Chapter Nine: The Blackest Hair

Mariah led them along the road, which was lined with houses as far as the eye could see. It was wide enough for two carriages to pass abreast of each other, but not when there were people in the way.

The houses, Florencia saw, were all lovingly whitewashed and swept spotless by a housewife that looked as far removed from Mariah’s sort as she could possibly imagine them to. Each woman was clean and neat, and a good many were plump as a result of much good food. There seemed to be a hutch in every garden and a rose bush not far from it they chopped potatoes and salted fresh pork for their families. The place rang with laughter as the atmosphere eddied with a sense of contentment broken only by the trundle of carriage wheels going by.

It was past the cab stand that they turned off the main rood onto a little lane beaten through bush that ran between the stand and an alehouse from which an almost deafening carousing came in the form of lewd sea shanties. The footpath took them past it and the workshops that backed onto its yard; on the left were yet more houses, row upon row as they crossed a main road and melted into the shade again.

Florencia finally came to face a dirty redbrick tenement after walking amongst a vast spread of homes. The building she was faced with stood alone on the other side of a road, one that was badly in need of repair, for stones littered it and potholes made it treacherous. The whole area seemed to be the island’s slum; even the houses, which were three-floored tenements, were grubby with their plaster falling off. Weeds grew in the spaces in between them as and household rubbish carpeted the dirty ground. The darkening sky above the town did little to lighten the oppressive impression.

“Dis way,” Mariah gestured, leading them across the road.

The redbrick building kin question was unusual because it was an upside down L shape unlike every other house and shop Florencia had seen. It was, however, in the same ruinous state; holes in brickwork were left unfilled and globs of mortar kept the bigger doorway in place. A vandal had graffitied one section of the wall with a Jolly Roger, but the torrential summer rain had nearly washed it away as the brunette eyeballed it. Meanwhile, in the crux of the two wings, there was a smelly midden of broken pottery, ashes from the fire, old food and clothes done to death.

“Madam Wu’s son rents that part off ‘er,” Mariah pointed to the bigger doorway, “She ‘ad ‘ere kitchen walled off so she could make money off ‘er only offspring.”

She turned around abruptly to face the painter, who had scrunched his nose up at the state of the establishment and the funny smell coming from the midden.

“Five guineas now,” the Negress prompted him with an outstretched hand, which she open and closed expectantly.

Norton jumped back to reality, and after a moment’s hesitation, smiled thinly; pulling a small velvet pouch out, he counted out the golden money and handed the coins over.

“I heard that you women drove a hard bargain-” he began, but just then a little old woman came clattering out the smaller door, shrieking in Mandarin.

She wore a threadbare blue dress with a floral pattern and had made herself an apron out of an equally old red dress. A mobcap fluttered around her head as she argued with Mariah, against whom she seemed a little less brown. The whore threw two guineas at her vulture-like owner, who grubbed in the dirt for them and then quickly scurried out of sight.

“Through ‘ere,” Mariah pointed, leading them forward.

Florencia’s stomach lurched.

Beyond the smaller doorway was a drop nearly a foot deep. She fell flat on her face as she stepped in, not seeing it as the lighting was dismally inadequate. The easel dug into her ribcage and arms as she lay on it with all the wind knocked from her by the unexpected fall.

“Up you get,” Norton bent down and pulled her up by the shoulder, “And careful with that-remember what I told you.”

Florencia smiled weakly and let herself be herded through the corridor, which appeared to be more of a tunnel made from plaster and haphazard tiling. There was a fug about the place, and like Norton, she screwed up her face against the smell of unwashed bodies, damp and coal that pervaded the air. It followed them up the rickety, creaking staircase, which, just like the ground floor, it was unlit; they had to feel their way up to a gloomy landing.

“Mariah!”

A white woman stuck her head out of the first door on the right. She was naked and slightly jaundiced, and Florencia hastily averted her eyes. The corridor was narrow and there was nowhere else for her to go as the woman blocked the way.

“Diana,” the Negress returned coolly, trying to walk past the older whore.

“My, my, your patrons do get younger,” Diana, the older whore, smiled sickly at Florencia, “Or do you just get more charitable?”

“’E’s a friend!” Mariah shot back angrily, “An’ yer can stay away from Misder Norton too!”

