The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor Read online

  July 18—I will leave Jamaica today with Commodore Walker. I’m not sure about his intentions. He behaves so graciously, almost as though I am his ward. I have a feeling he knows more than he lets on. It is not possible that he is acquainted with my father. Surely it is not possible. He thinks he’s assisting me in getting back to England, but I have no intention of doing that.

  I ought to go to the wretched plot where Pad is buried. But getting there will create too much attention. I feel ill at the prospect of going there anyway. Maybe that’s why Mama always fell ill when she was expected to do something to her disliking. Pad would not want me to be left here to become a concubine, to struggle without him. I can hardly wait to leave.

  Then Charlotte walks to the main house, helps herself to a cup of tea and a slice of the morning’s baked bread, takes her place at the table and begins the day’s entries as though nothing whatsoever has changed. Lutz finally appears at the door, looking the worse for his night. She resists the impulse to look up lest she betray her anxiety.

  He prowls around the premises, bellowing orders, directing his prurient gaze at Charlotte. The wagons make the short trip to the dock a dozen times. Charlotte waits, barely able to concentrate on her chore, wondering if this nightmare is really coming to a close? Lutz has gone to the dock. By now Charlotte is pacing back and forth to the tea stand, trying to lessen the tension she is feeling. The tide will soon be high. She fears she’s been left behind.

  A WAGON APPROACHES. Charlotte dashes to the door. It is Lutz, alone, and bearing an envelope. Her heart tumbles into a pit deep in her breast.

  He enters the office silently and lays the letter on her desk. The seal had been broken.

  “Now you are exposed,” he says.

  So it was to be for her—unending punishment and salvation unendingly denied. For a moment she sits numbly. She looks down at the letter. She sees it is addressed to Lutz. She unfolds it and reads the opening lines.

  “I know you will be pleased to learn that I am able to convey Mrs. Willisams to her home in England, though I can offer only an indirect route through my trading post in Nova Scotia. In token of my gratitude for your kindness to her, I am sending over a dozen bottles of my best port, originally a gift to me from—”

  “You are a damned whore!” calls Lutz, but Charlotte is already out the door, her heart bursting with joy.

  MORNING IS ALWAYS the right time for a departure, when the ship and the day set out together and nothing but prospects lie ahead. The sky over Jamaica is clear that morning and a steady breeze blows in the channel that crochets the islands to the sea. The birds hover and call. The air is fresh and sweet with the distillations of the tropics. Charlotte stands near the fo’c’sle. She can see Commodore Walker in busy conversation on the quarterdeck and beyond him and the little Achilles’s wake the hills of Jamaica. How beautiful, she thinks, as its landscape diminishes to a glittering emerald. A young man climbing the fo’c’sle stops partway up to greet her with a smile.

  “Morning, madam.”

  “Good morning.”

  He is perhaps twenty, his blond hair curling out from under his cap, his blue jacket and bright white shirt a match for his eyes.

  “Captain would like to know if you’re well, madam, or have need of anything.” The Scots lilt is most pronounced.

  “I’m very well, thank you. Who are you?”

  “Able seaman Will MacCulloch, madam.”

  “Are you already an able seaman, Will?”

  “I’m recognized as exceptionally able, madam, and hope soon to be third mate. When Rockwell moves on, as I’m certain he will.”

  “I am impressed.”

  “Thank you, madam.”

  “What are we doing now, Will?”

  “We’re just putting on sail, madam.” They look together to the yardarm, where sailors are still unfurling canvas. “From here we’ll tack through this channel until we turn north into the Gulf current. It’ll take us straight along the coast of America. Though first we must sail east to pass Cuba.”

  “I’ve heard of Cuba. Is it not an island?”

  “It is, madam. A Caribbean island.”

  “Will we round it this morning?”

  Will laughs. “No, madam. It’s a great big island, but it’s no ower muckle. We’ll sail a day to round it, though we’re already near its eastern end. Then we’ll need to stay close inshore to catch the wind and that’s when we must look out the sharpest for pirates.”

