JoAnn Wendt Read online

  Flavia wept, too. All around her, men and women were falling to their knees, weeping and giving thanks to God that the voyage was done, the hell finished. Those who wept hardest were the grieved souls who’d buried family at sea. The Methodist preacher stepped forward and led the assembly in prayer. Only the cocky and hardened of heart did not bow a head or bend a knee.

  On Christmas Day, 1753, the Schilaack dropped anchor off the Carolinas. Forced from her course by savage winter storms, the ship was far south of her destination and the captain was vexed. He vented this vexation on the indentured. He reduced their already slim rations. To appease his crew, he lay in port for several days. The crew was permitted ashore in shifts; the indentured were not. They must stay aboard until sold or dead.

  So, Flavia and Mab could only lean on the ship’s rail and stare with yearning at the town where smoke curled up from cozy fireplaces within English-style houses, where townsmen trod with casual indifference upon precious, solid ground. After months of sea, the sight of a mere tree was thrilling. The sight of a lady riding to market in a horse-chaise seemed as thrilling as any Drury Lane theater performance.

  “Oh, Mab, it’s good to smell land again.”

  Flavia bubbled in enthusiasm, momentarily forgetting that when she again stepped upon land, she would be stepping into seven years of servitude.

  Gossip spread that the Dutchman would not sell indenture contracts here in the South where profits might be lower than in the North. Plantation agents rowed out to the Schilaack daily to persuade the captain to part with able-bodied laborers. Plantation blacks, they complained, were useless in winter. Accustomed to the ovenlike heat of Africa, black slaves tended to sicken in hard weather and it was difficult even to beat them into resuming their duties.

  On the third day, word galloped through the ship that the captain would sell contracts of any sick bondslaves who wanted to leave. And parents who intended to sell their children to pay for passage might do so here, also. The Newgate convicts were to be sold off, too, and Mab tartly observed to Flavia that in this action the Dutchman was only covering his own “arse.” Any Newgater with an ounce of gumption would shinny over the side as soon as the Schilaack anchored in a decent-size port.

  Thirty convicts were sold and five sickly men who managed to appear healthy when the plantation agents interviewed them. Six families parted with several of their children. As she watched the children being lifted down into the waiting dinghies, Flavia’s heart twisted at the weeping farewells and the shouted, hollow promises.

  “Be a good lad to yer master, Jimmy-James! We’ll come git ye, soon’s we’s on our feet and in the money!”

  “Sally Nell, stop that caterwauling! You be eight year old, gal. Lud! Ye want yer new mistress to think you a snively babe?”

  “You be a stout, good worker for your master, Edmund! You hear, boy? Show ‘em how ruddy good a ten-year-old lad can toil.”

  The children’s misery tore at Flavia. She suspected that parents who parted with their children at the first easy opportunity had no intention of redeeming them. She suspected the parents would harden their hearts, turn their backs upon the past and forge into their own selfish futures in the New-England. She could only hope the children were going to Christian families where they’d be treated as the law prescribed. For their indenture was to be a long one. Regardless of their age now, bound children must serve until the age of twenty-one.

  Alert to profit, the Dutchman increased his profits by buying fresh produce on land—cabbages, stored autumn apples, potatoes, onions, pumpkins—and reselling it to the indentured at an elevated price. Starved for fresh food, bondsmen willingly spent their last shillings for it. Flavia longed to buy, but could not. She hadn’t a penny, let alone a whole shilling. And she had nothing to trade. Mab was in the same straits, having spent her last coins for a blanket to shroud Obadiah. Flavia trembled with desire for a fresh apple. When someone purchased and bit into an apple, she had to turn away from the sight to keep from doing violence. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her mouth watered. She could almost feel the taut moment when apple skin broke under teeth. She could almost taste the spurt of juice, the cool mealy pulp of the fruit. Gladly would she have traded all the banquets she’d eaten at Tewksbury Hall for one small green apple.

  “Catch, Jane!”

  Flavia’s eyes flew open as something hard and heavy landed in her lap. She stared at it in disbelief, then seized it, brought it to her mouth and sank her teeth in. Mab and Sarah Bess climbed into the bunk, devouring their apples, skin, seeds, core and all. For several minutes, Flavia felt herself in heaven. Daintily licking the last of the juice from her fingers, she turned to Mab with a breathless laugh.

