Two Empresses Page 14
* * *
I stood in the austere whitewashed dormitory that had been my home for the past nine years bidding a happy farewell to my hard cot and my classmates, all of whom had suddenly grown weepy and sentimental at my impending departure. They stood around me, admiring my elegant traveling dress of bottle-green satin and terra cotta–colored velvet trimmed with gold braid and black lace, and the elegant little tricorn hat with a spray of speckled feathers perched at a jaunty tilt atop my golden hair. It had a black lace veil that matched my gloves. I had never felt so grown-up. They crowded close to press kisses onto my cheeks and bouquets of flowers and boxes of candy, books of poetry and romantic novels, and handkerchiefs they had embroidered with my initials into my arms.
At the very last moment, Mother Angélique came forward, put her hands on my shoulders, looked hard into my eyes, as though she was trying for the last time to drill some discipline into me, then leaned forward and kissed my cheek. I instinctively recoiled at her sour smell. She frowned and handed me a dictionary as a parting gift. I promised I would treasure it always, though I planned to drop it into the sea at the first opportunity.
As I was just about to step into my carriage, Sister Claude came forward to embrace me and present me with a book of saints’ lives. Her dragoon’s mustache, still as magnificent and dark as ever, tickled my face and I giggled.
After I was seated in the coach, I leaned from the open window and begged sweetly to ask Sister Claude a question.
“Tell me, please, I have been wondering for nine years, and I do so want to know, were you really a dragoon who was so madly in love with his sweetheart that when she chose to be a Bride of Christ rather than yours you could not bear to part with her and so disguised yourself as a nun and joined her in the cloister?”
“Mademoiselle Aimee!” Sister Claude gasped incredulously. Her face turned bright red and she kept opening and closing her mouth, though no words came out. She looked like she was going to drop down dead of apoplexy.
My classmates stood back, mouths agape, amazed and appalled at my audacity, and Mother Angélique looked like she wanted to flay my back open, not just my palm.
I couldn’t help myself; I had been languishing in want of fun for nine years and I couldn’t hold myself back any longer.
“Were you Sister Claude’s sweetheart, Mother?” I smiled and asked sweetly.
“Go!” Marianne glanced at me with worried eyes and pounded the carriage roof and ordered the driver, “Now!”
As the carriage wheels began to turn, carrying me away, at long last, from the Convent of the Dames de la Visitation, I collapsed against the cushions, shaking with laughter.
Beside me, Marianne just sighed and shook her head. “Nine years wasted trying to make a lady of you, you little hoyden!”
CHAPTER 16
The first part of our journey was tranquil and uneventful; it reminded me of the first time I had crossed the sea as Lazurus glided serenely across the glass-smooth waves. This time, I kept mostly to my cabin, lying on my bed and reading or sitting by the window, when the light was good, and embroidering the bright hibiscus blossoms I remembered on a white satin bed jacket I had made for Mama. But sometimes I grew restless and just had to go up on deck to stretch my legs and breathe the clean sea air, though my da always looked upon these outings with dismay and urged caution. I was now a beautiful young woman, Marianne said, and must be careful; I must not consort with the crew and encourage undue familiarity. Men, long at sea and longing for a woman’s company, might presume to take liberties.
Halfway through our voyage, in the Bay of Biscay, the Lazarus was caught up in a fearsome gale. We were tossed and thrown about as though Neptune and the Devil were playing catch with our poor little ship. The waves smashed into us, at times knocking the Lazarus almost onto its side. Each time I feared it would be the end and the force of the waves would drive us down into the depths of the sea, never to rise again. But Lazarus would not go down without a fight, it was true to its name, and each time it managed to resurrect itself. But fatal blows do not always kill instantly. The seams, so badly battered by the brutal waves, had begun to open up, and we were taking on water. By dusk it seemed certain that we would not see another dawn.
Then a miracle happened. A large Spanish ship appeared upon the horizon. Prayers of despair turned to jubilation; some even danced upon the slanting deck. We were saved! To compound the miracle, our rescue ship was improbably named El Salvador—The Savior.
As Lazarus sank into the sea, never to rise again, I stood on the deck of El Salvador, surrounded by my trunks, with Marianne’s arms hugging fiercely tight around me, and gave thanks for our survival. I would be late getting home, as this ship was bound for Majorca and I would have to find another Martinique-bound vessel there, but that was far better than going down to a watery grave.
The sea was calm again, the sun shining like a big golden coin in the bright blue sky above, and the pink spires of Majorca were already looming in the distance. Our ocean ordeal was almost over. I had hardly slept in days with the stomach-tossing torment of the waves that had battered the valiant little Lazarus, so I lingered lazily in bed. I was dozing when I heard a disturbance up on deck. Men were shouting and I heard the clang of metal.
I was still in my nightgown and could not think of going up on deck until I was dressed. I turned questioning eyes to Marianne, sitting up on the floor beside my bed where she had been sleeping, but before I could ask or make a move to rise and dress the door was kicked open and the most fearsome man I had ever seen stood before me, leering down at me and brandishing a bloodstained cutlass, with more like him crowding in behind, peering over his shoulders at me.