The woman called Diana threw a lascivious look at the young painter, who had been studying her as though she would make a fine subject herself. Her pearls and gold necklace glinted in what light there was as he took in her Grecian nose and elaborately arranged chestnut hair.

“Doubtless I could arrange something, Miss Diana,” he said rather silkily, “but I am afraid it will have to wait until I have finished with Miss Mariah here.”

She looked petulant and added, with a sour pout in what was almost a threat, “I’ll be waiting!”

Norton and a very relieved Florencia were guided on by Mariah.

“And it’s Mrs Diana!” The other whore shouted in their wake, “We’re all slaves here!”

She was stubbornly ignored. Mariah’s room was around the corner from Diana’s, with a narrow truckle-bed jammed against one wall and a pitiful rack of clothing hanging on the other. The only window faced the road and had been half blocked with a wooden grill and a length of calico cloth, which Mariah had pinned to the frame. She tore it down, filling her lodging with sunlight and revealing that it had been painted dark yellow at one point.

“Thank you,” Norton said.

He took his easel back from Florencia, whose arms ached from having carried it for so long. The insides of her elbows were bruised from where she had landed on it; rubbing the marks petulantly, she flexing her stiff arms and watched as the painter prepared his equipment.

In the meantime, Mariah pulled a chair out of the corner and pushed it at him as she sat on the bed.

“One side down, Miss Mariah, please,” Norton asked, pulling out a long, flat box made of polished tin, which the sun glanced off of.

Florencia watched in horror as the woman pulled a sleeve down and exposed her right, round breast to the air.

The former blushed and looked away. Norton saw this and grinned.

“A day will come, young man, when you think you won’t be able to get enough bosoms to satisfy you,” he commented, “I know of boys your age who sit on the walls and pester the women already. You, on the other hand-you might well be the first who’s looked the away-”

“Leave ‘im alone, Mister Norton!” Mariah called, smiling at Florencia, “Dis nice ter see some respect round ‘ere.”

She patted the bed near her and said, “Come ‘ere boy. Come sit next ter Black Mariah.”

Florencia perched warily on the edge of the low bed and sank into thought as Norton began scribbling on the canvas that was tacked to his easel frame.

“She really did look like my mother…” Florencia murmured, more to herself than to the adults, “and my sister, come to think of it…”

“Whad was dat?” Mariah asked, looking at her, “Madame Sophie?”

Florencia nodded rather sadly, staring at the floor and swinging her legs a little.

“Dare’s a story dare, you know,” the Negress added, and the brunette turned to her curiously.

“She were a slave like me once,” Mariah began, “pirates caught ‘er an’ ‘er family on a ship bound for La Louisiane. All of dem were broad ‘ere, but she caught the eye o’ Ned Pascoe-‘is fadder governs dis island. ‘E fell fer ‘er and ‘ad her whole family freed so ‘e could marry ‘er, so strong was ‘is love!”

The dark-skinned woman thumped her breast for emphasis.

“Mrs Pascoe is a generous patron and a lovely subject,” Norton interjected in a mellow tone. He had a thoughtful smile and wielded a stick of charcoal with the deftness of a swordsman with a rapier, “Her husband is much the same and many of their numerous children have inherited these qualities too, including Charles.”

He puffed his chest out and began sketching in earnest. He asked Mariah to sit very still, and bored, Florencia began swinging her legs quite violently, which he could no longer take after a while.

Norton sighed, aggrieved, and put the charcoal down with a strained expression on his chubby face.

“Boy, please,” he said raggedly, “I want to get the preliminary sketch done but I cannot do so with you,” he waved his arm, “faffing about like a windmill in a gale.”

He pointed at the gaping doorway, continuing firmly, “Sit still or go.”

The painter looked at Mariah for support, and she duly replied, “Listen to ‘im, boy. Go outside and play-Newland will be along soon.”

She waved at the door. Florencia hesitated for a moment; when she did go, it was with immense caution, as monsters seem to spring at her from the shadows in the corridor. She had barely rounded the corner when she collided with one of them. The demon, she realised quickly, was actually a fat maid with a hooked nose who had been eavesdropping on them.

She glowered at Florencia, who made to walk around her, but for the second time that day, she found herself being grabbed by the upper arm and dragged somewhere against her will. She tried to cry out for the other two, but the woman covered her mouth with a sweaty hand and propelled her into another small bedroom.

