Two Empresses

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.

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.

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.

I lay back on the bed defeated, praying that death would be merciful and swift. Suddenly his roving fingers stilled and he savagely plucked out a single golden hair. I was surprised and jumped and cried out at the unexpected pain, but he only laughed at me.

“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?