  “You can’t frighten me, Will. I’ve encountered them already.”

  “On your voyage over? I hadn’t heard.”

  “Oh yes. Our captain told them we had smallpox aboard and tipped some things like bodies into the sea to convince them.”

  “It sounds an unlikely trick, if I may say so.”

  “Well, it worked.” Charlotte tries not to picture Tommy’s face, exposed to the sun.

  “Well, we also have to be on the lookout for fierce storms, which blow here in the summer months,” Will says. “If one strikes, we must beat for shore, sure enough. These schooners are wonderful ships, fast indeed. But they’ll heel over quick enough in the wrong sea.”

  The Achilles tacks toward the open water. She looks at Will and inserts a note of nonchalance in her voice. “Do you know this place where the commodore lives in this Nepisiguit?”

  “It’s na a wee cabin, I can tell ye. The captain’s built a fine flourishing business there. He does mostly fish and lumber in the fair seasons and shipbuilding in the winter. He lives verra well at Alston Point.” He laughs. “We all live well when we’re there.”

  Charlotte studies Will’s face. “A paradise, then?”

  “Well, it’s faroff from proper civilized places. The northeast, it’s terrible big, madam. A body that lives year-round in those parts might think winter eats up much of the year.”

  A faroff place, Charlotte repeats to herself. She looks up at the billowing sails—there are six now and the schooner heels a little to starboard as the wind catches her and pushes her toward the open sea. The gulls screech and wheel about the bow with excitement of their own. A place far away from proper civilized places, she thinks. A place where a person could shed a past.

  Will knows he’s found a listener and he climbs the rest of the way to stand by her.

  “An’ s’truith, a lot of them that settle in those parts are a strong-minded breed, an’ so they must be, if they don’t want to freeze to death or starve when the food runs out. It’s not a place for lads without the likes of the commodore to set things up for us. But if you don’t freeze or starve, to some tastes it’s a beautiful place. There’s money to be made and land to be had.”

  “Is there?”

  “Oh aye, madam. Shiploads we see, comin’ to seek their fortune in that wilderness.”

  “You set your store by Commodore Walker?”

  “Aye, madam. He’s an honest man, and a gentleman. I’ve seen him give us wages from his own pocket when the owners were tardy. And the man can trade with anyone.”

  Sure enough, ponders Charlotte.

  “The English don’t set much store by the Indians and the French Acadians. But our commodore has no problem wi ’em. He’s the only Justice of the Peace in the whole area, so he settles the quarrels and performs the marriages and baptizes the newborns and buries the dead. British, Indian, Acadian—it makes no difference to him. His services are available to anyone who wants them.” He also tells her there are no white women at the trading post, but that she’ll be well taken care of during the stopover before she sails for England.

  “A proper businessman. A modern man.”

  “ ’Deed, I think he’s so.”

  The cabin boy approaches them.

  “Mr. MacCulloch, sir, captain says you are to escort the lady to her quarters.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Harding.”

  “Must we go now?” Charlotte asks Will.

  “It’s only to show you, madam. You’ll have no restriction aboard this vess
el. Unless the captain makes ’em.”

  It is apparent that Walker outfits his ships according to a policy different from that applied by Captain Skinner and the company who employed him. Will leads Charlotte to her own quarters, a small cabin quite near the stern, comfortable and not without its pleasing touches. As this is a cargo vessel, there is a crew of only a dozen men commanded by four officers.

  A sailor sets her bag on the bed and departs.

  “I’ll go about my duties, then,” Will says.

  “You have been most kind. My understanding from Commodore Walker is that the voyage should take three weeks, perhaps four if the winds should not be favourable.”

  “That is my experience, madam.”

  “We’ll have plenty of opportunity to speak then.”

  “Thank you, madam.” And he turns to leave her.

