A raised murmur of voices from the brothel interrupted her uneasiness. Several more scantily clad women leaned out windows. Claire followed their gazes to a ship. A gangplank had been lowered. Several ill-kept men, starved and sick, laden in heavy chains shuffled single file onto the docks. Claire’s insides railed, condemning the injustices of men.
“They are wretched,” Lily whispered behind her.
“These are a terrible lot,” her uncle cried, but without Lily’s compassion. His sympathy tendered for his purse. Beneath his tri-cornered hat, a powdered wig covered his balding pate. His simian face stayed bloated, smooth of all wrinkles.
Under the guards’ wary supervision the convicts were examined by a number of planters and merchants. There remained something about the cowed group of rebels, their heads bent low that struck a chord with Claire. “Lily, we are leaving the carriage.”
“But your uncle said not to−”
“I no longer care for my uncle’s dictates,” Claire said as she descended from the carriage. “Governor Stark stands over there and will desire female companionship. Uncle will not dare to challenge the governor.”
Lily gave her a long speculative look. “I should rescue you from your impulsive nature, but I have noted you have our dear governor wrapped around your finger.”
With their availability and lively camaraderie, both girls were often invited to teas, dinner parties and other celebrations at the Governor’s House. Claire and Lily took full opportunity of their open invitation as a way to get out from under her uncle’s roof.
“Good day to you, Governor Stark,” Claire addressed him. “It is a fine day, is it not?”
“Mistress Lily, Madame Hamilton,” he acknowledged, slightly bent over his cane, his regal bearing evident despite his age.
Claire had chosen to keep her maiden name. The islanders did not need to know different. In London, there had been no time to legally change her name to her husband’s surname. Why had her uncle booked their passage the day after she had announced her marriage to the prisoner?
“It is always a bright day when you two are around. But this infernal heat. How I long for my native England.” The governor mopped his forehead with a lace handkerchief. “It is good you’ve come to keep me company. It will take my mind off my sufferings.”
“Your foot? Is it acting up again?” Claire threaded her arm through the governor’s and patted his hand. “I guarantee your sufferings will be laid to rest while we are here.” Claire maneuvered her cousin to her left to make a united front in case her uncle looked behind.
The formal bidding began. Sir Jarvis took the lead since he held special office as the largest and only titled planter. “Faith, they are a scrawny lot, not to be much value on a plantation.” He moved up and down the line of prisoners. His contempt of them seen in the set of his shoulders and haughty lift of his chin. “They are in terrible condition. Captain Johnson, I wish to have a word with you.” Jarvis poured over lists that the captain produced.
“You have first choice, Baron Jarvis, at your own price. Hurry now so the auction may begin for the rest of the planters.” The governor’s high-pitched voice wheedled.
Her uncle thrust the lists at the Captain and walked the row of rebels-convicts. His cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such tight dealing implied.
Lily moved to Claire’s side, startling her. “I feel so sorry for him. He reminds me of a lost stray I cared for once.”
Claire turned to stare at her cousin. Lily normally repressed her feelings. Claire followed her cousin’s commiseration to a fair-haired, young prisoner, his head bent low. Unremarkable at best, he stood under the scrutiny of her uncle.
“This is awful business,” her cousin whispered. “He doesn’t belong, does he?”
Claire had no reply for her. She resisted the irrational inclination to release the prisoners from their bonds and tell them to flee. The rational side of her mind realized it was the world of men and their means. Wasn’t she just a woman struggling to find her own freedom? What was the difference?
But it was the man next to the slave that Lily had pointed out that caught her attention. He stood there sweaty and dirty, and despite his pathetic state she thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Without considering the impropriety of it, she cast her eyes over him with the same avid intensity as the other planters. He stood tall with thick wildly unkempt hair, dark in the sunlight, waved to cover his temple, and a straight nose. Then he looked directly at her, catching her staring at him. She felt herself blush as red as the scarlet plume in her hat. He had the most amazing eyes. Green she guessed although she could not really tell at this distance, but green eyes would suit the face. He stared back at her.
The jolt she received from those eyes, made her conscious of what she was doing, and she looked away, willing the wide brim of her hat to conceal from all concerned the burning color of her mortification. She was as brazen as the prostitutes yelling out the windows and could not countenance her behavior. What was the matter with her? There was no excuse for the way she stared at a complete stranger, a felon no less. She puzzled over her interest of the man.
Still stamped on her mind remained a picture of him, the poor quality of his attire, worn rags from his long ship voyage and his lean frame from meager food. Despite his deprivations, there arose in his stature a spirit of defiance. His posture spurned the world, his eyes bitterly laughed at its hypocrisy, and his overall attitude claimed to resentfully submit to disrespect. She dared to peek at him again. She marveled at this man, pondering his circumstances. An inner voice warned her of danger. This man was not to be trifled with. Behind his unrevealed mask, she felt lay a creature of great intelligence, and if the opportunity arose, would for certain seek his revenge. The raven cawed above her. Claire shivered under the tropic sun.
“Sixteen pounds for this one,” said her uncle. Claire turned back and watched, embarrassed as her uncle fingered the muscles of the fair-haired man Lily had pointed out. Jarvis commanded him to open his mouth so he could note his teeth.
The Captain bridled but honeyed his voice. “Sixteen pounds. It isn’t half what I expect.”
“It’s double what I should give,” snorted her uncle.
“But he would be cheap at thirty-three pounds, Baron Jarvis,” objected the Captain.
“I can get an African for that. These white animals don’t live. None of these men will last a day in this sun. They aren’t made for the heat. I’ll pay a good sum, and I’ll get nothing for it.”
“Look at his health, his youth, and vigor,” protested the Captain.
Claire looked to Lily, noting her cousin’s pale countenance. They had never witnessed a slave auction. The young prisoner stood silent and inert. Only the waning of color in his cheeks revealed the inner battle by which he retained his self-control. Claire squeezed her cousin’s hand, growing nauseated from the vile haggle as her uncle moved up and down the line then stopped to examine a tall Goliath with a black patch over one of his eyes. “It is not a man they are discussing but a beast of burden.”
