Chapter 7

The little Memsahib

Note: A chapter written by Pendragginink, finally! Only took me 4 months to upload it.

Out of the brig, into the sunlight.

Ensign Norrington coughed, smothered by the dust and smells of the slave market. He cleared his throat and, after a quick look around, spat red into the garbage littering the street. Dust, the red dust that seemed to be everywhere. He stepped back into the shade of the bamboo hedge, grateful for the slight relief from the heat and sun, feeling just a bit guilty watching the slaves, who had no option but to remain in the sun, chained as they were. He tried to tell himself that they deserved this treatment, being criminals, and tried NOT to think of how hot the iron cuff and collars would be in the sun. Hot enough to blister the skin he imagined. He wished there were an awning over the slave pen, criminals or no.

There were currently four slaves on the block. One of them, one of the pirates, the older kept going down on his knees, which dragged on the necks of the younger pirate and the other two slaves on the block.

The other two slaves were sold quickly, and two more were chained in their place. But was the second, possibly third day that the young pirates had been there, Norrintong could tell from the blistered and blackened sunburn on their shoulders and upper backs.

On the block in the sun, the younger pirate, what did he say his name was? Hal. Hal stood still, but his brother kept twisting, looking over his shoulder. The ensign wondered at such antics a while until it dawned on him that he was trying to see the price chalked on the slate each slave on the block wore hanging from his neck. The slave handler kept whacking him with a small whip to get him to stop squirming and stand still.

The sun would soon make the slate too hot for his back. And then the pirate would wiggle the slate around until it lay on his chest, where he couldn't see the price either. He wondered why he simply didn't ask someone what the price was. And he wondered why it mattered to the man. Then he did hear the pirate ask the other something. The other looked at the first man's slate and then merely grinned at him, and remained silent.

Norrinton wondered how it was for them to be there on the block, other than the broiling sun and the thirst, for no water had been given them for hours. Neither Hal nor his brother, what was his name? Norrington didn't remember. Neither seemed to be ashamed to be on the block. He himself would be humiliated: an Englishman, on display like that, he was embarrassed for them.

The young pirate noticed the Navy man eyeing him with interest and for a few moments they had a staring contest, until Norrington realized that he was playing with a pirate as if he were an equal or a worthy enemy. He was appalled at his laps in decorum. Hal saw Norrington look away first, and grinned. Norrington would have been appalled again if he had known that he had not seen the grin, but the sailor with him, Turner, did, as did the other pirate, and they also grinned. In the deep shadows, the silent figure of a Hindi, turbaned, but wearing the livery of a British servant, showed white teeth as he watched them all. His grin faded as he saw that the one whom he served had somehow moved from the shade to the streetside and was watching the scene as well, and was remaining unnoticed, though in plain sight. /I must learn how that is done/

For his part, William Turner, sweating and uncomfortable in his smothering uniform, very bad for ALL the slaves, especially the Sparrows, because he knew that aside from being thirsty and half starved that they were sick, feverish. He kept seeing himself in their place, and knew that he would have been a whimpering quivering mass by this time. But they were Englishmen, after all, and therefore strong and hardy. He could not help feeling proud to be their countrymen, even if they were criminals. No one started out a pirate, and as for that, he wasn't too sure about some of the questionable activities the captain of the East India ship was pursuing.

Hal stood between the sun and Jack, he was the one with the fever after all.Sun like this could cook a man's brains in his skull for him. He wasn't too sure his weren't already cooked. A little while ago, he began hallucinating, maybe hallucinating. He thought he saw Barbossa in the crowd but Jack did not. Hal knew Barbossa had seen them, if it was him, and Hal had waited, sort of expecting him to buy them, but Barbossa, if it was him, just looked and gave a tiny smile and went on—but it meant the Pearl was off down the coast somewhere … .

The grinning Hindu wanted to buy them. Hal was sure of that. He seemed impressed that Hal did slave-seller patter, advertising for Jack and himself in several Indian dialects, including Hindi. The Hindu was interested, but perhaps only entertained, for nothing came of the interest as the day wore on.

The neck rings cut their necks. They had to keep holding them up, and finally Hal tore strips off his off his ragged clothes to wrap the iron rings, to pad them, even if a little. Jack tried to foist him off, but Hal insisted and finally won out, though Jack did make him wrap his own collar first.

