The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (35 page)

‘I did not hire you to stand around gawking, Hawkins,' said Edward. ‘Get to and help trim the foresail.'

‘Aye, Captain,' I said, and joined the sailors at the mast.

I got accustomed to shipboard life quite quickly. Too quickly, for I could not fathom how I was able to do the things I did. I got my sea legs at once. I could climb the shrouds as nimbly as if I'd been doing so all my life. I was even able to plot our position correctly when Edward told me to. In fact, my main problem was hiding in order to empty my bowels. I also had some difficulty keeping my beard in place, but I found some more gum in Edward's cabin when checking the charts: he also used it to keep his disguise stuck on.

I knew who he was now: a pirate known as Yellowbeard. His ship, the
Sea Lion
, was feared throughout the Caribbean by English, Dutch and Spanish alike. Buccaneers had fallen out of favour with the Crown since the Treaty of Madrid of 1670, where Spain recognized England's legal right to colonies in the West Indies. Before that, though, Captain Edward Giles had enjoyed an official commission from the British Crown to attack Spanish ships. Now, as respected colonist Edward Henry, he was privy to crucial information such as which ships with what cargoes were sailing when.

All this I put together from shipboard chat and from talks I'd had with father. But I did not understand why Edward had chosen to remain a pirate when he could have become a successful planter. We did not have much chance to speak. Despite his initial pleasantry, he became a different man once we were underway: stern and distant. Still, once when I was helping him in the cabin, I made bold to question him. Somewhat to my surprise, he replied readily enough.

‘I'm a sailor, not a farmer,' he said laconically.

‘But you must be rich already,' I persisted. ‘And surely 'tis an easier life.'

He shrugged. ‘Nothing's easier than spilling the guts of an overfed merchant.'

I said, ‘But do you not want to settle down someday, raise a family?'

‘Family?' Edward guffawed and clapped me so hard on the back he nearly knocked off my beard. ‘Ye're an innocent lad for sure, Hawkins,' he laughed.

‘Yes, sir,' I said, deciding that to ask any more questions would seem unseemly. But Edward continued speaking. ‘And even if I were so minded, lad, who would I settle down with? One of those spoilt planters' daughters? Pah! Give me a wench with some fire in her pussy any day of the week and thrice on Sundays.'

Shocked as I was at Edward's coarse language, I was almost tempted to tear off my beard and show him what this ‘spoilt planter's daughter' had done. But prudence prevailed, and I merely finished my task in silence.

Two weeks out, we launched our first attack. We had anchored for three days behind a small island, waiting for a merchant ship carrying silks and coin to Hispaniola. Edward was masterful: poised at the helm until our prey almost passed, then shouting for the sails to be hoisted so we bore down hawklike upon the other vessel almost before they had time to realize they were being pursued. We did not use cannon – that was mainly to defend ourselves against warships; after all, there was no point in sinking the prize. We caught up to the merchant ship from abaft, exchanging musket fire, then flung our grappling hooks. We then boarded the ship, leaping across like bladed lemmings, yelling savagely. Blades clanged and muskets barked and dying men screamed.

And there I was in the midst, no longer planter's daughter or sailor, but pure pirate. My sword whirled in my left hand, my dagger thrust in my right. Red mouths opened in white flesh before me, men fell like canes before me. One part of my mind watched the accustomed fluency of my movements, the skill with which I handled my weapons, and wondered. But most of my mind was possessed by battle. I did not hear the cries of surrender till Edward himself, his false beard flecked with blood, stopped me short.

We took an hour to transfer the cargo into our hold, then we put all the survivors in a row-boat. The island was not far away. We then sank their ship with our cannon and sailed away. Afterwards, I vomited.

The journey lasted three more weeks. We made two more attacks, each successful. By then our hold was groaning. We sailed back to Jamaica, every sailor on board now considerably wealthier. We had lost seven men. I myself had been wounded, but not so badly that anyone would have wondered how I still lived. I did, however, keep on my bandages lest anyone notice that my wounds had healed perfectly.

Anchored again at Port Royal, I took my leave after Edward gave me my share of gold. ‘I'd like you to sail with us again, Jim Hawkins.'

‘Just say when, Captain,' I replied.

He fixed me with a stare. ‘But if you see me on the street, you don't know me.'

