Chapter Eight: The Cook Pot

Florencia found herself dragged off the cart. She sprawled on the floor as Storm snatched back his red frockcoat, sneering at her as he strode off and climbed into the cab waiting for him. He spat an order at the boy leading the cart as he passed him.

“But, cap’n,” Newland was imploring as he wrung his grubby hands, “If yer don’t want ‘er-”

“The boy stays with you!” Storm barked, “An’ if yer lose ‘im, it’ll be the bottom o’ the sea fer yer!”

Newland flinched and stepped back as the carriage starting moving. The cart rumbled along behind as Florencia picked herself up. She noticed distractedly that the sandy road was compacted to the hardness of rock and that it was almost black from all the sooty feet and coaches that had run over it.

“Come ‘ere!” The short pirate bawled at her, before turning to the driver and adding, “The Cook Pot!”

Florencia trotted over rather meekly. She did not trust Newland but felt oddly safe; they were alone but for a thin man and his cabin in a wide open space. The pirate had already climbed in and was jingling what little money he had as she joined them and made to get in beside Newland.

“Whaddya think yer doing, boy?” he shouted, “Up front with yer!”

He grabbed the door and slammed it shut; almost immediately, the cab began moving forward. She grabbed the seat and pulled herself up quickly as the horse was whipped into a vigorous trot and took off down the road; they headed away from the town.

The carriage was badly sprung; this she could tell because it rattled and shuddered as the mulatto driver lashed his horse onward. He did not bat an eyelid when Florencia nearly fell off. She clung on for dear life as they thundered up the steepening road; dust and grit was flung into her face as the horse’s hooves churned the ground up. She coughed and spluttered and barely saw the eatery on the bluff.

It stood on a broad, treeless promontory dotted with scrubby, sage coloured bushes. The sun hung directly above it and blazed down on the one storey house and tables, which seemed to be made from tree trunks sawn in half and nailed together. The building itself was white-washed but it had a stone roof unlike those Florencia had seen in the town.

Great quantities of people were swarming about outside; many sat at the tables and more were queuing up. They had worn to the grass to dust and buzzed like a thousand flies around a particularly noisome dung mountain. A lot of them that were sitting had plates of food in front of them and a tankard in hand as one young, sullen woman passed amongst them with a tray, from which she poured them more drink and took away their rubbish. She piled it up and balanced it all the way over to the back door, which a scrawny boy came out of to take the empty plates and fill whichever jug was empty. The mob-capped woman then made another dozen circles around the tables as the cycle began again.

There was even a canopied area set away from the cliff, where two tables had been pushed together to let a cluster of delectable young women sit together; some were hardly out of girlhood and one looked to be in her forties at least. It was not hard to notice that they were all sharing one earthenware jug between them and that there was just one large platter of half-eaten food. A pipe was being passed around too and Florencia did not fail too see that all of them were scantily dressed in their shifts; most had even abandoned their stays as they lolled about, eyes peeled.

When the cab stopped, the driver pulled on his horse’s head so hard that it was forced to lift its front hooves off the ground for a moment, nickering somewhat as the vehicle collided with its back legs. They arrived in rectangle of trampled ground just below the very top of the headland where the building was. Newland clambered out and was so short that he head was barely level with the handle on the door. He was slightly breathless as he thrust a penny at the mulatto, who bit it and smirked as the pirate tripped over his own coat, which was more like a rug than a garment.

“Get down, boy!” He shouted at Florencia, who slid off the seat, white and shaking as she hobbled after Newland. Her legs had turned to jelly and her backside was bruised. She rubbed it ruefully, looking up as a cry of, “Jonat’an!” wrent the sultry air.

Newland turned around sharply. His annoyed expression lit up considerably as he caught sight of the caller and replied gustily, “Mariah!”

He threw his arms open and smacked Florencia in the face as he did so, knocking her into the dirt as a tall Negress sashayed her way over. The latter’s look of pleasure turned to alarm as she approached them.

“Jonat’an,” she said, raising her hand to her mouth, “wad ‘appened do yer nose?”

The appendage in question was rather swollen and purple but Newland waved it off. He puffed out his chest and said proudly, “Just a brawl with a huge man. ‘E was built like a Hun and were a cannibal too! ,’E set ‘imself on me fer want of a sixpence, but I fought that brute off with my bare hands!”

He held up his relatively smooth fists and made some wild gestures, adding, “I won an’ came out with a mere battered conk!”

Florencia rolled her eyes in disbelief. The pirate caught her.

“You!” He barked, fishing around in his pocket, “Get us rum!”

