"Girl!" I was interrupted from my despondent thoughts by a shout from above, a pirate dropped gracefully on the deck from the rigging. He was small, scruffy and dark – though not as dark as the West Indian slaves back on Barbados. "Where're you planning to sleep?" His voice had a lilting accent that was soothing to me.
On my father's ship, I had my own cabin, it was small, but lavish and I loved it – when I was a child I imagined I was sleeping inside a flower. I doubted I would find similar quarters here.
"I'm not sure" I replied stiffly, being careful to keep my voice steady and my tears at bay.
"Well, I'm the quartermaster here and get my own cabin, so maybe you'd best bunk down with me"
"But I couldn't!" I blushed deeply as the pirate steadily held my gaze, who did this messy little man, voice like a mere boy, think he was talking to? "My parents would never allow me to share quarters with a man!"
To my surprise, the sailor burst out laughing, he sounded like a blocked drain.
"Oh lordy girl, is my disguise that good?" He unlaced his shirt… and exposed her chest to me. My cheeks burned even more, and I swiftly turned away.
"Oh, goodness!" I spoke facing the black sea "I didn't realise, I so sorry, I should have…" I searched for something to say, my governess had never taught me the etiquette for this situation. In the end, curiosity overtook propriety.
"Why do you dress like a man?"
"Have you ever tried to climb rigging, or steer a ship in petticoats, stays and a bodice?"
I shook my head "Well, neither have I, because it's impossible." She spoke simply, but her voice was not harsh or cold. I turned back to face her and tried to smile, but I was stopped by a yawn.
"To ye bed, I think then" She laughed again.
"Thank you" I murmured, following her across the deck. I noted her easy stroll compared to my struggles as my long dinner dress dragged along the wet wood. There was obviously something to her aversion to petticoats.
The Quartermaster's cabin was much smaller than my old one, and needless to say, much less lavishly decorated. There was a simple bunk, built into the wall, the only furniture was a vast sea chest, battered with use and darkened with age. It was firmly padlocked and the letter "A" was branded into its lid. On top of the chest rested a bottle and a pewter goblet. The pirate lit a lantern that hung from the ceiling and in the dancing orange light I could almost convince myself it was a cosy place to sleep.
Without any warning or ceremony, the woman began shrugging off her jacket and weapons, which she carefully stored under bed, and was unbuttoning her breeches before she looked up to see me standing awkwardly in the corner. I had already seen more of this woman than I had ever seen of another human being, I could not help feeling bashful and uncomfortable.
"Ye not planning to sleep dressed like that are you? I'm not well versed in lady-ways, so I can't know for sure." I wasn't sure if she was mocking me or not, and I daren't tell her the reason I couldn't take off my dress. I just stood and blushed.
"Oh lordy girl, whatever's bothering you – speak for gods sake!" I winced at her blaspheming, but murmured my problem.
"Speak up girl." She moved closer to me, wearing her long shirt as a nightdress.
"Can't undo the dress myself" I spoke fractionally louder, she looked at me incredulously "It laces up at the back, a maid has always dresses and undresses me, I've never been shown how to…. When I was little my mother would… " I gulped desperately at the thought of my mother – when would I see her again? I couldn't help my eyes filling up.
"Turn around." I obeyed her order before I thought about it. Then the pirate, the hardened dark sailor in mans clothes began to unlace my bodice and lift the skirts over my head. She was quiet, taking in the layers of petticoats, and the whalebone stays and panniers, the engineering of my clothes. She hung the dress on a hook in the wall, and brushed down the stiffened taffeta carefully, tutting over the sea-water stained hem. She turned back to me and smiled.
"It's a pretty dress." She said carefully. I nodded, still feeling bashful in my petticoats. "Into bed with you then, you can have the end with the pillow."
As I dived under the covers, (the ship was none too warm) the woman poured some of the contents of the bottle into the goblet and climbed into the other end of the bed. She caught me staring as she swallowed the goblet's contents in one easy gulp.
"You want some?" She offered the bottle towards me. I shook my head
"What is it?"
"Rhum, c'est très bien." She grinned at me.
"You speak French?"
"Oui, je parlè françaisè tout ma vie."
"How did you learn?" I was unable to keep the shock from my voice.
"My mother was born in a French colony in Africa. We spoke French to our masters and our own language to each other. I only learnt English later." I was amazed, etiquette required that I lean French, but in eight years of study I was nowhere near fluent – Mademoiselle Durand despaired of me, I can still see her now, bustling around the schoolroom, muttering foreign curses about 'Zis stopid girrrl, 'ho cannot learn'. But I wasn't about to admit this to my new companion, instead I asked;
"Masters?"
"We were slaves," She looked up from her goblet then, and I was taken aback by the hard, challenging look in her eyes. "I was born in the hold of a slave ship, traveling to Jamaica. I never saw the sky until I was a month old. My mother used to joke that's why I was so pale." Again that hard glance – I got the impression I was being tested. Whatever the test, I seemed to pass, as she continued "But that wasn't the reason, and when we arrived, and the captain saw my mother's halfling child, she was beaten." Her voice began to quake. "They beat her so hard her back was damaged, and all my childhood I had to watch her work in pain because of what I was." She poured another goblet of rum before continuing, with a low sort of laugh "So there you have it, as they say."
I looked down at my hands in the fold of the blanket, not sure what to say. A half-blood! I hadn't realized – you heard rumors, an amorous plantation owner, young white workers mixing with the slaves. People whispered, gossiped in the corners at balls, pointing their fans and nodding at each other with loaded glances. The church taught that they were the devil's children, born of an unholy union, with no religion – condemned to hell. My first reaction was disgust – I was sharing a bed with the Damned!
But I looked up, and saw the small, scruffy woman staring solemnly into her drink, and that flare of hatred died in my heart. Still at a loss for words, I reached across the bed with my foot, and placed my toes over hers, as if clasping her hand. She glanced up with her wide grin, all hardness gone from her face.
"Can you blow the lantern out?" Was her only comment as she emptied the goblet and pulled the covers around her.