Passage to St. Kitts
Chapter 5
Annamaria woke in a cold sweat in her bunk on the Black Pearl. She tossed back the covers and staggered over to the washbasin where she splashed cold water on her face. The dream had been so vivid. She sat back down on the bunk, leaned back and closed her eyes. Her left hand pushed aside the collar of the old shirt she slept in and traced the S shaped brand on her right shoulder. Would she never forget? No, some things remained burned in memory as surely as the mark remained burned on her flesh.
Her earliest memories were of a large, warm kitchen bustling with energy. She remembered her mother, a lovely black woman who worked in that kitchen. When very young, she'd spent her days playing with simple toys underneath the huge wooden table where she was out of the way of the women working. There were other children too, sons and daughters of the kitchen workers. The made up elaborate games under that table, daring each other to dart out into the main area of the kitchen and back without earning a sharp reproof from one of the women. When they were a bit older, they had chores to do - weeding the kitchen garden, feeding the chickens in the coop behind the kitchen, sweeping the floors, washing dishes. Still, they managed to find time to play in the yard behind the kitchen. But they never ventured near the formal gardens adjacent to the grand white house. And they NEVER left the kitchen area to explore the rest of the house. Estelle, Annamaria's mother, shared a small room just off the main kitchen with two other women. They had straw stuffed pallets on the floor of the small room, and the women shared their pallets with their children. Annamaria recalled drifting off to sleep in her mother's arms, while Estelle sang softly to her.
But then there were the other nights, the nights when a large, hard looking white man would appear at the door of the small room. The two other women would gather up the children, including Annamaria, and leave Estelle alone with the man. The women would make pallets for the children with the blankets they'd hastily snatched up. Sometimes the man would stay only a short while, striding back through the kitchen toward the rest of the house, stuffing his shirt back into his breeches, without even a glance at the women and children he'd displaced by his coming. Sometimes he stayed much longer, and Annamaria woke the next morning still in the main kitchen. Sometimes Estelle seemed no different after these visits. Sometimes she had bruises and black eyes. No matter how often Annamaria asked, however, her mother would not speak of it.
As the years passed, Annamaria became responsible for more and more chores. By the time she was ten, she was working a full day in the kitchen with the other women. By then she understood the reason for the occasional visits from the white man. She knew that he was the owner of the big, white house, and the owner of all the slaves that lived there. She knew also, that he was her father, and the father of the younger sister who had been born a few years earlier. She knew that even though she was his daughter, she was of no value to him at all. And she knew that she hated him. She hated him for his callous treatment of her mother, for his indifference to the children he'd fathered by her.
She had little contact with the slaves who lived in the quarters nearer the cotton fields, but some of the other women did. They had sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, husbands or lovers who lived and worked out there. From them she heard stories of the lives of the slaves, the harshness of the white overseer who supervised the work in the fields. She knew the house slaves better. The butler, the housekeeper, the maids who kept the big house clean, and who looked after the family that lived there. She'd never ventured into the main house, but she heard all about it. She'd never caught more than a glimpse of the fine lady who was married to the owner, but she knew all about her, and her failure to provide the owner with the heir he wanted. She'd heard of his cruelty to the lady, and hated him all the more.
By the time she was thirteen, Annamaria had matured into a lovely girl, on the brink of womanhood. She delighted in her developing body, and took pleasure in the admiring looks she received from the boys who worked in the house and the stable yard. Her mother seemed less pleased with Annamaria's young beauty, but it wasn't until the summer of her thirteenth year that she understood why. One evening, the kitchen women were washing the dishes and tidying the kitchen after the evening meal. The butler appeared in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. "Annamaria," he'd said. "You must come with me."
In confusion, Annamaria saw that Estelle had sunk down into a chair, trembling. "What is wrong, Mamma?" she had asked. Her question was ignored.
"Come, girl," repeated the butler, sympathy in his dark eyes. "You mustn't tarry."
Mystified, Annamaria had followed the man though the servants' quarters to the main house. Gaping at the magnificence, she'd followed the butler up the stairs to what turned out to be the owner's study on the second floor. The butler had ushered her inside, and quickly retreated, leaving her alone with the owner and another man.
"Very pretty!" the second man had said, looking her up and down in a way that had made Annamaria extremely nervous. She had stood just inside the door, unsure of what to do.
