Leave a comment for the author The saddest day of my life was the one when my mother died. Charleston had regular outbreaks of the yellow fever, the disease that weakened its victims and burned them up from inside, casting their skin in yellow before it burt out their lives. It came of the swamp miasma, rising up from the dank, slimy roots of trees in the black heart of the land. Some thought it was a curse brought down by the wild Indians who'd died; others thought that it was a curse from God. I didn't care. The school closed down for the duration of the sickness, with all the girls returning to their homes and hopefully healthier air. I went back to the plantation my father had clawed from the tarry dirt, to a place where the dark swamp was heavier and danker than near the city. I was spared the disease. Mama was not. It was horrible. Her skin flushed with fever that first night at dinner, and then she collapsed and had to be carried to bed, with me clamoring for my dessert. I didn't understand how ill she was, not for two days, and then it had to be explained to me by our cook, who was also her nurse. "She has the yellow fever, bebe. She pregnant with another baby, and it makes her too weak." I shook my head, handing Cook the hot mustard she was putting into a poultice. "She'll be fine. She's been sick before, and she always got better." "Bebe, you are young. Come help me care for her." I knew when I saw her that Cook was right. Her eyes were red from illness, and her nose was cracked around the tip and underneath, and her skin was yellow from the burning of the fever. I cared for her that day, until the sun began to set and she died with a sigh, her fingers relaxing in my hand as the fire carried her aloft to heaven. I never cried for her. I swore to her I would be strong, that I would be impervious to the illnesses and weaknesses that afflict most humans. And I swore most of all that I would live for her. Papa did not send me back to school. I was needed at home, for he had no mistress over the house. I didn't want to be at school anyway, and I certainly did not want him marrying a stepmother who would lord it over me. So I cared for the house, and I kept the books, and for the first few months I took Papa's drink from his hand late at night and delivered him to Wolfie, the butler, to be helped into bed. I would never again be a girl. * * * The years passed quickly, and it seemed no time until I was considering marrying. My father endlessly paraded suitable young men before me, some from good families in town, others self-made young men who he considered to be the up-and-coming leaders of the colony. And like Atalanta of Greek legend, I turned my nose up at all of them. There was always something wrong with them. William Adams was far too young, only a year older than me, and besides, I'd given him a beating when we were children because he pulled my hair. There was Soonest Johnson, but I couldn't get past his name without fits of giggles. Alexander Richmond seemed nice enough until I saw him slurping his soup at dinner; a man with no social graces whatsoever, I decided. Besides, I could have my pick. I was young, and beautiful, and spirited, and men loved my red hair and blue eyes. Though other girls in town did not like me, I had no time for them anyway. I did not want a man who would expect me to be tied to a home and babies. Ideally, I wanted a sea captain. The pirate who'd given me the ring would not leave my imagination. I had begged Papa for a sailboat for my eighteenth birthday, and he at last gave in to me, buying a small sloop and rigging it out, hiring a tar who'd worked for a long time on his own ships to teach me how to sail it.Sloops are small, and only require a crew of first and second mate, deckhand, bosun, and engineer; sometimes, on calmer days, you can even double up jobs and get by with a crew of four. It was on my sloop, the Irish Fox, that I was willing to allow slaves on as crew, and that only because I was certain they would enjoy it as much as I did. |
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