Fire on Dark Water (14 page)

Authors: Wendy Perriman

BOOK: Fire on Dark Water

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Now, as it turned out, Master George Ellyott was mortified that his son had been overpowered by a mere slip of a wench, for such a disgrace wouldn’t do no good for a lieutenant’s career if it were to become public knowledge. And having been assured by the surgeon that the patient’s wounds would not leave permanent damage Master Ellyott wanted to hush up the incident and forget that it ever happened. So he schmoozed his Irish friend, greased his words with liquor, and offered an affable solution. He suggested they both deny anything had ever taken place on the grounds that headstrong youngsters often make silly, rash mistakes. Of course, at first Master William was that burning angry his daughter had been violated, but after several tingling drinks he came to see that if no one knew of the event it would be as if it never occurred. No damage—reputation still intact—and Annie would be able to debut as planned. Cormac could not risk losing such an important business connection either, so he ran with Ellyott’s oily words, downed as much of his whiskey as was offered, and finally shook his friend’s hand. Annie listened to details of their agreement with cotton-stuffed ears that absorbed the added insult in dutiful silence.

She finally rose to ready for bed and gave her father an empty kiss on his glowing, treacherous cheek, as if that was actually that.

LOOKING UP AT PARADISE

1714–1716

A
nne was in no hurry to return to the plantation, so after we’d all celebrated the New Year together, it was decided that Mrs. Drayton would stay as chaperone, Joshua would continue running the shop, and the master would return with Gibby to replant, restock, and rebuild. I introduced Mrs. Drayton to Mrs. Haskell at the apothecary and the two of them quick became friends. During their long chats together Annie and I would slip off and explore the other shops around the Four Corners, gradually growing bold enough to venture into the market. We were two young women thrown together in circumstantial friendship—yet Annie always pulled away whenever there was a chance to draw closer and I couldn’t never understand why she did that. It was frustrating, mean-spirited, and hurtful. One day after Easter, though, fate blew wind from another direction.

We’d been busy haggling with the market vendors for cloth to furbish Annie’s new chamber on the half-finished third floor, when I saw a vaguely familiar figure sliding among the crowded hat stall. I tried to gain a better view but the bonnet bobbed out of sight so I turned to Annie and said, “Let’s look over here!” We followed behind the supple body as it wove easily through the thong of sailors playing chuck-farthen against a butcher’s wall. Then the woman turned and headed toward the docks. Just for a second she stopped to watch the toss of the coin, and I immediately recognized the profile of my old shipmate Violet. “I know her!” I yelled to Annie, and ran on ahead to catch up. “Violet?” I asked quizzically. The bonnet turned in my direction and the face inside lit up in amazement.

“Is that you, little Lola?” she gasped. I nodded and awkwardly hugged her. “Where have you been? We thought they’d . . .” Then she held me at arm’s length and assessed my situation for herself. Quick eyes took in the new boots, clean calico frock, and laced cap. Then they moved over to scan Anne, who had sauntered across and was standing impatiently waiting to be acknowledged.

I finally remembered my manners and introduced them. “Mistress Anne Cormac—may I present my good friend Violet. . . .” They shook hands as I mumbled, “And, Violet, this is the daughter of Master William Cormac of the Black River Plantation.”

Violet knew her place. She bobbed a small curtsey and said, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Then she slipped into her familiar English dialect, chattering away so fast that poor Annie’s untutored ears couldn’t never keep up. In a short span of time I’d told Violet how I chanced to be living in Charles Towne, and she’d given me the outline of coming here on a tobacco ship and being hired by Madam Elsie as a gay girl in the Red House (a brothel attached to the Pink House Tavern). She then recalled an important appointment she’d to keep so she hurriedly told us how to find her on Bay Street—apparently the stucco buildings were all known by their bright rainbow colors. When she kissed me on the cheek, knowing she wouldn’t never be received at Cormac’s shop, she whispered, “I’ve missed you, darling. Come visit me soon.” Violet gave Annie another polite curtsey as she hurried away in the direction of the wharves.