‘I understand, sir.'

‘And if any rumour about Yellowbeard being a respectable planter comes to my ear, your life is forfeit. Are we clear?'

‘I told you at the start, sir. I know how to keep my mouth shut.'

He nodded and I left, pockets heavy. In town, I bought a cotton blouse and a pleated skirt and took a room at an inn. There, I removed all traces of pirate sailor Jim Hawkins. The pleasure of soaking in a tub of hot water and soaping my skin was indescribable. I had not had many chances to bathe while on board ship (not that any of the crew noticed). But my greatest pleasure was actually to simply have my breasts swinging free. As I scrubbed myself with a rough cloth, I wondered how best to explain my five-week disappearance. Anne-Marie had obviously said nothing or soldiers would have been waiting for the
Sea Maid
at port. (I hoped Anne-Marie had not got into too much trouble.) I could say that I had been hit on the head and had lost my memory and been taken in by a kindly family. Or that I had been captured by Maroons and held prisoner in the hills. Or that I had got lost in the woods and had lived on roots and berries until I had found my way out.

But, after some thought, I decided it would be best to stay as close as possible to the truth: I would say that I had gone aboard a ship to buy some goods before they reached the stores where the cost would be ten times greater, that I had been knocked unconscious while in the hold, and the captain had sailed without realizing that I was still on board. When he discovered me, he kindly disguised me as a cabin boy so as to avoid causing trouble on the ship. The captain had been a perfect gentleman and had carried me back to my home port as soon as he was able. This story would account for my browned skin and shorn locks. And, when father asked me the name of this captain, I would say that I had promised not to reveal it since the captain was Dutch and it was not legal for him to be trading in a British colony.

But, as it turned out, no story was necessary.

It was only when I said my name that mother realized who I was. While I did not expect cries of relief and hugs, her reaction was quite curious. She gave me a tight-lipped smile that immediately made the hairs on my scalp prickle. And I realized then that I had never in all my life seen her smile at me.

‘Where's father?' I asked.

She turned and walked into the drawing-room. ‘Come,' she said. There was an unfamiliar tone to her voice, and it took me some moments to recognize what it was: glee.

She sat in an armchair and gestured for me to sit opposite.

‘Is he still on his trip?' I asked.

She said, ‘Your father is dead.'

‘What?' I was sure she was joking, albeit poorly. I could see laughter in her pale-blue eyes.

‘He is dead,' she repeated. ‘He was out searching for you. They were attacked by a band of Maroons.'

The laughter was still in her eyes, twinkling like daggers. My eyes filled with hot tears. ‘He's dead?' I asked. I still hoped she was only making a cruel joke.

She nodded. ‘Their leader killed him with his bare hands. Big nigger they call Shadowman. Snapped your father's neck like a chicken, I hear.' She was looking at me like a cat watching cream. I was in shock, the tears streaming down my cheeks, but I did not break down. I refused to break down while she watched me like that.

‘Where is Anne-Marie?' I asked.

She rose to her feet in a sweeping motion. Her smile was a toothy white. She turned and walked to the back. ‘Come,' she said again, the word like a knell.

I followed on leaden feet.

Outside, she went straight to the low stone gaol, where we put disobedient niggers. She took out an iron key from her pocket and bent down and unlocked the heavy wooden door. After some moments, Anne-Marie crawled out. She was naked and the flesh was tight on her ribs. She stood blinking unsteadily in the bright sunlight and, when she saw me, ran forward, stumbling, to hug me. She was weeping. I could see that she had been locked away for a long time: her skin had turned almost as pale as mine had become brown. I hugged her back tightly. She was filthy, but I did not mind.

‘Oh, is that not sweet?' intruded my mother's voice.

I turned to her, my arm around Anne-Marie's shoulders, trembling. I screamed, ‘What is wrong with you?'

My mother laughed. ‘Nothing at all.'

She took a whistle out of her pocket and blew a piercing blast. Four men I had never seen before came from various corners – the millhouse, the bookkeeper's cottage, the slave-quarters. The one who came up first carried a bullwhip looped around his shoulders and two muskets in his belt. The others were also armed. All wore broad-brimmed, floppy hats.

‘Mr. Spence, gather the slaves,' said my mother.

The man nodded and set off for the fields, followed by two of the other men. The fourth waited beside us. He did not speak.