He thrust a copper coin at her and let himself be guided to a free table by Mariah, who wore a knowing look on her ebony face. She was dressed in little more than a sheet of white cotton wound around her voluptuous body several times before she had tied it at the front. On her head was a matching turban.

Florencia looked away and picked herself up. She joined the queue snaking its way from the Cook Pot’s front door, and waited for what seemed to be an age as the sun blazed down relentlessly. She sweated heavily and plucked feebly at her baggy shirt; moist, unwashed bodies crowded her, coughing and spitting.

A medley of delicious smells came wafting down to her from the eatery, blown by a sea breeze. They came every nook and cranny, including the windows, doors and chimney. Florencia breathed in a massive lungful and tasted chicken, onion, baking dough, sizzling sausages, jam and all manner of fish. Her mouth watered so much that she had to wipe it on her sleeve as she shuffled forward avidly.
When she got to the front of the serpentine line, she found herself facing a red-faced but jolly looking fat woman. She was standing just inside the window where the shade was with a wet wooden in hand and a pocketknife in her belt. A menu was tacked to each shutter, but both were written in English.

“What’ll it be, dearie?” The woman asked. Her accent sounded Dutch.

Florencia stalled. She was being buffeted by the aromas from the kitchen which poured out of the window, stealing her concentration from her, and to cap it off, she did not know a word of English. She had heard the pirates speak it but did not understand it; blushing, she held up the coin in answer. She did not know the currency as that too was English, and hoped that the woman could guess what she wanted, which she did.

“’ENRY!” The woman shouted over her shoulder, as she took the money with a greasy hand, “Quart o’ ovenproof!”

Barely a moment later and Florencia found herself holding a small pottery jug, at which point she found herself pushed out of the way by man in a wig. He glared at her irritably and she scurried off in fright, searching for Newland and his big Negress through a forest of people.

She eventually found them sitting at a table near to both the whores and the cab stop. She blushed scarlet as her eyes fell on the latter as she put the jug down and stared at Newland. He was mashing his face into Mariah’s breasts and gurgling like a child, which the Negress blithely let him do despite that he was drooling on her.

“An’ oo’s dis?” She said as Florencia came closer.

Newland looked up grudgingly and sneered.

“Just a boy,” the pirate replied, and snatching the jug, he shouted, “Took yer long enough!”

Mariah sighed.

“What?” He added, “I don’t want the damn child! I’ve ‘haven’t been ter town in months an’ get ‘is useless carcass foisted on me-”

“Yer’ll be rid of ‘im layder,” the Negress said, “We can leave ‘im-”

“Later?” Newland lowered the jug, which he had not even bothered to share, “What about after our drink?”

The former shook her head and explained, “Not terday. Dare’s a man in town ‘oo does painding an’ I said I’d sid fer ‘im. ‘E’s offered me ten guineas fer it-”

Newland looked to be far from amused whereas Florencia detected a hint of pride in Mariah’s posture as the woman sat up straighter.

“Yer could earn that anyway, Black Mariah,” the pirate replied a little sly, “if yer wanted-”

“Don’t, Jonat’an,” she warned, “I know yer ain’t got den shillings on yer-”

“So?” He snapped belligerently, “That’s never stopped yer before-!”

“I need da money, Jonat’an,” she said a little coldly, “I canna be a whore forever!”

The pirate put his tankard down slowly. The sun and his anger had mottled his face, which worked hard to keep his bitter words in; wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, he grunted, “Fine.”

He stood up and nearly knocked the table with his belly as he added, “There’re other whores on this bloody island-cheaper ones too!”

And with that, he flounced off. Florencia jumped aside just in time as he passed her and stalked over to the covered table where the whores were. She watched him approach them, doffing his hat as he did so; they, meanwhile, turned to look at him as a flock of vultures would a dying calf. He began speaking to the woman nearest him, who was young and mousy with limpid eye. She wore a hat as well as a scarf and did not look very old.

“Dat damn fool,” Mariah said to herself in quiet Spanish, “’E’ll catch the clap again.”

“Clap?” Florencia repeated, puzzled and wary.

She looked quizzically at the Negress and saw that the woman wore a single gold hoop in her right ear. It dangled and glittered when she shook her dark head in disbelief.

“Newland dare caught id from a girl like dat,” Mariah gestured at the pirate, who was leading his nymphet off behind the eatery, “All ‘e did were complain ‘ow much da mercury treadment cost-”

She was breathing raggedly, and added a little angrily, “Why d’yer dink ‘e wears such big clothes? It’s not ‘cause ‘e can’t get any smaller ones, dat’s fer sure.”