"I remember that you like them young," the owner had replied, lounging back with a cigar. "This one is untouched, to the best of my knowledge."
The two men had spoken for a few more moments, then the second man had grasped Annamaria by the arm and led her down the hall to a bedroom. The happenings after that were something that Annamaria, even after all these years, was unable to think through. She recalled screaming once, then being struck in the face and told to keep quiet. She recalled staggering from the room much later, pain radiating from between her legs, her eyes glazed and her mind barely functioning. One of the housemaids had been there; polishing the furniture in the room opposite the one Annamaria had been taken to. The woman had helped Annamaria down the stairs and back to the kitchen. Only later had Annamaria realized that the woman had been there on purpose, waiting for her, knowing that Annamaria would need help. The only help that the slaves had been able to offer. The kitchen workers had been waiting for her as well. A hot bath had been prepared - a luxury Annamaria had rarely experienced before. The women had stripped the shocked girl of her clothing and washed her tenderly, the hot water soothing her torn flesh and her scattered wits. It was only later, alone in the little room off the kitchen with Estelle that Annamaria had been able to speak, to tell her mother what had happened to her. To hear the horrible truth, that this was the lot of a slave girl who'd been born pretty.
Two days later, after a second session in that bedroom with the same man, Annamaria had bolted. Her only thought had been to get as far away as possible from the big white house, the man who'd hurt her and the owner who had to power to casually allow his daughter to be abused by his guests. As might be expected, she'd been caught not twenty-four hours later. The men who'd caught her had dragged her back to the local jail. She'd been raped by each of them before the red-hot poker with the S shaped brand had been pressed into the skin of her right shoulder.
Dragging her thoughts back to the present day, Annamaria splashed more cold water on her face and dressed in her customary breeches, linen shirt and soft leather boots. It was not particularly feminine garb, but it was suited to her life as a member of a pirate crew. Privateer crew, she amended with a smile. Dragging a brush through her hair she looked in her small mirror. Yes, she was still pretty. Fifteen years and a lifetime away from that frightened abused girl, and she was still pretty. Only now, with her sword belt slung over her shoulder and her pistol thrust into her leather belt, no one would ever touch her again without her permission.
Chapter 5
Annamaria woke in a cold sweat in her bunk on the Black Pearl. She tossed back the covers and staggered over to the washbasin where she splashed cold water on her face. The dream had been so vivid. She sat back down on the bunk, leaned back and closed her eyes. Her left hand pushed aside the collar of the old shirt she slept in and traced the S shaped brand on her right shoulder. Would she never forget? No, some things remained burned in memory as surely as the mark remained burned on her flesh.
Her earliest memories were of a large, warm kitchen bustling with energy. She remembered her mother, a lovely black woman who worked in that kitchen. When very young, she'd spent her days playing with simple toys underneath the huge wooden table where she was out of the way of the women working. There were other children too, sons and daughters of the kitchen workers. The made up elaborate games under that table, daring each other to dart out into the main area of the kitchen and back without earning a sharp reproof from one of the women. When they were a bit older, they had chores to do - weeding the kitchen garden, feeding the chickens in the coop behind the kitchen, sweeping the floors, washing dishes. Still, they managed to find time to play in the yard behind the kitchen. But they never ventured near the formal gardens adjacent to the grand white house. And they NEVER left the kitchen area to explore the rest of the house. Estelle, Annamaria's mother, shared a small room just off the main kitchen with two other women. They had straw stuffed pallets on the floor of the small room, and the women shared their pallets with their children. Annamaria recalled drifting off to sleep in her mother's arms, while Estelle sang softly to her.
But then there were the other nights, the nights when a large, hard looking white man would appear at the door of the small room. The two other women would gather up the children, including Annamaria, and leave Estelle alone with the man. The women would make pallets for the children with the blankets they'd hastily snatched up. Sometimes the man would stay only a short while, striding back through the kitchen toward the rest of the house, stuffing his shirt back into his breeches, without even a glance at the women and children he'd displaced by his coming. Sometimes he stayed much longer, and Annamaria woke the next morning still in the main kitchen. Sometimes Estelle seemed no different after these visits. Sometimes she had bruises and black eyes. No matter how often Annamaria asked, however, her mother would not speak of it.