  “How? However did you manage it?”

  Mab winked.

  “Kiped it.”

  Flavia gasped. Her first impulse was to scold. But in that, she recognized her own lack of honesty. She’d coveted that apple. She’d wolfed it. And while she wolfed it, she hadn’t worried a whit if murder had been done to obtain it. She shook her head ruefully. I’m not different from the others. I, too, will do anything to survive. She shivered, then sincerely thanked Mab.

  “How did you—ah—kipe it?”

  Mab’s grin was all ginger and spice.

  “Come on. I’ll learn ye. You kin help.”

  Flavia choked.

  “Mab, I couldn’t!”

  Mab nodded encouragingly. “But I’ll learn ye. It be right easy, Jane.”

  Flavia laughed in dismay. How could she explain? Mab didn’t see her protest as a matter of morals but as a matter of craft.

  She tried to explain gently, but Mab wasn’t listening. She’d already lifted Sarah Bess to the floor and was brushing the little girl’s skirts straight.

  “Y’ remember what I learned ye, Sarah Bess?”

  The child stuck her thumb deep into her mouth. She sucked twice, then nodded solemnly, her fair dirty curls bobbling on her shoulders.

  “Then say it, luv,” Mab urged.

  Sarah Bess’s thumb came out with a wet pop. She looked up at her mother.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” she chanted.

  “Then what, luv?”

  Sarah Bess thought earnestly. She explored the roof of her tiny mouth with the wet thumb.

  “Umm, umm. I—I—hangs onta the man’s leg at the apple bag. I don’t let ‘em shake me off.”

  Mab patted her daughter’s head.

  “Good girl,” she said and turned her attention to Flavia. “Jane, you kin be decoy. Them shit-face tars, they does pop theys eyes when you walk on deck, luv. When I makes the high sign, like this”— Mab scratched the tip of her nose with one finger—”Y’ feints a rum gipper. Y’ pulls y’ skirt up, jist so.” Mab demonstrated. “Y’ rubs y’ gipper, up ‘n’ down, up ‘n’ down.”

  Flavia blinked in disbelief.

  “Mab, I cant!”

  Mab paid no attention. Her quick fingers flew to Flavia’s bodice. A tug here, a yank there, and the cleavage of Flavia’s breasts glowed white and delicate against the harsh serge of her filthy gown.

  “There,” said Mab with satisfaction. “Give ‘em that t’ lay theys shit-eyes on, and I kin kipe a dozen apples.”

  Flavia stared at her in astonishment. For several long moments Flavia hesitated, dangling from the silken thread of indecision. Cling to her principles and starve, sicken? Perhaps die and never see Garth or the baby again?

  She swallowed. She gave Mab a decisive nod, and the trio trooped up into the winter sunshine. As Flavia’s foot hit the deck, she wavered, squeamish. Suppose we get caught? We’ll be whipped! Oh, the humiliation—

  “Come on!” Mab ordered.

  Numb with fear, Flavia set her mind to obey. It wouldn’t do to endanger Mab by failing her part. But she felt her face go scarlet. The rush of blood to her head only seemed to enhance her prettiness. On the crowded deck where produce was being hawked, several men turned sharply to gawk at her. Their eyes traveled to her small revealed
bosom. And when she bent over, raising her skirt at Mab’s signal, hardly an eye went anywhere but to her shapely stockinged calf.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” wailed Sarah Bess.

  Flavia gulped and raised her skirt all the way to her knee.

  In the ensuing days they ate well. Mab’s repertoire of ruses was large. Potatoes, onions and even cabbages followed hard on the heels of the apples. Flavia was appalled at how little shame she felt wolfing the life- saving food. The small amount of shame that she did retain she banished by sharing with others who were too sick or too penniless to buy.

  As for Mab, Mab felt no shame. Obadiah’s holiness had worn off. She was hardened by her rape. Once again she became the London drab who must either live by her wits or cease to live at all.

  In a matter-of-fact fashion, she taught Flavia her street craft, offering it as fair exchange for the reading lessons she received from Flavia. Aghast at Mab’s casual attitude toward crime and yet unwilling to hurt her feelings, Flavia listened with fascination. Mab instructed her on everything from how to steal a loudly cackling hen (Thrust it into a thick sack; the hen will think it’s night and will go to sleep) to how to pick a pocket (Choose a fat man; he will get winded chasing you and will soon abandon pursuit).