Mariah smiled at Florencia and looked away as she caught sight of a young man striding up the road. His shoes were dusty and looked flushed from the effort of walking so far in the heat. He had an easel tucked under his arm and a satchel on his shoulder. The white periwig beneath his hat was the height of fashion.

“Mister Norton!” Mariah beamed broadly.

She jumped up and waved her arm wildly to catch his attention. The dapper young artist came over and found himself embraced by the busty Negress, who knocked his hat askew. Florencia tuned out as they sat and started conversing.

The latter glanced over to where Newland had gone. He was still nowhere to be seen as neither he nor the whore had reappeared from behind the eatery. She looked around almost desperately for the short pirate, but her view was blocked by the arrival of a splendid carriage.

Everybody’s heads turned; whereas most of the cabs were pulled by one horse, the one that stood on the promontory was pulled by four shiny grey ones. The barouche itself was made from mahogany whilst the wheels and French motto were heavily gilded. The gold gleamed violently in the sunlight as a young man armed with a musket jumped down from the front seat with the agility of a monkey. He wore a powder-blue and white uniform and reached for the long brass handle, with which he pulled the door open and helped a lone woman out.

Florencia gasped loudly, causing several people to glance at her with querulous looks on their faces.

“She looks like my mother!” She exclaimed, pointing and forgetting that she was disguised as a worthless boy.

The woman resembled her mother indeed; they had the same round face, slightly curled hair and sad, wistful expression, although the woman before Florencia was much more tenuous and serenely beautiful than Lucia had been.

Norton smiled indulgently.

“We all wish our mothers were like Sophie Pascoe,” he said in practised Spanish, “I have hardly known a woman to be more caring and generous than her. She is a paragon of motherhood, virtue and marriage, all rolled into one small woman.”

He puffed his chest out loyally and added, “And what with eight children that is an achievement. She has been married for over two decades and has raised each child without a wet-nurse and only one old maid to help her. A modern woman but a sterling one.”

The woman in question had paused at the foot of the fold-out stairs to get her bearings and to adjust to the bright light. She was a little below average height with skin the colour of porcelain. Florencia thought that if she squinted enough, she might just be able to make out the beginnings of crow feet in the corners of her blue eyes. Her hair was mouse-coloured and without a grey hair as it curled gently over her shoulders. The powder-blue dress she wore was made from satin and trimmed in outlandish orange cotton as a very large pearl hung from an even larger ruby on her bodice. A cameo of a man shone on her hat as a breeze made the large dyed plumes on it quiver.

She was not the only one with motion about her, for over at the Cook Pot itself, the fat woman in the window came scurrying out, curtseying low. She shouted over her shoulder for Henry, who was a big, burly man with a sheepish grin. A pair of boys followed him, dragging out a mess of sailcloth, poles and rope that they erected over a table with the best view of the sea. The skinny boy vanished and returned with a large cushion that he and his brother manhandled into place just as the fine lady floated over, smiling as placidly as an angel.

A hand suddenly grabbed Florencia, who yelped ear-splittingly. She half hoped that the cervine Sophie would notice her being abducted by the Negress and the painter, who pushed his heavy easel into her arms.

“Let me go-!” She cried out as she was propelled away from the Cook Pot.

She glanced back and saw that Sophie Pascoe had seated herself and taken the paper copy of the menu that had been offered to her. The latter was reading it as closely as someone would normally study the Bible and had not even looked up to see the ‘cabin boy’ that was in distress.

Florencia struggled in vain against the Negress’ iron grip as the woman dragged her off the promontory.

“I was told-!” She started uselessly, only to deflate when she saw that Mariah was not even looking at her.

Florencia dropped the easel with a clatter and shrieked, frustrated by the heat and her weakness. She narrowly avoided colliding with the Negress, who stopped without warning and turned to look at her.

“Yer’ll only get hot waitin’ around fer Newland” Mariah told her, “’E’s gone all day-but ‘e’ll find yer when ‘e needs ter.”

Norton picked up his easel, checking it for breaks and brushing the sand off before handing it back to Florencia was a frown.

“Be careful with that,” he said clumsily in Spanish, “Easels are not common out here and they are not for it.”

Florencia stared at him, and then at Mariah, but neither seemed to understand her plight; they began leading her back to town. The road was stony; whenever a cab came by, and through grit in their faces, they were forced to walk through the gutter where the prickles had been swept by the wind. Her feet stung and there was no shade as the tress had been chopped down for firewood and stuff to build with.

She then looked up, raising her hand to shade her eyes from the sweltering sun, and cried with relief to see the first houses and their green, green land.