Coarse and swarthy, with dark eyes and long straggling black mustaches and greasy hair beneath their red felt caps, their garments a motley mixture of rags and riches, they gathered around my bed. Pirates! These were the dreaded Barbary Corsairs, the scourge and terror of the Mediterranean, who menaced the seas under the protection of the Turks, preying on any vulnerable vessel that had the misfortune to cross their wicked path.
Slavery, ransom, rape, murder were the words that tumbled wildly like dice through my mind. Which would it be? I waited in frozen fear for the answer. Ransom, I prayed silently, please God, let it be ransom! That was my only hope of going home and seeing Papa and Mama again.
The pirates’ captain spoke some words in a language I could not understand and pointed at Marianne whereupon his men seized hold of her and dragged her out, kicking and screaming, fighting tooth and nail.
Fear forgotten, I leapt up from my bed and faced the Captain boldly. “Let go of her!” I shouted. “Don’t you dare hurt her!”
The pirate captain looked me up and down. There was laughter and also lust in his eyes. He reached out a hand to touch my hair. I slapped it down. He laughed and grabbed hold of the lace collar of my nightdress and tore it open, down the front, all the way to the hem, exposing my naked body to the eyes of all those evil men. They laughed and leered at me and some of them boldly fondled their crotches. As I tried to cover myself, the Captain pushed me back onto the bed and used the tip of his cutlass to part the tattered folds of my nightgown again, baring my nakedness to every eye.
“Touch her and you die!” he said to his men, speaking these words in their barbaric tongue, then repeating them in French for my benefit.
He bent over the bed and trailed his fingers slowly down my body, dawdling over my breasts, plucking at my pink nipples, then letting his greasy palm glide across the smooth flat of my belly. I couldn’t move. I was terrified of what he might do to me. Was he going to rape me? He had warned his men away from me; did that mean he had chosen me for himself? His fingertips combed leisurely through the golden curls between my legs, gently brushing the pink folds of forbidden flesh underneath. My face flamed with shame and fury. I raised my hand, intending to slap his away, but he just laughed and waggled that dangerous, sharp cutlass at me like a scolding steel finger.
“Every hair worth a piece of gold,” he said. Did that mean he was going to sell me? Like a slave in the marketplace? Would I be stood naked on a block and men come to poke and prod me and examine my teeth?
He made a sign for his men to withdraw and, to my relief, he went too. I heard the door lock behind them.
I trembled and wept and wondered what would become of me.
CHAPTER 17
Draped in a big orange-and-brown-striped shawl smelling of tobacco, dust, and dung that one of the pirates had flung at me, I was led in chains through the twists and turns of the filthy and narrow cobblestone streets of Algiers. A butcher threw some bloody entrails from the back door of his shop and several rats ran boldly across my path to feast on them. I screamed and leapt back when one of them dashed across the top of my foot. I felt its tiny claws graze my skin. But the pirates had no sympathy or patience and shoved me onward.
They had taken almost everything from me. I had nothing except for the pearl cross and snake charm I wore about my neck, the tattered remnants of my nightgown that I had managed to crudely tie together, and my fragile, thin-soled satin chamber slippers. The corsairs had taken away my trunks and all my belongings that had been scattered about the cabin, reasoning that I might strangle myself with a stocking or swallow a needle or pierce the veins in my wrist with it. They were not about to let Death deprive them of such a valuable prize, the pirate captain had said when I protested their removal.
Tears rolled down my face when I saw palm trees and smelled spices. As we passed the marketplace, I saw parrots, like the ones that flew free on my island home, crammed into cages for sale, prisoners just like me. Everywhere in Algiers, this notorious den of thieves, it seemed there were bittersweet reminders of home. Even the people’s clothes reminded me of Martinique. They loved their bright colors, bangles, and beads and some wore turbans on their heads, reminiscent of the tignons of the island women, and many carried baskets or jars atop their heads. Just like home!
Tears poured from my eyes. I wanted to go home! An old woman, her hair and the bottom of her face hidden by a veil—that seemed to be the custom here, I noted—looked at me with sad eyes. She seemed to sense my sorrow and forced her way past the pirates and embraced me, just like a mother. She handed me a sprig of jasmine, the same fragrant flower that grew outside my window at La Trinité and all over Martinique, before the corsairs shoved her away so violently that she fell.
As I passed, everyone stared back at me with curious eyes, and many approached, crowding around us, clamoring for a closer look at me. Fingers reached out, trying to touch my golden hair and white skin, and they stared in unabashed wonder at my blue eyes, but the corsairs spoke sharply to them and warned them away with their cutlasses.
I began to understand then; they stared at me because I was different. Every person I saw had skin much darker than mine, whether it was bronzed by the sun or tinted so by God’s hand, not porcelain pale like mine. In my world, pallor was prized; every woman aspired to have skin white as fresh-fallen snow and guarded her complexion accordingly with parasols, shady hats, and veils. Every pair of eyes that looked my way were likewise dark; I saw no blues, grays, or greens, only varying shades of brown, most so dark they seemed nearer black. It was the same with their hair, though I saw an occasional hint of red, purple, or blue when the sun shone down on an uncovered head, I didn’t spy a single lock of hair lighter than black coffee except for a few gray elders. I was a curiosity here, a freak of nature; they had never seen anyone like me before. It only made me more frightened. What were they going to do with me?