“Here he is!” Said a voice that had been tutored, “The little boy!”

Diana was little more dressed than before, although the diaphanous linen gown she had pulled on failed to obscure her nakedness. Florencia went bright red and tried to look away. The whore in question was sitting just inside the doorway at a table bedecked in red calico and laden with a myriad of presents. Her mirror frame and stand were carved from amber in the shape of two bare and armless nymphets, and the round jewellery box looked to have been crafted from a hollowed ebony branch. There were bands of enamelled gold encircling it and Florencia could make out earrings and bracelets on top of a crumpled letter.

“As you can see,” Diana said with a proud sweep of her arm, as she spotted where Florencia was looking, “my patrons are much richer than that fire-ship Black Mariah.”

She delved into her jewel-box, fished around for a bit and then pulled out a simple ring that was made of a thin band of gold topped with a nearly black piece of sapphire. With a sickly smile, Diana grabbed Florencia by the wrist and pulled her further into the room. She slipped the ring onto the largest digit that the frightened and embarrassed girl had, but the jewel was still loose on her thumb as the woman grabbed her face as cooed, “Isn’t he cute, Sarah? I just want to eat him all up!”

Florencia struggled out of the woman’s clammy grip and walked straight into the maid with the aquiline nose. The latter was fussing with her faded red dress and peered down imperiously at the younger girl.

“No need to be so shy,” the nearly naked whore chuckled as she stretched her hand out, “I won’t bite very hard-!”

With an undignified squeak, Florencia took off.

She knocked Sarah out of her way, sending the portly servant into the dressing table with a loud crashing sound. The tinkle of shattering glass followed her as she took off, bounding down the dark staircase with Diana’s banshee-like screaming ringing her ears. She did not stop for breath as feet thundered after her. The noise was amplified in the enclosed space as Florencia ran for what was quite possibly her life and soul. Her hat flew off when she ran into Madam Wu at in the hallway.

The old woman and her bucket went flying, splattering the walls with water. The dirt ran down in rivulets and revealed the original green paint. Florencia did not dare help the bawd up for Sarah barrelled into view, a livid and vengeful mien on her bearish face.

“Yer stupid brat!” She hollered, her accent slipping through, “Yer come back ‘ere-!”

Florencia kept on running. She bashed her shins on the raised doorway before jumping out of it and flinging herself across the yard and into the empty road.

The sound of ferocious Chinese shrieking spattered with Portuguese chased her down the shadowy footpath and nearly as far as the rowdy alehouse, where a pig in the road forced her to turn left and venture further into the pirate town.

“You know that Free Town’s stones are mortared together with children’s blood, right?” Rufus leered at her on board the Dark Horse that morning.

“African slaves, maybe,” Flower called out, as he supervised loading the animals and barrels onto the second jollyboat, “but not children.”

She raced through the buzzing metropolis. It seemed to be market day as the street she trotted through was lined with shops that had their doors flung wide open. There was a wig-shop next door to a barber, who had a sign in the window that proclaimed he had a surgeon living on the first floor. A chandler just along the cobbled street made the air rank with tallow that was poorly smothered by the perfumed candles he made. His business stood beside a tobacconist selling pipes as well and, in the same terrace, there was a vintner and a butcher, whose large yard swarmed with flies and stank of blood. One shop was being rented for a permanent freak-show and, in another, a dog breeder had set himself up with bulldog and terrier puppies for sale. There were a hatter and a musician as well, offering lessons; as Florencia passed, she heard sweet strains of a violin playing.

The market proper was a wide clearing in the midst of the terraces and the tall houses that made up the shanty town at the back. It was oblong shaped with an inn standing ready at the entrance for weary travellers fresh from the sea. The wave of people going to and fro propelled her into the market, where fowl were on sale alongside rabbits and horses. A sickening redolence of manure and food left to rot flooded her nose and mouth, covering them like a kerchief.

A collection of pens stood in the middle, and a short fellow held up by a giant of man held an auction for the calves and pigs and slaves that huddled, lowed and squealed in fright as people bid by raising their hands and shouting offers.

She felt a twang of pity for the people being sold livestock and was horrified to see that there were both African slaves and white women and children. There were a few men as well, but her vision obscured by the restless crowd that foamed and frothed like a storm whipped sea.

