Free Fire on Dark Water by Wendy Perriman Page B

salt. I’d also to sort through the piles of clothes that the purser sent to find suitable breeches, skirts, shirts, or shifts to fit everyone. And during all this activity Dr. Simpson was the only person allowed to converse with any of the prisoners. When all the men were ready, the women came. I’d saved the very best skirt for Maude—it was the only one with a bit of shape—yet I might have been dressing a scarecrow for the notice she paid. But Violet squeezed my hand every time the surgeon turned away, and Dollie managed a quick secret hug when I helped to put her shift on. As we drew close to the shores of this strange land—America—a tidal tube of mist rolled out to greet us. And when we all knew this was the very last day, I was instructed to clean myself thoroughly under direct orders from Captain Mack.
    In the late of the afternoon Dr. Simpson returned to the cabin and threw me a calico dress from the captain himself. I was amazed to find it was exactly my size—and I wondered how many other young girls had traveled this route before me. I looked down at the finery but didn’t budge. “Something wrong?” he asked. I remained motionless. He eyed me with an amused expression and said, “We need you looking your best.” Then he became impatient and snorted. “Get dressed.” So I did.
    Now, I wasn’t any in the habit of conversing with the surgeon but I couldn’t stop my tongue from blurting, “What happens now, sir?”
    He stroked his chin and replied in measured tones, “We shall dock in Chesapeake Bay soon. There was thought to be a particular interested in you—but the captain will now have to settle for some other arrangement. . . .”
    “Arrangement?” I stuttered. What did that mean?
    Some kind of malice blunted the shine of his eyes and he snapped, “We could have placed you nicely if you had known only one master, but now . . .” I blushed in shame and turned away. He cleared his throat and continued, “Well . . . we will just have to take what we can get.”
    Now, as it happened, I was apparently being groomed to join the Golden Planters Club—and you probably ain’t never heard of it on account of it being all secret. It’s a society of Southern gentlemen bonded by a mutual predilection for immature females. They’ve several magistrates and sea captains on their payroll who make constant supply to their twisted demand, often kidnapping babes off the streets and conditioning them for slavery. The girls are then passed from podgy paws to gnarly fingers within their inner circle—until one of the men takes a special liking (and negotiates to take her home) or they all grow bored and start afresh (then they dump her in some brothel). Of course, having been had by most of the crew I was considered well-soiled. And because the captain had a profitable reputation to uphold he decided, instead, to capitalize on my time in the surgeon’s cabin. He declared I was now to be sold as a fledgling nurse.
    In a flurry of activity and apprehension our battered craft eventually edged into the harbor, but it still took a good day and a half before my feet touched land. The men were taken off first in pairs, knowing full well that regardless of their official sentences the chances of ever seeing any freedom dues were pretty remote. The ones with crafts—smiths or weavers or tailors or carpenters or shoemakers—were most in demand and obviously brought the best prices. The rejects, however, would be weathered outside to toil among the tobacco plants. When all the men were processed the other hold was opened, but the only sorting out here was done by lusty masculine eyes. Women who were deemed appealing would be sent to the whorehouses of towns boasting six men to every woman. Those who were old (or maimed like Maude) would be trained to work in kitchens—their one hope that they could develop some skill that would keep them safe from the fields. Then, when all the other prisoners had gone, the