I was taken to what must have been a palace. It glowed like a pearl in the setting sun. The courtyard I was led into was paved with turquoise-blue tiles. There were fig trees and a beautiful white fountain gently splashing clear water in the center of it. I wanted to run to it, dip my hands in, and let the cool stream caress my arms, drink my fill, and wash all the dirt and dust away. But of course I didn’t dare. I couldn’t, with all these men watching me.
A corpulent old man with a diamond-paved patch covering one eye, in robes of white silk embroidered with gold and red, wearing heavy gold chains about his neck, came out to inspect me. I know now that he was the Dey of Algiers, Baba Mohammed ben Osman, master of the Barbary Corsairs, answerable to no man save the Sultan of Turkey.
He caressed me with his one good eye. I shrank back in horror as his hands rose and reached out eagerly to touch me, but with a sigh, as though he had suddenly remembered something important, he forced them back down again. I could not understand his language, but his tone conveyed regret as he wistfully fingered a long lock of my golden hair, caressing it lingeringly from root to tip.
He turned away from me and spoke brusquely to my captors, apparently issuing orders. The end result was that I was taken away again, back through the filthy, maze-like city, and put on board another ship.
I was locked inside a cabin. A woman with bronze skin, dark hair, and burning hostile black eyes came and went, bringing me food and water, but never speaking a word to me. She was rough and rude. When I tried to talk to her, she ignored me. If I touched her she slapped my hand away.
I do not know how many days and nights passed. I was so downhearted I lacked the will to count them. What did it matter? Every day took me farther and farther away from Martinique. I think my heart already knew that I would never see home again. Would Mama and Papa ever know what had happened to me? Would they even know to look for me? Would they make inquiries and try to buy my freedom, to ransom me? Or would they think I was dead, my body thrown, food for fishes, into the deep blue sea? It would break their hearts! They would put on black and mourn me; sorrow might even hasten them to their graves! When I thought of that I cried as never before; I couldn’t bear it. My birth had made them so happy, and my presumed death would surely kill them, and Marthe would be an orphan. I had to find a way to let them know I was still alive!
I sought refuge in sleep; it was the only way I could escape. In my dreams I ran toward La Trinité, where Mama and Papa stood on the veranda, smiling, so happy to see me, their arms open, outstretched, ready to enfold me. But the moment my foot touched the first step it all disappeared and I awoke in agonized tears.
Sometimes I sat and stared out the barred window, watching the red earth and crumbling white ruins, and distant, mist-shrouded outlines of blue mountains passing by, and then nothing . . . seemingly endless sea as far as the eye could see.
One morning I awakened to a marvelous sight between the bars—a city of a thousand golden domes glittering in the sun. Towers, spires, minarets, and cupolas, great domes shaped like onions swirled with stripes of ruby, emerald, and sapphire, as though a master jeweler had crafted this spectacular city. Even the window glass twinkled like diamonds flashing in the sun. Everywhere I looked there was the glitter of gold dazzling my eyes. I never dreamed such a place could exist. It took my breath away. I had never seen anything so splendid in all my life. Even the boats gathered in the port were gilded; some even seemed to be set with jewels.
When night fell, dimming the glorious golden world outside my window, the servant woman returned. She pulled me roughly to my feet and threw a thick, musty black veil over my head. There was only a narrow slit for my eyes to peep out and it was so long it trailed behind me and I had to gather whole handfuls of it up in order to walk.
There were no chains this time. Where would I run to even if I managed to break free except to throw myself in the sea? I couldn’t possibly save myself by swimming; I would only tire myself out and drown if my captors didn’t fish me out. And I didn’t want to die; I wanted to live. I wanted to go home. So, for now . . . there was nowhere else to go but to the city of gold. Maybe there I would find a fr
iend, someone sympathetic to my plight who could understand my language and would be willing to help me.
I was forced into a little boat. The servant woman was right behind me shoving me along, grudgingly helping me with the folds of my veil. I noticed that she was veiled now too. Once I was seated, the men began to row. None of them said a word, and even if they had I wouldn’t have understood it. The sea looked like liquid silver in the moonlight and I reached down to trail my hand in it; it was so deliciously cool I wished I could dive right in, but the servant woman caught hold of my wrist, slapped my hand like a stern mother reprimanding her child, and shoved it back onto my lap, under my veil.
As soon as my feet, shod in the crude, overly large black leather sandals the servant had given me, touched solid ground again I was swept up in powerful arms and lifted into a litter with a heavy dark curtain that was tied shut from the outside. I could see nothing; I was alone in pitch-darkness. All I could do was sit and wait alone and wonder what would be my fate.
I felt the litter sway and tilt. I braced myself, for a moment fearing I was going to fall. We were going uphill. I felt whole eternities pass in every moment. I just wanted it to be over. Not knowing seemed somehow worse. At last, the litter stopped. I heard shouting and a creaking noise, like a gate being swung open. The litter was set down and the curtains opened and a hand reached in to pull me out.