindly to that."

“You’re from the Colonies. You're British."

Crackstone’s eyebrows shot up, and he said, "If you are going to
America
, you had better get something straight right now. Not all of us think of ourselves as British. They like to think of us as loyal little subjects, but were a group of ragtag adventurers who answer to no one."

Darcy understood his resentment. She too was considered a British subject even though she swore allegiance only to
Ireland
.

She started to walk around on deck. She touched the polished brass fittings, ran her hands up and down the ropes, while Crackstone followed her. He felt there was something intriguing about this dirty wild-looking Irishwoman, in spite of the disheveled hair and rags.

Darcy looked up on the poop deck and saw the distinguished gentleman who had discussed her terms of transportation at the beginning of the voyage. She asked, "Is that the Captain?"

"Yes, that's Captain Bingley. He's not a bad sort."

Darcy watched a sailor coil some rope. Under the mainmast, she looked up at the huge sail bulging in the wind. She was fascinated with everything. The breeze blew her hair back, and for the first time, Crackstone got a good look at Darcy. He was amazed to see the exceptional woman hiding behind the filthy facade. He admired her fine bone structure and intelligent face, but it was her brilliant green eyes which he found so extraordinary.

"What character is the figurehead on the ship, Mr. Crackstone?"

"What?"

Darcy gestured toward the bowsprit. "The figurehead on the ship, is it a mermaid?"

"No," he said pulling on his mustache. "No, no It's a man. I think I heard someone say that he is the god of the wind."

"Aeolus? That‘s nice."

Passengers pulled their children away, as Darcy passed by, turning up their noses at the filthy convict. She was oblivious to their sneers.

Crackstone narrowed his eyes and said, "How would you like to work on deck occasionally?"

Darcy swung around and her eyes lit up.

"Oh, could I? I could mend sails or scrub the deck. I'm not afraid of hard work.”

"We'll give ya a try, but there will be no loafing!" he warned. "Now get back down to the hold. You've been up here long enough."

Darcy started toward the companionway, but before she went down the stairs she said, "Some of the crew members have been looking for free entertainment. Tell them, if you would, Mr. Crackstone that we will leave marks on them which will be difficult to explain to the captain."

Crackstone's face darkened. He looked at several of the crewmembers busy with their duties, and his eyes rested on one man whose face was badly scratched and bruised. "You have my word. It won't happen again."

*
       
*
       
*
     

One afternoon Dominique beckoned to Darcy. "Darcee, Darcee.”

Darcy slid over and sat cross-legged facing her. The woman smiled and started to talk rapidly in French. Darcy put her hands up and said, "Stop, Dominique. My French is poor."

Dominique sighed. "You, Darcee, I teach Francais."

Instantly Darcy lit up. "Oui?"

They smiled at one another. The thought of conversing together excited them. The lessons gave them a much-needed occupation to fill the long hours in the dark hold of the ship. Dominique taught Darcy French, and Darcy taught Dominique English. She considered schooling her new friend in Gaelic but realized that in the Colonies, Dominique would benefit more from English.

Days passed quickly and the women went from acquaintances to confidantes. Darcy learned that Dominique was the property of Mr. Charles Villiers, who was also on the ship, but inhabiting quarters on deck. Dominique said that she was not badly treated by this Monsieur Villiers, but she could never accept the fact that she was owned by him. She very candidly told Darcy that she was his paramour. She prided herself on her sensuality and prowess at giving him pleasure.