  THE GLIMPSE into Walker’s life offers her a detail of the man as well as the place. She retires to the welcome privacy she’s been allotted to ponder the days ahead and promptly collides with the beam overhead, forgetting the cramped space of a ship, and almost knocks herself senseless. Except for an angry-looking welt on her forehead, she is not injured and seeks relief on the bed secured to the wall. The bed is covered in a huge, hairy animal skin—a forest beast, she supposes. She rolls it back and finds another skin, this coverlet for warmer climes, she assumes, calculating the heat of this day. Beneath the skins, there are sheets—a luxury she hasn’t known since she left home. They are coarse, like jute, but are an appreciated covering all the same. They remind her that inside the trunk she packed so scrupulously that last day in England, she had removed the white cotton overlays from her own bed and tucked them in with the items she felt she may need. What will become of her in the land she is sailing toward? And how is she to cope with the unpleasant events that have gone before?

  SHE WAKENS to a knock, stands, pats her hair, opens the door. Will again. Clearly her minder.

  “I’m sorry if I have interrupted, madam. It’s well past midday.”

  “Is it truly?”

  “Captain Walker and the officers would have you join them for the evening meal, madam.”

  “Will that be the usual arrangement, Will?”

  “I believe so, madam. You will dine with the officers. And most fortunate they are, if I may say so.”

  She looks up with some pleasure, but he is already gone.

  THE OFFICERS’ MESS, like her cabin, is not without its charms. The walls are well panelled, though not painted, and the brass sconces are of good workmanship. Introductions are accompanied by sherry, with service by the cook and the boy Harding.

  When the five sit down for soup, Jack Primm, the first mate, makes mention of the Carolinas with a dismissive sneer. On first impression, Charlotte wonders to what extent the man’s name had shaped his character. He seems prim indeed for a senior sailor, his long face pale, his lips most often pursed.

  “What is the importance of these Carolinas?” Charlotte asks.

  Primm sniffs.

  “We pay the price, madam, for our slackness there. How many jackanapes did we permit to raise their voices against His Majesty while we whistled our way along? Now we shall pay.”

  “Och, Jack.” Commodore Walker shakes his head gently. “We should have had to pay sooner or later, no matter.”

  “The Tea Tax was your great mistake, gentlemen,” says Sullivan, the second mate. He is a burly, snub-nosed man with an unruly mop of red hair much the colour of Charlotte’s own. “You must mind your manners when you rule.”

  “Indeed,” says Primm. “An Irishman would tell us so.”

  Rockwell, who is third mate and youngest of the officers, is not to be left out.

  “The Tea Tax was very much to the colonists’ advantage,” he says, looking about the table for support. “It would put the smugglers of tea out of business and the tea itself would be less dear.”

  “Of course you’re right, Mr. Rockwell,” says Walker. “But consider, sir, that more was at play than cheap tea. The Tea Act, alas, was another signal of British control. That is how some colonists regarded it at least. And they saw it to favour the East India Tea Company.”

  “Which it most certainly did,” says Sullivan. “Capital soup, by the by.”

  “It is, yes,” Charlotte adds.

  “You must hear enough about all this in England, Mrs. Willisams,” proposes Sullivan. “Surely it’s the constant talk.”

  “I think it is,” Charlotte admits. “But I’m ashamed to say we young women are seldom party to such talk.”

  “And so it should be, my dear,” says Commodore Walker. “You have enough to do, learning how to manage our homes and children, without listening to such rubbish.”

  “You must know of the Tea Party,” says Primm, “whatever else you may not hear about.”

  “I think I have.”

  “Oh, it was plenty exciting,” Rockwell bursts in. “The damned colonists started to send back the tea and then in Boston they stopped the unloading and then at night a crowd of them dressed up as Mohawk Indians and threw the lot in the harbour!”

  “It was actually a great crime,” Walker avers. “Three hundred and forty-two chests of tea—almost ten thousand pounds of profit and taxes.”