As the years passed, Annamaria became responsible for more and more chores. By the time she was ten, she was working a full day in the kitchen with the other women. By then she understood the reason for the occasional visits from the white man. She knew that he was the owner of the big, white house, and the owner of all the slaves that lived there. She knew also, that he was her father, and the father of the younger sister who had been born a few years earlier. She knew that even though she was his daughter, she was of no value to him at all. And she knew that she hated him. She hated him for his callous treatment of her mother, for his indifference to the children he'd fathered by her.
She had little contact with the slaves who lived in the quarters nearer the cotton fields, but some of the other women did. They had sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, husbands or lovers who lived and worked out there. From them she heard stories of the lives of the slaves, the harshness of the white overseer who supervised the work in the fields. She knew the house slaves better. The butler, the housekeeper, the maids who kept the big house clean, and who looked after the family that lived there. She'd never ventured into the main house, but she heard all about it. She'd never caught more than a glimpse of the fine lady who was married to the owner, but she knew all about her, and her failure to provide the owner with the heir he wanted. She'd heard of his cruelty to the lady, and hated him all the more.
By the time she was thirteen, Annamaria had matured into a lovely girl, on the brink of womanhood. She delighted in her developing body, and took pleasure in the admiring looks she received from the boys who worked in the house and the stable yard. Her mother seemed less pleased with Annamaria's young beauty, but it wasn't until the summer of her thirteenth year that she understood why. One evening, the kitchen women were washing the dishes and tidying the kitchen after the evening meal. The butler appeared in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. "Annamaria," he'd said. "You must come with me."
In confusion, Annamaria saw that Estelle had sunk down into a chair, trembling. "What is wrong, Mamma?" she had asked. Her question was ignored.
"Come, girl," repeated the butler, sympathy in his dark eyes. "You mustn't tarry."
Mystified, Annamaria had followed the man though the servants' quarters to the main house. Gaping at the magnificence, she'd followed the butler up the stairs to what turned out to be the owner's study on the second floor. The butler had ushered her inside, and quickly retreated, leaving her alone with the owner and another man.
"Very pretty!" the second man had said, looking her up and down in a way that had made Annamaria extremely nervous. She had stood just inside the door, unsure of what to do.
"I remember that you like them young," the owner had replied, lounging back with a cigar. "This one is untouched, to the best of my knowledge."
The two men had spoken for a few more moments, then the second man had grasped Annamaria by the arm and led her down the hall to a bedroom. The happenings after that were something that Annamaria, even after all these years, was unable to think through. She recalled screaming once, then being struck in the face and told to keep quiet. She recalled staggering from the room much later, pain radiating from between her legs, her eyes glazed and her mind barely functioning. One of the housemaids had been there; polishing the furniture in the room opposite the one Annamaria had been taken to. The woman had helped Annamaria down the stairs and back to the kitchen. Only later had Annamaria realized that the woman had been there on purpose, waiting for her, knowing that Annamaria would need help. The only help that the slaves had been able to offer. The kitchen workers had been waiting for her as well. A hot bath had been prepared - a luxury Annamaria had rarely experienced before. The women had stripped the shocked girl of her clothing and washed her tenderly, the hot water soothing her torn flesh and her scattered wits. It was only later, alone in the little room off the kitchen with Estelle that Annamaria had been able to speak, to tell her mother what had happened to her. To hear the horrible truth, that this was the lot of a slave girl who'd been born pretty.
Two days later, after a second session in that bedroom with the same man, Annamaria had bolted. Her only thought had been to get as far away as possible from the big white house, the man who'd hurt her and the owner who had to power to casually allow his daughter to be abused by his guests. As might be expected, she'd been caught not twenty-four hours later. The men who'd caught her had dragged her back to the local jail. She'd been raped by each of them before the red-hot poker with the S shaped brand had been pressed into the skin of her right shoulder.
Dragging her thoughts back to the present day, Annamaria splashed more cold water on her face and dressed in her customary breeches, linen shirt and soft leather boots. It was not particularly feminine garb, but it was suited to her life as a member of a pirate crew. Privateer crew, she amended with a smile. Dragging a brush through her hair she looked in her small mirror. Yes, she was still pretty. Fifteen years and a lifetime away from that frightened abused girl, and she was still pretty. Only now, with her sword belt slung over her shoulder and her pistol thrust into her leather belt, no one would ever touch her again without her permission.