However, determined to not look out of place, Florencia looked around curiously at the other covered stalls that were set up around the square. There was a man was selling spyglasses and a young woman doing a roaring trade in toys; another, a ship chandler, offered rope at what he claimed was a bargain price. She was surrounded by the colourful silk and cotton clothes the pirates wore and almost choked by their perfume and the spices they had stolen.

“What’re yer lookin’ at?” One woman barked when she caught Florencia staring at her elaborately laced and beribboned dress.

Florencia scuttled off rapidly as the whore in question spat a wad of baccy in her direction. She kicked over a heap of broken crockery and jumped away from it as bevy of cockroaches swarmed out. The washerwomen nearby worked like an industrial unit and threw like one too as they hurled soap at her in the misguided belief that she was a pickpocket like the other children hanging about.

She did not stop running again as she took off and turned left at the row of warehouses, which took her down another stretch of cobbles and onto the quay.

She kept on going. The pirates working there spotted her and began cursing; one even suggested that she be given a sound whipping as Florencia took the lower of the two roads. The other appeared to traverse the island and was maintained very well.

There was sweat beading her forehead as she ambled on, desperately wondering where Newland had gotten to, and more importantly, where she was as she wandered blindly along a stretch of wooden quay. She could see the water through the planking as she walked about aimlessly, buffeted by a chilly breeze that was blowing in off the water. The blue sky had clouded up; massive stretches of pewter grey cloud stretched as far as the eye could see, threatening rain.

A lone young man was walking towards her. He was dressed in a bright blue frock-coat and orange waistcoat, which Florencia quickly realised was the same combination that Sophia Pascoe had been wearing. He was tall and thin and had powdered himself pale to match his white periwig. She could not help but stare and wonder, which the man caught her doing.

“Best get home, boy,” the man said genially, without a hint of annoyance, “here-take this penny back to your mother. You’ll need some pies and gin during this storm!”

He pressed a coin into her hand and smiled; almost immediately, a carriage pulled up and the driver called out to him. It was the same one that Sophie had been conveyed in, and before Florencia could say a word, the man had hopped in and was gone.

She was still staring after them as a dirty hand clamped itself over her mouth.

Florencia let out a muffled shriek and kicked out as a thin arm wrapped itself around her waist for good measure. A second pair of hands helped dragged her backwards between two houses, where they knocked a barrel over as she fought them as best she could. Her blunt nails, however, slid uselessly across the backs of her attackers’ hands as the dark sky disappeared beneath bountiful foliage.

The twosome released her and Florencia sat up instantly to find a pair of boys facing her. The one that was smirking was skinny with the blackest hair she had ever seen, whilst his younger looking fellow was small and jaundiced. It was the former that pounced on her as soon as she looked at him. She squealed and felt her wrists be pinned against the ground by his bony but surprising powerful grip.

He called to companion in Patwa and the second boy scurried over; brown-black eyes peered at her brightly and took ahold of her wrists so that the first boy’s hands could grip her hips. Florencia screamed piercingly in his ear as she felt him tear her shirt. He hit her and said something in English that she did not understand, but his coal like eyes, full of anger and nerves, expressed his message clearly as his friend started whimpering. He snarled something at him without looking over, which he quickly regretted as he was grabbed by his shirt collar and manhandled aside.

He struggled like a wild animal, biting the older man and kicking him as he cursed and threatened him with evisceration. His violent battle only ceased after a loud slap around his hollowed face, which caused him to fall down with a bloody nose.

The other boy curled up in the undergrowth, sobbing as the man turned around and kicked him none-too accidentally. The latter had a slightly flushed face and a mild tan. His nose was straight and he wore an old periwig as he crouched down in front of Florencia, looking somewhat harassed.

“You alright?” He asked, helping her to her feet.

She did not understand him at first, which he seemed to realise. He repeated himself in French and then Spanish.

“What ship did you come in on?” He also asked, curious that she did not know Patwa.

Florencia looked at him warily before she replied, “The Dark Horse, sir.”

He suddenly frowned, looking black, and she stiffened immediately.

“The Dark Horse,” he repeated, darkly and gravely.

Florencia opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but the man was already moving away from her., striding down the sandy track that led onto the wooden quay.