  “Yes,” Sullivan chuckles. “And by God the English government is vexed that their mismanagement should cost so much. But it will cost much more.”

  “I fear you’re right in that regard,” Walker says and for just that single sentence his normally light voice darkens in a manner Charlotte has not seen before.

  The door bangs wide and young Harding carries in a steaming tureen. When opened by the commodore it displays a thick mutton stew supporting a half-dozen massive dumplings.

  The others draw long, appreciative breaths. Apart from her first meal with Walker, she had only dreamed of such food in many weeks at sea and in Jamaica.

  “You will find, madam, that a sailor’s victuals are always ample at the start of any sea journey,” Primm instructs her. “Later you may find them somewhat otherwise.”

  “In the past, we would have taken on new supplies in Carolina.” Walker speaks as he ladles the stew. “It’s a fine stretch, the Carolina coast. You have the protection of miles of seaward islands, with plenty of harbours inside for great vessels and for the like of the Achilles.”

  “The weather’s awfully favourable,” Rockwell adds. “A great deal better than Nova Scotia. They have little in the way of winter, yet are far enough north to escape the oppressive heat of the West Indies.”

  “Oh thanks to ye, Rockwell,” says Primm. “Your erudition is always of the greatest assistance.”

  Rockwell turns pink and the others laugh.

  “At any rate,” Walker says, “the present troubles now cause us to give those shores a wide berth. If this breeze holds, we’ll be nigh past the Carolinas with our supplies but half-consumed. The lesson of the sea, however, is to count on less food and more foul weather.”

  “I think we gentlemen might do better than to try to frighten our guest,” Sullivan interjects and looks convincingly solemn. “This can hardly be what she expects of us.”

  “Do we offend, madam?” Primm inquires.

  “Not at all, sir,” Charlotte looks around the table. “Not at all.”

  “Nonetheless”—Walker lifts his glass—“I think it is in order that we pause to salute the person who has brought the rare gift of beauty to the Achilles. Mrs. Willisams, you are a brave woman and an inspiration to your sex. Gentlemen, I give you Mrs. Charlotte Willisams.”

  “Mrs. Willisams, Mrs. Willisams,” intone the others as Charlotte looks to her lap.

  Walker refills her glass.

  “I had occasion to sail to the Carolinas thirty-five years ago with my ship at the time, the William. My mission was to defend the settlements from Spanish privateers. It wasn’t rum and molasses in the hold then. We had thirty men, twenty guns, thirty-six small arms and thirty-six cutlasses.”

&n
bsp; It is not difficult for Charlotte to see she provides Walker with a fresh reason for the telling of his tale. And quite apart from the wish to see the conversation veer from the subject of herself, she finds delight in his stories. She could easily set this white-haired salt in the role of the young man he was not that many years before: dapper, determined, undoubtedly courageous.

  “The province of North Carolina paid me ten thousand pounds for the relief of those shores,” he says. “And they offered me a large grant of land in thanks.” He stops and takes a pensive sip of wine. “Which I refused.” He takes another sip. “Perhaps wisely in view of the explosion soon to come.”

  “There are plenty who will flock to the King’s banner and many who want it rent asunder,” chimes Rockwell.

  “Indeed,” says Walker. “As we may see at this very table, there is no uniformity of opinion, even among officers of Her Majesty’s merchant navy.”

  ALONE IN HER CABIN, her lightness of spirit evaporates somewhat and the hard truth of her own condition settles upon her once more. Pad, who would have preserved her honour in marriage, is dead. What would happen if the commodore should learn that she is pregnant? And what if he did not? Will she need his help? She takes out her diary and sits wondering how she can compress the events of the day when there is a knock on her door.

  “Who is it.”

  “It’s Will, madam,” comes a soft but urgent voice.

  She opens the door.

  “Will. Come in. What is the matter?”

  He steps in and closes the door.

  “I have come to see that you have all you need.”

  “Thank you, Will. I am well provided for.”

  She sees he holds a bottle in one hand.