From then on we were kept busy decorating the new upstairs chambers. By Christmas of 1714, Joshua had moved his own attic room on the fourth floor and the rest of us graduated upstairs to the completed third level. The master bedroom faced the street, Annie had the large chamber at the rear, and Mrs. Drayton and I shared an airy room on the adjoining side. On the afternoons when we were able to occupy our chaperone elsewhere, me and Anne would slip off down to the docks and meet up with Violet. Looking back now, I think these were among the pleasantest days I ever ever spent. Mrs. Drayton preferred doing house chores without my dubious assistance so she was more than happy to send me off on her errands about town. And me and Annie could go wherever prudent, as long as we were home in time for supper.

The master came back to the shop from Thanksgiving through to Easter and we had jolly evenings by the kitchen fire, telling stories, singing ditties, or playing clever card games. One early morning Anne caught me creeping back from her father’s chamber. Her bone-hard stare took in my crumpled nightgown, instantly assessed the situation, and crinkled into a smirk. She raised her eyebrows—
Well, well, well
—and emitted the tiniest grunt of disgust. Then she turned away and never, ever referenced my nocturnal ramblings again.

During those winter months William made fewer demands on my time, but we girls couldn’t get away much on account of the business transactions he supervised at the docks. Even though we both knew he traded with privateers we didn’t think he’d much approve of our visits to the wharves, so most of that period was spent renovating the now-vacated second floor in preparation for the parties next year. The master’s old bedroom was lavishly converted into a gilt and marble great room, its dual fireplaces adequate for grand dinners and intimate dances. Glass doors opened onto a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the street, and on lucky nights the dappled moon would hang in the gap like a lantern. The master imported a wonderful new instrument called a pianoforte, but as it was too cumbersome to bring up the stairs, it had to be hoisted on ropes and pulleys up to the balcony and installed through the large glass doors. Behind the great room was a formal lounge with tapestry sofas and ornate tables—and under my chamber was the master’s study, where the men would retire to partake of pipes and brandy. And before we knew it, there were only six months left until the debut season was to open.

Now, in those early days there wasn’t no organized debutant cotillion like they have back in England. All eligible ladies between the ages of fourteen and eighteen were invited to attend as part of the Circuit, alongside any bachelor gentlemen. The debutants took afternoon teas at each person’s home, followed by an informal dinner party and dancing. And after this flurry of coming-out events (where potential partners were flirted with, tested, and assessed), the participants were expected to marry. Annie had hired her own Italian dressmaker to produce a stunning array of gowns and petticoats. And she also employed the services of a French dancing master to teach her sufficient grace to gild her more-obvious charms. Of course, I found the lessons enchanting and wished it was me being led on the divine tunes wafting from out of that musical box. But unfortunately Annie didn’t have no discipline, so after a frightful hour with Monsieur Lafayette and his surly pianist, she’d spend the rest of the morning swinging me roughly about the ballroom floor, trying to work off her embarrassment and frustration. One day Anne asked me what other dances I knew so I gave her a sample of my old repertoire (minus the Dance of Veils). She looked at me through wider pupils from then on, finally aware of my talent. And once she realized I might have something worth learning she actually let me teach her the formal steps.

Meanwhile, I’d managed to see Violet (with and without Annie) at least once a week. She showed me around the docks, pointing out where it was safe to tread and where a young girl should never venture alone. As we dotted about the wharves, men would grin, tip their hats, or shout to Violet, and she always answered in kind with a smile, small bow, or witty retort. She was obviously very popular. And I was proud to be her friend and to bask in their general approval. One fateful day the pair of us stopped for a sup of ale on Bay Street—and that’s when I first laid eyes on the dashing James Bonny. Violet stood chatting to the barman while I blended into the wood and quietly surveyed the scene. It was very much like an English pub, except nearly all of the patrons were buccaneers, which I recognized straight off from the sooty crosses etched in their skin and the evidence of past plunder: gold rings, ear hoops, jeweled buckles, and fancy chains. Most wore recognizable sailor’s kit—petticoat breeches or Monmouth caps—but their traditional gear had also acquired the telltale silk sashes and velvet waistcoats. First off, I was terrified to be among this band of thieves, but Violet assured me I’d be perfectly safe, and later she showed me the dagger hid inside her boot. As I watched I became increasingly mesmerized by the banter and merrymaking, having never seen so much fun since my gypsy days. Rum and ale flowed freely as air, and every so often a fight would break out to a stomp of cheers. And I couldn’t tear my eyes from that handsome rascal in the corner, Jim Bonny. He was twenty years old. A pirate. The first bloke to ever break my heart.