  In turn, Mab devoured all Flavia taught her. Flavia found her quick, intelligent. Mab rarely made the same mistake twice. She could read now, write and do simple sums. For practice, she ciphered on the rolling floor with a piece of chalk she stole. Earnestly, she studied Flavia’s mannerisms and speech. She aped her walk, her carriage. She grilled Flavia about society parties. She stole a piece of parchment, folded it into a fan and spent hours practicing ladylike fan flutters.

  Eager to learn lady ways, Mab still dug her heels in and balked at basics.

  “Bathe? All over? In the altogether? Jane, it ain’t decent! I’ll jist dab at m’ face with a cloth every week or so.”

  Flavia sighed. It was a recurrent argument and one she had no hope of winning.

  “Ladies bathe, Mab.”

  “But why? What fer? It ain’t healthy.”

  “Isn’t healthy.”

  Mab blinked.

  “That’s what I said, Jane.”

  Flavia threw up her hands. She tried again.

  “A lady takes care not to smell bad, Mab. A lady never has lice in her hair.”

  Mab drew her knees up. She hunched in the bunk, hugging her long legs. She rested chin on knees. She drifted in stubborn thought.

  “A few cooties never hurt nobody.”

  “Anybody.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, brightening. “M’ Uncle Ezra, he took a bath once. Come down with the ague and turned up his toes not a week later.”

  Flavia tried a new tack.

  “Mab, if you washed your hair and bathed and perfumed yourself, I’m sure you would be quite lovely.”

  The young woman sat up, startled. A slow, incredulous smile lighted her face.

  “Naw!” she said, then quickly, “Y’ think so, Jane?”

  Flavia smiled.

  “I know so.”

  The Schilaack sailed north. She raised Cape Fear, skirted the outer banks of Raleigh Bay, navigated the sound and dropped anchor at New Holland.

  Starved for diversion after the monotony of sea travel, Flavia hung at the railing with Mab, watching commerce unfold in the small port. Ton after ton of iron goods and farm tools were hauled down the plank. Countless tons of pig iron and hogsheads of tobacco were trundled up into the ship.

  Again, agents clamored to buy skilled bondslaves. Any cooper, shoemaker, farmer, cabinetmaker, blacksmith or school teacher found himself courted. Often, a bondman negotiated his own indenture, selecting among several would-be masters. It was not so for the young, the old, the sick or the female. Flavia shivered inwardly, afraid to guess what her own fate might be. She’d seen enough to hope for service on a large plantation. There, a servant would not be overworked. Poorer masters who owned only a farm or a small business were a different matter. They exhibited a pinched, niggardly attitude as they shopped for flesh aboard the Schilaack. Flavia sensed they’d demand more than their money’s worth, working their few hard-pressed servants from dawn until the extinguishing of night candles. Seven years in their employ and she would emerge a worn woman.

  With the ranks of the indentured reduced, the Schilaack made for the strait of Cape Henry and Cape Charles. On the first day of February she dropped anchor at the port of Norfolk.

  Here commerce began in earnest. Shipping agents bargained for the cargo of Dutch lace, English wools, satins. Delft tiles, china, pewter and silver were sold into the keeping of agents. Hogsheads of tobacco were rolled aboard, ton after ton of them until Flavia feared the very ship must sink.

  The remaining skilled bondmen were snapped up and plantation agents lost interest in the ship. Flavia was dismayed. Now she would fall into the hands of an independent. She could only hope her master would be humane. When she voiced this hope to Mab, Mab hooted.

  “Pish!” she said, having reluctantly abandoned pithier expressions under Flavia’s tutelage. “Good master? They’s no such thing! If y’ master wants to bed you, Jane, he’ll bed you. ‘Twon’t bite his conscience no more’n a flea biting a dog. Come Sabbath, he’ll march hisself to meeting, all pridey and proper, like he never had him a lusty notion in his life.”

  Flavia was stunned speechless. In her most severe imaginings of servitude in America, her mind had not gone to that.

  Quickly, more to assure herself than Mab, she blurted, “It’s against English law to abuse a bondservant.”

  Mab gave a hard laugh.