By the morning of the third day, Jack was weakening, and Hal was out of ways to help him. He was amazed that he was even allowed to but he supposed that a slave passed out cold is difficult to sell.

He tried to help him stand, for if they one sat, the chain dragged on the neck of the other, and there was the slave master with his little whip to consider. He talked to Jack in a low voice about some memories they shared and asked him about an ancient spell Jack had once spoken of, but he couldn't keep it up for ever. Thirst won out. So, he settled for standing with hunched shoulders and letting Jack sit close, leaning on his legs for support. He kept moving around Jack as the day wore on, to keep his fevered brother in what little shade his body provided.

He tried to keep his attention on his surroundings, and not the weakness. /Listen to me, don't listen to the pain./

By the evening of the second day, the blisters on their sunburn were the size of chicken eggs. He suggested to the slave master that he at least be allowed some mud to spread on their shoulders, but the slave master only grunted at him, and lashed him again for talking.

To distract himself, he took detailed note of the denizens of the marketplace. Ensign Norrington and that Turner fellow seemed to be on duty of some kind. Guarding what? The property of the East India Company? Not likely. They stood in the shade under an awning where Hal had fist seen an European woman or child, he couldn't tell sitting. But if she were I the deep shade of the awning now, he couldn't say. If they were guarding her, it wasn't a wonder. For an European woman to get through a far east open air crowded market without being kidnapped, would have been nigh onto impossible.

And the navy men had stood close to the young girl who came near the auction platform that morning. Though she was guarded by the Hindu, whom Norrington didn't even seem to notice. He wondered if the young ensign realized that he himself was in as much danger as the girl.

And there was danger. Hal saw it. The Hindu saw it. And the furtive eyes looked as often at the two young navy men as they did at the girl. More actually, for once the Hindu had grinned at would be abductors, they lost interest in her. Hal figured she must be the mistress of an East India agent. She looked too young for a wife, and who would bring their wife or daughter here to this den of iniquity. He finally concluded that she was the concubine of some local moghal, probably a mix, the light skinned daughter of a local servant. She wasn't British, that he knew, English hadn't been her first language, in her voice were too sharply blended the mellow tones of the Punjab with the nasal twang of Kallikut, and she was light enough to be part Brahmin.

The platform they were chained to was set so you could walk completely around it, and see the slaves from all angles. The longer they were on display, the fewer buyers came to look. Eventually, the slave monger grew tired of calling to potential buyers and fastened their prices around their necks on slates, which hung down in the back so that the slave seller could easily write on the slate, using their back as a desk.

The slates grew hot in the sun, but the slave monger would not allow them to shift the slates to the front from time to time. The slate in front might be taken as an attempt to cover up scars or marks. Everyone expected scars on the back, but burns or lash marks on the chest indicated that this slave was "difficult to handle," and therefore not a good purchase, for most purposes, that is. Hal was amused about that. He wondered, what did lash marks ALLOVER a slave indicate?

The first day, Jack had put on a show, striding around in a circle, flexing muscles and such, and Hal got into the act as a market crier hawking the wares.

That was the first day. Hal noticed that jack was a bit off his form, not half as theatrical as he expected him to be. It didn't earn them any points with the slave monger, and as they got tired and hungry and Jack became sicker, they eventually stopped it.

- - -

The Hindu wanted to buy them simply to shut them up. He couldn't speak for the little memsahib however. She saw them. One could not help but notice them. But what impression they had made on her, he couldn't say. She was there to buy slaves to work clearing the jungles and draining the swamps, building the plantation. She went through a lot of slaves that way.

But this was the third day of the sale and she still had not made a purchase. It was her way not to buy the strongest, true, and each day the price would drop. But the cost was certainly not the issue. Not for the little memsahib.

So why was she waiting? He wondered if she would buy any slaves at all, for all that was left were the two pirates, somewhat worse for the wear, and a mob of savage warriors. The warriors would kill them all in their tracks before they even got to the plantation and the pirates would likely die on the way if they didn't get any water.

Well, there would be no harm in asking what she was up to. So he would ask her; but how to do it and still save a modicum of 'face.' He was amazed at himself that he was even considering attempting to question her motives. /What are you doing, Rashjid, what are you doing/ He just hoped she would not laugh at him too loudly. The market was not as crowded as it had been, but there were still plenty of eyes in the shadow. Not the least of which … were the little memsahib's.