‘Who are they?' I asked.

‘Overseers.'

I wanted to ask why we needed so many overseers. I wanted to ask why she was behaving so strangely. I wanted to ask what had happened to my father. I wanted to ask why Anne-Marie had been locked up. But I did not ask.

‘I'm taking Anne-Marie inside,' I said.

‘No,' my mother said.

I sucked my teeth and turned to go, but she reached out with one bony hand and pulled my hair hard. I staggered forward, losing my hold on Anne-Marie, and then my head was rocked by a hard slap. For the first time in my life, my mother had hit me!

‘Tie her up!' she snapped.

For one horrified moment, I thought she meant me, but as my blurred vision cleared I saw the overseer grab Anne-Marie and, with practised movements, secure her to the whipping post. She looked as though she were hugging the smooth wood, her tied wrists hooked around the right-angled peg that stopped the slaves falling while being punished. The old scars on her slim back were drawn tight.

I said, crying, ‘You'd not have dared hit me if father were here.'

‘But he is not,' she replied. To which I had no answer.

The other overseers were returning from the fields, herding the slaves before them. To this day, I do not know why I did not grab a musket or a machete and get myself and Anne-Marie out of there. I had just been renewed in battle. I had regained many of my forgotten skills. But it was as though the mere change of clothing had muted what I was becoming. I did nothing and, in all my five hundred years, my inaction still remains one of my bitterest memories.

The slaves gathered. An overseer handed my mother the whip: a cat-o'-nine-tails. Without pause she slung it back, and I saw metal glint from its pleated tips.

‘No!' I screamed, rushing forward. But two of the overseers caught me by the arms and held me. The whip whistled through the air and snapped on Anne-Marie's back. She rose to her toes, her scream piercing the silent air, clear as crystal, and seeming to echo from the stolid hills. Weals raised like thin unnatural veins on her back. Droplets of blood oozed out of them. My mother smiled like a skull. The whip cracked again. Anne-Marie screamed out my name and stretched, the muscles in her forearms and her thighs bulging in her agony. A rumble came from the gathered slaves. The overseers cocked their muskets. The whip cracked again. Drops of blood jumped into the air like sweat. I pulled against the overseers, but they held me tightly. The whip cracked again. Anne-Marie's head was lolling, and she only grunted now, a high quavering sound.

The whip cracked again. Blood flew like red paper streamers. A slave cried out as though in agony himself and rushed forward. It was Caesar. A musket cracked and a round black hole appeared in his forehead and gray-and-white-and-red bits burst out the back of his skull. He collapsed like a puppet. The slaves groaned. The whip cracked again. Anne-Marie's legs had buckled, but the rope around her wrists kept her upright. Her back was a pulpy red mess, like mashed papaya. I heard a voice pleading with my mother to stop. It was my voice. But the whip cracked, and cracked, and cracked.

When my mother stopped, it was only because her arm could not raise the whip any more. Anne-Marie hung limply from the whipping-post. Blood ran down her back and her legs. The earth below her was soaked red. An overseer put his fingers to her throat, and nodded to my mother. He moved away, and two of the slaves came forward slowly to take Anne-Marie down.

My mother came up to me, the whip dripping from her hand. She took my chin in her other hand and said, ‘How unfortunate you are. To lose your sister so soon after losing your father.'

I said, ‘My sister?' I was still in shock.

‘Yes,' said the woman who was not my mother. ‘Yes, nigger.'

The slaves were taking Anne-Marie's body away. I could see her face, and for the first time I truly saw her face. Same rosebud lips, same button nose, same oval face. All hidden from me till now by her brown skin. She was my sister, my darker and brighter twin, and now she was dead.

I fainted.

There are many stories I could tell about the rest of my life. I could tell of how my unnatural mother threw me out of Cohiba with just the clothes on my back. But I will say only that she did and I took a room with the booty I had earned and hidden before going to Cohiba. I could tell of how my father's lawyer, a sweaty man with small plump hands, said that giving me the £5,000 my father had bequeathed to me might present certain difficulties since he understood that I was really a mulatto, but that if I were willing to grant him certain favours he could see that the procedure took only weeks instead of years. But I will say only that I gave him what he wanted and that, though he was the first man I ever took, he was also the last.