James Bonny was from Liverpool so he spoke with a funny tongue, but you’d forgive him that just to hear him up close because he was so cheeky and charming. As he sat staring moodily into his tankard I got the chance to take in his wheat-colored hair and elegant features, but when he raised his head and stared at me with metallic eyes I felt the quicksilver drowning my senses. The moment I thought he flashed me a grin I grew flustered and anxiously turned to Violet for a cue. But she was engrossed in some deal or other so I stared at the floor and tried to appear disinterested. Next thing I knew he was making his way across to the bar in his cocked hat and had placed an arm around Violet’s waist. She turned to acknowledge him and my heart felt leaden because I could see that she liked him too. He nodded to me and said, “Hey up, Vi. And who’s your friend here?”

“Jim—this is my mate Lola. But she’s only fourteen and off-limits.” I was embarrassed to be treated as a child in such company and subtly kicked Violet on the ankle. Meantime, the young sailor had removed his hat and was performing an elaborate bow to the words, “James Bonny, at your service.”

I giggled and replied, “Lola Blaise, pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

Violet shrugged her shoulders and turned back to complete her transaction at the bar. James asked for another drink and then decided to amuse himself at my expense by winningly drawing my moth to his flame. Before we left that day he’d discovered that I worked for William Cormac and assured me most sincerely that he’d be in here every afternoon until he found a new cruise, and that I’d always be welcome to keep him company. Looking back, I suppose it wasn’t no hard task to impress me. And I’d been truly fiercely plundered.

Now Romany women have prospered for hundreds of years by studying human nature. We observe and learn. Who can be trusted for fairness? What type of person makes a good mark? Which words elicit the greatest reward? So it ain’t no surprise that I took to studying pirates. Now, I’m sure you think, like I used to, that they’re all just a bunch of bloodthirsty rogues but I soon discovered that there are many different types of buccaneer. Take James Bonny, for example. He’d been born in Liverpool to a carpenter who had the misfortune to be press-ganged for the navy at the start of the Queen Anne’s War. It’s said the frigate got sunk near Flanders, but his headstrong son joined up soon as possible to try to find his lost father. James worked as a powder-monkey (running gunpowder and shot to the sailors manning the warship’s cannons) until he’d learned enough to become an ordinary seaman. By sixteen he’d made able seaman, but when the war ended in 1713 he found himself unemployed. A couple of years later he signed up with Captain George Lowther, a small-time pirate operating along the Carolina coast. Their
Happy Delivery
would follow a suitable merchantman until out of sight from safe harbor, then ram into the prize so the men could board and loot it. But when Lowther set sail for the West India Islands Jim decided to wait out the winter in Charles Towne because—as it turns out—he was seeking a richer treasure.

Of course, I’m old enough now to know all this mushy love stuff is just one big fairy tale that I think men invented to keep women stupid and dependent. But try telling that to a star-struck young heart out on its first adventure! I was besotted. All I could think about was my James, Jim, Jimmy. What should I wear to entice him? What could I say to impress him? What might I do to win his affection? Each afternoon I’d find some errand that meant I could swing by Bay Street. Sometimes Violet would be sat chatting with him—and then I was torn between pleasure and dismay—but usually I’d join him alone at the table and let him buy me a tankard. Jim was ever a gentleman, and although he was warm and welcoming he never made any move. I couldn’t never understand what was going on. I flirted with my wickedest looks, danced beautifully when anyone struck up the accordion, suggested remedies for every ailment he mentioned, and hinted that I had experience enough to pleasure him. But while other men pined for my lithe, thin body, or envisaged my rich wavy ringlets billowing over their pillows, he treated me like a sibling or shipmate, never giving more than a wink and a kiss on the cheek. Weeks of frustration went by.

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