  “That it is, luv. And when y’ master comes pussyfootin’ round y’ bed, you be sure and tell him so.”

  Mab’s inference was sobering. Flavia knew it couldn’t be true. Still she found herself warily judging the flesh shoppers. If an eye flickered with the slightest hint of lust or cruelty, Flavia resorted to the ruse Mab taught her. She’d whip out a kerchief that she and Mab had stained with red paint borrowed from a cabinetmaker’s stain box. She’d cough violently into the kerchief. The would-be master’s eyes would bulge with horror. He’d hustle away at once. He had no intention of purchasing the dread lung disease, no matter how prettily it was packaged.

  At Norfolk Flavia saw her first American woman. She was a Mistress Sewell and she came aboard on the arm of her husband who was shopping for a stout Dutch drudge, one skilled in tending dairy cows. Flavia ached with longing as she drank in the woman’s smart ensemble. She wore thick plush green velvet. Jacket and skirts were topped by a cape trimmed with ermine tails. Her hands were gloved in soft black kid leather and diamond earbobs flashed in the winter sunlight. A handsome hat and muff of fox far rippled in the chill breeze.

  Flavia sighed. She’d forgotten how wonderful it felt to wear beautiful clothes, to wear warm clothes. Unconsciously, she shrank inside the rough serge cloak.

  “Mr. Sewell!” the woman trilled brightly as she trailed along on her husband’s arm. “Mr. Sewell, I’ve a mind to buy a new serving girl.”

  “You’ve Tansy and Queen,” he countered agreeably. “And Noah, my dear.”

  She made a face.

  “Africans, Mr. Sewell!” She pouted, flirting up at her husband through a thick fringe of eyelashes. “How can Sewell Hall become known for its genteel entertaining if bush slaves oversee the serving? You’ll recall what happened last July, Mr. Sewell. When the kitchens grew too hot.” She paused for effect. “Tansy simply shucked petticoats, bodice and stays. She carried the roast meats to the dining table in her shift.”

  “And Noah trooped in wearing only his shirt-tails.” He chuckled. “I thought it funny.”

  Mrs. Sewell drew herself up.

  “I, Mr. Sewell, did not. I daresay Lord and Lady Carlisle still grow faint when they remember.”

  “I daresay they’ve forgot,” he said pleasantly.

  She shifted her tactics.

  “If I bought an English girl wh
o could read, write and cipher, I could use her as my secretary. She would supervise serving too, of course. She could assist me with my accounts. She could pen invitations to our dancing assemblies, and I could dictate my correspondence.” She paused. In a burst of fresh inspiration she added, “In her spare time she could assist the tutor, spelling the little ones.”

  He laughed merrily.

  “You would work her to death in six months, my dear.”

  Her eyes narrowed. As Flavia watched, fascinated, Mrs. Sewell arranged her lovely features in the manner of an innocent who’s been wrongly accused.

  “I do believe, Mr. Sewell, you have no appreciation of how hard I toil for Sewell Hall. Merely assigning the slaves’ tasks employs the shank of my day. Some evenings, Mr. Sewell, I am faint with weariness. Though far be it from me to let one word of complaint escape my lips. I am your dutiful wife, Mr. Sewell. Your happiness is my sole concern.”

  He sighed.

  “Very well, my dear. Buy your girl.”

  She swung around with glee, the lovely long fur of hat and muff shivering like wheat in a field.

  “This one, Mr. Sewell.”

  Flavia jerked, finding herself at the end of a pointing gloved finger.

  “Do you suppose she reads, Mr. Sewell? Has she lice? Oh, dear, do you suppose she had a promiscuous life and carries the French disease?”

  Flavia flushed. She looked down at her feet. It was humiliating to be examined by a woman so clearly her inferior. The duchess in Flavia flared. She lifted her head high.

  “I can read,” she snapped, deliberately ignoring the other queries and omitting the obligatory “ma’am.”

  “Write and cipher?”

  Flavia bit back her anger.

  “Yes.”

  The woman swung her head to her husband. She gave him a flirtatious, helpless glance.

  “Bondslaves will tell you anything, of course, Mr. Sewell. They are every bit as bad as Africans,” she said, contradicting the argument she’d used just moments earlier. “Test her, Mr. Sewell.”

  The man reddened.

  “If you want her, my dear, you test her.”